My boyhood home

At seven in the morning we reached Hannibal, Missouri, where my boyhood was spent. I had had a glimpse of it fifteen years ago, and another glimpse six years earlier, but both were so brief that they hardly counted. The only notion of the town that remained in my mind was the memory, as I had known it when I first quitted it twenty-nine years ago. That picture of it was still as clear and vivid to me as a photograph. 

From this vantage ground the extensive view up and down the river, and wide over the wooded expanses of Illinois, is very beautiful—one of the most beautiful on the Mississippi, I think; which is a hazardous remark to make, for the eight hundred miles of river between St. Louis and St. Paul afford an unbroken succession of lovely pictures. (Slightly modified from Mark Twain’s The Life on the Mississippi) 

I spent 25 years of my youth in Illinois and like Mark Twain my affection for Illinois biases my judgment in its favor; I cannot say but every time I visit it especially the largest and most beautiful of its cities Chicago I feel coming home. The picture was taken on Chicago’s lakefront here I used to live.  Nearby the Chicago River begins from Lake Michigan. Its waters eventually empty in the Illinois River a major tributary of the Mississippi.  The Illinois River joins the Mississippi approximately 20 miles to the north of the Missouri River and the city of St Louis. 

On the terrace of my boyhood home, in Athens’ St Nicholas neighborhood, playing backgammon with my childhood friend Theodosis (on the left) while my little brother Nikos is watching the game.  Mount Egaleo is noted in the background of the picture. (circa 1959)

Down the mighty Ohio...

Long ago I was in Cincinnati, and I set to map out a new career. I had been reading about the recent exploration of the river Amazon by an expedition sent out by our government. It was said that the expedition, owing to difficulties, had not thoroughly explored a part of the country lying about its headwaters, some four thousand miles from the mouth of the river. It was only about fifteen hundred miles from Cincinnati to New Orleans, where I could doubtless get a ship. So, I packed my valise, and took passage on an ancient tub called the ‘Paul Jones,’ for New Orleans. For the sum of sixteen dollars I had the scarred and tarnished splendors of ‘her’ main saloon principally to myself, for she was not a creature to attract the eye of wiser travelers.

When we got under way and went poking down the broad Ohio, I became a new being, and the subject of my own admiration. I was a traveler! A word never had tasted so good in my mouth before. I had an exultant sense of being bound for mysterious lands and distant climes, which I never have felt in so uplifting a degree since. I was in such a glorified condition that all ignoble feelings departed out of me, and I was able to look down and pity the untraveled with a compassion that had hardly a trace of contempt in it. Still, when we stopped at villages and wood-yards, I could not help lolling carelessly upon the railings of the boiler deck to enjoy the envy of the country boys on the bank. I kept my hat off all the time, and stayed where the wind and the sun could strike me, because I wanted to get the bronzed and weather-beaten look of an old traveler. Before the second day was half gone I experienced a joy, which filled me with the purest gratitude; for I saw that the skin had begun to blister and peel off my face and neck. I wished that the boys and girls at home could see me now. (Slightly modified from Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi)