I Miss the Mountains

The ancient Greeks built all of their important structures on top of mountains. The mountains symbolized power, while also providing an ideal vantage point to look out for approaching enemy armies. They were a safe haven, with a dual function as a statement of prominence for their religious statues and temples. Over time, these ancient tributes to the Greek deities changed hands, changed function, and often changed in appearance. Today, these once amazing structures have become time-worn and weather-beaten, reduced to little more than piles of rocks atop a mountain. And I was literally going to blow a gasket if I had to see one more pile of rocks.
The sun in Greece was aggressive, with not a single cloud in the sky to provide a small amount of protection from the penetrating rays. I felt as though I was going to pass out, and the remaining inch of water in my bottle was not going to do me much good. Seventeen people plus the instructor trekked up the steep staircase in front of me; I was always the last one. From the back of the group, I watched sunburned shoulders bob and and arms wipe sweat from foreheads. Another shoe slips on the marble steps, followed by yet another observation from a classmate that marble is the absolute worst material to use when carving out a path up the side of a mountain.
Once we got about halfway through the long journey to the top, the instructor would stop us. Tourists weaved their way around our cluster, which was halted in the middle of the only path to the archeological site on the peak of the mountain. I sighed, dreading the inevitable lecture as our instructor beckoned us to take a seat with a condescending smirk. Briefly, I wondered if it was too late for me to drop this class.
All eighteen of us rushed towards the few seat-sized rocks and the small patch of shade, the closest thing to comfortable we could get under the circumstances. I never fared well in these races, and often ended up cross-legged in the dirt for the duration of the lecture. I sighed again, flicking the first of an endless stream of bugs crawling on my legs, my notes, and buzzing near my ears. We all got as relaxed as possible — our instructor could talk endlessly, and we always knew we would be there for quite a while.
It didn’t take longer than three days in Greece before we were in the thick of a three-week long, physically and mentally draining, ultra-strict daily routine: my roommate’s alarm usually began my day; she would kick off her morning with a few crunches while I laid in my bed, eyes closed, dreading the impending day. Once I dragged myself out of bed, she and I would start getting ready before waking up our third roommate, who was not a morning person in the slightest. The three of us sluggishly packed our luggage and, when the first sunlight of the morning peeked over the horizon, drug ourselves and our suitcases to the bus. Then came the three hour ride from Athens to Nafplio, or Delphi to Olympus.
The bus rides meant over half of the group fighting intense motion sickness while my roommates and I fought wine hangovers. My stomach churned as we bounced along the winding mountain roads. While I was in Greece, I thought of these times in the bus as my favorite part of the trip. No lectures, no hiking, no sweat or sunburns, and no arguing with my classmates. I could put on my headphones and lean my head against the windows, watching the mountains come and go like waves on an electrocardiogram.
I learned while I was there that 80 percent of Greece’s landmass is mountains. I don’t find that too far-fetched, as I can’t remember a single moment in those three weeks when there wasn’t a mountain looming over us. Sometimes, while on the bus, I would get a rush of intense longing, as if there was nothing in the world that would be more exciting, more satisfying than to hop right out the window and hike up to the mountain’s peak.
The odd thing, however, is that I climbed to countless peaks during my time there. Nearly every archeological site was at the top of a mountain and once, just for fun, we all spent our free time trekking up to the highest point in Nafplio, which was exactly 999 steps. We were constantly climbing steep, uneven dirt paths or cracked, slippery marble stairs up the side of the mountains. Sometimes we would hike up two or three in a single day, and every journey left me frustrated, sore, and exhausted.
Regardless, something about those overgrown, untamed mountains called to me. I wanted to stand alone on a grassy peak, knowing I had created my own path, rather than tread on one that had been hardened by centuries upon centuries of boot soles before me. I longed to get a mouthful of the wind as it gusted by and gulp it down like a glass of ice water on a humid day, wondering if it was possible that I was the first person to ever taste the air there.
“You’re not tourists, you’re travelers,” my instructor would repeat over and over again. I didn’t understand that. We were “travelers” who experienced Greece on a set itinerary of bus ride, followed by archeological site, followed by a museum about the archeological site. By the time we we were done with all of that, it was so late that my roommates and I would often stay in the hotel lobby and drink wine while we played cards for the rest of the night. I didn’t feel like a traveler; I was seeing the Greece that my instructor wanted us to see, learning the history he wanted us to learn. It took halfway into the trip before I was able to admit that I did not believe I was having fun. I was tired and sore, bored of Greek history, and continuously required to do physical tasks that my body just couldn’t handle. I wanted to go home.
Before the trip came to an end, our instructor let us know that, even after just three weeks, culture shock was possible upon return to the United States. I couldn’t wait to see my cat, my car, my friends, hear my native language, and wear the rest of my clothes that hadn’t been used, reused, and hand-washed for three weeks straight.
Once I got home, the late summer weather in Iowa seemed bitterly cold after the intense heat in Greece, and I realized I had nearly forgotten how to drive. On the way home from the airport, my parents and I stopped for fast food. I almost choked when I tasted the terrible quality of American fast food, wishing there was somewhere to get a chicken gyro instead. I even missed the mountains I had detested climbing so much as I gazed out at the flat midwestern landscape; it seemed dreary and boring in comparison. I was home, but I didn’t feel at home. Not at first.
I haven’t exchanged a single word with a single one of my classmates from my study abroad trip since it ended. Looking back on it now is like looking back on a separate lifetime. Sometimes I wish I could talk with one of those classmates again, reminiscing on the good times and laughing at the bad ones. While I still remember the parts that I didn’t enjoy, all the blood, sweat, and tears, they are not as important anymore. Now when I look back on my three weeks in Greece, I remember sipping blue wine in a cafe frontway with fans blowing mist on our table to cool us down. I remember petting all the stray cats and dogs that followed us, and laughing at my classmates’ paranoid comments that I was going to catch rabies. I remember the black sand beach, the stark-white hotel, and the fiery orange sunsets in Santorini. I remember the rolling mountains, huge and beautiful, decorating the terrain and housing the most important pieces of Greek history. I remember standing on the peaks of those mountains, gazing at the town miles and miles below, feeling absolutely on top of the world.