At this point in the Chile trip, I had done an overnight flight to arrive in Santiago, was there for the day, flew overnight to Easter Island and spent 1-5 a.m. in the Lima airport and another overnight flight back to Santiago. It all seemed like such a good idea when I was booking my flight, in an "I just quit my job and am leaving the country fury."

Back in Santiago, I'd planned to go straight to the bus station and get a ticket, drop my bag there and spend the day exploring. But I was far too exhausted from spending about three days straight of not sleeping on an actual bed. So I headed back to the hostel and hoped for a free bed to take a nap.

Several hours later, but still tired, I washed up and headed back into Santiago to find the bus terminal to make sure I had a seat on the bus to Puerto Montt, overnight, because I like to torture myself. 

Bus ticket secured, I made my way to the market Antonio had recommended to pick up some souvenirs. Only thing, it was clear across town. Tried to hop on a bus, but that was too much trouble and time consuming to figure out, so I just kept walking. By the time I got to the market I was so tired and hot I wanted to sleep on a bench. But, I had, stupidly, wore my college t-shirt and looked so much like a tourist it was ridiculous. And since no clock I found had the correct time, I decided it was safer to get back and not miss the bus.

My new Swiss friend, Yoan, and I shared a cab to the bus station. The bus pulled out at 8:45 p.m. and arrived in Puerto Montt around 9 a.m. the next morning. The guy next to me only spoke Spanish, so we attempted some conversation, but didn't get far. Eventually, he went to the empty seats behind us and I could sort of stretch out and sleep.

Worried that I'd miss my stop, as I've done in other countries, I kept asking if every stop was Puerto Montt. It wasn't. But I went all the way downstairs at one stop just to be sure. That's where Carlo and I first met. He assured me we were not in Puerto Montt yet. Phew.

Later, in Puerto Montt, Carlo and I established that we were both catching the Navimag ferry, so we set off to find the terminal together. We found Yoan, checked in, dropped luggage, wandered the streets to find breakfast that sadly included Nescafe...awful instant coffee. 

The Navimag four day/three night ferry trip was what I had been seriously looking forward to since I discovered it though random online searches. Actually, it wasn't that random, I actually searched for Patagonia and ferries. The prices are decent for such a long and awesome trip through Patagonia, plus meals are included and you can bring snacks (and wine!) on the ship. I originally planned to take a bed in the hallway dorm areas, but instead opted for a 4-bunk room and used the student discount (loose, but I was still working on my masters). That made the better room cheaper than the dorm anyway and after four nights of sleeping on planes and buses, it was the most glorious bed I had ever seen.

Bags had been dropped, we had tickets and were still waiting to board. Everything in Chile is on "South American time." Except the buses. Most of them seem pretty punctual.

They load you up on buses and haul you over to the actual ferry loading area and finally, we were climbing a bunch of metal stairs onto the ferry. Finding our rooms was a challenge at first, but we figured it out, with a little help, and our bags were placed on our beds and we settled in. There were just three girls in our room, which was nice since there's not a lot of room to move around when everyone is in there at once, with bags and stuff. My roommates for the trip were Fleur, from Holland, and Joanna, from Poland but lives in Dublin.

Once we had our bags stashed and I changed clothes since I'd been wearing basically the same thing for days, we headed out to the deck to take in the view. We could see a lot of Puerto Montt and chatted while we waited to get moving, which took forever it felt like. 

Turns out, Joanna used to work at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg, not far from where I grew up.

At this point, I was practically doing a jig on the deck I was so ready to get underway. Every time a little boat went near the ropes tying us to pylons we all hoped we would be off. And finally, we were!

The weather was pretty gloomy the first day and rainy and I was praying for the rain to hold off for the trip. By the we were moving, it was late afternoon. Then there was a safety briefing, that involved, "If you see someone fall overboard, notify the crew." Yes, sir. No one fell overboard on this trip, but it did almost happen when I sailed the Whitsundays in Australia a few years ago.

The first day was pretty, but not spectacular like the glaciers we were all waiting for. It looked a bit like New Zealand, or Ireland or parts of the U.S., or Wales or a lot of places depending on who you were talking to at that point.

It's summer in Chile and you're crazy close to Antarctica down there, so it stays light until 10-11 p.m. Of course it's also light by 6 a.m. or so. The first night, Joanna, Carlo, Joan and I played cards, lots of cards, over local Chilean beer. Then we shared wine and continued with cards. We played Uno for awhile then moved on to Asshole, a game I lost at a lot, but did manage to become the president once I think. I'm really no good at cards.

That night was the best night's sleep, finally in a real bed, with quiet and though I was on a boat, I didn't feel like I was moving for the first time in several days. It's the little things, really.

More amazing scenery all day and mid-afternoon we hit open ocean. I got to chatting with Tom, a Welsh guy, who was traveling for months before heading back to Wales for his sister's wedding. He'd been living in Australia for awhile and also worked in social media, so we chatted and were some of the only ones on the boat braving the cold and off and on rain to be outside almost the entire day taking it all in. Of course, it also helped me with the choppy water to be outside. I felt much less queasy outside. Then we watched as what looked like a wall of rain got closer and closer so we went inside to warm up and not get soaked. Walking on the boat was a challenge as it rocked all over, but I managed to not fall overboard and Tom opened the super heavy door for me, thankfully, as I was struggling not to trip myself. Of course, I did walk into the wall right about now, somehow Tom didn't notice, and I managed to get my balance.

We headed to the bar area where everyone hangs out and I found a seat where I could see out the window, still helping with the queasiness. Got to talking with a girl sitting next to me, a Canadian who was living and working in South America with Cirque du Soleil. We chatted away over a bottle of wine and made a new circle of friends. Some discussion was had with a Kiwi and an Aussie over how far south we were and how people think New Zealand is part of Australia...it's not, folks.

Somehow, the conversation became centered on thinking of songs with a nautical theme. It went on for quite some time and was a pretty funny list. Tom introduced us to an odd song about a duck, we had some Men at Work in there, Come Sail Away and gosh, I can't remember what else. At one point, Tom offered up "Love Boat" and then started singing made up words to the tune of Love Shack. He was challenged to write a song and perform it at the party the next night, but we never did get our song. His brilliant lyrics were eaten by a "flying whale," a joke that managed to go on most of the next day.

I managed to not get seasick, though it was rough for me in the dining area. I kept calling it the kitchen, Tom and Steve kept correcting me with "galley." But that room was stuffy, it had windows but they were foggy and hard to see out of at that point and just being in there made me feel awful that night. Dinner was pasta with red sauce and though there was cheese and such at the front of the room, I didn't dare try to walk up there with a plate of red sauce while on the rocky open ocean. I got out of the kitchen as fast as I could and went back outside for some air and joined about half the ship in going to bed early to fall asleep before we hit what's known as the Gulf of Pain. I think I did and only woke up once when I might have almost rolled out of my bed. Not sure if that was the ocean or just that it's a super narrow bed and I'm a klutz. Could go either way.

Next day...glaciers! And dolphins! And wildlife! I missed the whale. It was there, I just couldn't see it. It was really far off and we could only see the waterspout, but it was choppy water, so all I saw was waves. Oh well.

I've climbed a glacier in New Zealand and seen them in Montana, but they're still pretty amazing in Chile. We sailed right into a cove, through small ice hunks and right up to a massive glacier. It was incredible. There's not much to say other than look at these photos!

After the glaciers, we visited Puerto Eden, a town that had a population of about 90 at the time. In high season, it's population is about 140 our guides said.

There was a kid running around yelling to tell everyone we were there. After it took us forever to get off the ship. Tom and I decided that in the event of an actual emergency, we'd never make it off the ship in time.

It warmed up considerably that day and with our coats, life jackets and walking around in the sun, we were melting. There were also more stray dogs everywhere. And chickens. But, the views were incredible. Like this one.

Back on the ship, people broke out the wine and alcohol almost immediately. It was 5 p.m. after all. That's when I made friends with a couple from Oregon who work for the fire service. Traveling is awesome since you get to spend days on end with people from all over, but sometimes it is nice to chat with people from your own country, especially when you have some things in common. I also met Allison that night. She's in her 60s or so, traveling the world alone and I want to be her when I grow up.

That was the last night on the ship and so it was Bingo Night, followed by "Fiesta!"

We missed bingo since we were outside chatting over drinks and taking in the stunning sunset. Then the party started and it involved a disco ball. Oh my.

And then there was dancing. It's rare you can get me on the dance floor if it's not a family or close friend's wedding, but new friends, fun and some wine will do the trick it seems. We closed the party down with ridiculous dancing. I honestly have no idea what I'm doing on a dance floor, but Tom was trying to show me the salsa, I think, and Thomas, a German rocket scientist (really) spun me several times, crashing me into the souvenir case, but it was good times.

Steve snapped these photos. I'm sunburned as anything, with ocean hair, but oh my gosh, we had so much fun. Top photo, is Fleur, me and Tom. Bottom photo, Tom spinning me all over, very near the souvenir case Thomas had spun me into.

Guys, I went to Easter Island.

Kind of amazing.

After the walking tour in Santiago, relaxed at the hostel for a bit, grabbed a cab to the airport (another 14,000 pesos) and caught my flight, barely, to Easter Island. When I arrived at the airport, I stashed my bag there instead of carting back and forth across the ocean. But then I noticed on the flight boards that my flight was now leaving an hour early. Cue mega panic attack.

I'd just about worked it out in my head that I wouldn't make it to Easter Island and what would I do instead,  when the ticketing agents got it sorted and I managed to race through security and customs and get on my flight. When I got to Lima, of course my flight was delayed so I spent five extra hours in the airport but at least they let us in the VIP lounge to wait. But it did bring back memories of my trip to Peru in 2008, when I spent plenty of time in the Lima airport.

Of course I couldn't sleep on that flight, which was probably a bad idea while in South America.

Landed on Easter Island and had no plan whatsoever, so after navigating through customs again and talking to a very rude hostel/tour guy, I just went outside and found a taxi.

The driver was trying to tell me how much it would cost and he was saying 30,000 pesos (about $60 USD) and for some reason I was sure I didn't have that much. I'll blame it on the lack of sleep, because I definitely did. Another tourist heard my confusion and came over to help and we got everything sorted.

So instead of paying hundreds for a private tour that day, I got my own taxi and tour by a local for $80 USD in the end.

Few people get to go and see the moai and no one really knows much about them anyway. In a world that's more and more connected through technology and social media, a world where we seem to be losing our wonder, standing on Easter Island, looking at massive stone statues that people moved with just ropes and brute strength, it's fascinating that we can't explain something so seemingly simple. It's nice to know there's some wonder and mystery left in the world and that there are still some answers we can't find on the interwebs.

My taxi driver/tour guide, Alex, is from outside Santiago but has lived on Isla de Pascua ( Spanish for Easter Island) for 20-25 years. His English is limited, but it was better than my Spanish, so we managed. He took me first to a site where the moai had been toppled by a tsunami in 1960 and never pulled upright again. Not far from this site, some horses were wandering and grazing. They are everywhere on the island and the preferred mode of transportation as they minimize the impact of tourists on the island. There's a problem with sick horses though, as there's some plant on the island that is toxic to the horses, but they eat it anyway and die. We saw several that were very sick or near death and it's incredibly sad. One bolted in front of the taxi and we nearly crashed, so not the way I want to go.

The water is stunningly clear and incredible and the air is also very clean. Alex talked about the pollution in Santiago and said it's not that way on Easter Island. There's only about 5,000 people living there. Alex said less than half are descendants of the native population and most work in tourism from the looks of it. I heard from another traveler that moving to Easter Island is a tough thing to do, but hard to say what the real rules are.

Side note, if you go to Easter Island, which you should, do not walk too close to the moai. They're considered sacred ceremonial sites and it's completely improper and disrespectful to the locals.

We chatted about my trip and his taxi business, but mostly, I just stared at the blueness of the ocean and the sky and the immenseness of how far from anything I was...and I loved it. Cruising along dirt roads in a rickety Nissan with a local on one of the most mysterious islands on Earth was a far cry from sitting in D.C. traffic trying to get somewhere I didn't really want to go and being stressed about nothing all the time. 

One of my favorite things about travel is the perspective you get when you see how others live with so little and seem so happy and are reminded of real problems and what truly matters to you. Cut off from the world with no cell phone, social media, tv, whatever, you just meet new people, learn about their lives and cultures and feel small in a big world again. It's a good feeling.

We stopped at Rano Raraku, which was the quarry for the moai on the island and has the most moai of any site on the island. It's part of the Rapa Nui National Park and you have to pay to enter, not much, but I opted to just stop on the road and take a photo and stare from there. It's a World Heritage Site and I'm stoked to check another of those off my list. I'm still blown away by how they carved these massive statues and hauled them all over the island. I have no idea why they did it, and well, that might be the best part. The big one carved in the mountain in the photo is the largest moai on the island, Alex told me.

I saw people up on the site walking awfully close to the moai, hopefully someone up there set them straight. We hopped back in the car and headed to the next site, which was the one I was most excited to see. Some of the ones in this photo are pretty recognizable, but the next site might be the most iconic of the place.

Ahu Tongariki is amazing. Just amazing. There are 15 moai at this site, with their backs to the ocean, but they face sunset during the summer solstice. The statues were toppled during the island's civil wars from the late 1700s to the early 1800s. Many, like those at Ahu Tongariki, have been restored. During the 1960 tsunami, these moai were swept inland and have since been returned to their original positions. There's also a cave nearby that someone actually lives in, which seems crazy, but practical really. Learn more about the moai, the island and the restoration projects here.

I spent quite a bit of time just staring at this site. With the bluest ocean behind it, clear skies and a breeze, it was one of those incredible "I am here" moments.

For your viewing pleasure, more photos from the island. One of the most amazing places I've ever been.

“You make this dish for your Greek husband, and he will love you forever,” Kostas tells me. He pauses, frowns a little, then adds, “But you won’t have a Greek husband. I disapprove.” 

Passersby might have suspected I’ve asked for advice on finding a husband, Greek or otherwise, or that Kostas and I regularly have such conversations, so easy does the advice come. But, no. Aside from general pleasantries, this is the first conversation Kostas and I have had. I’ve asked him, the son of the owner of my favorite restaurant in Greece, to teach me how to make stuffed tomatoes and peppers.

“It’s easy,” Kostas says, the way he might have said, “It's right in front of you,” as though I am asking him to pass me the salt, and not teach me how to make the traditional dish that’s captivated me. He says it melodically, as he’s said everything since I’ve started going to his father’s restaurant. It’s EA-zee. Although I haven’t picked up much Greek, I’ve learned to mimic the rhythm in English, and so I respond in kind, “TELL me.” 

Since arriving in Athens two months earlier, I’d relentlessly asked people for recommendations on Greek cooking classes. Without fail, each of them had shrugged and said, “I’ll take you home to my mother. She’ll teach you.” I never quite knew what to make of the offers, but regardless of any hidden motivation, not a single one came to fruition. The apartment I’d rented has cookbooks in it, of course, but I find them daunting. The recipes I’d found online vary so greatly I don’t trust them. I get the sense that this dish, like many others, is best not made from a recipe at all, that people just intrinsically know how to make it. But time is passing by, spring is turning into summer, and still I don’t know. So I beg Kostas to teach me. 

 He agrees easily, seemingly surprised only that it’s something I don’t already know. I sit, notebook and pen in hand, half-eaten tomatoes and peppers in front of me, my wine glass nearly empty. I wait, and he tells me, not about tomatoes and peppers, the potatoes surrounding them already devoured. But before I learn one thing, it seems, I must learn another. 

“We have a saying in Greece,” Kostas tells me. “You must find a shoe from your own land in order for it to fit.”

He’s not smiling as he says this, so I can’t be sure if he’s teasing me or not. It sounds like something that would be a tease; after all, is the woman the shoe in this scenario? But unlike the usual waiter, a heartbreakingly handsome man with a beaming smile who has teased me before, Kostas is the thoughtful, serious type. We’ve exchanged passing greetings before but never jokes. And I think, perhaps, after all, he is not teasing. I am a shoe. 

“Greek men,” he tells me with that same melody, “are mentally incapable of loving and appreciating a woman from another land.” Despite my insistence that I’m in Athens because I love the city, the staff at the restaurant suspect I’m here because of a relationship. After all, who suddenly decides they want to live in Greece? And if Greece, why Athens instead of one of the famed islands, if not for a lover? I’ve given up attempting to convince them, and so I take Kostas’s words as a warning, but a kind one, like one a cousin or an uncle would give. It’s the same way I’ve taken the relentless offers to feed me (“You’re too skinny!”), the waiters and waitresses who brought desserts I hadn’t ordered or an extra glass of wine. Food has been at the center of my time in Greece, and in my and there was no greater souvenir than stuffed tomatoes and peppers. I wanted to take them home with me. 

I’d been eating it at least once a week for the past two months, almost always at Café Metro. Some days I ate only that, the stuffed tomatoes and peppers, surrounded by chopped potatoes. Some days I pair it with a glass of wine and dessert. I’d also discovered a salad called the Rocca Salad which was better than anything calling itself a salad had a right to be; shaved parmesan and pine nuts and tomatoes with some sort of vinaigrette that begs to be mopped up with crusty bread. I was proud when I could order those dishes in Greek, complete with a please and a thank you. The waiters were gracious enough never to let on just how inadequate my Greek was, and so I returned week after week. 

Café Metro sits on Monastiraki Square, teeming with tourists and vendors and locals. In the center of the square are two fruit carts, immediately next to each other in proximity that defies logic, given the size of the square and the amount of animosity between them.  

Monastiraki is the perfect place for me. I can walk from my apartment in Pagrati, down past Syntagma Square with its changing ceremonial guards, and soldiers armed with machine guns, past the shops on Ermou, through Plaka, and into Monastiraki Square. It was a lovely walk after a day of writing. Sometimes I’d walk past Monastiraki to Thissio, get a coffee and watch the sunset against the Acropolis. 

There are other restaurants, of course, piled one on top of the other from Plaka to Thissio and beyond. Competition for customers is so intense that waiters and managers stand out front, clap their hands, and say, “Please,” as they gesture to the menu on a stand near the entrance. I’d chosen Café Metro the first day because it was directly on the square; the front tables were outside of the portico and in the square itself, and a diner eating tomatoes and peppers had caught my eye. My stomach growled at the sight of it, and that was the end of it.  

It was love. 


After I’d left Greece for the first time, my memories were broken into chapters; each marked by restaurants and the dishes I ate in them. Friends were remembered by where we dined. The place in the Gas District that serves champagne chocolate cake. The waterfront restaurant in Piraeus that wowed me with a nut cake. The first real Greek salad I ever had down a side alley I could never find again. But stuffed tomatoes and peppers is the only Greek recipe I’ve ever attempted on my own. 

And this is how it’s made.

Take a tomato and a pepper and scoop out the hearts until you’re left with the cups. Put the shells in a tray, and put cut tomatoes around the sides of the pan. Cook about twenty minutes at approximately 360 degrees but keep an eye out; the shells should still be hard enough to hold the stuffing.  Put the heart of the tomato in a blender with four tablespoons of olive oil, one glass of water, some sat and pepper and one cup of cooked rice.  Put the rice mixture inside the pepper and tomato with a little olive oil and enough water to cover about a quarter of the potatoes. Lightly cover with tin foil and cook for one and a half hours. Serve warm or cold, sprinkled with basil and some feta cheese on the side. 

Despite my best efforts, I’ve never been able to duplicate the dish. It lacks the key ingredients; the bustle of Monastiraki, the arguing of the fruit cart vendors, the way the air smells in spring in Athens, the stern warnings about dating Greek men. I’ve tried, repeatedly, but give up. 

And so I go back to Athens, and sit at a table at Café Metro overlooking Monastiraki, and order stuffed tomatoes and peppers and a glass of wine. I laugh with the handsome waiter who miraculously remembers me, and wave to Kostas in the back, who doesn’t seem to. I think, This is how one makes stuffed peppers and tomatoes. And I approve. 

Café Metro is located at 5 Monastiraki Square, Athens, Greece, and is open daily from 7 am until midnight. 

Molly McCluskey is a full-time freelance writer who, when not traveling, is based in Washington, D.C. She’s currently living in Europe. Follow her on Twitter @MollyEMcCluskey.