The port city of Patras

I originally plan to spend a night in Patras and take the first ferry to Sami (Kefalonia) on Wednesday morning, however when I arrive I learn that there are no morning ferries during off-peak season. This wouldn't matter were I on a lazy tour of Europe, however I have a Greek wedding to get to! There is a ferry sailing this Tuesday evening at 8pm and so I decide to get on that, arriving into Sami at midnight and hoping I can get a taxi to the other side of the island, Svoronata, where I am booked to stay. Patras sounds quite interesting according to the Rough Guide and the tourist information sheet I collected at the ferry port. It is the 3rd largest urban centre in Greece and although characterised by its busy port (and all the things that go with a port city) it also played an important role in history during the Roman period and it was European Capital of Culture in 2006. Patras has a large student population and is viewed as a major scientific centre with a field of excellence in technological education. It is exceedingly pretty by the port which seems to stretch on for miles, with the main road running alongside it. As I am beginning to find in Italy and Greece, the Mediterraneans are not very up on their signage. It's quite difficult working out where I am supposed to go in order to (a) find a ticket for the next leg of my journey (I cannot use Interail on this ferry trip unlike the Bari to Patras journey) and (b) where my ferry sails from. Well I I have 8 hours to fill, and I have two main priorities: food and drink.

I find a pretty roadside cafe and order tzaziki, baked feta and lager. It is truly the best thing I have ever tasted. I sit in the cafe for hours alternating between lager and coffee (my poor nervous system) and think how wonderful it is to have a whole afternoon to do whatsoever you please. It is lazily glorious. I get to thinking about my solitary nature and how happy I am to be alone, watching other people interact. I used to wonder if this was normal - why was I not more like my sociable brother and sister who never miss an opportunity to make friends? I always seem the one destined to choose a corner and watch things unfold. It sounds vaguely ominous and probably springs from a childhood shyness, yet I am not shy any longer and I just enjoy being by myself. I love travelling on my own because it feels like I really see a place when I am alone, not being sucked into someone else's observations, or caught up in discussions about things totally separate to the environment, or the dreaded compromise. It seems also that I relax completely when I am alone, I don't have to be a certain way, I can just be me. I love the total anonymity. So I sit leisurely in the sun, thinking and dreaming, adoring being able to do exactly what I want.

One of the negative things about travelling alone as a woman is the inescapable male attention. Sometimes I feel like I am an affront to my sex for not craving male attention. I suppose a part of me has always longed to be invisible. But although I do dislike attention, in this case it is the vulnerability which I hate, when men will size me up like a piece of meat at a market stall. In western Europe it is far worse than in the UK where men need five pints before braving a chat-up line. Here it seems it is part of a male's national duty to leer and proposition every lone female. I am pretty certain I don't invite it; I never wear clothes that show off flesh and I deliberately maintain an air of reserve when solo travelling. Within though, I boil with rage at the arrogance, the assumption that I am interested, no, flattered, at their obvious stares. Their collective ego is amazing. One of the things I enjoy about travelling is meeting people and finding common ground within apparent cultural differences; I have journeyed to Europe, the Middle East, Africa and Asia and most people are so curious and friendly. Yet there is such a difference between a curious exchange and the predatory interest of certain men. It is quite obvious that to them a woman travelling alone can only mean one thing. It is mostly inconvenient but it can be frightening when it seems to slip into outright misogyny. I have had a close call once with some nasty Venetian men who wouldn't take no for an answer and stalked me and my female friend back to our apartment; it was only the presence of a large porter which shook them off. I wonder at the situation if it were in reverse - women as the predators, men as the prey. Firstly I cannot imagine many women actually forcing their attention on men in such a way - the blatant stares, the leering, sneering look on their faces - and secondly I cannot imagine men ever being vulnerable to it. Their physical strength surely means they could never feel vulnerable to unwanted attention. I wonder how different I would be if I were a man.

Later as the sun sets, I make my way down to the harbour. I have found the right spot and have a ticket and all I need to do is let the ferry pull up and claim me. It is beautiful here by the grey-blue sea and rugged green hills. As the sky changes from different shades of blue to flame orange and reds, I begin to notice that the port is not just a place for travellers to arrive and depart. It is also a thriving part of the community: everyone comes to commune with the water of an evening. Teenagers hang out here by the water's edge, families stroll around and older men in stiffly pressed shirts and smart trousers take their evening constitutional around the dock. The only demographic missing are the older women - are they all at home making dinner? I love the contrast of the formally dressed old men and the shabby casual clothing of the youngsters. The pull of the sea is irresistible, everyone who comes to the water edge seems to silently pay tribute to this mighty element, much like the faithful in church. The balmy weather slowly turns cooler, but I can still feel where the heat has soaked into my skin. I feel incredibly light of heart.