Sanctuary

"Make your own nature, not the advice of others, your guide in life." - Delphic prophecy

"Delphi," the tour guide's voice blared through the microphone at the front of the bus, "is a place people come for security. For thousands of years, pilgrims from all over the ancient world journeyed to the sanctuary to learn what the future held for them. Peasants and kings alike went to consult the Oracle on matters of crops, war, family, and love."

I hadn't been listening to a word the tour guide said until now. Every so often I tuned in to see if she was giving important itinerary information, but stuffed the earbud of my iPod back in when I caught phrases like, "In Classical times, Delphi was sacred to the god, Apollo, who was said to have slain the Python there..." or "The olive tree is a very important crop in Greece..."

No s***, Sherlock. I'd sat through multiple reruns of University lectures on Delphi. I was already familiar with its history as a shrine to the Earth Mother, Gaia in the Pre-Classical period. In Greek mythology, Zeus sent two eagles flying from the eastern and western ends of the earth. When they met over Delphi, he declared the site the "Omphalos", or navel of the world. For centuries Delphi had been considered the spiritual centre of the universe, a sanctuary high in the mountains where people went to receive prophecies, and one of the most mystical spots in Greece. Something about the mention of security and the future, though, caught my attention.

I'm sorry to say I left Antonio without saying goodbye. I meant to. I really did. I was washing my face at 6AM, getting myself organized for an early transfer to the pick-up point for my overnight tour to Delphi, when I heard a key turn in the door to the appointment. I peeked out into the hall. As far as I knew Antonio was still asleep, but there was his massive frame filling the doorway. "Are you just getting in now!?" I marvelled, remembering him heading out the night before to celebrate a friend's birthday.

"Yes," he said. "It was a very crazy party."

And to think, I'd almost accepted the invitation to go with him. By the time I rolled my suitcase out of my bedroom, Antonio's soft snores were rumbling out from under his door. I knocked once, twice. The snoring only got louder. I grabbed a scrap piece of paper and a pen and scrawled a brief but thorough note thanking Antonio for his hospitality, generosity, guidance and respect, and left it on the kitchen table with my keys. Then I did what ghosts and horses do best. I disappeared.

Now I was on the road again, continuing my own pilgrimage through the knolled wilderness of Boeotia, the southwestern spur of Mount Parnassus rearing in the windshield. The Greek countryside was mesmerizing, the glistening sapphire lakes and silver-green forests of olive trees standing in stark contrast to the memory of the city. My ears popped as we climbed higher into the mountains, my lips growing chapped as the air thinned.

Delphi was a place I never would have been able to get to on my own. I booked these tours not so much for the information, which I already had, but for the transportation and accommodation that came with them, all the details already arranged for me in a neat little package. Watching the hills roll by outside the window, I thought about how nice it was to just be along for the ride, and felt myself relax for the first time in days.

For all its history as a bustling hub of ancient social, athletic and political activity, Delphi is a quiet place now, a ghost town of crumbling stone, and one where I felt perfectly comfortable. I had a map of the site already in my head, memorized from textbook diagrams and photographs on classroom projector screens. I knew my way around as though I had been here a thousand times. Past the Gymnasion and the sacred Castalian Spring, where Roman poets came to receive inspiration, is the restored Athenian Treasury and the Sibyl Rock, where the first priestess of Delphi sat to deliver oracles. Further along the Sacred Way is the Navel Stone, the simple conical marker of the centre of the earth, the ancient theatre and, finally, the Temple of Apollo, the prophecy centre.

"Up there is the stadium," our tour guide pointed to the top of the hill, "but it's quite high. You don't have to go if you don't want."

I wanted. I'd studied Panhellenic Sites in a course on Ancient Greek athletics. No reason I should pass up an opportunity to see this one in person. My side bag was heavy and my lungs were wrestling the altitude for oxygen as I climbed the rest of the way up the stone path, but I got there. On the way back down I stopped to rest in the shade of the cypress trees, seating myself on an ancient statue base overlooking the valley. It was an absurdly perfect view - rocky, forested peaks that canyoned down into the basin where, far below, one million olive trees made up the Sacred Grove of Apollo. The only thing that distinguished it from a postcard was the thrush that flitted between the branches, breaking the stillness.

The sun was strong up here but the wind was cool. It had a very unique sound, similar to the whisper I'd heard between the columns of the Parthenon, but different somehow. Maybe it was the antiquity of the place, the residual energy of so many pilgrims - both ancient and modern - on spiritual quests. The wind here was more than a breath. It had a voice.

After a visit to the air-conditioned archeological museum, where I identified the famous Bronze Charioteer, the twin statues of Kleobis and Biton of Argos and the silver-plated Ionian bull (the largest statue from antiquity made out of precious metal) without reading the information placards, we took the bus down the road to the hotel. Strangely, I was the only one in the group who'd opted for the overnight stay. Everyone else was just stopping in for lunch before continuing on to another archeological site or heading back to Athens. The tour guide left me in reception with a room key and a promise that the bus would be back to pick me up tomorrow afternoon. Until then, I was free to do as I pleased.

It's said that anyone who visits Delphi will benefit from the mystical healing vibes emanating from the earth, and already I was beginning to feel their restorative powers at work. To say it was a relief to have time and space to rest would be an understatement. I'd certainly seen and done and learned a lot with Antonio, but his excursions and five-hour conversations about history and politics could be exhausting. I needed to sleep. I needed to write. I needed to shave.

I have a routine now whenever I get lucky enough to spend a night at a real hotel. First order of business: shower. Run the hot water as long as you want. Take the time to get really, truly clean. Take full advantage of the complimentary soap and shampoo, then stash whatever amenities you don't use in your suitcase, the way a squirrel stockpiles nuts for the winter. Then luxuriate in the towels. Stacks and stacks of clean, fluffy, white bliss. One for the floor, two for your hair, two for your face and two for your body. Use as many as you want. They will be magically replaced with fresh ones later. You might as well wash your make-up brushes, too. By now they're loaded with travel grime, and there is plenty of antibacterial soap and sanitized surfaces for drying. If you need clean clothes, you can do that next. Most hotels offer laundry services and they have real dryers. You won't have to hang your wet jeans on racks for days.

Sleep as long as you want. The unlimited pillows and extra blankets make it easy. Did I mention they're also clean? At breakfast, stuff yourself with the free buffet, then discreetly slip fresh fruit and dinner rolls into your bag for later. Shower again before checkout, because who knows when your next chance will be. Rinse and repeat.

In the movie, My Life in Ruins, Nia Vardalos, frustrated with a malfunctioning hotel elevator, a disconnected phone and a desk clerk who offers her free postage in exchange for sexual favours declares, "This country's disregard for rules and order is just sloppy!" I don't know if 'sloppy' is the word I would use, but it's definitely true. My ride back to Athens was supposed to arrive at two-fifteen. It got there at three, then I had to wait until four while the day-trippers finished their lunch in the hotel restaurant. The guide in charge of the pick-up promised I still had plenty of time to catch the ferry I'd booked to the islands that evening.

"So how long are you staying on Crete?" She wanted to know, herself a native Cretan. She raised her eyebrows when I told her. "Ten days is a long time," she remarked, and I shrugged. Some travellers liked to visit a place for a week, or even just one day, but I liked to experience a culture the way the locals did, and to do that you needed time to get to know it. Why leave stones unturned when I had the luxury of exploring?

"That's how I roll," was my only response.

Antonio accused me of not partying hard enough while I was staying with him. "You're young and healthy and on vacation," he would say. "You should go crazy once in a while." Considering he often went to bed at the same time I woke up, I took the advice with a grain of salt. I liked being an early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of girl. I wanted to feel good when I went to see things during the day, to have the best experience possible. I liked being out with the sun. I was developing my own particular style of travelling, of living, even. And it was a style I enjoyed. I'd passed my experimental phase years ago. I had no desire to change who I was. Like the scorpion said to the frog, "I can't help it. It's my nature."

I am getting better at not worrying though. Despite departing Delphi an hour and a half late, I forced my pre-purchased ferry ticket to the back of my mind (Antonio had the same complaint of my tendency to book ahead) and turned my attention to the scenery out the window. I wasn't about to sprout wings and fly the bus back. The situation was out of my hands. If it didn't turn out in my favour, well, I would cross that bridge when I came to it. On a trip this long, one had to learn not to focus so much on the destination and enjoy the ride instead. Just like this three-hour bus transfer, I couldn't waste energy obsessing over every second that ticked by. It would leave me too drained and depleted to manage the real challenges when they came up. It had to be a sustainable lifestyle, not a journey towards an end. Otherwise I would lose grasp of whatever sanity I had left, if I ever had any at all.

I made it to the port of Piraeus in plenty of time, of course. About every third vehicle on Athenian roads is a taxi, and the one I flagged down pulled up directly behind the bus I'd just gotten off. "Do you mind if I smoke?" The driver asked as I climbed into the back seat. I shook my head. Everyone in Greece smoked. Then I smelled the fumes and looked up, startled for half a second. The shock didn't last long, shoved aside by the reminder of where I was. Of course my taxi driver was doping up.