Kyrenia Harbor

Sometime around the year 300 BC, a trading ship sank off the coast of Cyprus. Barely a mile from the city-kingdom of Kyrenia, it went down with wine amphorae from Rhodes and Samos, millstones from the island of Kos and several thousand almonds (found perfectly preserved in jars). The ship may have been sunk by pirates, by bad weather or simply because it was old - there were many repairs made to the hull.

The wreck is interesting mostly because of its age - it's the oldest recovered shipwreck in the world - and completeness. For Kyrenians, though, it is a symbol of the city's ancient connection to the greater world.

Today the "medieval harbor" is much sleepier and less used than it once was. There are still a few fishing vessels along the piers, but there are more pleasure craft and a large number of tour boats. Closed off on one side by the massive Kyrenia castle, and along the seaward side by a long breakwater, the marina has an intimate, cozy feel. Its water is shallow, the pace is slow. The waterside is lined with restaurants and bars. A sunny promenade stretches along the breakwater and young couples sit on the riprap to kiss or watch the sunset.

The harbor was only recently re-enclosed, though. The British opened the port to the sea at the end of the 19th century, which allowed for deeper ships to enter but wrecked many of the local boats. It was the latest turn of fortune for the marina, which has had a history of highs and lows.

The ancient city of Kyrenia was an important one, a major stop along the flourishing east-west trading routes of the Mediterranean. The closest Cypriot port to Anatolia, it served as a gateway between the island and the mainland for centuries. Trading routes at the time favored short hops between ports instead of long distance sailing - ships like the one found here were too small for real open water journeys. Sailors preferred to navigate along the coast or among islands, making landfall at night. It's probable that the ship's crew ate their meals on land, and would have slept there too. Harbors of the time were important shelters as well as trading points.

Sitting at the junction between Anatolia, Greece and Babylonia, Cyprus helped to link the west with eastern cities like Aleppo and Jerusalem. In fact, analysis of the shipwreck's wood suggests that it was built in Syria, though most of its cargo was Grecian and it may have traveled as far as Venice.

The ancient port, where the shipwrecked boat was headed, was once sited in a cove just east of the castle and medieval harbor. Strangely, this pretty little crescent is the one part of Kyrenia that hasn't been built up - the water is bordered only by grass and brownish sand, the land around it makes a natural amphitheater. Standing here, looking in just the right direction, one might think they'd come across someplace really wild.

The present harbor dates to the middle ages, when the Frankish Lusignans decided it was more easily defended than its predecessor. Under Ottoman rule, Kyrenia and its port foundered. Forbidden from conducting trade with lands to the west or east, the district capital was reduced to small necessities trading with the Turkish mainland. Adding to the town's medieval decline was the advent of larger, more seaworthy ships and improved navigation. It was no longer necessary to travel primarily in coastal waters, and trading ships began to bypass Cyprus on their way to and from the East.

By the time the British arrived in 1878, Kyrenia was little more than a fishing village, and the harbor was home to only a few small caïques.

The fishing industry has returned a little, but the truth is that the northern coast of Cyprus has always had rather poor fishing. There aren't enough nutrients in the water to support a large native stock - for years, most of Cyprus's seafood has been imported. In the old days, fishing was very much a subsistence lifestyle. Tourism has taken over as the primary seafaring industry, and a lot of boats were being spruced up before the high season rush.

We were warned by a few Girne locals not to eat at any of the waterside places - one man named Tunay, who we met at the Fisherman's Inn, was also adamant that we avoid all sea bream and sea bass. "Those are the farmed fish," he told us. "You want real fish, from the sea." While it's true that the quality of the port restaurants is a little lower than some of the inland spots and the prices are higher, I think the locals are more offended by the tourists than by the food.And it's hard to pass up the atmosphere of the evening harbor, the lights and old buildings, the boats quietly creaking. The small ring of old inns and warehouses is just high enough to block out all the recent, squared-off development that spreads away from the water. It's easy enough to have a drink or a few plates of meze - and the place isn't unusually touristy by Mediterranean standards.

One can see the salvaged remains of the Kyrenia shipwreck in the "Shipwreck Museum," located in the castle. Also on display are several of the amphorae and stone mills, as well as a small percentage of those nine thousand preserved almonds.

Another place one can see the ship's image is on the Cypriot euro coins, on the .10, .20 and .50 cent pieces.

The Bilbao to Portsmouth Ferry

Air travel doesn't do justice to distances, or to journeys. Getting on a plane in one place, getting off in another, feeling nothing but blankness in between - it reorders geography into simple equations of hours-between and time-zones crossed. It's nice, every once in a while, to go more slowly and deliberately, and to have time to ruminate on the change.

We left the continent in grand fashion this time, setting sail for southern England with our car and a few days before our flight home. The trip took a little over 24 hours, beginning in darkness, traversing a full day and ending late the next night.

Above, morning breaks over the Bay of Biscay
The Brittany Ferries boat that plies the water between Bilbao and Portsmouth is much bigger than we expected. Because of some bad weather that we never saw but heard a lot about, the ferry was late in loading. During a few hours spent sitting in the vast holding lot, idling truck engines and the crackling radios of the customs men settled into a kind of dreamlike white noise. A few hundred other cars sat in the gloom with us. Truckers talked by their rigs, drinking beer until unsteadied and laughing over old stories.
When we finally were ushered on, it happened in a rush. We left the car with our overnight bags, found our cabin, settled in. Our cabin smelled faintly of seawater, the ship rolled heavily, we slept lightly, always aware that the ocean was beneath us.The morning brought brief sun, followed by spitting rain and strong wind as we entered the Celtic sea. We worked and sat, wandered from shop to restaurant to bar. There are events on board, of course, and movies playing, but we didn't take part in any of it. A certain pleasure can be found in being hemmed in for a finite amount of time, and in drifting into a soft-lit daze. The day passed very swiftly, in a cornerless line of rolling waves and quiet music.
There were two restaurants on board, and two real bars. Rumors of a third bar spread, and were confirmed by a vague mention in the directory, but we weren't able to find it. It sounded intriguing - the "chauffeur lounge," reserved for truck drivers and, one imagines, the more unsavory types.

The other bars were predictably bland, though they did a brisk business. People like to drink when they're on a boat, and to eat. We had sardines and bread for our chilly, on-deck lunch, followed in our cabin by some dates and oranges.

Night fell again, and with it came a certain edginess. The passengers were informed of another delay, minds were turned toward solid ground. In the last few, long hours, it was as if the boat had awakened. Passengers stretched and paced, standing restlessly in the hallways and congregating more anxiously around the televisions and bars.

The lights of England and Portsmouth brought people out onto the decks. The air was heavy with moisture, but the rain had cleared. Most of our fellow passengers were British, and the sight of their homeland seemed to calm them.

We slipped into our berth around nine-thirty at night. Driving away, speeding down a misty English motorway, the breadth of the water behind us felt immense.

Afurada - The Place To Go For Portuguese Barbeque

Good luck and patience are two of a traveler’s best allies. On a day we planned to spend retracing old steps and wandering well traveled lanes, a fresh opportunity unexpectedly leapt into view.
Just across and west of Porto, on the south side of the Douro, Afurada occupies an oblique corner where the river and the Atlantic meet. We stumbled upon it by chance, following the scent of charcoal and grilling fish.
Porto is a beautiful, wonderful city. We’d been four years before, though, and wanted to explore a little further than the wine houses and tourist cruises. The Douro valley was clogged with haze and fog as we drifted away from the center. Mist obscured the sea beyond a few hundred feet of chop. Smoke from autumn fires – trash, clipped vines, harvested fields – scented the air and stung our eyes. The landscape seemed particularly watery and washed-out, with colorless edges and indistinct shapes in the distance. Walking along the riverside, passing abandoned houses and silent fishermen with lines in the river, we felt that solid ground was somehow retreating behind us.
Afurada was a surprise, emerging in a compact cluster of colorful tiles and lunchtime energy. A fishing village, it was thick with gulls and galoshes, women carrying buckets, men yelling to one another. The scent of the sea was suddenly stronger, and the roar of offboard motors replaced the buzz of mopeds. Also in the air, a different smoke, much more appealing.
It’s common, in this part of Portugal, for restaurants to have grills out on the sidewalk. It’s a great advertising ploy, really, because who can resist the sight and smell of barbequing food? There is no better place (that we’ve found) to experience this Portuguese churrasco than in Afurada, where the seafood travels less than a hundred yards from boat to coals, and the crowds are always boisterous and local.
At Taberna S. Pedro, the atmosphere is blue-collar and the menu is especially fish-heavy. On Mondays, those in the know travel out to Afurada for fresh fish, which is hard to come by in other towns where the fishmarkets are closed.
The Portuguese "cozinha grelha" ("grill cuisine") is based around two small fish - sardines and dorade. There are lots of other fish around the periphery and a considerable amount chicken and pork-belly, but the headliners are generally "sardinhas" or "dorada." Almost always, the dishes are served with a salad beforehand and potatoes - either boiled or "smashed," which means baked and then semi-flattened with a fist - on the side. White or red wine is fine, thick cuts of bread are nice, olive oil coats everything.In Afadura, established restaurants aren't the sole domain of street grilled food. This woman was cooking for a few men who were sitting at makeshift tables down the alleyway to the left.
A tiny, wooden ferry services the mouth of the river, bringing hungry travelers across from the Porto side or (heavier in the water) back from lunch. The cost is one euro per voyager, the ride is slightly less than five minutes. There are no scheduled crossings - just walk down to the pier on the Afurada side, or to the busy little quay just west of the large bridge on the northern shore, and wait for the boat.

After our lunch, we sat on the deck while we waited to depart. Two older men futzed about with screwdrivers, fado music warbled up from the cabin, local youths smoked cigarettes and looked out towards the sea. It was a perfect thing to stumble upon, this little fishing village in the mist - we were sad to leave, but that boat was the perfect way to say goodbye.

Views of the Sea

Monaco faces the sea. It seems simple, but it's essential. In fact, I'm not sure if Monaco could exist without the sea. Opening up to the water, the place can breath where it would otherwise suffocate. There is space where only density might exist.

It's a joy to watch the changing water, the slow crawl of ships, the light changing color. As a way of wrapping up Monaco, here are some pictures looking outward into the less solid elements.
The color of the Mediterranean is beautiful when calm, but it's hue changes more than any other sea I think I've seen. From green to deep blue and from black to steely-grey.
There is a sign near this "beach," cautioning against swimming when the water is rough. When the waves pick up, they crash against buildings and rock in a very rough, frightening line of spray.
During the Monaco yacht show, port Hercule's displaced boats anchored all along the bay in a white swarm.
The shore here, if not for hundreds of years of alteration and development, would be mostly rock, exposed directly to the wind and waves, with none of the famous sweeps of Côte d'Azur beach that exist further west.
The city meets and overhangs the water as it creeps slowly out to sea. It's a process that the government likes to call "reclaiming land."
From our apartment, just across the French border in Beausoleil, we never watched the same sunrise or sunset. Every morning and each evening we were captivated.

Monaco's Other Harbor

Everyone who visits Monaco can't help but experience port Hercule and all its lascivious, lavish elements. It's megayachts and cafe-filled piers are the city's focal point and pride. But just around the castle rock, tucked in below the cliffs, there's a second harbor - the smaller and more friendly Port de Fontvieille.
Fontvieille's name and a few ruined-looking buildings make it seem old, but it's actually Monaco's newest district. Built between 1966 and 1981, the buildings around the marina rest on "reclaimed earth," which strikes me as a strange term. Before Prince Rainier III began construction on Fontvieille, there was only a scrabbly stretch of sand and rock between the castle and Cap d'Ail on the French border. A sharp increase in demand for space in Monaco drove the project, and it seems likely to spark a second expansion - a further fifteen acres of land are to be "reclaimed" by 2015. The marina guardhouse, above, was built for effect.
On a weekday, it's a quiet place to walk around. One might hear music drifting out from one cabin, or see a few sandals on the dock beside a boat, but the restaurants along the quay aren't full and the boats tend to be dark and empty. There's a familiarity about the place, like a little neighborhood or small town, and the atmosphere is more reminiscent of fishing villages than central Monaco.On the weekends, more owners arrive and the complexion of Fontvieille changes - motors are gunned, boats are taken out, the sleeker restaurants fill up. Though the crowd is more relaxed than at Hercule, a certain showiness still prevails. Fontvieille's waters aren't as deep as its sister port; the boats are correspondingly smaller, but still very big. Vessels as tall and crowded as rowhouses bob and creak on their lines.
Gerhard's Cafe, on the waterfront, is likely the most popular of the local spots, filling up quickly after work and staying busy long into the night. A strange mix of yachters and dock men stand around the bar, looking out at the boats and the cliffs behind. English is the language of choice, perhaps because there are so many British boatowners, but probably because it feels the most comfortable to the most people. The drinks are stiff and simple, the prices are surprisingly cheap. We watched a heated game of backgammon one night, a couple of sorrowful yacht brokers another.
It's a long way from our apartment in Beausoleil to the Fontvieille piers, but we've found ourselves making the trek quite often. Because it feels like a forgotten part of the country, the harbor seems so welcoming - even on crowded weekend nights. The sense of discovery and isolation makes the marina feel wilder, as though Monaco had turned it's back on the revelry.

Monaco Yacht Show

Sometimes, our timing is just too perfect. We were in Venice for Canivale, Estonia for their switch to the Euro, Belarus for the president's inauguration and now this. The Monaco Yacht Show (MYS) is the principality's second biggest event of the year, after the Formula I Grand Prix. They estimate that over 30,000 "yacht enthusiasts" (and schmoes like us), come in for the four day event each September. Port Hercule is transformed into a floating display case lined with trade show tents and blue carpet.
It should be specified that the yachts in the show are actually superyachts. Amazingly, in each of the last five years, the average yacht size at the MYS has gone up. But that's part of the reason people come here. I get the sense that the Monaco Yacht Show strives to exist completely outside the realm of this globe, both its economy and its warming. Prince Albert II must be pretty red-faced this time of year around his environmentalist buddies. Possibly because of that, the show organizers are very vocal about their support of the prince's Wood Forever program, which tries to get yacht builders to use sustainable wood.
As the MYS catalog says, "Monaco is the proven show where the Elite meet to make decisions on what next to buy" - and it's an amazing thing to watch. People sit with brokers and leaf through brochures. Others check out the model yachts on display inside the tents. This couple looked at sketches with a naval architect, having already collected bags filled with promotional materials and a gift or two from rivaling exhibitors.
While the boats may be the most obvious draw, services and supplies make up the bulk of the show. Stands showcase everything from china sets and carpet samples to underwater lights and yacht transport. Some corners of the tents felt like a music video set, others like a bizarro Ikea. People set out croissants and cookies for the casual shoppers and champagne was stashed away for the serious clientele.
Even with the bar, restaurant and collection of televisions showing the Rugby World Cup, the tents were just not the place to be. We saw more people at the ice cream stand outside than the "crystal lounge" inside, because it's pretty hard to compete with sunlight and yacht views.
There are 100 superyachts in the water this year, 40 of which are making their worldwide debut. People buzzed around on motorboats, whisking potential buyers off to tour a yacht or arriving at the show from a nearby port. We can see a large group of yachts out in the water from our apartment window, presumably displaced from Port Hercule to make room for the show pieces. Tenders brought the owners back and forth from their place out to sea.
This boat was the subject of some sort of photo shoot, complete with far-off looks and leg-up posing. There's a whole social scene surrounding the show, including parties, charity auctions and the veritable luxury car parade circling the Monte Carlo at any given time. It's impossible not to get a sense of excitement and fun from it all. It's sort of like going to fashion week or being invited to a sleepover at the popular girl's house. It doesn't matter that you're in the last row or that you're the only one who brought a teddy bear, you're there! And it's all so prettttty.
In my humble opinion, people should really diverge from the white, black, silver and grey palette. I bet any amount of money that if there was a pink yacht there, someone would have bought it. Having said that, it was amazing to walk down the suspended walkways and look up at these shiny monsters. You can look right in at the fully furnished bedrooms complete with artwork and the dining room set for a banquet. We attended on the last day of the show. People were celebrating sales and saying goodbye to colleagues and competitors. After four days of work and play, it was time to pack up and hit the road (or water).

Two notes about the video above. 1) Robin Leach would do a mean voice over. 2) The man loading groceries onto the yacht dropped a bag into the water shortly after. A blue container of mushrooms floated on the surface of the water.

Monaco Classics Week

The tenth Monaco Classic Week (it's not annual) is a strange, only-in-Monte-Carlo event. Where else is there a competition to select, according to the official website, "the most elegant crew which lives up to the codes of naval etiquette?" It's only correct that these crews be "judged by a panel including princesses and artists." Walking around the harbor during the showing, we have been struck by how beautiful and immaculately kept these craft are.
The show brings together about eight boats, many of them "centenarians" or older. Organized by the Monaco Yacht Club, it's a chance for some of the rarest and most valuable craft in the world to come together for a race, for the spectacle and for bragging rights. The Hispania, pictured above with her crew, was built for King Alphonse XIII of Spain in 1909. It's one of four surviving 15 M IR boats - a group of racing yachts designed and built by the legendary scottish shipwright William Fife. All four examples are in town for the week, including the Yacht Club's own Tuiga. A near flotilla of Chris Craft and Hacker motor skiffs fill in the margins, along with some larger sailing craft and a few broad steamships.
There are also a small number of classic cars, including this Monegasque plated BMW Isetta 250. In a city overrun with expensive autos, though, the quay's collection wasn't especially fascinating. Anyway, the effect of glimmering paint and polished chrome was lost when compared with the century-old gleam of much polished wood and brass.Two very particular types of people crew the boats - young, broadshouldered, suntanned men with quick hands and sure feet... and somewhat-aged, more generously-paunched men and women, who pick up a rope now and then. The boats have owners, after all, who do love to participate. There are costumes, of course, with straw hats and stripes of many widths and colors. A red carpet rings the dock, maintained by a woman with a vacuum cleaner.
Nearly all of the yachts have little baskets near their gangplanks, filled with slippers, boat shoes or other soft-soled footwear. Tours are occasionally possible on some craft, visits more common, and hard shoes are inadvisable.
As surreally impressive as the Monaco Classics Week is, it's only a prelude. The real event is the Monaco Yacht Show, which begins this Friday. Already, tents and large trucks have begun crowding the waterside, a flurry of activity focused on new ships and sales contracts. In the background, rows of hulking, SUV like mega-boats dwarf the old masts and decks. There is a disheartening sense of opulence at play - fanatically cared for, centenarian, royal yachts playing second fiddle to new, consumer grade toys.

Still, it must be breathtaking to sail these magnificent things on a calm Mediterranean, with so much history ingrained in the wood underfoot. In the end, the show isn't for the spectators but for the people crewing the yachts. From high atop the Monaco bluffs, we watched them tack lazily in the light breeze. They looked especially elegant from afar, their low, classic shapes recalling another era.