We caught a bus and then trundled down to the waterfront, where the big curving creamy bulk of the Electra Palace, its seven-storey facade studded with small balconies and stacked lines of pillars faces the main plaza. Along with imposing facades, golden automatic revolving doors, and staff with little jackets and caps are a cliché of classy hotels – and the Electra Palace does not neglect to provide.
Now, OT and I are not really five star people – not that we might not be in another life, but in this one, we don't have the necessary readies to stay in that kind of luxury. But, once in while, and especially following the “there is no cabin for you on this freezing cold boat” Bari to Igoumenitsa crossing of the night before, we can afford to splash out. And we were planning to spend three nights.
So it might have been a good idea for the staff to be slightly more pleasant – wheelie suitcase's feelings were hurt by the snooty look he received, and there was no such thing as a smile from the man at the desk, even for the fully animate among our party.
And the room was a disappointment. Smaller than almost every other room we've had, and lacking any element of the picturesque (or even the picaresque, which, for example, the adventure of the Lidomare steps in Amalfi provided). The bedding was not particularly luxurious. There was only one pillow each, rather than the hoped-for large and fluffy pile. There was a bath, and the pool was quite nice, but the rooftop bar served the worst approximation of a martini to ever pass my lips.
The view of the water, the container ships sitting off the port and the lights of Thessaloniki stretching down the coast was spectacular – but not enough to make up for the waitress' clear lack of interest in what we wanted, or the squalor of the drinks that eventually arrived.
We checked out the next day, moving 200 metres down the street, 100 euro down the price scale and about 1000% upwards in the welcome stakes. The desk clerk at the Hotel Tourist hauled our bags up the steps for us, grimacing and giggling, carefully explained about the door keys, breakfast and laundry, held the lift door, smiled and was generally solicitous. We were happy.
And the room was bigger, with two king single beds, gold-painted plaster garlands swinging around the walls and a fascinatingly shiny faux chandelier - interesting, if not entirely... tasteful.
***
After three days in Thessaloniki, we caught the local train out to Edessa. Edessa is a small town north and east of Thessaloniki. It is a little bit known for its waterfalls, but is mostly just a pretty town that serves as a base for various activities in northern Greece. OT had read about in the travel guide, and liked the sound of the damp mountain air. We both liked the sound of Hotel Varosi, a traditional hotel in an old inn, run, both our guide books assured us, by very friendly owners.
Edessa station – one small yellow building and two sets of train tracks – is too small to have a bridge or an underpass, so we followed the locals' example and dragged our bags across the tracks to the platform.*
The air in Edessa was sweet and autumnal with woodsmoke and the smell of drying leaves. The hill behind the station looked softer, more fertile than the standard rocky tumbles of the Grecian landscape. As we walked into town we heard the sound of rushing water and passed several small canels running under the road.
Neither of our guidebooks had a map of Edessa. Nor did they give directions for finding the hotel from the train station. Being the pair of abject ninnies that we are, we promptly got lost. We were looking for the charming old quarter of Edessa – we ended up in a deeply utilitarian precinct, with lawn-mower repair shops and medium rise housing. The story of our wanderings involves many side-streets and detours, and several encounters with bemused locals, who spoke more English than we speak Greek, but for whom our requests were still impenetrable and unanswerable.
We eventually found ourselves at the bus station, and telephoned the hotel to ask for directions from there. We had previously tried to have a phone conversation with Anastasia of Hotel Varosi, and discovered that she spoke little English. Again, this time, she understood that we were at the bus station, and assured me that the hotel was not far – 2 minutes. But she was not able to provide directions in English (and I was completely unable to understand her directions in Greek). I assured her I would ask someone, and hung up.
Inside the bus station, the ticket seller understood what I was asking and was able to direct me. And off we went.
We were most of the way there (200 metres up this road, turn left, there is a big church, turn right after the church...) and the road had changed from tarmac to cobbles, the buildings from square and concrete to crooked and stone with leaning wooden second storeys, when a woman hurried around the corner towards us.
“Ahhh”, she cried, rushing towards us, her arms open. She hugged first me, kissing me on both checks, then OT. “Anastasia,” she cried, pointing to herself.
“Anna,” I said, squeezing her arm. OT introduced herself, and Anastasia, beaming with pleasure at having found her wayward guests, took OT's suitcase handle in one hand, tried to take mine in the other (but I won the tussle), and strode off, twisting back to smile and nod at us over her shoulder.
Even if Hotel Varosi had not turned out to be a two-hundred year old traditional inn, with shining wooden floors, recessed windows, heavy beamed ceilings, sofas covered in woven rugs, an open fire, a pink rose in a green vase in our room, and wide, soft beds with crisp white linen, we would still have loved it. We had been welcomed, succored, our slightly grubby cheeks kissed and our burdens taken from us.
The inn
Autumn in Edessa
Dusk
* I have one recurring nightmare. This nightmare involves walking on train tracks carrying a backpack, which becomes strangely too heavy to move just as I hear the train's whistle signaling its approach. In the dream I do not think to, or cannot, let go of the bag. The train tracks are on a gravel embankment running across a paddock, scrubby with blackberry. I never see the train, only hear it coming. I think this dream has to do with watching Stand By Me and Fried Green Tomatoes too many times as a young teenage. However, it made Edessa station a little creepy. But I survived.
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