After reliving the horrors of my experiences with the van Ouwerkerk family during my first week in Limassol at the Lima Sol hostel, I decided that a change of venue would do me good. I was still waiting for my immigration packet to Israel to be approved. I had travelled across Europe and parts of America twice in order to collect all of the documents I needed for that packet. By all standard reckonings, I should have had an answer by the end of the summer, but there I was at the end of October, and I was still waiting. Wanting to get out of the hostel I had been staying at, I thought it would be a good idea to tour a little more of Cyprus before settling down in some kind of short-term rental to wait out the bureaucrats.
On the southern coast there are three primary areas of attraction. I had been in Limassol in the south central coast. This is the primary sea port and a major urban center. To the west was the city of Paphos, known to be a little quieter and a little cleaner, and to be a cultural city with a major university, the Tomb of the Kings, and other tourist attractions and museums. On the east side of the island was Larnaca, the major airport on the coast. That city is thought of as not being quite as nice as the others on its own, though it had a splendid boardwalk and Aya Napa, a kind of Spring Break Party paradise, or so they say. I wanted to see these other two cities, so I started out to see Paphos first.
The views heading west were spectacular.
I was reminded here and there that I was continuing an odyssey not unlike a tale that would be told by Homer.
I wouldn’t make it to Paphos until late that night because I was riding slow and easy, stopping for pictures along the way. The cityscape was impressive. Not large, but definitely exotic and colorful.
Finally, I would arrive at a hostel called “Hostl – Beds and Rooms”.
I took a tour of the town by myself the next day.
The restaurant above would be one of my favorite places to recharge not far from the hostel.
I couldn’t resist getting a picture of a place called Project Blu.
Remember the name of the hostel in Kash in Türkiye? Sol ‘n Blu. Blu. Just like this place. Echoes of the Melting Blue Delicious were still in my mind. I had just left a hostel called Lima Sol. Sol ‘n Blu. Again, we have the conundrum of philosophers who pay attention to these sorts of little details. Was I just seeing all of this because these terms had been etched upon my subconscious mind? Or was God organizing these things to show me that the universe does not follow the laws of probability?
The scenery was beautiful, as were the ladies.
During that walk around the city I found that Cyprus does allow THC derivatives that you find in some places in America and in some countries in Europe. I bought myself a vape stick, wanting to have it for a rainy day. Of course, the walk that day ended up being 4.20 miles. Ask a pothead what “four-twenty” means. He will tell you that this is the code word that says, “It’s time to get stoned.”
Other than sneaking a few pictures of strangers on the street, I didn’t grab many images of the people I met. Remember, the Greek Ebionite had once again declared that this was illegal. As the day drew on, I saw some of the back and forth this country is experiencing regarding the Israel phenomenon.
By night, the city continued its agenda of refusing to disappoint.
Almost all the cats in this country are black and white calico patterned. Just like my favorite cat of my youth: Rascal.
Blue continued to pervade my thoughts…and apparently my perception of the city.
I was pleased to see that I was not the only one on the road with two wheels.
The ocean provided its own shades of blue.
As per the usual, a little crew formed among the denizens of the hostel.
Above was the only picture of anyone’s face I took. On the right was Dana. I was surprised at how comfortable I was around her. Before I left the city, I would grab her Instagram, and it was only then that I would find out that she was Jewish. She was, however, getting married to, wait for it, a Dutch guy, and although she hailed from New York City and spoke with that sort of manner, she was living with her beau in, wait for it, the Netherlands. You’ll have to read several chapters back, all the way to Spain and waiting to go home to my family reunion, to catch my recollections of the incredible number of references to the Netherlands that I would find everywhere. There was Tom, the French guy in Budapest who was going to see his girlfriend in the Netherlands. There was Paul the Dutch guy in Mannheim who had gone to Germany to buy a car and rode around Heidelberg with me. At practically every hostel there were kids on their way to Holland. And now, the Jewish girl living in the Netherlands added herself to my bag of experiences.
Next to her, though, was the Free Will Girl. From the UK. She really blew me away. Through a strange circumstance of miscommunication, this young lady and I ended up spending a day on the beach together.
Is that not a sight that will make an old man young? The most interesting thing about her, though, was not her effect on my testosterone levels. I saw her several times at the hostel and hung out with her on a few occasions. Every time I would see her, she looked a little different. It was like her mood and the character of my interaction with her actually changed how I physically saw her. These sorts of things always left me wondering if I was suffering the effects of some sort of exhaustion-driven psychosis, or if I was in a dreamland. Perhaps I was still in a coma in the hospital in Budapest. Perhaps I never really woke up, and I was in Neo’s Matrix from then on. I didn’t know, and sometimes I still wonder. At times her features were angular and her eyes ethereal but present, penetrating in long stares of intimacy. At other times, though, she reminded me of a friend of mine from Venice Beach, a guy, actually, named Jordan Karchner. Surely I was dreaming.
A time or two she uttered a sentence that I would never forget, and she would describe a life that I would never understand. I asked her how many significant relationships she had been in. I know my number. Angela Espinosa. The Fire Girl. Christina Speer, Lucka Polesnya. Cecile Deviller. Karina Poliakova. Mayra Arroyo. Seven women. That’s not the body count of the number of women I have had sex with or casually dated here and there. But I can say I have had seven relationships of significant duration, character, and effect on my heart. This young woman, in her early twenties, but an adult no less, said she had never been in a relationship. She wasn’t a virgin by any means, but she never had a relationship. I wondered what sort of lifestyle these European kids were living in this new century.
The conversation turned from talk of relationships to subtle references to sex. I indicated that I was very reserved and conservative, but that there was a deep well down there unexplored, forgotten among the adventures of a youthful past, that I didn’t understand and that could have dark flavors to it. She commented, “I’ll do anything.” That’s a comment that I’m not going to forget any time soon.
Then she said something even weirder. She looked off to the side and said, “I have free will!” I asked her what she was trying to say with that. She said, “Well, I could have gone by myself shopping like I had originally planned, but I was so…” and then she made a sound of yearning and looked to the sky holding her hand in the air as if to grab at fruit hanging down from a vine that reached to the heavens.
I was taken aback and had no comment whatsoever. Was she saying that she ended up not doing what she really wanted to do because some force had moved her to come to the beach with me in a mood of yearning? Now that I think back on it, I do think that’s what she was trying to say. I had some understanding of this then, at that time when I heard her say it, but I was just stunned by the force of not knowing what to make of it all. I was reminded of that night in Paris when I felt possessed by forces both infernal and supernal, doing next to nothing of my own volition, horrified at the situation in which I’d found myself, but delighted by what must have been the command of some angel standing invisibly close by that got me to safety.
My thoughts began to race at the philosophical ramifications of seeing the world this way. Do we control each other when we interact with each other? Was my energy overwhelming her? Why did she see this as some sort of enslavement, thinking that going shopping by herself would have been some expression of freedom? Women often complain of doing things that they can only describe as being of their own accord, but in retrospect they describe it as reacting to pressure from lustful men. Was this what was happening? I wasn’t pressuring anyone in any way. I was only feeling a mystical joy of finding myself on an eastern Mediterranean beach with a topless young woman from the United Kingdom.
We went back to the hostel and talked with Dana and some others. I was guarded. I would be leaving the next day. The conversation turned to what we would be doing next. When it came my turn, I didn’t have much to say other than that I would be riding to Larnaca to see the east of the island. That’s when she said to Dana, “he needs to order.” Again, I said nothing. Order what? Order the food that I would be nourished by as my life marched toward destiny? I had no idea.
The next morning, I would ride back east along much the same route to Limassol, the midpoint of my journey.
I, a Texan, rode past the stables of Lazarus.
Limassol was its usual bustle of activity.
The hostel that I had reserved through the Hostel World app ended up being a bogus advertisement. There was no one there to greet me. I had to ride around the city late looking for another place to stay.
Finally, late at night, I arrived at what would be my abode for the evening.
Bee Hostel. In Hebrew, the woman’s name Deborah means “bee.” That’s a significant name for me. Zack Snyder’s wife, and his producer, is named Deborah. I’ve recently met an Anglican priest in Limassol named Deborah, but that will be a tale for another day. In Greek, the word for “bee” is “melissa.” This is also a woman’s name, and the name of a woman I would meet through a friend I would later come to know in this city. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I threw my pack in the locker and went out to have a bite to eat.
I didn’t meet anyone at that place that night, though I would meet some significant people there in the future.
I simply returned to the hostel, went to sleep, and rode out the next morning to Larnaca.
On the way, I, a former Dominican friar, drank trappist ale in the countryside.
The ride wasn’t so long, but I arrived late because I took a leisurely pace.
Larnaca wasn’t so wonderful, as people had said, but the boardwalk was as wonderful as their tongues had told.
Finally, I passed a mosque that would landmark my arrival at the hostel where I was staying.
I would spend the next while at LeMat hostel.
Stowing my bicycle at the hostel, I went out for an evening walk and some food.
The next day consisted of a walk around town and some great food at a Navy and Marine restaurant I fell in love with.
There were a variety of people at the hostel, but I didn’t talk to them. I listened in on several conversations, and they consisted of young travelers talking about where they had been and where they were going and what they had seen and done and all. It was all so boring to me. I was exhausted in every way. I didn’t want to travel anymore. I pulled out that vape stick I had gotten in Paphos and pretty much stayed stoned while I was in Larnaca.
The only encounter that I thought was interesting was meeting my first Israeli in the country. As I’ve said elsewhere, there are a ton of them in the Cyprus, but I had yet to meet any. This Israeli was an old lady running around complaining to everyone in a loud and caustic manner about this or that difficulty she was having. I spoke to her a little in Hebrew, and this impressed her, but I didn’t want to get into any conversation because I knew I wasn’t in a position to make any sort of lasting connection to anyone or anything here, as I was really still just waiting on my immigration packet to Israel to be approved. Talking to her only reminded me of how much Hebrew I had forgotten and how much I would have to learn all over again if I really wanted to know the language.
I let her be on her way and continue to rant about her unpleasant conditions and situation, frustrated to find that no one was interested in helping her due to her grating demeanor. She is the “Israeli bitch” in the title above. With that moniker I am not trying to express any hatred for Israelis or even her. It’s really just a title that illustrates contrast. As I have been describing all of these strange situations, symbols, and coincidences that I have been encountering here, one is always tempted to see them as a man wandering around in his own mind, and I have consistently pointed this out. However, I always look for the meaning of the story that God is writing with my life.
As one travels west, toward the sunset, toward the limitless sea, one finds ease, beauty, and adventure. But as I travelled east, a cowboy riding on the road of Lazarus toward the Holy Land, one encounters challenge, and in many cases misery. This hails back to the very beginning of this journey years prior when a fortune teller told me that life in Arizona with family would be rich, but a trek to Israel would result in ever increasing anguish. This poor woman, fraught with difficulties and stress and frustration, represented that. I’m not saying that she was a bad person or that I hated her for any reason. Only that she represented that contrast perfectly. Going west away from the divine mission and calling would result in the luxury of loving lovely ladies wooed with wine and weed. Going east toward destiny would involve roaring and growling. That’s what my trip across the breadth of the island taught me. I would have to get ready for it.