I took a lot of
pictures that day. I was in Europe traveling with my cousin, V., and my dear
friend E. We had flown in to Paris; traveled to and through Croatia; taken a
frigid, frustrating, forty-hour, capricious train ride through Bulgaria and a
number of other countries; and arrived at the temple of Poseidon during a
day trip on which our host’s friend T. was taking us. It was nearing sundown
when we parked the car and started to walk up the hill, though it was more a
gently-sloped, rocky mountain. There was not much to see, structurally, once we
got to the temple, but the view was breathtaking.
Every direction
showcases something epic in scale and astoundingly beautiful. There is a 180
degree view of the sea, sparkling in the warm, setting sunlight. The mountains
and hilly Greek landscape rise up around the sea, looming above the cityscapes
along the coast and encroaching on the edge of the water like the fingers of
some monolithic, rocky giant. Walking toward the edge of the cliff, a sheer
drop of many stories appears and the muffled crashing of waves that has been
rhythmically pounding in the background like a subterranean metronome blasts
through and assaults the senses. Sometimes the gusting wind sucks all the sound
away, leaving just a hollow whooshing. Other times, the wind amplifies the
sound of the waves, revealing their awesome force like slowly taking off headphones
in a room full of crashing cymbals.
After walking
around for a bit and admiring the scenery, I pulled out my camera and started
taking pictures. One symptom of owning a digital camera has been that I can no
longer remember taking particular, individual shots, but when I went back and
reviewed all the pictures I had taken from that area, this one stood out to me
for some reason. In the foremost foreground, there is a rope fence. This fence
has two thin, droopy lines attached to poles spaced out at indecipherable distances
because nothing in the photograph provides any kind of scale; they could be
five feet apart or they could be twenty-five feet apart. What’s interesting
about the fence is that it is so unobtrusive. The posts and rope are the same
dull colors as the sandy earth surrounding the temple, and the fence is so low
to the ground that it would take no more than an exaggerated step to get over
it. It is less an intimidating barrier to keep people out and more a symbolic
border subtly suggesting the temple ruins should not be approached.
This subtle suggestion
only needs to be a suggestion because, despite their dilapidated state, the
temple ruins are imposing. The surviving pillars stand like proud, athletic
figures reaching to the sky asking only to be gazed at, not approached. There
are only seven marble stairs spanning the entire length and width of the temple
leading up to the main floor of the structure, but they are covered in thorny,
barely-alive vegetation; rubble; and rust-colored rocks from the surrounding
area; you couldn’t ascend them unless you were absolutely determined. If these
factors weren’t enough to deter voyeurs from encroaching, the solemn, almost
inhospitable desolation of the craggy, rocky cliff-top environment intensifies
the stupefying wonder of the ruins and makes them seem inviolable.
What no simple
description of this place can convey is the deep, overwhelming sadness that
overtakes you when you actually stand in front of this awesome, destroyed
remnant of one of the most advanced cultures the world has ever seen. No longer
does the sparse array of pillars hold up an ornamented marble roof; instead, they
hold up the sky. No longer do heathen priests sacrifice animals or drown horses
to appease and edify their god, Poseidon; instead, the wind and rain tenant
this temple, chipping away at the little marble that somehow remains standing
after thousands of years. No longer do the voices of the faithful rise up as
one to call on their deity; instead, the sound of the crashing waves on the cliffs
far below reminds visitors that nothing created by man, not even the strongest
stone structures constructed to honor the most powerful gods, can stand
forever. Time, one second, one year, one decade, one wave at a time, breaks
down all the works of men both tangible and ideological: tick-crash, tock-crash.
These ruins are
beautiful, beautiful but sad. Forsaken and neglected, they remain a tattered memento mori standing on a dusty cliff-side overlooking the sea. They say
it was one of the most famous and well-known temples in the ancient world, that
its marble pillars were plated with gold, and that when the sun rose and set
each day, the brilliant, shining temple could be seen all the way across the
sea in Sparta. I never understood the true meaning of the Latin Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? until I
stood there wondering where the gold had gone, why the temple had been left to
fall into disrepair, and what had ultimately happened to its builders and their
civilization. I knew, factually, what had happened because I studied ancient
history in college, but what history classes and pictures in textbooks can’t
tell you is that someone, an individual, painstakingly worked to carve out the
marble of those pillars and create something beautiful and grand, an enduring
monument to a deity. “What will come of me?” I wondered as I walked down the
rust-red, sandy path leading down from the top of the cliff, listening to the
waves crashing below. “What will I leave behind?” I couldn’t help but realize
the answer, for me and for everyone, ultimately, is nothing. Tick-crash, tock-crash.
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