• Due to the weight and size, a shoulder bag was out of the question. You might manage for a while, but after a full day out, you'd end up looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame -especially if you're already carrying a backpack. It won't fit in the backpack either because you need space for unnecessary things like water, food, or clothing. And let's face it, anything on your back is too far away anyway; you'd rather skip the shot than go through the hassle of taking off your backpack, pulling everything out, setting it up, and then packing it all back again. The solution turned out to be the Peak Design Camera Cube in S-Medium, which just about fit everything comfortably. It's originally designed as an insert for PD backpacks, but thanks to the option of attaching anchor links and a strap, it's a highly versatile piece that can be worn any way you like, plus it's padded and water-resistant (or more importantly, sweat-resistant). :(
• I rigged up a system using anchor links, Wandrd straps, and some climbing clips, allowing me to carry everything on my chest, linked to the backpack on my back. Attaching or detaching takes just a few seconds - you place it on the ground, and everything is quickly and easily accessible without taking off your backpack. When walking, you're balanced, and once you get used to the slightly obstructed view of your feet, it's a pretty elegant solution, even usable with trekking poles. The weight wasn't insignificant - about 5kg for me - so I had to adjust to the downward pull on my head and neck, but after one or two hikes, it felt just right.

Act I - cities

Πράξη Ι - πόλεις

Athens, an eclectic city full of contrasts and opposing scenes. A mix of ancient columns, cats, coffee, heat, majestic monuments and a sweetish stench. Under the Acropolis, I sit on the steps between the ever-blooming bougainvilleas with a cup of Turkish coffee (sorry, Greek coffee!!), while cats lazily lounge around, and from the balconies above, old men rustle their newspapers with their typical Greek breakfast - coffee and cigarettes. Or just cigarettes. The peaceful morning atmosphere is punctuated by a crew of workers with a jackhammer, seemingly determined either to piss me off or to dig out a new archaeological site.

In just an hour's walk, I can pass through several dramatically different spheres - from the ancient hilltop, I descend into the marble-white terraces of Plaka, only to continue into the modern banking district that seamlessly blends into areas riddled with open sewers, trash, and hepatitis. From the place where civilization was invented, you can find yourself, just a few steps later, in a hole that makes you wonder if they might've invented it but also forgot about it. Oh well, I think of Prague's Florenc, tighten the strap on my camera, and zigzag onward.

For the photography-inclined, here's a tip - someone has probably already told you that it's hot in Athens, but also keep in mind that this metropolis is mostly cloudless. This, along with the harsh light and brutal contrast, isn't always ideal and requires some preparation. Especially when it comes to careful metering and choosing the right film - assuming you haven't yet strayed onto the digital path.

• And perhaps one more personal, bonus notice - occasionally, the wind in the city can kick in unexpectedly strong and out of nowhere. I can confirm this precisely from my experience at the Acropolis while photographing Athena's olive tree, where I found myself chasing, bent over, after my new, original, expensive, and now airborne SL66 polarizer - at that moment more aptly named "get back here, you round bastard." The guards were momentarily baffled, thinking I was some sort of chicken-performance artist - but fortunately, I caught it before it rolled down into Plaka and the security guards brought out their batons. The filter disintegrated into atoms during its tour, but I have to say, I reassembled it, and there's not a single scratch on it. Thanks, Athena.

The second city of the trip, Nafplio, couldn't be more different from Athens. This Peloponnesian port city, which was briefly even the capital, has a history of falling under various rulers - from Crusaders, Greeks, Italians, to Ottomans - and it shows. Subjectively, the Venetians left the biggest mark here, with several fortresses and even a water castle in the bay - Bourtzi - remaining from their time. Perhaps thanks to them, the city exudes a peaceful, romantic atmosphere where there's plenty of time for everything, and the only rush you'll find is for coffee or a bite to eat.

Act II - mountains

Πράξη II - βουνά

Cats and jackhammers were plenty, so now we're torturing our Fiat as we wind our way upwards ('upwards.' It feels like the car has about half a cylinder, and if we slowed down even slightly, we'd be going backward). But we're not heading for the overhyped Olympus and the mythical Mytikas, rather to the Vikos-Aoös National Park, lined with a series of scattered mountain villages boasting a population density of about -1 person per km². The archipelago of slate-roofed hamlets, collectively known as Zagorochoria, feels like someone was trying to abandon them but changed their mind at the last minute. These villages hug the monumental Vikos Gorge, which splits the entire area in half, creating a remote and unique part of the world where they could easily have filmed The Lord of the Rings and where both time and Wi-Fi have come to a halt.

From our stone cottage, shaded by a massive tree [you'll find one of these along with a little café (kafenio) in the center of every village square (plateia)!], we weave our way through polished stone alleyways. The streets here are so narrow and winding that a car stands no chance and has to stay outside the village. Not a soul in sight. Human, that is - there's no shortage of cows and cats.

• Compared to other countries, there aren't many dogs around, and the few you do see are lazy ones lounging in the shade. You'll get a wag of the tail, a lazy head turn, and maybe even a token bark, just for formality's sake. Cows are much more likely to cross your path, and naturally, the narrower the path, the higher the chances. And if there's no way around them, an encounter with a cow becomes almost a certainty. This certainty befell us too, and being raised on the Czech children's song Cows, cows, how do you talk?, I tried out 'Moo moo mooo,' but apparently, she didn't moo Czech. After a bit of gesturing to assure her I came in peace and just needed to pass, she concluded that I was an ox and stepped aside to greener grass.

The surrounding ravines are connected by old stone bridges with a unique architecture, and that's exactly our goal. The steep descent takes a good toll on us, but the bizarre beauty of the arched bridges heals us in no time - my black-and-white heart sings, and the film rolls fly. Some of the bridges arch over rivers and streams at considerable heights, which, combined with the lack of railings, alternates between tightening and loosening your nerves, but we make it without incident.

• That is, if we're not counting my bruised ego. On the way down, looking just about ready for a defibrillator, we're passed by an ancient grandpa who could easily be mistaken for an olive tree, trekking around here for four days straight as he said. We chat, he smiles, not a drop of sweat on him, and keeps marching up toward the summit. I continue my descent… into the depths of my own shame.

We don't plan on slacking off in the coming days, and after our everyday evening stop at the local kafenio to watch the show with Jesus (in the show was Jesus, not that he was sitting next to us watching TV. And by 'show' I mean it was being aired, not that Jesus was making some performance), we're up early for the local Crème de la Crème. I won't even try to describe the breathtaking grandeur of the Vikos Gorge draped in a curtain of storm clouds, nor the views it offers (I recommend the village of Vikos or making the climb to Beloi). A secret path from an ancient monastery perched on a cliff ledge also left a deep impression - follow it along a narrow rock ledge, and you'll reach the hermit caves. The trail narrows to under a meter in places, sometimes just wooden planks suspended over an endless abyss. Try it during a rainstorm, in flip-flops; you'll be meeting Jesus even before you get to the kafenio.

Our last day fit right into the beautifully bizarre mountain phase, as we decided to tackle the Vradeto Steps. This is a carved-and-stacked staircase snake, winding up from a ravine along a mountainside in a particularly forgotten corner of the region - more forgotten, in fact, than the other routinely forgotten corners. Of a time long ago, a time of myth and legend, when the ancient gods were petty and cruel, and they plagued mankind with suffering, this was the only sensible link between the village of Vradeto and the surrounding civilization. The alternative route (before the road was built) was so grueling and time-consuming that it ate up roughly a third of one's life expectancy back then.

Act III - holy places

Πράξη III - ιεροί τόποι

We're swapping one rugged terrain for another as we head to our final Greek destination - the "sacred, immutable, and untouchable" monasteries of Meteora. Imagine the floating mountains from Avatar, but instead of blue Smurfs in loincloths, they're inhabited by Orthodox Gargamels in black robes who somehow managed to build monasteries on their peaks. I won't torment the kind reader with too many facts and history, but here are a few bits. Monks started coming here to pray in the 11th century, and by the 14th century, someone got the bright idea to build monasteries in the least practical place possible. There used to be 24 - only six remain. How many monks remained after the construction phase is something they wisely didn't mention in their safety records.

• Great Meteoron (Megalo Meteoro) - The "Great Floating One." Also known as the Monastery of the Transfiguration of Jesus. It's the oldest, largest, and most famous, and its name gave the area its name. Naturally, it's also crawling with megalo tourists, enough to make you want to transfigurate right out of there.
• Varlaam - The Monastery of All Saints. The second oldest and largest.
• Agios Stefanos - A women's monastery. The only one connected by a road, making it the easiest to reach. And because of this, it's also packed to the rafters - like everywhere else, really.
• The Holy Trinity - Along with Agios Stefanos, it's the most distant from the remaining five.
• Agios Nikolaos Anapafsa - The first you'll usually encounter on the way from civilization.
• Rousanos - Another women's monastery, one of the smallest alongside the previous one.
• A little off the main path and the most distant of the usual six is Ypapantis - uniquely, it doesn't sit atop a conglomerate rock but is nestled into a cliffside in the woods. It's uninhabited and used only occasionally for prayers. It's one of the best-preserved unused monasteries, accessible via a lovely path where you're unlikely to encounter a soul.

Nearly every monastery is reached by a challenging path typically involving loads (yes, loads) of stairs, none of which are the moving kind. Some have cable lifts with hand-cranked pulleys, but unless you're an abbot or a crate of altar wine, don't get your hopes up. If, like us, you decide to walk it all by foot, the undulating landscape will have your terrain profile looking suspiciously like a stormy sea. I probably don't need to tell those outdoorsy types that starting out at dawn and covering a good chunk of the trail before opening time is a great feeling. And when you pass the barely awake tourists rolling out of the buses, you also get this rather pleasant feeling of superiority.

• If you time it right for Easter and are lucky like we were, you might even get a hard-boiled, painted egg from the monastery for the road! :)

The trails and paths we took were full of scenic, hidden gems that the average visitor wouldn't see - which is awesome. That said, not every trail or path actually leads somewhere - which is not awesome. The most blatant example was when, already well-roasted by the sun, we came up to a firmly locked gate blocking us from reaching the monastery goal just a few dozen meters away. After muttering some words my mother would have washed out of my mouth with soap, I narrowed the options down to four:

• Throw ourselves into the steep ravine on the left.
• Head back a few kilometers.
• Bust through the gate, wrestle a few guard dogs and the guard.
• Push through the unfriendly-looking bushes on the right and go steeply into the unknown.

I declared a reconquista and charged into the savage shrubbery on the right, scrambling up terrain even a mountain goat wouldn't fancy. Not really knowing what we were conquering, we finally crested what seemed like an unconquered peak - and, either as a reward for our effort or our audacity, we were greeted with a one-of-a-kind view of four monasteries at once. I won't tell you exactly where it is, but if you wander here, you'll know when you've found it. Take a seat, meditate. Or peel your egg.

The end

Κατάληξη

There was a lot, and it was amazing. We shook with fear from the heights of the Corinth Canal, its glowing aquamarine color looking suspiciously unnatural. We crawled by car through clouds and olive groves up to the peak of Lefkada. We carefully trudged along cliffs toward a majestic lighthouse and, in the wild winds on those endlessly high cliffs, used up an entire roll of film on it (if you're reading this, Mom, it was totally safe, not dangerous at all!). We found deserted beaches, waded across a wild river (tossing our shoes across; pro tip: aim well - I threw it over but then had to fish it out of a tree). We balanced along old monk paths carved into rock or, unsuspectingly, ended up staying in the mosr dangerous neighborhood in Athens (last one, Mom, I swear). We accidentally took a part in the demonstration. And we found draft Budweiser Budvar in a tiny backwater town (the real, one and only Czech Budějovický Budvar!!). There was a lot. And it was amazing.