Mediterrenenan: Maybe a whitewashed house on the hill outside of Athens, maybe Marathon. The stark inside , wood floors, white linen curtains, the bath steamy and fresh against the hot summer air wisping through the open window. The lady taking her bath,the man writing on his computer at a small round table, wicker chair, his feet up, drinking something with fresh fruit, looking out at the harbour, the white sails glistening in the sun. The symbolism of ancinet fishing voyages, the romans and greeks from 2500 years before, going about their lives in much the same manner, debating philospohy, having a spot to eat, the reflection one always gets when looking out to sea. The ancient greeks who may have looked out upon the water themselves and wondered about the past and wondered about the polynesains who had crosed the ocean a thousand years before. The overall looking arcoss history though the same spot, and always the same thoughts, over the course of thousands of years.

At last, a quiet point in the vacation, he thought, his feet propped up on the windowsill of the hotel room. He looked around the room, the furniture spare, the wood floor old but scrubbed and polished, and he snorted derisively at how little time they had actually had to relax in it in the week they had been in Marathon. Originally a trip that his wife was going to take to finish her doctorate degree, they had decided it would be a nice psuedo vacation if they both went, and took a few extra days after her thesis was complete. The medical school however, upon finding out his knowledge of technical translations, had enlisted his help in translating manuals for some eastern european equipment, the manufacturer seemingly out of business now due to the resurgance of age old wars that had sprouted up across the former iron curtain, once it had fallen.

Some vacation it had been, he looked back, a week of poring over documents, and generally trying to make his wifes research easier, he had barely had time to even see the ocean that streched out in front on the cliffside room they were renting. Ah well, he thought, her paper was done, his busywork was over, and now they could spend the rest of the week as tourists. He laughed to himself, half wondering if he had brought along any black socks to wear with shorts, as most of the tourists he saw seemed to be wearing, oblivious to any fashion rules, yet immediately visible as tourists.

The windows were open, the small hotel, really just a house with a few extra rooms that they rented out, was perched on the side of a cliff, the outside walls whitewashed, reflecting the ever present, and hot, sun. White linen curtains fluttered with the soft sea breeze, a true sea breeze he noted, rsh, clean, with a tinge ofa salt tang, not the stale fish-smelling air that always seemed to be synonomous with the ocean.

The water stopped running in the bathroom, he noticed as the noise stopped, his wife was taking a hot bath, the steam rising along the ceiling through the open door, a faint sound of music from her headphones mingling with the distant waves. Alone he was, left with his thoughts, in a country far from home, in a room rented from an older couple, the man with distant eyes, who showed them the room, his first word were to show them the view. It was no wonder the old man has distant eyes he thought, taking a bite from a fresh apple, his eyes began to search the ocean, pulled to the horizon, to the distant islands, in search of what, he did not know, but he scanned the water. His eyes, if he could see them, had taken on the same distant look he had seen in the old man.

Lothos stood alone, as he often did, on the side of the cliff, his eyes cast out to sea, across the narrow gulf to the island. He was a scout, sent ahead of the advancing war party that was just now startingto ford the gulf, they would belanding by the morning. So far he had found no sign of the enemy, no remnants of fires, no pits for waste covered over, and that pleased him. He didn't wish to find the enemy so soon, so close to the water. Zeus must be looking out for him, he thought. He was young, only 16, but strong. He had already served in two battles, and his fellow seafarers from the land that would in distant times be known as Israel had bestowed upon him the role of scout as a reward. He was determined not to fail. The sea held his gaze, the distant boats mere specks on the horizon, and he allowed his thoughts to wander. Back to when he first set foot on one of those boats, a mere boy of 7, the way the distant water had captured his dreams, how he had then wished to slay the mighty creatures of the deep, and find his fortune in a distant land. He hadn't slain those mighty beasts that still claimed ships mysteriously, but he was working towards that fortune, he knew. This was a rich land,and turning his back to the sea, and walking up the cliff to continue his scouting mission, he knew he would find his future here.

Michel stopped to adjust his pack, the rope straps were cutting into his shoulders even after 2 months of wandering. Originally he had set out with the group of pilgrims and warriors from Briton on what was to become known as the Second Crusade. Somewhere along the way through Italy, the group had disbanded, the pilgrims unaccustomed to the daily exertion, went back to England. The warriors seeking salvation through pillage had crafted some crude plans to raid a number of German villages, and had headed back as well. He, however, seeking neither pillage nor redemption, decided to wander the coasts, telling stories for meals and beds. Sometimes he was even able to share one, he smiled, especially during the fishing season when the men were off on the sea. He couldn't see any boats now, looking off towards a distant island. He had heard stories, the kind told now to children, about the sea monsters that lived in the depths of the blue water, and how the ancient gods had risen to rid the world of them, driving them off the edge of the earth. Looking out across the water, he began to wonde who else had been there before him, what life they had lived to bring them to the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea, what thoughts they may have had, what dreams were set into motion by the reflection of their soul upon the blue water.

He got up from his chair to stand by the window, his foot propped up on the sill, wondering what kind of people had traversed the sea in front of him, the what wars had been waged, and who might have where he was standing that day, many thousands of years before. Greece had such a varied history in the ancient times, so very colourful and rich. The ancinet temples that still stood in Athens, monumnets to long forgotten gods. The amphitheatres, where philosophers had argued ideas, merchants had argued prices with women buying food at street stalls. Poets, storytellers, and charlatans had told their stories, and on leaving to wander the countryside, had no doubt passed this very cliff by, taken stock of the grand views before heading north. Journeys begun here, passed through here, and, he was sure, a few had ended here, the cliffs steep enough for a broken lover to cast themselves foreverupon the rocks below. Bare feet, sandaled feet, and even the black socked feet of modern tourists had walked here, he thought. So many stories to tell, so many to imagine.

How much had changed, he thought, and yet, how little at it's very core had really changed at all. At any given time during the day, students still argued philosophy in the amphitheatres, soveniers were sold in street stalls, and still, wanderers like himself, were still drawn to this cliff, to take pause, to fix their eyes upon the distant islands, to wonder about their future, and reflect upon the past.