Emily Z in Greece, New York, and Various Other Locations

In Which I Show Up Again And Promise to Keep Writing

2008-02-05T18:21:00.000-05:00

Hello everyone. This is just quick note to let you all know that I have in fact been writing again. No, really. I mean it this time. Check out www.ipromisetogowandering.blogspot.com. It even has a huge adorable picture of my cat at the top.

In Which I Create A New Blog

2007-10-26T17:04:00.000-04:00

So here's what has happened in the past few months:

1) I left New York, travelled back to Greece and Serbia, taught a class full of wonderful high school students in Serbia, caught up briefly with some friends in Greece, but unfortunately returned home to New York early because of a death in the family. (That's one reason I never had a chance to connect with several of the wonderful Greek bloggers that I would very much have liked to meet. Next time?)

2)Got my passport stolen in the Athens airport on the way home. Oops! (Never put anything in your back pocket.)

3) Returned to my work with middle school students this fall in New York, started additional work as an SAT tutor and graduate classes in secondary education.

3)Became hopelessly obsessed with HBO in the form of Big Love and The Sopranos.

4) Decided it was time for a blank slate. So, without further adieu, I will introduce....drumroll please...my NEW BLOG. It's called "I promise to go wandering." The title is a misheard Bob Dylan lyric from Mr. Tambourine Man. I thought the song went "Cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go wandering." Actually, the line goes "Cast Your Dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it." By the time I figured that out, I had already adopted "I promise to go wandering" as a sort of motto. I even listed it as one of my favorite quotes on facebook. And now, every time I get lost in Chinatown, my boyfriend gives me this incredulous and disgusted look and says "Well, you did say you promised to go wandering."
So yes, I promise to go wandering. Specifically, I promise to go wandering at www.ipromisetogowandering.blogspot.com. If I can't regale you with fantastic travel tales this time around (and believe me, I would if I could) I'll have to do my best to entertain you with thoughts about New York, school, the Sopranos, and cats. (Don't worry, they are entertaining cats.)

In Which I Make Summer Plans

2007-06-16T17:06:00.000-04:00

In May, I once again wrote to say that I was back from the dead and blogging again, and then disappeared for another extended period of time. Somehow, since my return from Greece (which has been a while now) I've really struggled with how to use this blog. I come up with ideas to write about on a regular basis, but somehow they rarely actually make it onto the computer screen. While I was travelling, a blog seemed like a good way to communicate with home and the world, and all of my online writing had a definite theme- travel. But here in the United States, I never quite wrapped my typing fingers around a similiar theme. Although there are many things to say about life in New York City, I never quite made my blog work.
But now I'm back to announce that, on June 25th, things will change. Because on June 25th, I am flying back to Thessaloniki. From there, I will travel to Serbia for two weeks (I will be teaching at a summer workshop for high school students working on their English) and then I take the bus back to Athens, where I will begin several more weeks as, yes, Emily Z in Greece once again. (That's still a terrible name for a blog, but I really liked living it.)
So, here I go again, travelling recklessly off into a region of the world where I don't speak the language and I am totally unprepared for whatever may greet me. (At least, I am totally unprepared for Serbia. Greece and I are well acquainted by now.)It should be pretty interesting. I'll keep you posted. And yes, I mean it this time.
(By the way, Kassandra, I'm glad to hear you have a new friend! Calypso is doing quite well at the moment. She's a little bit crazy, but through some miraculous freak of nature, my sister has actually taught her to sit and wave on command. I didn't even know cats could do that.)

In Which I Return From the (Blogging) Dead with a Fractured Foot

2007-05-06T18:26:00.000-04:00

It's been a while, hasn't it? I haven't written a word on blogger in over two months. Interestingly, this development ocurred at almost the exact same time I took a second job working with eight year olds in an afterschool program. This is not a coincidence. Eight year olds are exhausting. And if you're not careful, you can catch the flu from them, and spend your spring break curled up on the couch watching movies on demand.
So, those are two events that have occured in my life since I disappeared; a second job, and the flu. But those are old news. Here's more recent unfortunate medical information; I broke my foot.
Well, I didn't really break it, per se. I have, to be exact, a hairline fracture in my metatarsal. When I heard this news, I thought about the word 'metatarsal', and I was not entirely sure what it meant. The 'meta' part sounded Greek. Context dictated that it was a part of my foot, though I wasn't sure which part. Then my sister explained that your metatarsal is the bone right above your toe. She knew this, because she is an animal science major, and she has taken anatomy classes. So really, all I learned from her is that if I were a horse or a cat, my metatarsal would be right above my toe. However, this was still far more than I had known before.
Everyone who sees me limping around, especially my students, asks me how I hurt my foot. This is somewhat humiliating. I injured it walking down the street. I wasn't even walking very fast. Unfortunately, I was walking in heels. Heels that didn't fit.
A lot of people get injured playing sports, or running, or taking risks. I wish I could be one of those people. I would like to be able to say I fractured my metatarsal while marching for peace, or kicking Dick Cheney, or bringing a vaccine to needy children in Alaska. Or even just, you know, playing soccer. When I googled 'fractured metatarsal', I read that David Beckham fractured his metatarsal once. I don't think he did it in heels.
The good news is, my fracture is not a major fracture. In fact, it is a tiny fracture - so tiny that I am, two weeks later, able to walk long distances, ride a bike, climb stairs, and do almost everything I would normally do, except run. And hike. And dance at the New York Ballet. And play center field at Shea stadium. If only it weren't for my fractured metatarsal, I would be able to do all of these things.
However, as my brilliant baseball/ballet career has been tragically cut short, I have returned to the educational field to work with those eight year olds. Luckily, they're helpful- on my first day back at work, I had five kids "helping" me up the stairs. That's how I knew I was really getting better; I could make it up three flights of stairs with five eight year olds hanging off my every limb.
With that, I leave you- but not for two months this time. I'll be back. In fact, this summer, I may be back with another exciting travellogue...but I'll fill you in on that next time.
-

In Which I Almost Turn Around and Smack The Total Ignoramus Sitting Next To Me in Saigon Grill

2007-02-13T22:15:00.000-05:00

There's a great scene in Annie Hall, which I should mention is my favorite movie of all time. In fact, this might be my favorite scene in my favorite movie of all time, so you know it's good. Woody Allen and Diane Keaton, scuse me, Alvy Singer and Annie Hall, are on line at the movie theatre, and they overhear this horribly pretentious man making all sorts of comments about film, particularly the films of Marshall McLuhan. Finally Alvy gets so fed up that he turns around and joins in the argument. The pretentious man snootily informs him that he teaches a class on film at NYU and knows what he is talking about. "Oh yeah?' says Alvy/Woody. "Well, I just happen to have Mr. McLuhan right here. And he pulls him out from behind, I think, a vending machine. And it really is Marshall McLuhan, apparently, though I confess I haven't the slightest idea who Marshall McLuhan actually is, apart from the guy that Woody Allen pulls out from behind the vending machine. And the real Marshall McLuhan lets the pretentious guy have it.
I used to fantasize about this sort of thing all the time at college. You know, college is just filled with pretentious people who think they know a lot. In my English seminars, I just happened to have James Joyce and Walt Whitman right there. In Civil War History, it was Lincoln. In Major Western Religions, I just happened to have God right there. It was always a nice fantasy, watching Joyce with his glasses and Irish accent, or Whitman with his beard, telling that really annoying girl to shut up.
This evening my boyfriend and I were eating Vietnamese food, spinach dumplings and grilled eggplant, and having a nice conversation about something or other. (My boyfriend is not the one I almost smacked.) The people sitting next to us were having a heated conversation, and I wasn't really paying attention until I heard one man declare "So, the public schools..I hear the kids are basically not very bright, and the teachers are pretty lousy, and nobody works very hard."
I almost smacked him. I am telling you, I made a fist and I could just imagine reaching out and whacking him over the head. He was no more than three feet away. I could have done it. I could have! I am usually mild-mannered, but my buttons can be pressed. I once threw a plate at my sister for some reason that neither one of us can remember. This was a much better reason for violence, I'll bet.
After I decided not to smack him, I thought about speaking up, and announcing that I work in a public school, that I highly respect the people I work with, and they are excellent at what they do. I thought about telling him that there are plenty of smart kids in public school, and being behind has nothing to do with being smart if you don't have the money or the opportunity for a fancy education. I thought about telling him about that he would probably last about thirty seconds if he got up in front of a seventh grade classroom. I thought again about smacking him. I didn't do any of these things. I don't know why.
I looked at my boyfriend, to confirm that he had heard the same thing I had. He had not, and looked at me quizzically. I shook my head and tried not to overhear anything else. It was futile. After three minutes, my ears wandered again.
the topic had shifted. "My brother went to London," explained the man. "I told him not to do it. I told him he would hate it. I told him it would be expensive! I told him, the Euro is much stronger than the dollar these days!"
Normally, I would feel mean laughing because somebody didn't know what currency a particular nation used. This time, I felt no shame. I snickered. Joe, who was now listening in, joined me.
I rejoined my own conversation with a calmer mind now, feeling that perhaps, it was better to let sleeping brain cells lie. Of course, I couldn't help but entertain the Annie Hall fantasy as usual. Would I just happen to have a smart pulic school graduate with me? Or a teacher? Or a British two pound coin? I probably could have fished out a British coin if I'd really tried hard and scoured my coat linings. But I tried to let it be. However, the best was yet to come. As I put on my coat to leave, I overheard one last encore, or perhaps a grand finale, of ignorance. Apparently, he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.
"I'm too nice to date girls I like and respect," he explained, earnestly to his companions, one of whom was female. "I might have to dump them, and then I would feel bad! So instead, I date girls who I don't like OR respect, and then I don't feel bad when I dump them. It works out well!"
"Happy Valentine's Day," I thought. "I hate you."
And then I left.

In Which I Am Reminded That Toto, We're Not In Greece Anymore

2007-02-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

This morning I was at the pastry shop on the corner, ordering coffee, when I overheard someone mention 'The Greeks' in a conversation behind me. I swiveled my head around to see a table full of six men eating pastries. The one who had been talking exclaimed "On the bright side, the Turks invaded Cyprus!"

It's been six months, but that was still enough to take me by surprise.

Chloe

2007-01-26T09:27:00.000-05:00

My family got Chloe right after I turned nine. She was so small that I was afraid to pick her up at first; I felt like I would hurt her by mistake. She was the most patient cat imaginable, even when my sister and I dressed her up in doll clothes, or repeatedly picked her up against her will. In almost fourteen years, I think the only time she scratched me was when I tried to give her medicine.
Chloe was the most sociable animal I ever met; she would come running to meet you when you came through the door, and wherever there were people to be found, that's where she was. She never really liked other cats as much as she liked humans, and we always suspected that she didn't really think she was one of them. She used to jump on my bed when it was time for me to get up for school. For some reason that we never really understood, she used to carry around red pony-tail holders in her mouth, and sometimes leave them in her water bowl. She was perpetually curled up on the clean laundry, especially the towels, though she sometimes slept on the cable box. Only six weeks ago, to our amazement and horror, she actually caught a mouse. She used to eat ice cream off my fingers, but after she was sick she started eating anything she could finagle from us, and we let her; she ate two whole tortilla chips once, to the utter amazement of my mother and I, and babaganoush, croissant, chicken, yogurt, and even lentil soup. Wednesday evening, the night before she died, I fed her cheddar cheese and she was delighted.
Yesterday I came home from work, and when I opened the door, the hallway was empty. I opened a can of cat food, and I had to split it between two, not three. (How can two cats in one New York apartment not be enough?) I cried.
Every person thinks that their pet is the best, but you're all wrong; mine was. It won't be the same without you, Chloe. We love you.

In Which I Mourn and Amuse Myself

2007-01-18T07:46:00.000-05:00

My beloved movie rental store, creatively named Movie Place, closed in late November of this year, leaving me sad, lonely, and without sufficient viewing options. Blockbuster just doesn't satisfy me the same way; they just don't have any of those eclectic foreign titles, or two-for-one deals, or opinionated store clerks. Movie Place was one of those neighborhood institutions that had been there since my early childhood. I rented Strawberry Shortcake animated films from Movie Place, followed by the original Parent Trap, Little Women, Annie Hall, and countless others. I will never forget the time that Movie place management created a special display of films about "dysfunctional families" and included both Psycho and Star Wars in the display. I will never think of Darth Vader in the same way.
I'm somewhere between denial and anger in the grieving process, so I haven't signed up with a different rental store yet. My sister in Vermont has a Netflix account, and my boyfriend recently bit the bullet and signed himself up too. I'm skeptical, because I suspect that Netflix was one of those nails in the coffin of my beloved store...but on the other hand, I want to be able to rent movies.
So, for investigative reasons, I went on the Netflix website, and there I discovered something endlessly amusing; Local Picks. My local picks, here in New York, New York, tend towards the Woody Allen side of things, with the New York 8 Disc Documentary Set also prominently displayed. New York is fairly predictable.
Local picks are the movies that people in your hometown are watching significantly more than people in the rest of the country. And I discovered that people in this country are shockingly, almost depressingly, predictable, and also endlessly amusing.
In the Bronx, the number one local pick is a documentary by Rosie Perez, about US Puerto Rican relations.
In Brooklyn, the number one pick is called A Life Apart; Hasidim in America.
In Astoria, they're watching a lot of independant documentaries, French films, and Annie Hall. I consider the latter, in particular, to be a positive reflection on the Greeks.
On Staten Island, the number one pick is Terminator 2.
Out in suburbia, things continue to be interesting. In East Hampton, the wealthy beach area, number one is American Beauty. I was all ready to make a few snide comments about suburbia when I saw that, but what I found next was even better for snide comment making. In both New Rochelle and Scarsdale, nice prosperous suburban towns, the number one pick is Heading South, a movie about middle-aged women traveling to Haiti to "sample the young islander's sexual talents." I swear I'm not making this up. I don't think I could make it up if I tried.
In Burlington, VT, where my sister lives, and which may be the coldest region in the entire continental United States, the number one pick is a documentary about surfing.
In Evanston, IL, where my boyfriend comes from, the number one pick is A Clockwork Orange. I find that a little bizarre, and I'm still waiting for an explanation.
And in Salt Lake City, the top list includes American Mormon, something called Mobsters and Mormons, two different versions of The Work and The Glory, which is a historical film about Mormonism, Church Ball, about a Mormon basketball team, New York Doll, about a "drug-and-alcohol-riddled" New York punk rocker who becomes a Mormon, Big Love, and Friends, Season 4. Some things, I guess, are universal.

In Which I Try my Hand At Veterinary Medicine

2006-12-04T13:23:00.000-05:00

These are my cats. Here at the top, basking in the sun, is Chloe. She's fourteen. If our house were a royal palace, she would be Queen Elizabeth. Below, grey and a bit rotund, is Laptop, who, as soon as he was named, decided he didn't really like people's laps very much. If this house were a royal palace, he would be Prince Philip; very much royalty, but not the sovereign with his face on all the coins. (Can you tell that I recently saw The Queen, with Helen Mirren? Thus all the British royalty references. But really, my cats are so much more lovable than most of the people in that film. Still, you ought to see it if you haven't.)

And here, at the bottom, is Calypso. You've probably heard about her already. She may be the only one in this household with an EU passport, but she is definitely the Camilla of the household. In other words, it may take another few decades before she is finally accepted into the fold. The trio have moved from constant outright hostility to only occasional outright hostility with some periods in which the King and Queen just ignore the presence of the Greek peasant. However, thanks to my sister, she does have a pillowcase with her picture on it, which is pictured. Perhaps for Christmas Hayley will get her another pillowcase, with this picture of Calypso and her pillowcase both on that pillowcase, and I'm sure Calypso will appreciate it thoroughly.
But pillowcases and cat hostility are not why I'm writing this. Well, actually, cat hostility is why I am writing this, but it's not cat vs. cat hostility, it's cat vs. human hostility that I had in mind.
Poor Chloe was diagnosed with cancer earlier this year, and she's been on a daily medicine regimen ever since. Her health has been remarkably good thus far (knock on wood), but every day she needs 1 mL of medicine to be pushed down her throat with a plastic syringe. She likes this about as much as you might expect, which is not very much. Unfortunately, she's also damn smart, and she has learned that whenever I approach her in the early evening with one hand behind my back, it means that she is due for a dose of medicine. The moment I open the bottle of mysterious tonic, whatever it is, she runs. Sometimes I won't even see her run, I'll just turn to where she was sleeping peacefully five seconds before, and she will have disappeared completely. When she finally comes out of hiding (which doesn't take very long, as she hates to miss social interaction) I have to pounce on her from behind, hold her against me, and stick the little syringe into her mouth. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't, a spray of brown medicine goes everywhere. There are brown spots of medicine all over our couch cover, all over the bedspread in my parents' room, sometimes on the floor, and even on the ceiling. Once, the stuff even ended up in my mouth, and I suspect Chloe somehow engineered that specifically for revenge.

As if this weren't enough, Laptop was recently diagnosed with asthma. Rumor has it he may actually get an inhaler one of these days, which sounds like tons of fun for everyone involved, but for the moment, he's just got some temporary pills. This is easier for the humans of the family, because Laptop is something of a glutton. If you hide the pills in some cheese, he'll gobble it right down. Sometimes. There have been occasions when he gobbled down his cheese and secretly spit the pill onto the floor. If you've never picked up a pill covered in cat spit and tried to turn it into something appetizing, well, I envy you. Luckily, that cat definiion of "appetizing" is different than the human one. Have you seen what canned cat food looks like?

I also realized, after several doses of medicine in feta, that he was coming to be suspicious of feta. I switched to gouda, then to mozzarella, muenster, cheddar, and now to manouri (which I finally found at the market!). That cat is going to be quite the cheese connoisseur by the time he is finished with his medication.

Calypso is the only feline member of the household who is not on medication, but that's OK, because she causes trouble by generally becoming hysterical for no reason on a regular basis. Sometimes she gets very upset when people try to walk past her in the hallway, and she makes a squeaking noise and tries to bat at them. Sometimes she gets upset when she sees another cat, and she lashes out at the people nearby. Once, she got freaked out by the loud conversation I was having, and lashed out angrily at the briefcase leaning in the hallway. Overall, the entire apartment is frequently full of squeaking and yowling and crying and meowing. There is also the occasional bout of hissing, spitting, and general destruction. It's very much like what happens when the seventh graders in my more difficult class have a substitute.

In Which I Wonder At Marching Bobble-Heads

2006-11-26T16:17:00.000-05:00

After almost four months in the United States, I've readjusted in many ways. I no longer use the Greek words for 'Excuse Me' and 'Thank You', I expect the stores to be open on Sundays, I no longer think 27/11 is a date in a strange new month, and my red wine consumption has rapidly fallen. This saddens me constantly, but I console myself with Indian food, the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.
However, American holidays are still a novelty. Perhaps a better way to say that is this: holidays are still a novelty, no matter what their nationality. When you live abroad, you become used to regarding holidays with a mixture of curiosity and anthropological objectivity. When it's not your holiday, you don't have any of the nostalgic excitement for it that you associate with the holidays you have celebrated since childhood. Instead, you just spend a lot of time staring wide-eyed and wondering and trying to figure out why everyone is dressed up today. (Or, in Greece, you wonder why all of the stores are closed and discover that it is the day of a saint that you have never heard of.)
So now that I'm back in the States, I don't think I've quite stopped looking at holidays as objects of curiosity, even when they are as familiar as my front door. Anything is a novelty when you've been away long enough, and a normal Thanksgiving is something I haven't had in a while. Last year I was in Greece. Two years ago I spent countless horrid hours fighting through delays in Des Moines and O'Hare due to a snowstorm and arrived home just in time for the turkey, completely exhuasted. Three years ago I had a minor passport problem at London Stansted airport and ended up taking a very long unexpected overnight train ride to Scotland, arriving in Edinburgh completely exhausted and just in time to spend Thanksgiving touring castles and kilt factories.
As holidays go, I generally think Thanksgiving is a good one. I know that if you look back into history, you will not find that the story of the first Thanksgiving is as happy as many Americans would like to believe. I know that Europeans did terrible things to the Native Americans. I know that the traditional "First Thanksgiving" story has some real historical inaccuracies in it. However, I also think that for many Americans, Thanksgiving is only vaguely associated with pilgrims, and very much associated with food. That's the way holidays work, isn't it? Christmas is supposedly about the birth of Jesus, but most people are much more concerned with trimming their trees and exchanging presents than they are with the religious aspect. Easter is also supposedly Christian, but the eggs are Pagan in origin, and I haven't the slightest idea where the bunny came from. And somewhere along the line Halloween stopped being an night where you stayed in and hid from evil spirits, and started being a night when little kids wandered the streets and ate themselves sick.
This year, I tried to look at Thanksgiving as a foreigner might. Some aspects of the celebration can be universally appreciated, I think; people from all nations can appreciate good food and spending a day with family and friends.
On the other hand, there's the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Now, for the first nineteen or twenty years of my life, I attended the parade every year, without fail. I would wake up at dawn, head down to Central Park West in the wee hours of the morning, and spend five or so hours in my pink snowsuit, or my ski pants, or my puffy coat, drinking hot chocolate and watching inflatable cartoon characters and high school baton twirlers who look like their legs are going to freeze off. I think I might have given up at the age of fourteen or fifteen if it weren't for those baton twirlers. It can be pretty cold out there, but if they could smile with bare arms poking out of their sparkly bathing suits, I could survive in my parka.
For those years, the parade was just a normal part of Thanksgiving, like cranberry sauce and lasagna. (Yes, my grandmother makes lasagna on Thanksgiving. We eat it after the mozzarella and pepper and before the turkey and stuffing. That might sound odd to someone who does not have Italian heritage, but I've talked to people of Scandinavian descent, and trust me, they have some much stranger holiday foods.) In over twenty years, I've never slept in on a Thanksgiving. I always either rose at the crack of dawn for the parade, or because I was in the middle of a transportation nightmare. Last year, in Greece, I think I awoke at 7am. It was the latest I'd slept in a lifetime of Thanksgivings.

This year, I had a traditional Thanksgiving; I woke up at 5, walked my neighbor's dog, and went to the parade, in the rain. I was not overly enthused by the prospect, but I was due to meet a large number of good friends there, and I succumbed to peer pressure. Some people succumb to peer pressure and wear stupid clothes, some end up hooked on nictotine, and some end up very very wet at an early hour on Central Park West.

After four years, the parade seemed both nostalgic and new. I remembered Thanksgivings of my childhood, watching the high school marching bands back when they looked so old and glamorous. I thought of seeing the giant Garfield when he looked not just big, but larger than most houses. I recalled the excitement of seeing Santa Clause and feeling that Christmas was in the air.

I also looked at Bobble-headed pilgrims and thought, wow, what a completely bizarre way to honor one's ancestors. Is there any other nation that honors their founders by having normal sized people walk around with giant inflated ancestor faces? Is there any other nation that celebrates their heritage by parading very wet pop stars down the street on giant rolling castles and pirate ships? We are really weird, aren't we?

I recently read the book Lies My Teacher Told Me, which is essentially an indictment of the way American history is taught in our schools. I agreed with many of the criticisms made by the author, but when he criticized Thanksgiving for minimizing down the cruelty of Europeans toward Native Americans, I had mixed feelings. We absolutely do need to a do a better job of recognizing the horrors in our own past, but for me Thanksgiving has little to do with pilgrims, and much to do with my own personal traditions. If we attack Thanksgiving for being a celebration of cruelty, we should also attack every religious holiday on the calendar for doing something similar. I particularly like Thanksgiving because it does (or can) cross religious and cultural borders, that it can belong to everyone, and because appreciating the things you have is usually a good thing. If you look back to the Native Americans, it's a holiday that is probably rooted in the absolute worst of American traditions, but these days I think it can embody the best of American traditions. After all, it was really started by Abraham Lincoln as a celebration of unity after the Civil War.

And maybe the pilgrims had bobble heads for a metaphorical reason. Those pilgrims and their inflated egos! They thought they were better than everyone! Oh, those big-headed ancestors of mine! Thank goodness I'm more culturally aware than they were!

(I'm trying, anyway.)

In Which A Little Red Dress Becomes a Big Problem

2006-11-20T08:58:00.000-05:00

I really hate shopping. I know I have mentioned this before. I like having new clothes, but the actual shopping process always leaves me feeling irritable. Part of the problem is that I am short. Jeans and skirts that are not in petite sizes usually have about four inches of fabric hanging off the bottom of my feet, which require wide shoes. Sleeves hang over my hands, and straps are always two inches too long. Finidng something that looks good usually requires me to spend lots of time trying on things that look awful, and that does not generally make me cheerful.
So, though I've known for months that I'm going to a wedding in December, I completely avoided worrying about a dress, hoping that perhaps something would magically appear in my closet, or perhaps a personal-shopper-fairy-godmother would come out of a pumpkin and create one out of thin air, and I would avoid the process of trying things on and making decisions.
Finally, however, I realized I had to get it over with, and I went to Macy's and tried on three dresses. At this point, A Miracle Occurred. Three dresses fit me, and looked pretty nice. Not one, three. I actually left the store feeling good, and the whole process didn't take more than an hour. I decided I wanted the red halter dress, but I thought I would look for it online at a cheaper price before I went ahead and purchased it.
And then my sister, home for Thanksgiving, entered the equation. My sister loves to shop. She can spend hours agonizing over small purchasing decisions. When I explained that I was planning to buy a dress, she insisted that we depart on a long shopping journey, spanning two and a half miles of Upper West Side storefronts and countless images of garments on the internet.
"I think I'm going to buy the dress at Macy's," I told her repeatedly.
"No!" She exclaimed every time. "Look at this one, with the nice flowery pattern on the skirt, and it comes in petite sizes..."
"I think I'm going to buy the dress at Macy's," I repeated.
"Halter tops have been done," she told me. "Look at that one!"
"I'm going to buy the dress at Macy's." I announced. "But oh, all right, I'll try it on."
This was my mistake.
We were at the Banana Republic, and the dress was a little red strapless dress, suitable for weddings and other formal occasions. Because they didn't have my size, I chose the next size down and began looking for a fitting room. After about five minutes of poking my head into various corners, I found one, all the way across the store, by the men's sweaters. I didn't see any store employees about, so I just chose a room and tried on the dress.
It was one of those dresses that's tight in all the wrong places, and loose in the wrong places, and I did not trust it to stay up. Some dresses fit, and some dresses are too big, or too small, and some just don't fit. They were formed for someone else's body. This was one fo those dresses. Plus, it would leave an awful lot of myself exposed to the Iowan December, and trust me, that's a bad idea.
I stepped out of the dressing room and displayed the awkward dress to my sister, who was satisfied. She left, and I went back inside to put my clothes on once again.
Unfortunately, this did not go as planned. I unzipped the dress as far as my waist, and then it stopped. I mean, I kept pulling, but the zipper was not going anywhere. I yanked. I tugged, I begged, I cursed, and I tried again. It was stuck solid.
I tried pulling up, and that worked. I could zip myself into the dress again, but once the zipper hit my waist, it stopped working. Something was stuck, or broken, or otherwise malfunctioning, and I hadn't a clue what the problem was. I tried wriggling the dress over my head, but it wouldn't fit. It wouldn't slide down over my hips, either. The feminine figure has some serious disadvantages.
"Hayley?' I asked, hoping my sister would come to my aid. "Hayley!" She didn't answer. I continued to tug the dress downwards. It wouldn't budge. The zipper had managed to become stuck at a very inconvenient spot.
"Hayey!" I howled again, and again. "Hayley!" Eventually I gave up trying to be discreet and let out a long wail of "Haaaaaaaaaayyyylllllleyyyyyyy!" that would have made Marlon Brando proud. There was no answer.
I slipped my t-shirt back over my head and opened the dressing room door. I found myself face to face with a Banana Republic Employee, who was regarding me with a bemused expression.
"Who's Hayley?" he asked.
"My sister," I answered.
"Oh!" he said brightly, as though this explained why a young woman in a t-shirt, half a cocktail dress and bright blue socks would be howling like a cat locked in a bedroom. He turned and walked out into the store.
"Hayley!" I heard him yell. "Hayley!" There was no answer.
"Sorry," he shrugged.
"No problem." I went back into my dressing room cell and continued to pull on the dress. What would happen if I tore it? I wondered. Would they charge me for it? Would I have to pay one hundred and sixty-eight dollars plus tax to get out of this thing? It was an unsettling thought.
I was approaching frenzy mode when I heard on a knock on my dressing room door.
"Emily!" my sister exclaimed. "What the hell is going on in there? I've been waiting, and waiting, and I kept thinking, well, I'm not going back in there-"
I yanked her inside the dressing room cell.
"I'm not going back in there," she continued. "Because I realized that something. Actually, this is the Men's Dressing Room. But then you didn't come out."
"I'm stuck." I showed her the zipper. "This is the what?"
"Well, it didn't have a sign," she said as she tugged on my zipper. "But it is in the Men's section. The women's dressing room is on the other side. What is wrong with this thing?"
We spent several more minutes yanking and cursing, but that little metal thing just would not move. It didn't appear to have anything wrong with it, it just would not yield to any external pressure whatsoever. It was definitely the Fidel Castro of zippers.
"Should we ask someone for help?" I wondered. I was thinking of a store clerk. I wondered if I should dare to venture past my cell, and just hope there were no men in their boxers hanging around.
My sister decided to try a different tactic. "I'm calling Mummy," she announced.
"OK, " I sighed.
My mother was informed of the situation via cell phone, despite the fact that she and my father were off somewhere in the wilds of Connecticut, driving home from a weekend trip. I don't know exactly what my sister expected her to do, exactly, but I guess calling your parents is just one of those things you do sometimes when you're in a tight spot. I called home when I realized I was going to end up in Romania unexpectedly, and Hayley called home when she realized her sister was caught in a strapless dress unexpectedly. Why I'm always the trapped one is another question.
My mother informed my sister that she should retrieve a store employee. The store employee, a tall young woman with green shoes, spent the requisite few minutes tugging before she announced "Shit. I'm going to get the manager." At that point I decided it might be prudent to put my pants on under the dress, just in case it was removed publicly.
Luckily, the store manager declared that all necessary measures should be used to remove the dress, including the breaking of zippers and ripping of seams. A pair of scissors were retrieved, seams were chopped open, and I was finally emancipated. I celebrated my freedom by marching out onto Broadway and announcing that I was definitely, definitely going to buy the dress from Macy's.
"No!" My sister exclaimed. Then she paused. "You know Emily," she remarked. "That's exactly the kind of thing that would happen to you. I mean, I know it wasn't your fault, but it is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to you."
I can't really deny this. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to buy the goddamn dress from Macy's.

In Which I Keep Writing

2006-11-09T16:40:00.000-05:00

I've been gone for a long time now, partly because every time I put my fingers on the keyboard, I had to resist the urge to write mournful statements about how much I miss traveling, and I thought that might get boring after a while.
But I also miss writing. And, though I still have mixed feelings about the United States, I have a lot to say about it. New York is a place that gives you a lot to say.
So, without further adieu, I'll tell you some things about the past few months, and we can consider ourselves caught up, and then go from there.
Thing #1: I now work as a tutor to 7th graders at a public school on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Many people think that New York City Public schools are places to be avoided, but I am having fun. And honestly, seventh graders are very much like seventh graders, regardless of economic status or nationality, or whether they call themselves seventh graders, or gymnasium students. Many people also think that seventh graders are to be avoided, probably because they remember being in seventh grade, and how horrible it was. But I like seventh graders so much more now that I'm not one of them.
Thing #2: There was actually good news in American politics last week. Can you believe it? Good news! I don't know if I believe it. I think I might be dreaming. Any minute now a dwarf is going to walk by in a tutu and a dolphin is going to speak Greek to me, and then I am going to wake up...
Thing #3: My blog needs a new name. It needs some cool banner at the top, and it needs some actual writing about events that have taken place in recent memory. I'm working on all of these things, but if anyone has suggestions about the more technological items on this list, that would be great. I haven't the slightest idea how to put in a masthead, and when I look at the html, it makes me feel vaguely seasick.

In Which Raw Fish Is Safer Than Spinach

2006-09-25T08:55:00.000-04:00

I've been missing Greece for a number of reasons lately, as one might expect. However, there is also one way in which I have been missing Greece that one might not expect; I'm pretty sure the spinach in Greece is not contaminated.
You've probably read about the whole spinach E.coli scare which has taken hold of the U.S. lately. (I certainly hope you have if you are currently in the U.S.) It seems that all fresh spinach carries the risk of contamination, and nobody dares eat the stuff until it gets sorted out. This has been going on for about a week now, and I have to say, I'm very upset about it.
I am a dedicated spinach eater. Baby spinach salad, Saag Paneer, Spanakopita, spinach couscous; all are important parts of my diet. In fact, my sister has been known to complain that everything I cook is a variation on spinach and feta cheese (this was before I went to Greece, so you can imagine what I'm like now).
Now, way back when mad cow disease was causing Americans to panic, I decided that anyone dumb enough to eat beef was courting disaster, and I shook my head at people too weak-willed to resist a hamburger. This was very easy for me, as I do not eat beef. When bird flu showed up in northern Greece, I eliminated poultry from my diet for a good few weeks before giving into the temptation of a chicken gyro. That seemed reasonable, as cooked meat wasn't supposed to carry the disease anyway. But now I am faced with a much more serious situation; spinach definitely carries a risk, and it's not easy for me to avoid the stuff.
My boyfriend did survive the consumption of a spinach and mushroom pizza the other day, a fact which gives me great hope. Two or three days later, when he still did not appear to have any signs of fatal illness, I decided that if he could do it, I could too. This is the sort of logic that they warn you against when you learn about drug use in middle school.
I ordered eggs florentine for breakfast soon thereafter, and was turned down by the waiter, who explained that they were no longer serving spinach due to the risk. I became indignant; who were these restaurant owners, to deny me my contaminated vegetable matter? The nerve of some people!
It was last Friday night, after five spinachless days, when I reached the point of true desperation. My boyfriend and I were looking for a place to eat dinner before going to a birthday party, and we were wandering aimlessly through the East Village, reading menus.* Finally, we settled on a Japanese restaurant. The only problem, was, I didn't know what to order.
I am not a picky eater, and I rarely find myself at a loss while looking at menus, even in unusual restauarants. In fact, I am particularly good at finding foods to eat in unusual restaurants. I know what Indian foods I like, what Ethiopian dishes are good, where to get good Caribbean food, and so forth. If a week goes by and I have not eaten food from at least three continents, I start to get bored. However, I somehow never became very well acquainted with Japanese food, and looking at all those sushi dishes was all Greek to me, by which I mean I could get a general sense of what the menu was getting at, but I couldn't be entirely sure that a highly unconventional bit of fish anatomy wasn't going to show up on my plate anyway.
"What should I order?" I asked Joe. Being employed by a Japanese company, he regularly eats Japanese food of all varieties. He suggested the bento box, a sampling of all different foods, several of which I had never heard of. However, as he had suggested it, and he is generally more particular than I am, I decided to try it.
The bento box arrived several minutes later, filled with dumplings, tempura, teriyaki, seaweed, rice, and some suspiciously rare-looking pieces of fish. Joe explained that it was sashimi, raw pieces of fish that you are supposed to eat with wasabi and soy sauce. He failed to explain why he is able to calmly discuss the consumption of seafood that is practically still wriggling when the idea of perfectly grilled octopus sends him into a panic. But that's another matter.
The point is, I ate raw fish. I picked it up with my chopsticks, dabbed it with wasabi, dipped it in soy sauce, and ate it. It tasted, well, it tasted like fish, but it tasted raw. Honestly, since I've tried tuna that's really really rare in the first place, it wasn't such a shock. I don't think there's anything about the color or consistency of raw fish that particularly freaks me out, it's just the knowledge that food poisoning could occur. However, when spinach suddenly carries a serious risk, I think my sense of what is or is not good for one just goes out the window.

*I had suggested falafel and schwarma, but that just led to a long and heated discussion about the difference between the difference between schawarma and gyros, and why the gyros at the steet fairs on broadway are not the same as the gyros in Greece, even if they do have posters with pictures of the Parthenon on them.

In Which My Subconscious Surprises Me

2006-09-11T14:40:00.000-04:00

Three days ago, I returned from a trip to Grinnell, where Brad and I gave a presentation about our year in Greece. It was great to be back in Grinnell, and also a little bit odd. I felt a little bit like a student, a little bit like a guest, and a little bit like a ghost. I loved talking about Greece and hearing from classmates who traveled through Africa and Asia in the past year. It enjoyed talking with professors and a Greek Grinnellian or two. However, I did find it a bit weird to walk through campus and not see very many people I know. Worse, I kept seeing people that I know that I know, but don't know how I know, and wondering if I should go up to them and say hello. Is it worse to say hello to someone who has no idea who you are, or to say hello to someone who does know who you are and then have to explain that you don't know who they are? I haven't come up with a solution yet.
However, all of this led to a really interesting dream last night. Here's how it went. I was back in Iowa, but nobody could see me. I was invisible, some sort of ghost of Grinnellians Past. I decided to watch a performance in the theatre department, and it turned out to be a Greek tragedy. Since I was invisible, I had no qualms about walking up to the stage and watching the performance very closely, particularly during the exciting parts. (Strangely enough, there was a lot of fighting in this particular tragedy, even though onstage fighting never actually happens in ancient Greek theatre. My subconscious must be uninformed about classical theatre.)
During a particularly heated fight sequence, one character turned to the other and announced, in perfect modern Greek "I went to the supermarket! Your supermarket!" Then he attacked the other character with a sword.
After that, I went to the dining hall, which had been converted into a Greek taverna, but they wouldn't let me leave until I opened my purse and showed them that I had my cat with me, and that she had all of her official European union cat paperwork. That's right, in the dream, I carried Calypso in my purse. What's more, when asked to find her, I actually had to look around for a little while and fish through some papers and keys and things. I even had to dig her out from under my cell phone. I woke up and she was sleeping right next to my face.
I don't know what Freud would say about this, but going to the supermarket has never made me angry enough to kill someone in a toga.

In Which I Wonder (Like The Cast of Rent) How Do You Measure A Year

2006-08-30T11:51:00.000-04:00

I know I've been rather absent from the blog world lately, but I haven't disappeared, really, it's just been a messy few weeks. However, I will continue to write, even though I suppose I can't really call myself Emily Z in Greece anymore. I'm thinking I ought to come up with a new name. Actually, I have been thinking about coming up with a new name ever since I picked the old one in a rush. I figure I ought to be able to come up with something more creative, you know, one of those catchy cute little names that people design for their internet selves. Or should I create a whole new blog? I don't know. I don't think I will, not yet. In any case, I'll be blogging somewhere, about something.
One year ago to the day I was frantically packing my bags and thinking that a whole year sounded like a really long time. Now it's been a whole year and it does seem like a whole year, but I still don't quite believe it. I don't know if I should say that I'm in culture shock, because I'm no longer saying 'Signomi' to strangers on the subway or dipping my fork into communal plates on the table. (This is acceptable in Greece, but when you do it in the US, people glare at you, particularly when they are your sister.)
I don't know the exact definition of culture shock, but I will say this: Greece is on my mind all the time. Images of Thessaloniki pop into my mind at random, like a slide show of all the pictures I never took. Greek sentences automatically form themselves in my brain, incorrect but everpresent, just in case I need them. The bottom of the movie screen seems deserted without Greek subtitles. Real iced coffee, made with real coffee grounds and no frappe mixer, tastes weird as hell. I don't understand why any restaurant would actually stop serving dinner at 9pm, and why on earth anyone would voluntarily consume American cheese. (But you know, I've always been a snob about that, so it's nothing new.) I go about my life in New York, as I always did, but I'm haunted, ever-so-slightly, by the ghost of another place. Sometimes it's sad, sometimes, bittersweet, sometimes funny, sometimes I'm just overwhelmingly glad to be home, and sometimes I'd do anything to get the hell out of here and back on a plane to Thessaloniki.
A few specific observations? They have new ten dollar bills here. I went to the deli across the street one day and pulled out a ten to pay for my sandwich. It was a strange reddish hue and I gave it a look of such confusion that the man behind the counter announced, teasing, "That's play money! You can't pay with that!" It took me a few moments to realize he was kidding, at which point I started to feel like a real idiot and turned the color of the money.
And pomegranates! While I was off in Greece discovering pomegranates and feeling adventurous and exotic, all of America was discovering pomegranates right at home. There aren't many actual pomegranates around, of course, but there is pomegranate tea, pomegranate juice, pomegranate ice cream, baked goods with pomegranate essence, and pomegranate cocktails. I don't know what brought this all about, but I have mixed feelings. I'm delighted to see my new favorite fruit everywhere, but I'm sad to realize that my love for juicy red seeds is no longer a unique phenomenon from abroad, but rather one more person jumping on the bandwagon. I'll have to resign myself to being hip instead of exotic.
So anyway, here I am, 365 days after my initial departure (but only 364 days past my arrival), reminiscing, functioning but still in some state of shock, thinking about home and how glad I am to be here and how much I want to leave. It's easier than I thought it would be, and maybe easier than I wanted it to be. But I'm here, that's all.

In Which I Mingle Sweets and Bittersweets

2006-08-15T22:51:00.000-04:00

We were returning from a family trip to a Thai restaurant in Queens when I saw the cafe that this box came from. I couldn't resist the urge to get out of the car. It seems that baklava in the states comes in much bigger pieces than the Greek stuff, but it's pretty good. There were a variety of other honey soaked pastries available, as well. However, the truly exciting part was hearing Greek spoken ("Οριστε, κυριε", said the woman behind the counter, and the customer said "Ευχαριστω!") and hearing Greek music, if only for the brief moment it took for my baklava to be wrapped. I'm trying not to get nostalgic and depressed. I'm not goin to look at my pictures of the beach for a while, that's for sure- I don't know what that would do to my mental health. But someday I will try to post some of them, and post a more complete recounting of my travels through Europe.

There's No Place Like Home

2006-08-11T19:07:00.000-04:00

After ten days, I figured I should let you all know that I am alive, I did make it across the Atlantic, and everything's fine. I have not updated because my body is having a little bit of trouble adjusting itself back into American life (I keep falling asleep. I thought it was jet lag, then it turned into a fever, and now it's just a persistent exhaustion, maybe a mourning cry for the afternoon nap.)
Actually, my brain is having a little bit of trouble too. In other words, I sort of don't believe I'm gone and not returning soon, and I really don't believe that I need to figure out what I'm doing next.
But my cat did make it through customs, small carrying case and all, and the customs lady just said "Awwwww!" That's it. No questions about bird flu. No cursory glances to make sure she didn't appear to be carrying some other contagious disease. My cats at home, of course, did not say "awwwwwww." They (well, one of them, Chloe, the Queen Bee cat of the household) hissed a lot, and now Calypso is hissing like crazy at her. It's not that different than dealing with middle schoolers, really.
It's sort of a shock to have people speaking English to me all the time. And the subway is expensive. I will certainly have more observations on my re-Americanization soon, but for now, that's it.

In Which I'm Awful At Good-Byes

2006-07-30T06:54:00.000-04:00

Almost two weeks ago, I boarded a train that I thought would take me to Budapest, and I thought would have beds available. Instead, I ended up curled up on a couchette in an empty train compartment at half past midnight, trying my best to fall asleep with my head on my backpack.
Sometime soon thereafter, another girl boarded the train and asked if she could share my compartment. It was dark and I couldn't see her well, but she seemed to be in her early to mid-twenties, with long dark hair and several enormous bags. She explained that she had spent the previous two and a half years studying in London, and was now returning to her home town in Bulgaria to do something, she wasn't sure what yet. I explained that I was in a similar situation, drifting around for a month before I return home for an uncertain future. We spent almost two hours in the relative dark, waiting for our passports to be stamped and examined by people on both sides of the border, talking about travel, London, and our mutual uncertainty. "I think," she said at one point, "the more you travel around, the less you know where you belong, you know what I mean?"
I know exactly what she meant. Those words have stuck with me for the past few weeks, rolling around in my brain as I traipsed around Europe. Maybe they don't seem terribly profound quoted on my blog, but from a stranger in a dark train in the middle of the night, they take on a sort of eerie quality of truth.
In the past five years, I have lived in a more diverse assortment of places than most people see in twenty. New York, Iowa, London, Greece. I don't think I'll ever get sick of seeing new places, but I am sick of saying goodbye to places I love. I'm not tired of going, but I am tired of leaving. I'm tired of missing places.
But that's too bad, and it's too late; wherever you are, there's always something to miss, and I'm about to find myself with a whole new life to long for and miss.
I can remember a lot of lasts in the past few years- last walks through Manhattan before leaving for a semester in Iowa, last blueberries in Maine before leaving for England, last bus trips down Piccadilly before leaving for the US, my last weekend in college with my last night at the Down Under Pub, my last jog in Riverside Park before leaving for Greece, my last dinner of Peruvian chicken before the plane took off. I look back on all these things, and I come to an inevitable conclusion; the last time you do something is just like all the times before, but way more depressing.
There's something awful about doing something and knowing you won't be doing it again anytime soon. I even remember turning in my last college term paper, a long treatise on James Joyce that had given me a decent number of headaches, waiting for the relaxation that inevitably comes with finishing a large task, and just feeling a strange bittersweet longing for all my late nights with piles of notes in front of the computer screen. I hate that feeling. I hate it so much that I'd almost rather not have the chance to say goodbye.
And so, with two days before lift-off, I'm not going to think about how this might be my last taverna meal, or my last ride on the 58 bus, or my last dip in the Aegean sea. I'm not going to walk down Tsimiski for the last time, or buy my last bottle of retsina, or take one last look at the white tower. Thinking about these things that way makes me feel like an inmate on death row. I'm just going for a walk in the city where I still live. I'm just enjoying myself and seeing my friends here. I'm just taking another flight on Tuesday, that's all.

In Which I Have One Last Run-In With Bureacracy

2006-07-29T09:23:00.000-04:00

I arrived at Thessaloniki's Makedonia Airport yesterday, exhausted and sweaty, and two hours late because Gatwick was a mess. Our flight was immediately herded into something that I will call a line, but only for the lack of a better word. (Oh wait! I found the better word! The better word is mob). We went through passport control, picked up our baggage, and headed off into the distance. It was nice to be back. It is nice to be back.
However, before I headed off into the distance, I decided to stop by the Olympic Airlines desk to ask a question about my cat's travel accomodation. (Yes, although I have not made a formal blog announcement about this, my cat is coming back to the states with me. Was there ever any doubt this would happen eventually? Was there ever a bigger pushover for cats than myself?)
I waited on line for ten minutes, explained my question to the lady behind the desk, and was referred to another window. That window referred me to another window, between puffs of cigarette smoke, and that window referred me back to the first. Well, they tried, anyway, but I protested. "I just need to know," I said "how big the carrier is allowed to be."
The lady looked at me like I was crazy. "You know," she said. "It should be small."
"Small?" I asked.
"Small," she answered. "Just bring a small case."
I walked away, pondering this. Pretty much every other airline in the world appears to have regulations specifying the size, shape, height, width, material, air holes, and writing on a container that holds a live animal. I believe Swiss Air checks that the bottom is waterproof. However, as I have been repeatedly reminded, the Greeks are not Swiss. Olympic says it should be "small." I decided that this lady maybe wasn't very well informed about the issue, and I decided to give Olympic a call. I was put on hold for ten minutes, and when I did get a chance to talk to someone, I got cut off as soon as I said γεια σασ.
I tried again, was put on hold, and was promptly cut off once again. I got on the bus, bought a new phone card, went to a new pay phone, called, and was cut off once again. It was then that I noticed that the Olympic Airlines number is actually 666-666, which makes it the sign of satan, doubled. I tried again later that evening and was told to call back this morning.
I called back this morning. Once again, the woman on the other end sounded baffled. "Size?" she asked. "You know, something...mikro."
Μικρο means 'small' in Greek. I sighed. I mean, personally, I think that the island of Folegandros is small, but I really don't think anyone would be happy if I showed up with it in my hand luggage.
"Like, something that will fit under the seat," she added.
"Are there specific dimensions for what fits under the seat?" I asked.
She paused. "Something mikro," she repeated. "Like, a handbag!"
This made me think of an acting teacher I had in high school, who used to randomly shout "A handbag in Victoria station!" That's a line from The Importance of Being Earnest. I believe one of the characters was abandoned at Victoria Station in a handbag when he was an infant. However, I do not plan to abandon my cat anywhere.
In the end, I thanked the woman, hung up, sighed, and decided I should maybe worry about something else for a change. The thing is, I don't really want to worry about the rather frightening fact that I am going home in four days, so cat carriers are a welcome alternate source of stress.

There's No Place Like London

2006-07-26T18:04:00.000-04:00

Things I had forgotten about Britain:

-The smell of English breakfast in the morning. Eggs and toast and fried tomatoes, oil and salt and butter. It's a bit overwhelming for someone who has accustomed herself to the Greek style of coffee and maybe some bread.

-When you get on the London Underground, there are signs telling you which lines are not in operation that day. They always say things like "We apologise for the inconvenience this may cause, but the Picadilly Line will not be in operation today between Green Park and South Kensington. Hopefully, services will be restored tomorrow. We wish you a pleasant day!" This is in contrast to New York, where you hear a loud fuzzy noise blast into the station, followed by a garbled, belligerent voice on the loudspeaker screeching out something like "ONE TRAIN NOT RUNNING GO TO NINETY SIXTH STREET". At least, I think that is what they are saying when they talk. I don't think anybody knows for sure.

-The sandwiches all have mayonaise on them. I think that deep down, in the depths of my soul, I have never particularly cared for mayonaise, but I tolerated it, because it's pretty easy to ignore. However, I've never liked it, and I never actually voluntarily put it on anything that I prepare, unless I am forced by a recipe. Thus, I am far from pleased when I walk into a sandwich shop to discover that everything has mayo on it. (Actually, I think my boyfriend has brought out the latent mayonaise hatred in me, because he really, really, hates mayonaise, and thus I feel justified in my own dislike for it. This does not mean, however, that I will ever start to like American football.)

-Everything costs more than you could ever possibly imagine that it could cost. The price of a Greek hotel room is enough to buy you a British sandwich. And it'll have mayonaise on it.

-Shakespeare's Globe is honestly my favorite place on earth. I saw A Comedy of Errors today- stood through the whole thing, because that's what the riffraff did in Shakespeare's day, and I am trying to stay on a riffraff budget. But my feet didn't hurt at all, and afterwards I went to the gift shop and purchased a myriad of unneccessary objects with Shakespeare quotes on them. (Example: Eraser with fake spots of blood that reads "Out, Damned Spot!")

-I arrived in Victoria Station at 1:30am, after a harrowing experience with Ryanair. I stepped out into the street, noticed the car was coming at me from the WRONG DIRECTION, yelped, and made a mad dash back to the pavement, bags flying. Now I know which way to look, but I still have to look in the non-British direction as well, just to make sure there's not some foreigner driving on the right. In Britain, the phrase "deer in the headlights" should be changed to "American in the headlights".

-I keep taking pictures of things like Big Ben. Why? I already have a large store of pictures of Big Ben from the last time I was in England. I do not look at them. I do not need more of them. Big Ben, like the Parthenon and the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower, has been photographed enough. The whole point of going to London is to see things like Big Ben, instead of just looking at pictures of them. But I still take the damn pictures.

Important Advice for Life

2006-07-19T05:49:00.000-04:00

If the train to Budapest leaves Thessaloniki at midnight and is scheduled to arrive in Budapest at 10am, that does NOT, I repeat, NOT mean that it is scheduled to arrive in Budapest on the following day. In fact, it will arrive in Sofia Bulgaria the next day, and you will end up sitting next to a mother with several small children who ask lots of questions (Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married? What do you do? Will you come to Blagoevgrad? You will stay with us!) and then you will end up on another train through northern Bulgaria that you cannot get off, not even to buy food or coffee or water or a phone card, and you'll spend four hours at the Romanian border filling out papers about bird flu, and your phone credit will die, and you can't phone home to tell your parents that you are alive or your friend in Budapest what's up. Finally, you will realize that you are scheduled to arrive in Budapest the following morning, that is, the trip is actually 34 hours and you are not even half done, and you'll abandon the entire endeavor in Bucharest, where a Japanese-Romanian translator will help you find a hotel and food, and you'll have no idea how much the money is worth, especially since things have recently changed so that some bills say 100,000 and some say 10 and it means the same thing. But there will be coffee and pastries for breakfast and oh thank god, a plane ticket to Prague.

In Which The Tentacles Have Their Revenge

2006-07-10T15:18:00.000-04:00

I did, eventually, make it to Santorini, followed by Folegandros and Naxos, and the future is still yet to be determined. Island internet costs a lot, but I'll give you a few highlights anyway.

-On Santorini, I went to Red Beach, which is appropriately named. The sand, from volcanic rock, is indeed red, and stunning. I have been shaking crimson and black dust out of my clothes for days.

-On Folegandros I hiked for an hour over a cliff to get to a tiny, gorgeous cove where I was one of only ten people. The water was blue and green and clear, the sun was warm, and I had been paddling about for a good half hour, basking in the beauty of it all, when I stuck my hand into something that felt...odd. Sort of like swimming through grass, but grass with tiny needles. I came to the conclusion that I had been stung by a jellyfish, swore loudly (in English, of course), went madly splashing towards shore, glimpsed two more pinkish gelatinous creatures wobbling along, shrieked again, and repaired to my towel, where Lonely Planet informed me that "Greek jellyfish are not lethal, but they can cause pain." Well, the fact that they COULD be lethal had never even entered my mind. The fact that they can hurt, and can leave little red tentacle-shaped welts across one's arm was more obvious. Lonely Planet also recommended that you douse stings in vinegar, which made me contemplate rushing over to the nearest taverna, picking up the salad dressing, and pouring it over my arm.

-Every time I think I know the ferry schedule, someone informs me that I do not. The woman in Santorini definitely said there were ferries from Mykonos to Lesvos every Tuesday, but every travel agent in Naxos and one on Mykonos says I am wrong about that. The schedules all say that there are frequent ferries from Naxos to Mykonos, but the Naxos travel agents say I am wrong about that too. I'm damn mystified, and at this rate, I have no idea when I will be home. I'm not really complaining.

In Which, Stranded, I Begin An International Trend

2006-07-05T09:47:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm still in Irakleion. And I'm getting sort of grouchy.

Just the other day I was joking that perhaps I would move to a Greek Island and strand myself by the beach. I did not expect the gods to take me literally. But then strong winds took over this part of the Aegean, and all boats from Crete were cancelled for two days- with more strong winds predicted for tomorrow. I have been occupying myself with archaeology and The Odyssey. Yesterday afternoon I read about poor Odysseus, stranded on Calypso's* island, crying because he is so desperate to leave. I've never felt so much sympathy for the poor man, but it gives me some comfort to realize that being stuck here is, in some way, part of an ancient Greek tradition.

Today, being desperate to get to the beach at last (I have been on the road for over a week with only a few brief toe dips in the ocean) I took a bus eastward, to an area filled with resorts. I walked down to the beach...and found no beach. Instead, there were about three feet of sand with white-capped waves crashing upon them like, I don't know, the north atlantic or something. Huddled upon beach chairs were some Germans, some Brits, and a family of unknown Scandinavian descent. It was a bit chilly. I was disappointed, but somewhat encouraged by the green color of the surf- so I stuck my feet in. After five minutes of strolling through the waves up to my thighs, I was joined by a German man who actually jumped right on in and began paddling through the waves. Not wanting to be outdone by the Germans, I jumped in too, splashed for a few moments, and looked up to find that a British couple had followed suit. Next came another German man, and another man who could have been from anywhere; I didn't get a chance to try and listen in on his accent. Throughout this, the mysterious Scandinavians stood on the pier and took pictures of the water, and the Greeks stood in the taverna, probably thinking we were all completely insane, but at least they let us use their beach chairs for free.

Overall, it was not the best trip to the beach I have ever had- next time, I want more sun. However, I cannot help but feel that somewhere here is a lesson in international relations. I'm just not sure what it is.

*the nymph, not my cat.

In Which I Don't Know Anything

2006-07-03T13:45:00.000-04:00

I am in Irakleio.

It took me two hours to find a hotel in this city because I did not have a map. I did not have a mapt because I left Lonely Planet on the bus yet again, and realized that although Lonely Planet identifies its customers as 'independant travellers', some of us are not independant enough as to function well without Lonely Planet. I left Lonely Planet on the bus because I was sore and tired from hiking Samaria gorge. I hiked Samaria gorge by myself because I overslept and missed the guided tour that I had already paid for the day before. Before that, I had to email Brad and ask him to do my last load of laundry for me because I didn't get it out of the machine in time before I left for Delphi. I've been meaning to write blog updates and write emails and apply for jobs, but I haven't done any of that. I am not wearing any rings and I do not know if I left them in Thessaloniki or at my hotel in Delphi. I'm going to Santorini tomorrow and I do not know where I will stay or when I will leave or where I will go after that. I don't know exactly when I'm returning stateside, or what I will do when I get there. I'm not sure if I will go to Croatia or to Prague. I really don't know anything. I'm sweaty, I smell awful, and I'm sore, exhausted and covered in mosquito bites.

Life is pretty good right now.

In Which I Mentally Cheer For Prostitutes and Snow

2006-06-22T02:33:00.000-04:00

For my birthday in April, my boyfriend made me a CD which included a live version of Paul Simon singing 'The Boxer' in Central Park. Not surprisingly, this concert was packed with New Yorkers, and the crowd goes wild every time the city is mentioned. The phrase "seventh avenue" is met with cheers. The mention of "New York City" gets everyone screaming with excitement. The fact that the former is part of a reference to "the whores on seventh avenue " and the latter is part of a wish to go "home....where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me" doesn't seem to register. Or maybe this crowd was just really proud of that stuff, because what kind of city doesn't have a few problems with crime and weather?
I make fun of these people, but if I had been there, I would have cheered too. So what if the protagonist is miserable and lonely and trapped in the city? To some of us, you don't leave New York to go home. And that's worth cheering about, damn it.
I've come to learn that part of really knowing a place is learning that there are things about it that you despise. I've always loved New York, but I had just enough hate for it that I decided to get the hell out of there, and I went to college in Iowa instead. I loved Iowa too, for very different reasons that I loved New York, but I won't lie; I had some real moments of hatred for it too. I spent four years going back and forth, trading Central Park and Indian food for cornfields and a small town where everyone knows the details of everyone else's life. I think the Grinnellians thought I talked about New York too much and the New Yorkers wondered what on earth I was doing off in the middle of nowhere. But I think I was all the richer for living in two different places, and maybe that's why I decided to come to Greece; to know another place, in a different country this time.
Like all places, Greece has had its fair share of frustrations. There are days when I just want to go shopping on Sunday, or I need to express something complicated and the language barrier is a problem. There are days when I feel like the language barrier keeps me from really knowing the kids I work with. There were also the endless hours of wading through bureacracy to get my residence permit, which has now been pending for eight months, and will in all likelihood, arrive expired and after I have left this continent.
Above all, I miss diversity. It's so peculiar to me, to walk down the street and know, based on genetic features, who is not from around here. I actually find myself staring at blonde people or American-looking people, or anybody with non-Greek looking features. Me, the New Yorker, who usually would not bother to stare if a ten foot gorilla got on the 9 train, and I am now staring at people because they have blonde hair. I'm not sure I like that feeling.
I'm also not sure I like what has happened to my taste buds. My tongue used to be hardy, capable of enjoying hot peppers and curry. I used to laugh at people who ordered food mild. I used to be tough. But then, last week, I broke open a box of packaged curry that my father sent me a few months back, I took bite and found myself coughing. It was so spicy! Packaged curry was spicy, and I know it wasn't even as spicy as the real stuff they serve in Jackson Heights. My tongue has been coddled with feta and tomatoes, and all of the taste buds I had been burning off all my life grew back. I don't like it. I feel like a wimp.
So yes, Greece has its drawbacks, just like any place has its drawbacks. In a certain way, I'm pleased about it. It makes me feel that I really have been here. So many tourists come and go, thinking of Greece as a warm sunny relaxed paradise with ruins, and they don't see much farther than that. It's the same thing that happens in New York, when visitors crow over the view from the Empire State building, but never get the close-up view that reveals so much more. In a way, perhaps it's what happened to me when I studied abroad in London, and decided it was heaven on earth, just filled with literary landmarks and history. I can hardly think of anything I really disliked about London. Maybe it really is the most perfect place on the planet. But I don't think so. Maybe I should go back and try to find some things I hate, and then I'll be a real 20th Century Londoner, instead of an Elizabethan one.
There's another reason I'm glad to have found things about Greece that drive me insane. The fact that I see them makes me realize all of the good things about my own home that I never appreciated before. America is upsetting me so much these days that I sometimes feel just utterly disgusted with my whole country and want to pretend that I'm from somewhere else entirely. When Greeks ask me if I am from England, Italy or Albania, I have sometimes felt tempted to say yes, just to avoid questions about George Bush. When Europeans change between languages with more ease than I change my shoes, I feel embarrassed that we're all so monolingual. But when I think about listening to seventeen different languages on the subway, or eating Kosher Indian food on the lower east side, I realize that there is something wonderful about living in a place with so many different kinds of people. It's such a huge relief to discover that we really do have some things to be proud of back in the states.
And so I will cheer on the now almost non-existent whores of seventh avenue along with incredibly confusing Greek language and the heat of the Greek summer. I will love to hate bureacracy at the embassy with the same passion that I love to hate the New York Yankees. I will complain about the crowded 58 bus in the same way I complain about ten dollar movie tickets in New York, and eventually I will go home, where the New York City winters certainly will be bleeding me, and I will dream of the sweltering Mediterranean sun and long to find someone with whom I can drink ouzo and practice my stilted Greek.

Happy Bloomsday!

2006-06-16T09:31:00.000-04:00

June 16th, 1904 is the day that Ulysses takes place. June 16th, therefore, is known as Bloomsday, in honor of Leopold Bloom, the protagonist of the novel.

Today, to celebrate, I looked at flights to Dublin. I also ate a kidney for breakfast.

No, not really. I am dedicated to literature, but not that dedicated. I did give my cat some treats, though, as she is named after one of the books of the novel. I also contemplated going to the beach, but decided to wait until a day when I don't have to be back for work in the evening. Perhaps later today my life will morph into a strange trippy 'reconstruction' in which people change gender and the dead appear. And then I will make the long trip home and think in one long sentence as I fall asleep. Yes, I will. Yes.

In Which But For The Sky, There Are No Fences Facing

2006-06-12T05:57:00.000-04:00

Here I am, with barely two weeks of work ahead of me, maybe less, and I don't know what I'm doing next. I purchased the Lonely Planet guide to Eastern Europe the other day, and it has caused me to become completely unhinged. I thought at some point I would travel up through the former Yugoslavia to Croatia, but now I also want to go to Prague, to St. Petersburg, to Kiev, Poland, Albania. I want to see Lenin in Red Square, I want to see Transylvania, I want to read Cyrillic. Oh, and of course, I also want to see more Greek Islands, including Crete, Santorini and I-don't-know-what-else, I want to swim in the Aegean, I want to see Knossos and hike Samaria Gorge, and stop by Delphi, I want to go back to London and see all the things I missed when I studied there and wander along the river and through Hyde Park, see Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre, go to Dublin and walk into eternity along Sandymount Strand, go somewhere else in Ireland and see the green that I have heard so much about, and just generally go places.
It's interesting, because so rarely in my life have I had so many options open and the freedom to decide, completely by myself, where I will go and how I will spend my time. On group trips and family vacations it's usually a compromise between several people, and on short trips it's usually about hitting the most famous, must-see sights. But with a decent amount of money in the bank and Europe and a good number of weeks stretching before me, I almost have too many choices. It makes me think about where I want to go, sure, but it also makes me wonder why I want to go to certain places and not to others. Why is it that some places make me jump around in excitement, and other places leave me cold, even when I know next to nothing about either place?
People ask me how I ended up in Greece, was it the ancient history or the culture or the history or the weather? I don't know what to say, exactly, because on one hand, I just sort of took the opportunity that presented itself. The truth is, though, that Greece has always fascinated me. A lot of people daydream about Paris and Spain, and I can see why those are appealing, but for some reason Italy and Greece have always struck me as the really fascinating countries of the Mediterranean. Maybe that's because I spent so much time studying Greek and Roman culture and literature in school. On the other hand, I spent five years studying Spanish in school and Spain is still not as fascinating to me. On the other hand, I was positively wretched at Spanish. On the other hand, I was even more wretched at Latin, and my family trip to Rome is one of my favorite travel memories ever. O the other hand, Latin class never had gelato like that.
The truth, which will be not be surprising to anyone who knows me even remotely, is that I like to go to places that I have read about in books. I want to go to St. Petersburg because I read Crime and Punishment. Somehow a novel about poverty, misery, sickness, corruption, murder and prostitution just gives me this great desire to see where it all took place. I want to go to the island of Ithaka because damn, if Odysseus spent so much time getting back there, it must be worth it. The World According to Garp has given me a fascination with Vienna and small hotels that I would love to satisfy one of these days. Sophie's Choice makes me miss New York, wonder about trips to Poland, and decide that despite my English major, I will never, ever go into publishing. (Do you remember the scene where some guy submits an epic manuscript of Norse verse that takes up a whole suitcase? Actually, mostly, that book just makes me want to write a book that good, while simultaneously reminding me that I probably never, ever, will. How many books fit that description!) I suppose it is no surprise, then, that I studied abroad in London, where practically every street and building seems to have some sort of literary past. I have a Greek friend who is absolutely baffled by the fact that I am giving up precious Greece-in-the-summer time to see Britain and Ireland yet again, but he just doesn't understand the pull of those glorious iambic Shakespearean syllables spoken under the open night sky, the stream of Joycean consciousness, incomprehensible until it is hilarious, and the simple joy of JK Rowling and Phillip Pullman (who are both, actually, a little more complicated than some might realize.) I didn't really get excited about Albania until I found out that it's the site of ancient Illyria, where Viola and Sebastian land in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night...and oh, yeah, the place where Lord Voldemort spends ten years wandering through the forest after he is outdone by an infant.
However, there are actually some other things that draw me to certain cities or countries. Some of these things are simple, like names. The first time I read the name 'Thessaloniki', I thought "wow, that sounds amazing!" I didn't know a damn thing about the city, but I knew it had an awesome sounding name with enough letters to make it difficult to fit into address forms. I resist the use of 'Salonica'; it's just not nearly as aesthetically pleasing. In truth, Greece is filled with appealing names, like Santorini, Xanthi, Samothraki, and Chalkidiki. They all sound like places you would want to see. Moldova, in comparison, does not sound nearly as appealing, perhaps because it conjures up images of puffy green growth on old bread. I would anticipate finding lots of old ruins in Moldova. But according to Lonely Planet, Moldova is actually a very lively place, where they recommend that you party a whole lot. Who knew?
There's also the appeal of the forbidden. I'd like to go to parts of the former Yugoslavia (or East Germany) in part because I couldn't have done that a few years back. Cuba is fascinating; so damn close to my home nation, and yet you can't go there or even buy cigars from there. I don't even like cigars, I think anything you smoke is pretty foul, but I would love to go to Cuba.
Ultimately, I can't discuss Forbidden Places without mentioning what I have recently decided is the Forbidden Holy Grail Fruit; Mount Athos. Mouth Athos, or Αγιον Οροσ in Greek, is the "holy mountain" on a peninsula filled with orthodox monasteries. This religious settlement was established well over a thousand years ago. People flock from all over Europe and even all over the world to see it and, if they are so inclined, to live there as monks. Visitors are permitted, although only in limited numbers, and in even more limited numbers if you do not happen to be orthodox. You just have to obtain a permit ahead of time. So what's the catch? Only male visitors are allowed. That's right; no women whatsoever. They don't even have female cows or pigs around and boats carrying women must remain a certain distance offshore.
Now, I respect that the monks on Athos have chosen to live a certain kind of lifestyle that they do not want interrupted, and I suppose they have that right, with hundreds of years of tradition backing it up. I don't know if I actually really want them to change their rules. But I still want to see Athos, very badly. I suppose it has something to do with being raised in a very PC environment, where I was constantly taught that women can do anything, be US president, go to the moon, whatever. I mean, I'll be honest; I'm not holding my breath on the whole president thing. But legally, it's possible. But on Athos, it's a whole other world, possibly one out of a whole other century, and they have no qualms about keeping women out. And thus I am fascinated. What are they doing in there? Would I, or any other woman, really disturb things all that much? And if we would, what would we disturb? Obviously, it's not something I could really be familiar with.
It's much like the dormitory here at school,where girls and boys are not allowed on each other's hallways. The girls come up to the door of the boy's floor every now and then (the boys are not even allowed upstairs to look into the girl's hall) and you see them peering in curiously, or, more often, reaching in just far enough to give a male friend a smack on the head before he runs back into safety. Every now and then I escort a girl or two through the boy's hall en route to something else, and she will usually watch with fascination as we pass various rooms, or else gloatingly announce her presence to every male within earshot. I suppose the monks would not like that so much.
Anyway, the end result of all this is, I'm trying to figure out where to go, and I am a little bit mind-boggled. Anyone who would like to recommend islands, eastern european cities or nations, or destinations in Ireland would be most welcome to comment.

In Which I am Filled With Ire While I Recount My Relaxing Weekend

2006-06-08T15:45:00.000-04:00

Last weekend I finally made it to a Greek Island. Thasos, the isle in question, is about three hours from Thessaloniki, or maybe four, depending on your mode of transport. Brad and I took the bus to Kavala, a city several hours to the East, and then a high speed ferry to the island, which only took about half an hour.
We arrived at Prinos, a harbor area with some nice beach chairs and the blue, blue sea. We plopped down and relaxed for several hours, just stretched out and lazy. I had not planned sufficiently in advance, and so I was not wearing a bathing suit, but I took a discreet trip behind a closed canteen and changed that right away.
The water was cold. OK, it was not really cold, not nearly as cold as the water in Maine or other parts of New England, which is the usual region of the world where I go swimming. It was warm enough to immerse yourself in for long periods of time. However my first dip proved such a shock that although my body did not feel too cold, my lungs protested. It was very strange. Is there some reason why a person's lungs can't handle immersion in cold water? Is that what happened to Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic?
Anyway, after a few moments of gasping for air, my lungs adapted, and I swam back and forth for a while, splashing about and looking down at the ocean floor, because it just so amazing to see the ocean floor while you are swimming. This is a new experience for me, and I have to say it makes the whole thing less intimidating when you know that Jaws is not out to get you.
After lazing about in Prinos, we made our way to the bus station, where we headed off to the town of Thasos, or Limenas, which is the main town of the island. We found a hotel room, found some food, and found our way to the Acropolis of Thasos, where one can look out upon the blue sea from a higher viewpoint, and also see exciting things like ancient shrines to Pan. We also glimpsed a shrine to Dionysus which fascinated me mostly because it was just sort of sitting in the middle of a city street, as though it were a traffic island or something. As an American, I just think it's pretty amazing to see ancient ruins lying about like that.
We also strolled through the ruins of the ancient agora, which was enjoyable. It was a bit overgrown, so it was difficult to fully appreciate what it would have looked like during Roman Times, but I have seen several agora ruins before, so I was able to use my imagination. It was here that Brad pointed out that the word 'agoraphobia' means 'fear of people' as opposed to 'fear of shopping', which would be my guess. After all, if 'agora' means market, and αγοραζω, or agorazo, is the modern Greek verb 'to buy', it would be natural to assume that 'agoraphobia' referred to a fear of shopping, right? However, I guess that because the agora was the ancient social area, the word refers to fear of social interaction.
It's unfortunate, really, because I am not afraid of social interaction, but I am afraid of shopping. In fact, year by year, I think my hatred for shopping increases. This may be genetic, because my mother also despises shopping. It also may have something to do with the fact that I absolutely detest trying clothes on. I hate waiting in line for changing rooms, and I hate taking everything off and putting more clothes on and taking them off and putting more things on and so on. I also think my hatred for shopping has increased since my arrival in Greece, because I never know what damn size I am, and I don't know where to find anything. Take pants. As a petite (translation: short) person in a nation full of shortish people, I would expect to find pants that do not drag on the ground when I walk. But no, this is not a possibility. Instead, when my ancient petite jeans died, finally, I had to call my mother and have her trek down to South Street Seaport, which is way the hell at the tip of Manhattan, and buy several new pairs of petite jeans at American Eagle Outfitters and ship them to Greece, because I swear that is the only store in the universe that actually sells petite jeans. American Eagle Outfitters is something of a teen chain, but I may be shopping there at age forty five just because there I have not found another store in the known universe that sells pants which fit me. This fills me with such ire and rage. (Are there ay other synonyms for 'hate' that I can use before I end this paragraph?)
One more thing about shopping before I continue, and you can skip this paragraph if you don't care. Much as I hate trying things on, I realize it is a necessity. However, on three separate occasions, salesladies in Greek stores informed me that I was not permitted to try things on. I have actually had these people charge into changing rooms and yell at me for attempting to try on T-shirts. Apparently, one is either not permitted to try on shirts, or else one is not permitted to try on shirts which are on sale. Since things on sale are generally the things I buy, this is a dilemma for me. When I asked one of the Changing Police why I was not allowed to try on T-shirts, she shrugged and said "that only costs five Euros". Well, forgive me if I sound culturally insensitive, but it's my damn five Euros, and it's never going to belong to anyone who enforces such a stupid irritating rule. The upshot of the whole thing is, none of the pants here fit me, and I am morally opposed to buying shirts at a significant portion of the shopping establishments. So I don't buy much in the way of clothing. I only buy pens. I love shopping for pens. I can stand at the little pen displays in stationary stores for a really long time sampling all the different color pens and selecting a variety of styles and hues. I always leave with a very satisfied feeling. There is nothing better than a pile of new pens in different colors.
Well, actually, the Greek islands are pretty good. The Acropolis was a nice hike, and I enjoyed saying hello to a large group of goats on our way down. I also enjoyed seeing a boat and a hotel named Καλυψω, or Kalypso, or Calypso. I wondered if perhaps Thasos is the island of the mythical nymph Calypso, as it is located conveniently on the route back from Troy to Ithaka. However, as Brad pointed out, pretty much every island in Greece is located on that route. Plus, wikipedia tells me that Calypso lived on a mythical island that has not been identified. Too bad, but it was exciting, seeing things named after my cat. (That's right; they were clearly named after my cat, even though she is only about eight months old and Homer is several thousand years).
Brad and I spent the next hour or so in a cafe, watching basketball. Brad has become an avid fan of Aris, which is one of the Thessaloniki teams, and they had a playoff game. I've been to one Aris game, and I have to say I most enjoyed it, although my sport is really baseball, not basketball.
We had dinner at a restaurant named 'Pigi', which was filled with British tourists, but had good food, including stifado and octopus keftedes, which are meatballs made from octopus and I think some herbs or something. They were delicious and I cursed myself for not discovering them several months before, when maybe I could have convinced my boyfriend to try octopus in that form instead of in tentacle form. I doubt it would have worked, however, unless I had lied and declared them chicken, which would have been rather mean. In any case, they were good.
The next morning we awoke, had breakfast at a sweet shop on the waterfront, and headed out to the Golden Beach on the West Side of the Island. The Golden beach, which you can view in my previous post, is not golden, but it is blue. I spent a good long time relaxing, paddling about in the water, reading my Lonely Planet and planning my summer trips, and applying sunscreen, although I apparently was not careful enough about the latter, because I ended up with two oddly shaped bright red triangles on my shoulders. The rest of me is barely tan, but my shoulders hurt for days. Oh well, it was worth it.
At that point it was about 3pm, and we needed to start our trip back. This consisted of a bus to Limenas, another bus back to Prinos Port, and a big giant ferry to the mainland. The ferry took 90 minutes instead of 35, but it was a scenic trip. We did miss our connecting bus out of Kavala, but that turned out to be for the best, because we got the chance to stroll through the city, which is lovely, grab something to eat, which was nice, and see the ancient fortress in the old town, which was really quite worth the bus delay.
Sadly, here's the other reason I am filled with ire; blogger absolutely refuses to post any of my pictures. I have such lovely pictures too, blue sea and white sand, views of ruins, mountaintops, fortresses, boats named Kalypso....but, try as I might, they just won't load. It's enough to make me scream. Ah well. Here's one picture that somehow made it up, a view of Thasos from the Acropolis.

Homer Was Blind

2006-06-05T13:22:00.000-04:00

The Aegean is not "wine dark".

It's so blue.

In Which I Examine Various Things Said to Be Un-Christian

2006-06-01T02:02:00.000-04:00

I saw a man walk on hot coals the other day. And five days later, I watched Forrest Gump, Amelie and Gandalf chasing through the streets of various European locations in a search for the holy grail. Normally, it would be hard to connect these two experiences, but I have found a way; both are condemned by some christians for being blasphemous. OK, you say, but that's hardly unique; some christians will condemn anything and everything, including M and Ms. (See the Book of Mormon for further details on that one.) Yes, I say, but M and Ms have not played a big part in my life as of late. So we'll talk about coal walking and the Da Vinci Code instead.
The coal walking took place in a village called Langadas, which is either 9km, 20km, or 12km outside of Thessaloniki, depending on which guidebook you happen to own. Some friends, friends of friends and I had a few adventures getting there via taxis and public buses, but we made it eventually. It was Sunday, May 21st, the feast of Saints Constantine and Eleni. This is the traditional date for the coal-walking ceremony, which also takes place in Serres, about one hour further down the road. Some say that the coal walking ceremony dates back to pagan times, and indeed, this is exactly why the Orthodox church has condemned it. Although it has been going on for centuries, and always on this same day, it used to take place in hiding to avoid trouble from the religious Powers That Be. Nowadays it is much more public, although it still does not take place in church.
We had arrived hours in advance, so we decided to stop by a taverna and eat before the ceremony. There we talked to some locals who gave us another story entirely. They reported that the whole thing dates back to the early christian era, when a church in Asia Minor (a part now in Bulgaria) burned down on this very day. The people of that village rushed into the church to save their icons, and managed to make it in and out of the flaming debris without getting burned. Indeed, the modern ceremony involves a lot of dancing with the icons of Constantine and Eleni, and is regarded by the participants as a christian ceremony, so which version of the story you choose to believe is somewhat negotiable.
In any case, it was about 8:30pm when we found the location where the coal-walking was to take place. It was a small very simple house with a large empty yard out back; hardly a grandiose location, which made it all the more interesting. The house was packed full of people and music was being played while a number of villagers danced back and forth with the icons. In case you have not seen orthodox icons, these were big, a foot or two high, and looked to be encased in silver. Outside, a fire was lit, and a crowd watched the wood burn down slowly into hot embers. We waited for over an hour, listening to beat of the music from inside, where the coal-walkers were presumable dancing themselves into some sort of a trance. I could barely peer past the crowds and into the windows to catch glimpses of musicians and dancers.
It was nearing 11pm when they emerged, a procession of about twenty people, men, women and children, drenched in sweat from dancing, still strumming their instruments, many adorned with bandannas and clutching the icons. They passed right right by me and into the yard, where the remains the fire had burned down into black coals with the occasional flicker of red to remind you of the heat.
At this point the crowd had gone silent and pressed inwards toward the yard, and I could hardly see what was happening. It took a while, but I eventually managed to work my way to the front and I did in fact see several people walking across the red hot coals. It was quite impressive. I hardly know what to make of it. There are a variety of theories as to how these people can walk across coals and emerge with the soles of their feet intact, but nobody has really figured it out for sure. One outsider even tried it a few years back and emerged with third degree burns on her feet. I just wonder how one starts coal-walking. I suppose if you have done it for years you must not be afraid of it, but what of the first time? How do you know that you are ready and that won't get burned? I suppose this question proves that I'm far too skeptical to undertake such a task.
I have some pictures of all this, but I'll be honest; they're not great, and for some extremely irritating reason, blogger refuses to let me post them. Perhaps blogger has highly traditional feelings about Christianity. Maybe it's afraid of condemnation. Well, use your imagination. I think the whole idea should give you some material to work with.
And now for the more mundane example of blasphemy. I'm not even going to explain the Da Vinci Code, because to do so would be to assume that you are hiding in a cave somewhere and this blog is your only connection to the outside world. If that is the case, you are already totally out of the loop and you have more important things to worry about than this particular offspring of popular culture. In fact, mostly I am just going to point you all to Anthony Lane's review in the New Yorker, which is absolutely the meanest thing I have read all year, and therefore far more entertaining than the movie itself. I do not know how Anthony Lane manages to dredge up such ire and viciousness on a regular basis, and perhaps he had some unpleasant incidents in his childhood, but I am awfully glad about it, because his movie reviews are one of the first things I read in each issue of New Yorker after I have looked for new David Sedaris essays.
Myself, I have nothing to say about the religious implications of this book. In my opinion, if Christianity really wanted to keep up a positive image, they would be less upset about the idea of a happily married Jesus than they would about a Jesus who sanctions killing. Or maybe they should be upset by the prospect that some people would actually be dumb enough to believe that Catholicism is overrun by violent albino monks. I think that people have a right to be angry if they feel that their religion is being falsely portrayed, but if the combined effects of Martin Luther, John Calvin, celibacy and and numerous sex scandals have failed to topple the Catholic church, well, is Ron Howard really going to be the Vatican’s undoing?
The Da Vinci Code, of course, has not just been condemned by Catholics, it has also been condemned by Orthodox officials, even the archbishop of Thessaloniki himself, who decreed that all faithful citizens should not go see it. Based on the fact that it is still playing in every Thessaloniki cinema, there are not a lot of faithful citizens out there. I'm not sure why these religious officials even bother to ban things like this. Don't they realize? People are just like small children; we'll go after anything we're told me can't have. Take me and Lucky Charms. Growing up, I was allowed to have some junk food, but Lucky Charms were not allowed unless we were on vacation. My sister and I munched on Kix and Total for years. When I finally arrived at college, I remember seeing the giant bin of Lucky Charms sitting there in the dining hall, free for everyone in unlimited amounts, and I thought "Wow!" I barely registered the empty vodka bottles in the recycling bin and the people trying to give me condoms every time I turned a corner. But Lucky Charms, man. Lucky Charms were decadence. They were the embodiment of independance. They tasted of adulthood, how's that for irony? But you know what? I don't even really like them. Total is better. I'm just glad my parents didn't enforce a ban on coal-walking in childhood, because that could have created far more dire circumstances than a few bowls of sugar during freshman orientation.
Here's my beef with the whole franchise; let’s say that you are part of a secret society that considers femininity to be sacred. You think that Catholics are misogynists, and blame them for denigrating female sexuality, persecuting free-thinking women and keeping women out of positions of power. You think that Mary Magdalene was supposed to be the true founder of Christianity. So when it comes to choose a leader for your radical feminist group, wouldn’t it occur to you to maybe choose, I don’t know, a woman? In this fictional priory thing, women are special enough to be divine sex objects instead of evil sex objects, but sex objects they remain, and men like Da Vinci and Newton and the dead guy on the floor of the Louvre are still the ones who actually control shit. If that’s actually supposed to be some sort of iconoclastic revelation for the modern age, maybe I should disappear to one of those caves at Meteora.
And furthermore, even if there were living descendants of Jesus, what in holy hell would they be doing in France? I mean, I know that my geographical knowledge is scant; after all, I placed Bedford-Stuyvesant in Manhattan. However, I am pretty damn sure that Jesus was not French. I am pretty sure that he was not, actually, European. In fact, I think he was Middle Eastern and Jewish. I suppose people do migrate over the course of thousands of years, but I also suppose that Paris makes a far more scenic location for an action movie than modern day Nazareth.
In case you’re wondering, I did both read the book, and see the movie. I suppose you could call that silly, seeing as I clearly have lots of issues with both. The naked truth is, however, that I like Tom Hanks, and his fellow cast members, and I really, really really like London. I would probably pay seven Euros to watch people eat sandwiches in London if they strolled past enough scenic locations in the process. If only it had better bagels and less insane exchange rate, it would be the perfect city. (New York, on the other hand, would be the perfect city if it had Shakespeare’s Globe.) So no, I’m not immune to fun. I’m just an English major, and this is what happens when you let an English major loose on the world with nothing to analyze; she creates a totally unnecessary treatise on Dan Brown. Stay tuned for next week, when I will discuss the influences of John Milton on Harry Potter, and the week after, when I write my own novel about a female God who loves the idea of gay marriage, encourages coal-walking, eats m and ms, and strikes down several choice members of the government. Because if you're going to create a totally silly religious controversy, you might as well do the damn thing right.

A Little Worried About Your Future?

2006-05-28T05:17:00.000-04:00

It's college graduation season again, and I'm finding it hard to believe that it's been one whole year since I myself graduated. However, now that I'm one of these Real World residents instead of a college student, I feel it necessary to share what I have learned in my first year since college. I feel that this is especially necessary because I am also kind to trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with myself next year, and it makes me feel better if I can give sage advice to someone, anyone. So, without further adieu, here are five important things to keep in mind:

1) Everyone talks about the real world as though it were a horrible, horrible place where all of your dreams will be crushed and you will miss college forever. This is not true. Look at me; I do various jobs and still have time to read books, write all different things, get the ocassional eight hours of sleep and obsess over my cat. I did not have time for any of that at college.

2)If you majored in English and you think your major is useless, move to a foreign country where they do not speak English, and suddenly you will feel more useful. If you don't want to move to a foreign country but you still feel your major is worthless, you are wrong. English is not the least useful major out there, not by a long shot. Just think of all those people who majored in Classics and Philosophy.

3) Read books for fun, and watch movies, but don't read books or watch movies that try to make points about the futility of life by depicting promising young people who destroyed their lives and never came to anything and ended up homeless on the street.

4) Always remember that you never have to eat dining hall food again. You may have to get up early in the morning, and you may have to clean your own toilet, and you may have no money, and you may feel lost, confused and scared. But you never have to eat dining hall food again.

5) People are going to try to give you lots of advice. They have probably already been trying to give you advice for months or even years. Maybe you have even been asking them for advice, but they are probably giving it whether you are asking for it or not. They are popping out of the woodwork shouting things like "College is the best time of your life! The best time of your life is OVER!" and "You should really start to think about law school" and "you should really start to think about getting a PhD," and "You should NOT become a teacher," and "You should DEFINITELY become a teacher." People that you hardly know are coming up to you and asking you "what now?" and you shrug, and they say "Starbucks," and "Journalism" and "Plastics!" People are saying "It's awfully hard to make friends out there in the real world" and "You're going to be in a long distance relationship? Why? You realize you're DOOMED, right? DOOMED! It won't last a week and you'll end up lonely FOREVER!" People are giving you books with titles like "The Post-College Survival Guide" and "How To Go From Liberal Arts Grad to Millionaire in Five Years" and "How To Not Live In A Carboard Box on Broadway." If you are thinking about just relaxing and getting a job at Barnes and Nobles, people are telling you "You're overqualified for that! Don't do it!" If you really don't want a job at Barnes and Nobles, people tell you "What, do you think you're too good for an honest job? Kids these days are so spoiled!" If you tell people that you want to become a famous best-selling novelist they laugh and say "Get a grip on reality!" If you tell them you don't think you'll ever be a best-selling novelist they tell you "Follow your dreams!" Eventually, all of this will bombard you to the point where you want to cry or vomit or curl up in a little ball in the corner and cover you ears and scream "LALALALALA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" or all three.

You should feel free to ignore all of these people. Including me.

In Which I'm Crazy, But Not As Crazy As That Guy

2006-05-18T07:58:00.000-04:00

I recently read an article in the New York Times about trapped cats. The article explained that New Yorkers have a history of going to great lengths in order to remove cats who have become stuck in various places, in cases spending thousands of dollars to knock down walls to get out the animals. The article also quoted some urban specialist, who analyzed the situation by explaining that while people in cities are fairly used to seeing human suffering, they are not used to seeing animals suffer. Thus, we ignore homeless people, walk nonchalantly past crime scenes where bodies are being removed, and freak out completely when we hear a few meows.
This is true. Absolutely one hundred percent true. I know because my cat was neutered on Tuesday and I have spent the past forty-eight hours panicking over her. I am panicked when she runs around because I am afraid she will hurt herself or infect her stitches. When she is asleep, I check periodically to make sure she is still breathing. When I noticed some drops of blood coming from her stitches, I called the vet in tears.
This is not the beginning of my cat insanity. I talk to her a whole lot more than I speak to some people who are actually capable of speech. That's the beauty of it, actually; she never disagrees with me. She does meow a lot, but I can interpret that in any way I want; it could mean 'Yes, feed me!" or "I completely agree, the Bush administration seriously needs to go," or "I agree, you should go back to bed."
However, my craziness was put into serious perspective last week when I saw the film Grizzly Man, a recent documentary about Timothy Treadwell, a man who spent thirteen summers of his life living among wild bears in remote parts of Alaska. Not only did he live with them, he also videotaped them, photographed them, and videotaped himself talking about them. All of this footage came in handy two years ago, when he and his female companion were eaten by a particularly nasty Grizzly, right at the end of their expedition.
My first thought upon hearing Treadwell talk to a Grizzly Bear was "oh my god, that sounds just like me talking to my cat." It did, too. He turned to the giant hulking beast and murmured things like "I love you, you cutie, I love you sooo much! Now, be a good girl and go catch that fish! Yes, that's a good girl!" The bear, sadly, did not give nearly as good as response as Calypso does. She didn't even growl in return, just sort of sauntered along on feet wider than my waist.
I should clarify that Treadwell wasn't doing any sort of scientific research out there on the tundra, just kind of chilling and communing with the bears while making sure there weren't any poachers around. He did some educational work with schoolkids during the winters, for which he deserves credit. However, for the most part, the bears were more of a really, really esoteric life-consuming hobby than an actual study. Whether he should have been out there, well, that's the central question of the whole film, and I'll let you investigate that one by yourself. But I would not have been out there, that's for sure.
I assumed Treadwell was, at least, a person raised in the wilderness, a person who had cultivated his love for nature and wildlife during birth, who felt so at home among animals that he felt the need to risk and lose life and limb to protect his home. That's what I thought. And then I found out he was from Long Island. Most of the native Alaskans interviewed in the film appear to regard the Bears with affection, but also trepidation and distance, just as I would regard a fellow passenger on the subway. You coexist, but you don't interact. It takes a wacked out Long Islander to go jump in the river with them and console a bear who has been scratched-up in a mating fight with his own dating woes. And it takes a small town native to approach an urbanite on the nine train and try to make conversation about the weather.
And those are my thoughts on the subject. They have nothing to do with Greece, whatsoever, but then again, I never said I would only write about Greece, did I? Nope, I just said that I'm Emily IN Greece, which I am. In Greece, watching my cat recuperate and thanking myself for choosing a country that does not have Grizzly Bears. Besides, based on that fact that I generally get about 500% more comments on my cat-related updates than my Greece-related ones, I think I am not the only crazy one in the blog world.

In Which the Bus is Full of Petty Criminals

2006-05-13T03:30:00.000-04:00

Once again, I have put off my planned posts about the rest of my vacation to tell you about some irritating occurences that have taken place recently.
The first irritating occurence took place before vacation even began; the day before, to be exact. I was coming back from dowtown with a bag of groceries and other supplies, and I grabbed the bus on Egnatia to head back to my apartment in the dorm.
Well, the bus was its usual self that day, which is to say packed beyond all belief. I got on the back door, toting all my supplies. Now, you have to understand something about the Thessaloniki transit system; rarely does anyone actually make you pay. You do pay, at least I do, because I want to be a good citizen and because there's always the threat of a bus inspector coming by to check your ticket and fine you if you do not have one.
Well, on this particular day I was separated from the ticket machine by a solid mass of human flesh. With several kilos of kitty litter tucked between my knees and my shoulders tucked between so many people I could barely breathe, I decided well, to hell with it. I wasn't going to make it to the ticket machine without a struggle and it wasn't worth it, seeing as how the ticket inspector comes around about once per millenium.
It was just my luck that the ticket inspector came along ten minutes later and slapped me with a fifteen Euro fine for failing to purchase a ticket. So now I'm a criminal. I wonder if I should have explained the conundrum of the inaccessible ticket machine, but how the hell do you say "inaccessible ticket machine" in Greek?
As irritating as that incident was, I now have a story tht annoys me even more. Now determined to have my tickets ready beforehand, I purchased a book of ten yesterday before boarding the bus, which was once again packed like a sardine can. No, excuse me, packed tighter than one of those cans with the springy worms in them that pop out and hit people in the face when you open the top. I've said it before, but the New York subway has nothing on my Thessaloniki bus when it comes to crowded-ness.
I stuck my tickets in the back pocket of my purse, zipped up the back pocket of my purse, and boarded the bus. I then proceeded, in typical neurotic New York style, to clutch my purse tightly to me, and to look back and check it every few moments. I had the front flap, which covered the zippered compartment with my valuables inside, against my body. After a long and sweaty ride, I arrived back at school.
It was that evening, as I was standing at the downtown-bound bus stop with coworker Brad, that I discovered something. The back pocket of my purse had been unzipped, and my bus tickets were gone.
Now, I hate that people steal, but I can at least understand the thinking that would cause someone to take a wallet. I mean, one snatch from a handbag and you've got cash, fake ID, and a credit card with which you can repair to the nearest Circuit City and purchase thousands of dollars worth of electronics. I know this is possible, because this is exactly what some jerk did to me on the New York subway last October. Never carry an open tote bag, is my advice to you, especially if three and a half years in Iowa has made you a dangerously trusting human being.
(On a more positive note, I will say that the NYPD was amazingly persistant in looking for the perpetrator. They actually tried to track down the security video from Circuit City, and called me repeatedly in Iowa to ask for the details. )
Anyway, stealing a wallet is low and crummy, but it does at least reward the thief with money and valuables. Bus tickets on the other hand, reward the theif with nothing more than nine sweaty rides on the damn bus, which is hardly an extraordinary thing to be wished for. In all, the thief got away with four Euros and fifty cents worth of goods. Is it really worth becoming a criminal for that?
I don't know why I am complaining about the pathetic nature of this crime; I'm awfully glad he or she didn't get away with my wallet or iPod. But I hope the theif, wherever he or she is, spends his or her nine free rides packed in like a sardine, and I hope there's some really smelly person next to him or her, and I hope he or she gets banged by the opening doors a few times, and I hope he or she loses the tickets halfway through their trip, and the bus inspector comes along. just then. That would be karma.

How Is Photosynthesis Going For You?

2006-05-10T04:37:00.000-04:00

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to bring you these important news briefings:

First, Emily is beginning to think she has spent too much time in the dorm. I came to this conclusion this morning, when I awoke from a horrible nightmare in which I was taking an English Language Proficiency Test and failing horribly. The test consisted of one word; 'hegemony'. I couldn't for the life of me remember what 'hegemony' meant, and I was sweating and panicking and shuffling through sheets and sheets of papers, none of which gave me any help. I also remember running to the bathroom and splashing water on my face in a desperate attempt to wake myself up, but I just ran out of time. Also, it was the same bathroom that I remember clearly from Xavier High School in Brooklyn, where I took the SATs.

Second, I think we just had an earthquake. I was sitting here in my apartment, like I do, and suddenly there was a great shaking sensation, kind of like the feeling you get when the subway passes underneath the sidewalk you are standing on, but a really BIG subway train. Anyway, I'm fine, everything's fine, but the school bells were ringing like mad and all the kids came out for an earthquake drill, which is kind of like a fire drill in that everyone stands outside for a while.

Third, I must share this unique dorm experience from last night. Some nights in the dorm are calm and unextraordinary. Last night was not one of those nights.

8pm I arrive in the dining hall for the beginning of my shift in the dorm. While eating spaghetti I converse with a diverse group of kids, including an International Baccalaureate student and an inquisitive set of Greek eighth graders. It was a routine dinner chat, in which the IB student told us all about her previous experience in another boarding school. This led to a conversation about boarding schools around the world, and many a Harry Potter reference was made. When one of the eighth graders remarked that he has a classmate who cries when she doesn't get 100% on every test, I laughed and said "Oh, that's so silly!"
"Why?" he wanted to know.
"Because," I explained. "There's more to life than school! Some extremely succesful people have even flunked out of school."
He looked scandalized. "So," he asked, nervously, "Are there people who do really well in school and are not successful in life?"
"Well, sure."
"Who?" This appeared to be earth-shattering news.
"Well," I said, "I don't know. They aren't necessarily famous people."
The poor kid looked a little stunned, and I felt bad for him. It's so easy, when you're in middle school, to think that your eighth grade test scores are going to have such a huge influence on your entire life. It's so easy, when you're in high school, to think that your SAT scores are going to determine everything. If only that were true. I did damn well on the SATs. And what are they good for now? They give me horrible dreams about hegemony.
The other bit of information I gleaned from this conversation was that in Greek, someone who studies too much (a Hermione Granger sort, to continue the Harry Potter train of thought) is called a "plant" because they don't ever move, just sit and study. Apparently, if you want to tease a Greek who is too studious, you say "So, how is photosynthesis going for you?" I think this is perhaps the most hilarious thing I have heard all year.
But anyway, on to the real excitement of the evening.
At 9:30 I was in the dorm office, helping a seventh grader with English homework, when the phone rang. The caller wanted to speak to one of my co-workers, and I went to retrieve him from the dining room, where he was the study hall proctor.
I stood in the dining room for a few minutes while my co-worker went to answer the phone, and I suddenly heard a big CRASH-BANG above me, as if something had crashed through the roof, but was still above the ceiling. The crash-bang was following by a scampering sound, which moved around the ceiling for several moments. I seemed to be the only one who was alarmed by this, however.
Ten minutes later I was continuing with English homework when I heard a loud burst of giggles and gasps from the dining hall. Seventh Grader and I decided to investigate, and observed the other dorm advisor standing a chair banging on the ceiling. "Mouse," he explained.
Five minutes later we heard ANOTHER bang and returned to find a ceiling tile in pieces on the floor and my c0-worker peering into the ceiling. No mouse was retrieved, and the ceiling tile was replaced.
Study hall ended soon after, but there was still something running around up there."Too big to be a mouse," one kid told me. "Must be a cat." "I thought it got electrocuted," another kid remarked. "It walked over the light, and the light flickered."However, it was definitely still alive, as the next fifteen minutes involved a series of middle schoolers running in circles through the dining hall, following the scampering noises from one side of the room to the other. It was well after ten when the intruder was actually spotted through a skylight, and a fifteen year old pointed and shrieked "IT CHICKEN! IT CHICKEN!"
Immediately, the word spread that we had a chicken (κοτοπουλο) in the ceiling. I have not seen many chickens on the premises, and suspected it might be a different sort of bird. However, 'chicken' stuck, and kids started shrieking things about avian flu. I tried to get everyone to vacate the premises and leave some experienced person to get the chicken out of the ceiling, but the entire scene proved too exciting to abandon.

In the end, I don't know what happened to the intruder; I was too busy putting kids to bed to watch the events unfold. I assume it was either removed or found its way out. I'm just thanking myself that it wasn't a repeat of the last time a wayward animal wandered into the dorm; that particular creature is currently sitting in my window, possibly on the lookout for "chickens".

In Which I Acquaint Myself With Pottery, Commerce, and Tasteless Objects of Every Description

2006-05-08T05:36:00.000-04:00

This picture from Athens amuses me greatly. I have no explanation for it, except that tourism crosses all borders and cultural boundaries.
Anyway, I departed from Monemvasia on the 2:15 bus to Athens, which arrived at 2:35. I was the only one on the entire bus, and I settled down for a long ride, as my five days of travel had landed me almost at the tip of of the Peloponnese itself. For those of you unfamilar with Greek geography, I had basically spent five days working my way south, until I was almost as far south as it is possible to get without landing on an island. Athens was five hours north. I had decided to return there for a day before heading back to Thessaloniki; I wanted to a chance to see some of the things I had missed during my previous trip.
I had only been riding the bus for half an hour or so when they announced that I had to get off and get onto an adjacent bus in an unknown town somewhere. I did so. An hour later, they announced that once again, I needed to disembark, and get on bus number three. This brought my total bus tally for my trip up to the lucky number thirteen, where it finally ceased. When I had climbed onto my final bus for the day, I relaxed and congratulated myself on not forgetting or losing anything important throughout my entire Peloponnesian adventure. Half an hour later I realized my Lonely Planet book had disappeared. I cursed myself, realizing it must have been left on northbound bus number two, and I lacked many of the phone numbers and little itty bits of paper that I had written important things on and shoved between the pages. However, it was hardly a complete tragedy. After all, Lonely Planet just came out with a new edition, and rightfully so; my old book kept saying things like "The Athens transportation system is due to change in 2004, rendering all information here invalid." Of course, most things due to change in 2004 (such as the eradication of the Kifisou bus station) have not occurred, as this is Greece. But I did spend some time wondering. Well, the book served me well enough that I shouldn't complain; ancient sites hardly move around much.
Anyway, I arrived in Athens safe and sound, planted myself in the youth hostel in Plaka, and grabbed dinner at the first place I found, as I was exhausted. I must say, I do appreciate the existence of youth hostels when they are available, and I rather miss them in Greece. This nation is significantly cheaper than other parts of Europe that I have travelled through, but staying alone in hotels did raise the prices slightly. In Athens, I shared a room with three English majors from a small college in Iowa (I swear, I am not making this up) and spent very little money on accomodation.
The next morning I was off to the archeological museum, where I saw all of the gold from Mycenae, a fitting way to end my trip. I also saw a whole lot of sculptures, including a rather famous bronze one of Zeus that I remember seeing pictures of in high school art history class, and some beautiful pottery. I must say, I was particularly taken with the pottery. I have seen Greek pottery before, but not in such vast quantities or in such an appropriate context. I particularly like the black and red designs, which seem to come largely from the Athens/Attiki area. The figures are all beautifully painted, and very human; they are depicted doing anything from dancing to doing laundry to getting married.

Here's a vase painted with a picture of Sappho, a fragment of a pot covered with dancing nymphs, and a scene with two lovers that comes from a beautiful plate.
I wanted to purchase some postcards of pictures from the pottery; my camera hadn't quite done justice to some of the images, even when I crouched down closely and tried not to let my hand waver. However, I was quite disappointed to learn that the gift shop did not sell much of that sort of thing. In fact, the gift shop itself was something of an experience. I stumbled into it by mistake, thinking I had entered another gallery, when I realized that I was looking upon an exact replica, albeit slightly smaller, of the aforementioned Bronze Zeus. I wondered why they would keep a copy if the original was right upstairs; but then I noticed the price tag. As it turns out, you can buy your very own life size bronze Zeus for only four thousand Euro.
Four thousand Euro. I haven't made that much money since my arrival in Greece. That's enough Euro coins to fill my bathtub. I could take in the entire cat population of Pylea for that sum, not that I need any more felines in my life. I could not quite fathom why anyone would want their own life-size bronze Zeus. However, I was soon to discover that Athens contains a myriad of purchasing opportunities, many of which are similarly baffling prospects.
My next stop, you see, was the market, a vast area full of twisting and turning streets, where numerous merchants sell anything from antiques to lamb intestines to pistachios. There are some worthwhile things to buy there, of course, and I did purchase a skirt for myself and a hanging lamp for my sister, but I did not find any postcards with desirable pottery images on them. I did find postcards with cats on them and postcards with pornographic pottery images on them. I guess that tells me something about humanity, but it's nothing I didn't know already.
I soon moved on to another market, this one more ancient in nature. The agora, located in the foothills of the acropolis, was closed during my last trip to Athens, but it was open this time. I wandered about and examined the ancient columns still standing, and tried to imagine in some of the vendors that I had seen that morning, advertising their animal innards and dried fruit with vehemence. It's much quieter than the modern market nowadays, but you can see plenty of real Greek cats, rather than looking at them on postcards. Graphic sexual paintings were NOT available, however, so if that's what you're looking for, stick to the souvenir shops.
Speaking of souvenir shops, that's what I spent much of my afternoon doing; perusing souvenir shops in Plaka. This was mostly due to time constraints and exhuastion, which prevented me from straying too far from my hostel before I caught my flight north. I did not actually want to purchase very much at these stores, as I am not endowed with vast resources of disposable cash, and growing up in New York has made me skeptical of souvenir shops. (Come on, that twenty-dollar statuette of King Kong on the Empire State building is not really going to improve your life, is it? It's definitely not going to improve your image in the eyes of New Yorkers.) However, I entertained myself by playing a fun little game entitled "Find the Tackiest Object". In the running for the prize were T-shirts that showed Socrates drinking hemlock (because killing free thinkers is something to be proud of!), ouzo bottles shaped like various mythological figures (because Aphrodite liked anise), ouzo bottles shaped like various naked mythological figures (because Americans like anise better when it is topless), and massive imitation statues of all shapes and sizes (because that is going to look really classy in your living room, especially next to that bronze Zeus.)
Just to give you a taste of the various tasteful objects I could bring home with me, here are some pictures, consisting of two dazzling light fixtures, the previously depicted, mysteriously out-of place-garment, and an ironically appropriate accessory for the smoker in your life.

My parents are not overjoyed about the idea of my cat coming home with me, but I bet they would be even less enthusiastic if the cat came along with an electric topless nymph.
I did make one purchase in Athens; olive oil. I bought some very nice Cretan olive oil, which I placed in my bag and promptly forgot about. An hour later, I headed to the airport, where I boarded an extraordinarily cheap Aegean Air flight to Thessaloniki, and forgetfuly checked the bag with the olive oil in the bottom. I arrived at the baggage claim to find that my bag and many of the contents were irreparably saturated, or perhaps marinated would be a better way of saying it. Glass bottles don't do well in luggage compartments. Remind me of that next time. I'm still scrubbing the olive oil out of my bag and even off the floor of my apartment, where the bag first landed on my arrival home.

Up Next: Easter, The Inner Organs of Beast and Fowl, Baklava Ice Cream, and The City That Never Sleeps, not even at three o'clock in the afternoon.

In Which I Have Several Bus-Related Mishaps, See Several Byzantine Cities, and A Lot of German Tourists

2006-05-04T06:09:00.000-04:00

Where was I? Where am I? I've been in so many places lately that the past two weeks feel more like four. I'll get to it all eventually, I suppose, but for now I'll start where I left off; as I departed from Nafplio on Sunday afternoon two and a half weeks ago.
I was headed to Sparti, formerly known as Sparta, the ancient rival of Athens. Unfortunately, there are no direct Nafplio-Sparti buses, so I found myself transferring in the town of Tripoli. Just to make things confusing, Tripoli has two bus stations. There's the new, fancy local bus station, where buses from all over the prefecture of Argolis arrive and depart, and the tiny, hidden, secret bus station, where buses from all over Greece arrive and depart, mostly on their way from Athens to Sparti. I arrived at the first and found the second with the help of a very nice local man, who kept giving me directions in Greek, watching me walk off in the wrong direction, and giving me more directions in Greek. You may attribute this misunderstanding to the fact that I was receiving instructions in a foreign language, but I know better. I simply have no sense of direction. I am one of those people that has to take several moments to think about right and left every single time they come up in conversation.
Anyway, I successfully changed buses in Tripoli, somehow, though the bus to Sparti was so packed with people that I ended up standing for a while, then squished next to a guy who was sitting on another guy's lap. It was definitely a very safe way to travel.
I arrived in Sparti, found a hotel, and headed out to find some dinner. It was already after 10pm, and I was tired, so I stumbled into the first place I could find, a souvlaki place on the main street. There were no tables available inside, so I asked the waiter, in stumbling Greek, if I could sit outside.
"Of course you can!" he replied, in perfect English. "I mean, it's too cold to sit outside, but if you want to sit outside, you're more than welcome." He then proceeded to accompany me to the table, explain the menu, give me the history and economic background of Sparti and his own life story, and ask me what I wanted to eat. "You don't have to have anything of course, " he explained. "You can just sit here if you want, we don't care. But if you want to order something, let me know."
Turns out he's Canadian-Greek, born in Canada and moved back here when he was twelve. That explained both the perfect English and the hint of a northern accent that reminded me of some of my Minnesotan friends at Grinnell. It was a bit of cognitive dissonance, hearing a Greek speak with a Canadian accent. It probably shouldn't be, though. Sparti seemed to be filled with former ex-pats; the next day I had coffee at a place owned by a former Greek New Yorker.
I collpased into bed soon afterwards, and awoke fairly early the next day. I caught the 10am bus to Mystras, 6 km out of town.
You've probably never heard of Mystras, because it's not nearly as famous as some of the more ancient ruins of Greece. However, it is spectacular. It's not just a palace but an entire Byzantine city, built right into a hillside overlooking Sparti. Actually, it's more of a mountain than a hillside, as I found out when I started climbing. Lonely Planet, (which I trust implicitly ever since I read their New York book and discovered they recommended most of my favorite restuarants,) says you should start at the top of the city and work your way down. Unfortunately, this is not an option for us carless budget travellers, and not only did I end up starting at the bottom, I actually had to hike up fifteen minutes worth of hill before I even reached the entrance.
Before I embarked on this trip, I believe I spent a few days thinking about how nice it would be to relax for a while; I'd been running around the track at school for a number of consecutive days, and my legs were starting to get a bit sore. Little did I realize that all of the interesting sites would be way the hell up on cliffs.
Enough about my pathetic calf muscles. The fact of the matter is, Mystras was worth every sore limb. If only every jog I took were rewarded with such spectacular sights. Mystras was built like most cities of its kind, in different levels. At the top is the kastro, or the castle, the most heavily protected structure in the whole city. Here's the view from the top, which was pretty spectacular, especially since I could look down and think "Oh my god, I CLIMBED THAT." Below the kastro were several other levels, filled with monastaries and various homes. Basically, it was a hierarchy of the most literal sort; the higher up you were, the richer you were, and the better protected you were.
Here are some pictures of Mystras. I might as well tell you that they don't do it justice.

The monasteries of Mystras were plentiful and the frescoes are still visible on many of the chapel walls. Here's an abandoned church; you can just make out some figures on the walls, now crumbling.
The amazing thing about Mystras was that it wasn't just one castle or one ancient building, it was a whole maze of ruins of homes, chapels, buildings, and who even knows what else? You could poke around in there for hours and not even know what you were looking at. I got so involved in poking around in various places that I stumbled across a living man, possibly some sort of restoration worker, sipping his iced coffee frappe in one of the tiny turrets off of a chapel. Surprised, I stumbled back and mumbled, "Signomi!" (Excuse me!) He shurgged, laughed and said "My office! You see, I have coffee, nice view, everything I need."
I also managed to stumble across a large number of Germans, most of whom I mistook for Americans before I overheard them speaking. It seems that one does not have to be American to wear clothes with names of American places on them. I knew that already, of course. Here in Thessaloniki I know a girl that frequently wears a sweatshirt with the words "Bedford-Stuyvesant; Harlem" emblazoned across the front. I have to restrain myself from cracking up every time I see it. (For those of you not from New York, Bedford-Stuy and Harlem are almost as far away from one another as it is possible for two Manhattan neighborhoods to be.)
After I started my descent from Mystras I also stumbled across an actual working monastery, which appeared to have a number of actual nuns inside, as well as some cats. I was impressed.
After Mystras I took the bus back to Sparta and collapsed. It was a figurative sort of collapse, as it allow for ice cream consumption and blog updating, but it did not allow for much more sightseeing. I was exhausted.
It was nearing 8pm when I headed down to the bus station and purchased my ticket to Monemvasia. I had heard about Monemvasia from an eighth grader, and thought it sounded pretty interesting, though I couldn't quite picture it; some sort of big rock in the water? I didn't really get what it was, exactly. But I hopped on the bus to find out, and the ticket seller informed me that it was the "most beautiful city in the whole world," so I thought it sounded pretty good.
We arrived in a town called Gefyra at 10:30pm, in the dark, and I was dead tired. My book said that Gefyra was actually connected to Monemvasia in some way that I didn't fully understand, so I got off the bus and walked a bit. It smelled like the ocean. It looked cute in a touristy sort of way. I was reminded of Bar Harbor Maine, which smells very similar in a sort of salty nautical way.
I walked down the main street of this little town, glancing about in search of a hotel, when I noticed something just barely visible in the darkness; a giant rock.
Here's what it looked like the following morning. At night it was a bit spookier and even more mysterious in appearance. And it's huge. I stood there and stared at this strange formation for a while, noting that there were several lights glowing right by the other end of the bridge. It was rather fascinating.
The town of Monemvasia, you see, used to be part of the mainland, until an earthquake separated it. To get there nowadays, you walk across the bride pictured, and around the massive rock until you reach a little tunnel. You walk through the tunnel and suddenly you find yourself in a different century. Well, almost. A different century with a few souvenir shops and hotels added in. But a charming different century nonetheless.

They even carry supplies by mule here; I followed several of them around the bend. You can see one in the picture on the right, heading towards the town wall on his way out.
Monemvasia is a fascinating mix of things; you can walk amongst the Byzantine ruins of an ancient church, then walk five feet down the street and have coffee at a very modern little cafe. Unlike Mystras, Monemvasia is a living town, not a ghost world, a fact that makes it both charming and less mysterious. It's a bit harder to sense to centuries of time that it has endured, but you get a feel for what it would be like to live in a medieval city. After all, the Byzantines didn't sit around and wax poetic when their walls crumbled, they rebuilt them. In the museum, they even show you how the Byzantines reused bits of decorative marble. So perhaps rebuilding the place is not a modern corruption, but just the natural way of things. God knows, if nobody ever built over ancient stuff, all of Greece would have to close down and become a giant branch of a museum.
Farther up the rock, though, things are less commercial and more ghostly. I had not bargained for another hike, but once I realized that there were sights to see at the top, I wasn't going to pass up the chance to see them. Yet again, I climbed my way to the top of an ancient city, where I was rewarded with the church of St. Sophia and a number of other crumbling relics, plus a gorgeous view.

I spent all morning wandering through the various incarnations of Monemvasia, examining the artifacts in the museum, examining the postcards in the shops, and examining the ruins among the homes and inns.
It was past noon when I headed back over the water to Gefyra, and forward several centuries. There I found Greece in its more modern incarnation. The following picture was taken there. It's for Joe, who assures me that he is going to read this at some point. (Yup, these are real. I wasn't sure, at first.)
At 2:15 I caught the bus back north, heading for another, more familiar ancient city. But that story I will leave for another day.

In Which I Depart From Thessaloniki and Enter the Ancient World, With A Few Detours for Pizza and Stuff

2006-04-22T01:53:00.000-04:00

All right. Here, in several installments, you will be able to read the fascinating chronicle of my six days wandering through the Peloponnesus. Chapter One begins on a bright sunny Friday in Thessaloniki, where I woke up, taught a seventh grade class, taught an eighth grade class, collected my paycheck, stuffed various items in my bags, and headed for the bus station to catch the bus to Athens.
I don't know why, maybe it was nerves brought on by my first full trip alone, but I was convinced that I was not going to catch the bus, or that the bus would be full, or that some other incident would occur to prevent me from setting sail (er, setting wheel?). However, I purchased my ticket, climbed aboard the bus, and well, sat there for six hours. The trip to Athens takes a while. And even when I arrived in Athens I still had two and a half hours to Nafplio ahead of me. So the first day of my travels was not terribly exciting, I suppose. But I saw some pretty terrain on the bus ride, which was nice. I also realized that my geographical knowledge is nil. I kept seeing mountains and thinking "Oh, look! Olympus!" This persisted until we were approaching the greater metropolitan area of Athens. For those of you unfamiliar with Greek geography, this is roughly akin to saying "Oh, look! Mt. Monadnock!" when you are standing in the middle of Manhattan.
Anyway, I arrived in Nafplio at about 11:30pm. Nafplio is a lovely little seaside town in close proximity to Mycenae and Epidavrus, two ancient sites of considerable fame. Nafplio is also known for being a lovely weekend resort, and as this was the weekend, I was a bit nervous about finding accomodation. Unfortunately, many of the smaller hotels were closed for the night by the time I arrived; there was nobody at the reception desk to give me a room. I ended up at a place near the bus station that was very clean, very cheap, very friendly, and had absolutely atmosphere whatsover. That was unfortunate, in a way; Nafplio is known for being a perfect romantic getaway, and some romance would have been nice. But I settled for CNN, which was also a definite novelty in my otherwise television-free life.
The next morning I strolled through acronafplia, an old castle on a hill right in the middle of town, and then caught the bus to ancient Mycenae. Here's the view from acronafplia.
Mycenae was the center of the Mycenean kingdom, where Agamemnon supposedly ruled, at least until he went to war at Troy and sacrificed his daughter, came home with a lover, and was killed by his wife Klytemnestra and her lover who were consequently both murdered by Electra and Orestes, the children of the troubled marriage, who were victorious until Orestes went insane from all the bloodshed and had to go find some gods to redeem him. Turns out they were all cursed because their ancestor killed someone named Pelops and then served him to the gods at a banquet. I know this because back in high school I was in a play entitled 'The Libation Bearers', which tells the story of Electra and Orestes. The story is also in the Odyssey, I believe.
Ultimately, I am sure we don't know how much of the story is truth and how much is myth, but I do think that rather adds to the appeal of the whole thing.
You enter ancient Mycenae through the famous Lion Gate, which I am pretty sure I saw pictures of in various English and History classes throughout middle school, high school and college. However, nobody but me seems to remember having seen these pictures, which suggests one of two things: 1) I went to schools with particularly good visual classroom aids, or, perhaps, 2) I was the only one paying attention in the aforementioned classrooms. Either one seems a distinct possibility. Here's the Lion Gate, anyway, and you can take a look for yourself. and see if your memory is jogged.
The Lions, actually, may not be lions after all; that's what Howard, my fellow American tourist, told me. Indeed, if you look closely you see that they really do not have heads, so all we can say for sure is that they are large mammals. Large Mammal Gate; it sounds like something that might exist at the Bronx Zoo. Of course, if they are sphinxes, I'm not sure if they are mammals or what. Are sphinxes mammals? I guess they are hybrids of other mammals, so in a sense, yes, they are.
Here are some pictures of the Mycenean ruins that lie beyond the gate. There's an entire palace to be seen, including everything from tombs to an underground water cistern to things that nobody can really identify. The site was excavated by Heinrich Schliemann some years ago; does the name sound familiar? We discussed him in school, but maybe that was also when I was the only one paying attention. Schliemann is the one who found the famous death mask of Agamemnon, which you have seen pictures of, I'll bet. Of course, it seems that the mask is only known as the death mask of Agamemnon because Schliemann decreed it to be so; nobody knows for sure if it was Agamemnon or just some bloke. (I love the word 'bloke', don't you? It's much more fun than 'guy')

I usually try to remain somewhat discreet about my picture-taking, as I don't like to be an obvious obnoxious tourist. But at Mycenae, the only people present are tourists and dead people, and as I'd prefer to belong to the former group, I didn't feel too self conscious about taking constant snapshots. Here's one of the tombs. I believe this is the tomb of Aegisthus, who was the lover of Klytemnestra, whose name may or may not be spelled in that particular way. These tombs are built with a sort of beehive shaped roof inside. They are totally different than the northern Macedonian tombs that you can see at Vergina. Also, I'm exaggerating about the dead people. There are no dead people inside, although presumably there used to be some. Mycenae has a variety of tombs for various members of the royal family, because that's what happens when you keep murdering people; you have to built more tombs.
I did take a picture of the place where Agamemnon's death mask was found, but for some reason blogger refuses to let me put it up here. Maybe it's afraid of being cursed. That's OK. If you are interested, I am sure that you can find pictures online. That's the thing about ancient ruins; although the temptation to photograph them is overwhelming, you also know that you are taking the same pictures that millions of people have been taking for the past hundred-some years.
After Mycenae, I went back to Nafplio and swapped travel stories with Howard from California, who recommended that I climb up to Palamidi fortress, an old Venetian structure way the hell up on the top of a cliff overlooking Nafplio. I took his advice and headed up there. It was something of a climb. I later read that there are supposedly 999 steps up there, although that may be a myth. I sure didn't count.
The Venetians, as you may or may not know, occupied portions of southern Greece for a while, way back before the Ottomans took over. I don't know much about the Venetian occupation except that it created some awfully nice architecture, and Palamidi fortress was no exception. It's got all sorts of mysterious nooks and crannies, crumbling walls, hidden bastions that seem to go on forever across the hillside, towers and lookout posts. It's also got a great view, which is a nice reward for a sweaty tourist, and was a nice advantage for the Venetians if someone was attacking. Of course, I think one would have to be in awfully good shape to attack Palamidi. I go running a whole lot, but by the time I got up there I was still pretty sweaty and tired, and my calves were absolutely furious at me the following day. It was at Palamidi that I began taking pictures of myself; I had climbed all the way up there, and the view was gorgeous, and I would be damned if I was going to let that photo opportunity by. After all, I wouldn't want anyone to think that I'm still hiding out in that basement apartment in Iowa, stealing pictures from google image searches and making random stuff up. Unfortunately, you are still going to have to take my word for it, because blogger also refuses to put this picture up. Blogger is in a rotten mood today. But trust me; the photo exists. I made it up there, I have a sweaty bedraggled look to prove it and everything.

After Palamidi, I opened my Lonely Planet to the Nafplio map to locate a shop described as having the best gelato outside of Italy. I am a sucker for good gelato, especially on a hot afternoon after climbing a fortress. On the way I ran across a large assortment of souvenir shops and tour groups wandering through the old town area. All of this tourism was a big change; Thessaloniki really doesn't attract tourists much, and it was something of a shock to be surrounded by Americans and to be greeted with "Hello!" instead of "Γεια σασ!" "How can they tell I'm American?" I wondered indignantly. Was it my clothes? My manner? My wide-eyed expression? (I've seen that expression on a lot of people in Manhattan; you always know a tourist in Times Square because they are looking up and walking slow.) Maybe it was the Lonely Planet guide tucked under my arm. That's a pretty big tip-off.
On my way to the gelato shop I stumbled across something known as the komboloi museum. Komboloi are called worry beads in English; they are often made of amber, and strung together on a piece of string. Men seem to carry them more than women, particularly older men. If you look closely, you'll see that many people have them tucked away in one hand, and you'll often hear them clicking and clacking back and forth in public places.
Well, the worry bead museum was tiny, but educational; it had a display of komboloi ranging back hundreds of years, and explained that the Greek komboloi developed from Muslim and Buddhist religious beads. In fact, this is also where the Catholic rosary came from, apparently, and there were several of those on display as well. However, Greek worry beads are unique because they are not a religious tradition, more of a nervous habit than a prayer aid.
Well, they may not be religious, but that doesn't mean that there are not worry bead fanatics and worry bead fundamentalists. My museum ticket came with a little booklet written by the museum founder, a passionate worry bead lover who insists that real komboloi must be made with certain materials; bone, amber, coral, wood, or other things that were once alive. He insists that metal worry beads are a terrible corruption of the komboloi tradition, and urges true worry bead users to join the "Order of the Komboloi", to take on the "sacred duty" of a "preacher", to fight agaist the "barbarous manufacturers", and "pimps" who have "tarted up" the komboloi. I find all of this a little bit mystifying, and the "Order of the Komboloi" sounds to me like a group of Greek wizards casting spells against Lord Voldemort. But we all need our passions in life, I suppose, and most of mine are hardly sensible either, come to think of it.
The end of the story is, I got my gelato and learned a bit about komboloi tradition before meeting Howard for dinner in the old town. (Howard if, you are reading this, email me! I lost your email address, but I would love to know how you are doing and how your trip turned out.) We alo caught a glimpse of the lovely Nafplio sky at nightfall.
The next day I was up early again, and off to see the ancient site of Epidaurus (pronounced Epidavrus), where there is a magnificent ancient theatre with excellent acoustics. I mean, these people made modern day sound systems practically obsolete. You could hear people on the stage loud and clear, even up in the very top row. In this picture, taken from the top, you can see a group clustered together on the stage, way down there. They were singing "Dona Nobis Pacem", and it was lovely. And I could hear them! There were a fair number of performers giving those acoustics a try; I was tempted, myself, even though my high school drama days are past. However, singing is not my forte and I had no impressive monologue to impart. And when you voice is going to reach several hundred tourists in a setting like that, well, you want to be impressive.
The theatre is the most exciting part of Epidaurus, but they also have a nice little museum, and an ancient sanctuary where people came to be healed and worship the God Asklepios. The sanctuary included this stadium, which I thought was definitely photo-worthy.
I somehow missed the bus back to Nafplio, although I personally suspect that it did not arrive at all, as I was there ten minutes early, and did not see any bus leave the premises, and neither did several other people who were waiting. Fortunately, I met a study abroad student and her family who were in the same predicament, and they were nice enough to let me tag along on their cab ride back to Nafplio, where I spent several more hours eating gelato and browsing through souvenirs before catching the bus to Tripoli en route to Sparta. And that is where I will leave you for the time being. Up Next; Byzantine ruins.

All By Myself

2006-04-20T01:15:00.000-04:00

So, I'm back. And my trip to the Peloponnese was absolutely mind blowing. I mean, it was really just great. As soon as I get my pictures together and have some time, I will describe it to you at length. As it turns out, travelling alone is a lot more fun than I expected, though there are, of course, ups and downs:

The Bliss of Solitude

- Let's say you are in Athens at 1pm on a Saturday, in a group of twelve people. Eight of those twelve people will be hungry. Of those eight, two will want gyros, one will want pizza, one wants a big sit-down meal at an expensive taverna, one wants organic vegan soy products that were produced under fair trade laws, one refuses upon pain of death to eat anything that is not steak, white bread or from McDonald's, and one doesn't know what he wants, but is passionately committed to rejecting every other proposal put forth. Of the four that are not hungry, two want to go to the archeology museum, one wants to take fifty identical consecutive photos of the acropolis from various angles, and one wants to comparison shop for Zeus-shaped bottles of ouzo and classy T-shirts with pictures of topless sunbathers on them. When and if you finally decide on a plan of action, it will take several hours to walk each block, because two people have to pee, one has to purchase batteries, one has to call her boyfriend, and two have to take pictures of each other pretending to sprint in to the Panathenian stadium.
When you travel alone, you don't have to put up with any of that shit.

-Travelling with someone for two or three days is usually fun. However, when you travel with someone for more than 48 hours, there is always a risk involved. There is nothing that will make you hate a person more than travelling with them and discovering halfway through the trip that you have very different ideas about what constitutes a good trip. Sometimes you think someone is really cool and then she will go and throw a fit when it costs five Euros to see invaluable pieces of immortal artwork, or will routinely walk into shops and restaurants and screech "DOES ANYONE SPEAK ENGLISH AROUND HERE?"*, as though talking loud will somehow transcend the language barrier.

*I have thankfully never traveled with anyone who does this. But a study-abroad friend of mine told me that her mother came to Thessaloniki for a visit and did it for about a week.

-There are always people to meet. In Nafplio, I met Howard from California, and had a great time eating pizza and chatting about travel, school and stuff. (Hi Howard!) I shared a cab from Epidaurus with study abroad student from Minneapolis and her family, and we swapped hotel advice and travel stories. In Sparti, I ordered souvlaki in broken Greek and was answered in perfect Canadian English by a Greek-Canadian who gave me his life history, a description of the current Spartan economy, and his business plans for the future. At the bus station I purchased a ticket to Monemvasia from a guy who told me that "Americans are good people, but bad government," and then sifted through all of the change in his register to give me a commemerative Olympic two-Euro coin "for your collection." On the bus in Athens I met an older man who told me all about travelling through the states and living in Puetro Rico, and warned me about five times that "Boys act nice, but they have other things in mind, so be careful!" Finally, in the youth hostel in Athens, I ended up sharing a room with three English majors from a small liberal arts college in Iowa. No kidding.

-There is something phenomenal about standing alone amidst the ruins of an ancient Byzantine city or an ancient palace. With someone else there, you have someone to share the wonder, but you always have a reminder of the present day right next to you. Alone, you can really try to move back seven hundred years, or three thousand, and imagine that you are about to watch an ancient comedy, or that you are looking for invaders over the hill, or that there are monks inside those brick walls, chanting hymns and going about their daily lives. And then, of course, a German school group will show up and shatter the reverie. But it's nice for a moment, anyway.

I Need Someone, Someone To Talk To....

-When you have half an hour to wait for a bus in the middle of nowhere, or five hours to get from place to place on said bus, or even ten minutes to kill before the metro shows up, it's nice to have someone to talk to. Being from New York, I have some impatience embedded in my nature, and I need something to do while I am waiting. It's nice having someone to talk to. It's even nicer over meals. And if I'm going to sleep on the bus, it's good if the person next to me is pleasant, and unsketchy, and doesn't mind if my head lands on their shoulder. It's even cool if the person is my sister and we can spend some time having a productive discussion about why my head is NOT allowed on her shoulder.

-When you hike all the way up to the top of the castle at Mystras, or Palamidi fortress at Nafplio, or the big rock at Monemvasia, it's good to have someone else to take your picture. It's really good if it's someone you know, just to be sure that they will not run off with your camera. (Although who can really run off with a camera at the top of a fortress?) I had to take pictures of myself for six days, and they were, well, as flattering as self-taken pictures usually are, which is to say, not very. But I saved them, just as proof, in case anyone accuses me of being a travel fraud.

-It's also nice to have someone to pay part the hotel bill. And part of the the restaurant bill. And to order some weird food that you don't want to order yourself, but you are curious about. In Nafplio, Howard ordered rabbit. I have adjusted to eating fish with heads, but haven't quite gotten comfortable with rabbit consumption. However, I did get to see what it looks like, which was educational. And according to Howard, it tastes like chicken.

-You know when you are sitting in the station surrounded by three large bags, ten minutes before your bus leaves for a five hour trip, and you want to go pee, but you want someone to watch your bags for you so you don't have to haul them into the bathroom stall with you? Well, when you are alone, there is nobody to do that. And it sucks.

The Wheels on The Bus

2006-04-17T09:07:00.000-04:00

Well, here I am in the Peloponnese, which is quite amazing. More on the amazingness later.
First, an introduction to the Greek Bus. This trip involves a lot of buses. There are some strange things about Greek buses:
1-They leave on time. Exactly on time. And this is GREECE. Plus, they are nice and comfy.
2-If you want to get off somewhere along the route, you can, even if it is not an official stop. This is cool if you really need to get to some random location along the highway, but annoying if you just want to take a 15 minute ride from Sparti to Mystras and it ends up taking 45 minutes because every little old lady in the Peloponnese is returning from grocery shopping and wants to be dropped off her front door.
3-If you take the bus to Tripoli from Nafplio, you will end up at the Arkadia KTEL. If you want to get from Tripoli to Sparti, you must walk a ways into town, ask a random man where to find the bus to Sparti, and follow the random man down a random road until you find a certain coffee shop filled with old men smoking cigarettes. You will notice the little paper sign in the window that says "Bus Station." You go in, walk over to a little empty counter, and ask for a ticket. Then the man behind the counter will call "Dimitri!" and Dimitri will come and sell you a ticket and you will sit on the curb next to the French couple in American baseball hats who have been following you since Epidaurus and wait for the bus, which will be 30 minutes late and so full that you have to stand up until one random guy offers to sit on his friend's lap to give you a seat.
4-When the bus drops you off in Mystras, it will drop you off in the town of Mystras, which is 15 minutes down the hill from the ancient city. Instead of starting at the top of the ancient city, which is built into a mountain, you will go from the waaaay bottom to the waaaay top and back again. And then the bus back to Sparti will pick you up in the village and head right back to the top of the ancient city to drop off lucky tourists who will not consequently develop shooting pain in their calves. But Mystras was worth it, let me tell you.

20-some Questions

2006-04-12T09:51:00.000-04:00

Well, in a mere forty-eight hours I will be on my way to the Peloponnese for five days. The Peloponnese is a region of southern Greece with a lot of lovely things to see, according to my guidebook. At least, I will theoretically be on my way to the Peloponnese. Here are the questions that are currently keeping me in suspense:

-Will my camera be ready for the trip? The man at the repair shop says it has a "broken circuit." I am devastated. I love that camera, and what would a trip be without endless blurry shots of unnecessary objects?

-Will I figure out how to spell "Peloponnese" correctly? Is it Peloponnese, Pelopponnese, Peloponesus, Pelopponesus, or Peloponnesus? And will I travel to Nafplio, Naufplio, Nauplio, Nauplion, Nafplion, or Naufplion? Isn't that mess even worse than a last name with no vowels?

-Will all of the transportation be too crowded with Easter travellers? Will it be worse than O'Hare on the snowy Wednesday before Thanksgiving? (Because I have been there, and I would rather eat fish heads than to do that again.) Will there be room for me? I think I made a bus reservation, but when I started spelling my last name the man at KTEL cut me off after three letters with "Yes, yes, be there half an hour ahead of time at Monastiriou." I think the aforemention vowelless name scared him.

-How exactly will this transportation work in Athens? Everything I read about buses and train stations in Athens seems to suggest that certain changes should have been made between 2004 and 2006. But this is Greece. I am not foolish enough to believe that just because the changes were SUPPOSED to take place, they DID take place. So will I have to change bus stations? If I do change bus stations, will the cabdriver cheat me? Because I hear suspicious things about those Athenian cabdrivers.

-Will I find a place to stay that is affordable? Will it be nice? Will it be like something out of a John Irving novel, with bears and prostitutes? Did the inclusion of the word 'prostitute' in that sentence just ensure that my blog will get lots of hits from people looking for porn?

-Will I get hot, cold, wet, confused or lost, and should I bring things to prevent these situations? Is there any point in asking if I will get lost, since I ALWAYS get lost? Will I get lonely, out there in southern Greece by myself?

And, most importantly;

-What book should I bring for the bus?

My Plumber-In -Residence

2006-04-01T10:22:00.000-05:00

This is not an April Fool's Joke. But it should be.

See, I'm working in the dorm this weekend, which means that I actually worked a 9 to 5 day today. This is very unusual for me; I usually work more along the lines of, say, 7-8am, 5-6:30pm, and 8:00-11:30 at night, doing different things each time. However, at 5pm today I repaired to my apartment, exhausted after eight full hours of, well, reading a book, drawing turtles with eighth graders, drinking tea in the dorm office and other stressful activities.
I stepped into the shower at about 5:30. Now, you should know that my cat has a totally strange and inexplicable fascination with plumbing. I don't know what this is all about, but she comes running every time she hears me turn the faucet on, and usually proceeds to stare at me, the water, or the drain in the floor for a good ten minutes afterwards. She also has a peculiar habit of yowling like a maniac every time I turn off the shower, and I usually end up spending a few minutes combing my hair in my bathrobe, and being followed from room to room by a caterwauling beast.
Well, today was no different. The moment I turned on the shower she came running. However, after several minutes of watching my wash my hair she proceeded to go over to the sink, which was unfortunately filled with several inches of icky dirty toothpaste water. See, I did something unfortunate to the drain about three days ago, and I just can't seem to get the little knob that is supposed to open it to function. For three days I have been prying up the drain at the bottom of the sink every time I need to rinse some water down the drain. I have been meaning to call someone to get them to come fix this, but I keep having more important things to do, like napping.
Well, as I stood there squirting conditioner into my hair, Calypso walked up to the back of the sink and let out a monumentally indignant sounding yowl. I turned to her, and, like an idiot, said "what's the matter kitty?" Then she batted at something I couldn't see, and like magic, all of the water in the sink drained away. No, seriously. The cat fixed my sink.
I went to examine after my shower, of course, and saw that, indeed, there is some sort of stick or lever back there that opens the drain. Perhaps I am the only person in the universe that did not know this about sinks and drains. Perhaps even cats know these things, and I am just dumb.

But I swear it happened. I swear it. If I am lying, may Zeus strike me down with a lightning bolt, and may the fish of the Aegean stop biting.

On another note, the camera that the cat broke is still not fixed, as I have not found a repair shop. And just yesterday she jumped on me while I was about to spoon coffee into French Press #2, causing me to drop the whole thing, spread glass all over the floor, and cut my foot. So if she applies for some sort of fix it job, I am not hiring her. But she does get a treat or two.

In Zeus, Cervantes and Da Vinci We Trust.

2006-03-22T04:16:00.000-05:00

Sometime a few years ago, it suddenly became really trendy to have multiple editions of each coin. For example, the US adopted these new state quarters, which are just like the old ones, except each one has the symbols of a particular state on the back. New York, for example, is represented by the Statue of Liberty, while Iowa is represented by a one-room schoolhouse in a cornfield. Connecticut has a tree for some reason that I never really understood, but I guess it is appropriate, as there do seem to be trees in Connecticut. New Hampshire's coin, on the other hand, has a picture of something that it does not posses anymore; the old man in the mountain, a rock formation that fell down a few years ago. I've been away so long that I can't accurately recall the pictures on the other coins, but I can conjure up memories of a banjo, a horse, the outline of New Jersey, and a minuteman with a rifle. New quarters are being issued every ten weeks or so, in the same order that the states entered the union, and lots of people are hoarding little piles of quarters in hopes of collecting all fifty. Just like McDonald's gets kids to get their parents to buy happy meals in order to collect all five plastic Disney toys, the American government gets grown-ups to collect quarters.
And, here in the E.U., a similar phenomenon is taking place with the Euro. While all Euro coins look the same on the front, the backs all have special designs corresponding to the country that they came from. (You can use any Euro coin in any Euro-using country, of course, and in some other places too, like Turkey.)
Here in Greece, the little 1, 2 and 5 cent coins have pictures of boats, while the 10, 20 and 50 cent coins have pictures of important figures in Greek history, one of whom is Eleftherides Venizelos. The one-Euro coin has the Athenian owl, which apparently used to be on the drachma, and the 2-Euro coin has a picture that the Euro website refers to as "the young princess Europa being abducted by Zeus in the shape of a bull." A similar design appears on an ancient coin that can be viewed at the Thessaloniki archeological museum. As a matter of fact, it was a trip to the archeological museum that got me thinking about the picture in the first place.
"Europa abducted by the bull?" I thought to myself. "Wait a minute...wasn't that one of those young women that Zeus raped?" Suddenly my politically-correct brow furrowed and an angry, indignant cry escaped my lips. "You mean to tell me there's a rape scene on my money?" Perhaps I should stop criticizing people who are shocked by Brokeback Mountain and start thinking about the the coins I used to purchase my ticket to said film. I tried to placate myself by reminding myself that Greece actually has money with a picture of woman on it, something that has not yet been seen in the US, unless you count the statue of liberty on the New York state quarter. (Oh yeah, and there are those Sacajawea/Susan B. Anthony dollars too, huh? But apart from the Metro card machines in the NYC subway, nobody seems to actually use those) Ultimately, I still can't quite consider this any great step forward for feminism.
Speaking of women on money, I must make a brief mention of the British two-pound coin, which shows Queen Elizabeth on one side, and a strange, trippy design on the other side that I was never actually able to make sense of. I eventually decided that this mysterious picture was meant to symbolize the tricky nature of the two pound coin itself, which looks small and trivial to American eyes, but is actually worth enough to buy about five ice-cream sundaes in Grinnell, Iowa. (At least, that's how much it was worth when I studied abroad. The changing exchange rate has probably made it worth enough to buy the entire Dari Barn.)
Back to the Euro, I have spent some time perusing the official Euro website (http://http://europa.eu.int/comm/economy_finance/euro/notes_and_coins/coins_images_el_en.htm,) which has pictures of all the coins as well as descriptions of the images that adorn them, and I have come to following conclusions:
-Despite my fuss over the rape scene, I really do like the one-Euro Greek owl coin.
-I like the Spain coins, which have pictures of Cervantes and quills to symbolize the importance of literature. Of course, as everyone keeps reminding me that the financial prospects of an English degree are not great, I am somewhat mystified by the connections between literature and money. (All right, there is a connection if you happen to be, say, J.K. Rowling, but I do not happen to be her.)
-Italy has lovely coins, with pictures of different works of art by Botticelli, Da Vinci, and Michelangelo and a portrait of Dante. I think this is awesome. In fact, come to think of it, the British also have Dickens on their money, don't they? Well, screw it, I don't care if there's no connection between literature and money. I want Walt Whitman and Emily Dickenson on my money. I want coins with Mark Twain and Woody Guthrie on them. I'm sick of looking at grumpy George Washington.
-Finland has a picture of swans flying over the Finnish landscape, and the Austrians have flowers. I like this too. The States should have some more pictures of nature on their coins too. I guess some of the state quarters have natural things on them, but I'm not talking about state quarters. I want a big picture of a moose or a mountain to cover up, say, Alexander Hamilton. This would be a welcome change from having a bunch of politicians cover up Mount Rushmore, which was probably perfectly attractive without unnecessary presidents hacked into it. Or, (in the vein of People and Things Shot By Politicians,) maybe we could have a coin with a picture of Teddy Roosevelt refusing to shoot the chained up bear. I think that would be a very nice image. Does anyone else find it ironic that while Roosevelt refused to shoot the locked-up bear, Dick Cheney purposefully went to shoot the chained-up-quail and shot his hunting partner? Does anyone else feel that this is somehow symbolic?
-Ireland has a Celtic harp on their money. I think it is very pretty.
-Vatican City apparently used to have pictures of John Paul II on their money, but soon they are going to have the new guy, whose name I still do not remember. I do find it somewhat strange to find religious leaders on money, but the Vatican is a religous state. Of course, this religious state does not have 'In God We Trust' on their money. The United States, a secular nation founded by people seeking religious freedom, does. On the other hand, the 'God' in the aforementioned phrase is presumably not in the process of carrying a young woman away in order to molest her.

Now that I have used this discussion of money to thoroughly bash the United States from every possible angle, I am going to go take a shower, eat Greek salad for lunch, and daydream about used bookstores, Central Park and barbecue. I really don't hate America. It just frustrates me sometimes.

Sorry, Can't Help You

2006-03-21T01:25:00.000-05:00

It's always interesting to see which google searches cause my blog to pop up. A lot of people get here just by typing 'Greece' into blogsearch, and some get here with queries regarding the name 'Emily' in Greek. I also get a fair number of people looking for "we are happy to serve you" mugs, Emily the Strange brand clothing, and, of course, cat passports. However, these two recent hits have got to be the best ones I have seen in a while:

"Harry Potter themed alcoholic drinks"

and

"Why Greeks think you can catch a cold from going out with wet hair"

Fantastic. Unfortunately, I have no information for either person.

A Socially Relevant Interlude Between Sandwiches

2006-03-15T01:35:00.000-05:00

International Women's Day was last week sometime, and apparently there was a movement to blog about women's issues issues for a day. Well, between American holidays and the various Greek festivals, I have enough to keep track of, and didn't really notice International Women's Day until it was kind of late. However, I do feel a little bad about the fact that, given a good opportunity to discuss issues of social relevance, I chose to write about sandwiches.
(All right, I don't feel that bad after all. I really like sandwiches. However, I've now exhausted that topic, so here it comes; the Social Issues Post. You knew it was coming. I went to Grinnell, after all.)

This is about gender, but not about women. See, I saw Brokeback Mountain a couple of weeks ago, at a theatre in downtown Thessaloniki. The place was about half full. All was quiet for the first forty minutes or so; until the first sex scene. At the moment the two cowboys started, well, getting intimate, this audible gasp and murmur rose from the crowd, and didn't subside until the camera had returned to grazing sheep and mountain streams and whatnot. Now, I understand that watching sex scenes is not always the most comfortable experience, and sex scenes between men are few and far between in Hollywood films. But the whole thing got me thinking about homosexuality in Greece, which is something of a puzzle to me.

On the one hand, Greece is the land of Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander the Great, and Sappho. On the other hand, I've noticed that some modern Greeks are not exactly as gay-friendly as their ancestors. It's not that people here are hateful towards gays, they just seem to regard homosexuality as something, well, weird. My interpretation is that, to Greeks, same-sex relationships are kind of like eating a nutella and mayonaise sandwich. It's not a crime, it's just, well, strange, and vaguely distasteful.

I was talking to an eight grade dorm student the other day, asking him what movies he likes. "I just saw Alexander," he said. "It was pretty good, but the filmmakers changed some things from the history."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "Well, movies do that a lot. What did they change?"
"Well," said the eighth grader, "They showed a man kissing Alexander!"
"Uh," I said. "I think that actually happened."
He gave me the sort of look I might give you if you told me that Abraham Lincoln was a drag queen. It wasn't defensive look, or an offended one, just a what-are-you-talking-about look. "No," he said. "That didn't happen." I let the subject drop.

And then there was the Greek acquaintance of mine who once explained to me that "Men eat meat. If a guy just eats a lot of vegetables, well, then he's gay." I raised my eyebrows at this, and explained that a lot of people, including my boyfriend, would be very interested to hear this. "Well" said my friend. "Maybe it's not true for American men. But it's true for Greeks." Recently the same friend snickered at the sight of a Brokeback Mountain poster and told me "I could never see that movie. Gay cowboys? I would just laugh through the whole thing."

Of course, I am definitely not suggesting that all Greeks are homophobic, or that all Americans are completely gay friendly. In fact, there seem to be a lot of Americans who are more openly hateful towards gays than I have ever seen any Greek become. I'm sure a lot of Americans reacted pretty strongly to the aformentioned scenes in Brokeback Mountain. I'm sure plenty of them did a lot more than gasp. And when it comes to blatant insensitivity, how can I forget an American acquaintance of mine who repeatedly referred to everyone and everything that she did not personally care for as "gay." At one point, she actually told me "My father won't let me use the car. He's being totally gay about it." I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or enquire as to which adoption agency had brought her family together.

I guess I just want to know why I heard gasps of shock during a male sex scene, but no aubible reaction whatsoever when George Clooney got his fingernails pulled out during Syriana, or when several people were gunned down in cold blood during Match Point. And, speaking of cold blood, I didn't hear much of a reaction during the opening scene of Capote, when a teenage girl was discovered murdered in her bed, with blood spattered all over the wall. We're used to seeing this things on film, I guess. But sex between men? Shocking!

So homophobia exists everywhere, I guess, and maybe it's not fair of me to gauge the Greek attitude towards homosexuality through the lens of American movies. I just can't quite pin down the Greek attitudes, which are slightly different than the American ones. There's no Fred Phelps here. But there's no gay pride parade either. (At least, if there is, I haven't heard about it.) In any case, I'm glad I felt out the territory before I was asked to teach any more Walt Whitman.

Feta and Peppers, please, hold the mayo

2006-03-07T12:04:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile since I've made one of my Greek food posts. This is strange, as eating is one of my favorite activities.

Greece is peppered with places that sell food to go; I've already discussed pites. However, there are also a large number of places that sell sandwiches and crepes as an alternative to pites or bougatsa. Each of these lunch/snack shops has a big display of various sandwich fillings, from tomatoes, mushrooms, olives and peppers to various meats, and cheeses. You order the fillings you want, and watch them either get piled into a sandwich which may or may not be toasted, or placed on top of a frying crepe. I should explain that in Greece, the word 'toast' does not indicate toasted bread with jam and/or butter, it refers to toasted sandwiches, similar to panini. Crepes can be filled with sandwich fillings as well, or with sweet stuff like Nutella and nuts, for dessert. Just about every American I know in Greece has become completely enamored of Greek crepes. Part of the appeal is that you get to watch the crepe batter get spread out over the crepe pan with a little crepe spatula, and then watch the whole thing get flipped over and the ingredients piled on top before it's folded into a sandwich-like triangle. Working in a crepe shop looks really fun. In reality, it is probably fun for the first day or so, and then you reach the point where it's dull, and then you reach the point where you find yourself flipping crepes in your dreams, and soon you never want to flip a damn crepe again. However, since it's not my job, I think it looks fun.

Here are some of my favorite toast/sandwich/crepe ingredients:

Cheese:

Feta
This should be obvious. Feta is the Greek staple. It's everywhere; on sandwiches, crepes, in salads of all kinds, in slabs next to my cafeteria dinner, crumbled over stuffed vegetables, etc. I love the stuff. I always have had a fondness for feta, even before I came to Greece. Actually, though I am hardly a cheese connoisseur (or, for that matter, a connoisseuse) I think I am generally fond cheeses of the mediterranean region, and when I say "mediterranean region", I mean Greece and Italy. I know some people are crazy about brie, but I personally have never been able to work up much enthusiasm for it. It seems so thick, and sort of gluey when you melt it, and I don't know; I'm just not sure what all the fuss is about. Maybe I've never had good brie. In any case, though I have had some really good Gouda and cheddar, I think I prefer feta. It's nice and soft, fresh, crumbly, salty, and has a strong but not unpleasantly strong taste. I also think real parmigiana makes everything taste better, and oh-my-god there is nothing like real fresh mozzarella. But, I digress.

Manouri
I hadn't heard of this stuff before I came to Greece. In fact, I hadn't really tried it until a few weeks ago. But it's good. It's white and a littler softer and creamier than feta. It's also a little less crumbly and a little less sharp. It's really good on sandwiches with cucumbers and paprika sauce. (See below)

Salads:
I'm not referring to the quintessential Greek salad or green salad here; I'm talking about sandwich spreads or dipping sauces, which are referred to in Greek as 'salates'. Every sandwich shop has an array of salads to choose from, and there are even more available in tavernas.

Tzatziki
This is pretty much the classic Greek dipping sauce. Yogurt, garlic, cucumber, dill, and olive oil. It's creamy and delicious. I have yet to meet anyone who doesn't like it. Of course, tzatziki is not really so much a toast/crepe filling as it is a taverna appetizer, or a gyro topping, but I do know of several places that offer it on crepes.

Tirosalata (aka Ktipiti)
This one is new to most Americans; it's a sort of dip made of some combination of some or all of the following ingredients; smushed up feta, hot peppers, yogurt, olive oil, red peppers. Every place seems to have their own slight variation of tirosalata (which literally means "cheese salad"). However, it's almost always really damn good. In fact, pretty much everyone who has visited me thus far has developed an affinity for it. It can also be referred to as ktipiti, whichI have been told is a word that is in some way related to the Greek verb "to smush", because that's what is done to the feta.

Melitzanosalata
OK, this is really not a sandwich topping most of the time. It's made of smushed up roasted eggplants ('melitzanes'), and it's yummy. Some people also put mayonaise in it. I prefer the non-mayonaise version, as I generally find mayo to be less than appetizing. However, I have always had a particular fondness for eggplant. (Combined with similar particular fondnessess for yogurt and feta, it seems I was destined to spend time in Greece.)

Taramosalata
This is not a sandwich topping either, it's really something you eat with bread at a meal. It is a salad, however. A salad made of fish eggs. It's princess pink, the exact sort of color that a lot of little girls were wearing at Carnival. It tastes creamy and slightly, well, fishy. But not fishy in a gross, overly-ripe seafood way, just fishy enough to let you know that it's made from fish eggs. It's the only caviar I've ever tried, and I confess that the idea of eating fish eggs is a little bit strange to me. I don't know why, as I have been eating chicken eggs for a number of years now without any sort of squeamishness. In any case, it's not strange enough to keep me from eating it, just strange enough that whenever I do eat it, there's a tiny little voice in the back of my head saying "You're eating fish eggs. Those are fish eggs. FISH EGGS. FISH EGGS. FISH EGGS." This is the reason that I don't eat a lot of taramosalata, even though it tastes good.

Paprika
I discovered this stuff very recently, and I have only tried it once, but I plan to increase that number. Paprika sauce is a reddish spread, that I always assumed was made with Paprika, the spice that one uses for deviled eggs. As it turns out, it's made from ground up red peppers, tomato, mustard, and spices. Also listed under the ingredients on my package of it is "sauce". The Greeks seem to use the word "sauce" to refer only to some of the things that I would consider sauces; a Greek friend tells me that in Greek, something is a 'sauce' only if it includes tomato or cream. So basically, I really don't know what the word 'sauce' refers to on a list of ingredients, and I hope it doesn't refer to mayo or more fish eggs, but it doesn't really matter because the paprika salad is really yummy.

Rossiki, or Russian Salad
I've got to be honest. I don't really like this stuff. It's boiled vegetables (carrots, potatoes, peas) in mayonaise, and maybe yogurt. It's too much mayo for me, personally. I only like mayo in very small amounts. However, a lot of people really like Russian salad, and there are a lot of other, similar mayo based salads that I am unfamiliar with. I think there's one called Hungarian salad, and some others that I don't know the names of. They include things like ham, mushrooms, vegetables, and I don't know what else. If you're interested, you'll have to find a mayo lover to explain all this to you.

My final word on the subject is, sauces and salads are important. I know this, personally, as I have taken to bringing my own salad dressing to the cafeteria (the same old oil and vinegar gets dull after a while) and slathering my own paprika salad on the cafeteria sandwiches. This has improved the happiness of my taste buds by approximately 47%.
I was going to take a picture of some Greek foods for you, but my camera was unfortunately knocked off of my dresser last night by my cat, and now it's being dysfunctional. Anyone know a good camera repair shop in Thessaloniki?

More Carnival Excitement

2006-03-06T05:12:00.000-05:00

Sunday was the end of carnival, a massive party day when all of Greece gathers together to celebrate eating vegetables for the next six weeks or so. At least, that's what I, the Not-Quite-Vegetarian, was celebrating. (I do eat meat, but as my friend Will put it, "not in Greek portions.") Everyone else was celebrating the beginning of the Greek Lent, which commences today, Clean Monday. OK, I don't know if "celebrating" is really the right word for what one does on Clean Monday. "Having fun while we still can" might be a better way to sum it up. But in any case, it was an enjoyable day.
I took a trip to nearby Naoussa with some friends to see the action, which took the form of several parades and lots of dancing, eating, throwing of confetti, and playing of music. There were people dressed up in anything, masquerading as anything and everything. It ranged from traditional costumes to cowboy outfits, Roman soldier uniforms, witches, aliens, Zorros, clowns, and of course, for the vast majority of girls under the age of ten, poufy dresses.

The Naoussa parade is mock wedding procession led by lots of boys and young men in costume, with swords, dancing and escorting the "bride" to the church. There were several of these processions, each similar, but with some variation. The "bride" was, in some cases, played by little girls, and in other cases, played by men in masks and drag. In each case, (s) he was waving a white handkerchief, presumably as a sign of purity. Below, I've posted several pictures of brides, each one flanked by an army of escorts, all of whom were dancing and mock sword-fighting.

I hear that this parade originated as pagan tradition, and was adopted into the Easter calendar way back when. Actually, I have heard rumors that pagan fertility festivals were converted into Easter celebrations in a lot of places. After all, eggs are symbols of fertility, and they don't seem to have a lot to do with Jesus.
The parades were quite a spectacle, but they were only part of it. In every square of the town, people seemed to be gathered, dancing while bands played a sort of balkan influenced music- maybe gypsy music, but I am not sure. We (by 'we' I mean myself, co-Grinnell-fellow Brad, former Grinnell fellow Will and Will's mother) wandered around for a while, watching the bands play and people dance, ate souvlaki, had mezedes and tsipouro at a kafenio, and generally soaked up the Carnival excitement. The entire town seemed to be packed; every cafe was full, every taverna was filled with revelers, and there seemed to be people dancing in every plateia, or square. Actually, a lot of them were just sort of dancing through regular intersections. It was fun to see people in army fatigues holding hands with hippies, who were holding hands with people in traditional costume, who were holding hands with witches, while all of them danced in a big circle.

As the celebration became slightly more subdued, we wandered a bit through Naoussa, which is located in the mountains, and admired the scenery, which included some lovely waterfalls and some really nice views, like this one: We ended the day by purchasing local fruit (I just love that it is strawberry season in Greece. Who would expect strawberries in early March?) and watching the sun set from the square in front of a local church. And now, it's time for fasting. Bring on the beans!

The Bus System Stikes Back

2006-03-01T01:29:00.000-05:00

Yesterday at about 3:45, I went to the bus stop. I was planning to go downtown, just for a change of scenery and maybe to do some shopping at the market. Based on the bus schedule, it looked like there would be a bus arriving at 4:00 or so.
At 4:00, there was no bus.
At 4:15, there was no bus.
At 5:00pm, there was still no bus, and there was a huge crowd of people standing around at the stop, looking increasingly disgruntled.
At 5:05, some students from the International School came by, discussing the fact that apparently, there was a bus strike on. Well, I guess I should have figured that out after 20 or 30 minutes of waiting, but somehow I didn't. I just figured that since all of those people were waiting for the bus, it must be coming. After all, they are presumably more capable of reading the Greek news than I am, and would be more likely to hear about a strike.
So I walked into Pylea, our local town, and did some shopping there. Unfortunately, on the way back, I ran into an old friend of mine known as Πολυ Μεγαλοσ Σκυλοσ, or Very Big Dog. Very Big Dog appears sometimes on the road between Pylea and Anatolia, and he barks and snarls, and once even chased me for several blocks, growling and yipping and making all sorts of menacing noises. I realize that, like many dogs, his bark may be worse than his bite. But I do not really want to investigate the matter personally. I'd rather just steer clear of either.

Unfortunately for me, there were only two ways back to school that I knew of:
a) Walk Past Big Scary Dog.
b)Take the bus

Luckily, I discovered another possibility:

c) Walk along the highway and pray that cars will not hit me.

Sometimes I really, really, hate that damn bus. Especially when it's not there.

Oh, I'm Just Pretending to be American- It's My Costume

2006-02-24T01:57:00.000-05:00

So yesterday I walked out of my apartment and through the school campus, and ran into three cowboys, several space aliens, a bunch of witches, and a hula dancer. It appeared to be Halloween four months late. I was a little surprised, I guess, but it did seem to make sense; I think every culture needs to have at least one holiday that is an excuse for dressing up and acting ridiculous, and clearly the Greeks just prefer to have theirs in February, not October.
As it turns out, it's Carnival. You probably all knew that already, as it seems to be Mardi Gras in the States. To be honest, I am little bit confused as to why it is Carnival here. Isn't the Greek calendar different? Isn't Mardi Gras/Carnival supposed to be 40 days before Easter? So why isn't the Greek Carnival 40 days before Greek Easter? But doesn't Mardi Gras usually take place on a Tuesday? So why is Greek Carnival on a Thursday? Maybe they aren't the same after all. I am so confused. However, it doesn't really matter. What really matters is, last night was part of an age-old tradition of celebrating wildly before a period of austerity, abstemiousness, abstinence, and abstention. Except that, of course, I have no intention of actually absteming from anything whatsoever. Except maybe chicken.

Anyway, I headed downtown to see what all the fuss was about, and discovered a massive celebration taking place in Aristotelous Square. There were men dressed as women and women dressed as men, and people of both genders with ridiculous afros. There were geishas and more cowboys, and any number of other unusual sorts dressed in any number of outfits, running aorund and yelling and acting crazy. Everyone was weird. It was just like being back in New York. It was delightful. There was also a wide variety of tasty-looking junk food, including the donuts pictured above.

Above is a picture of me at a cafe near the Hagia Sophia. This guy offered me retsina and souvlaki, and his friend took our picture. His friend was dressed like a Roman soldier, with one of those helmets that look vaguely like brooms. Unforunately, as I was not prepared for this particular holiday, I am just dressed up like a tourist.
Below is one of many, many little girls in long, pouffy, sparkly, princess dresses. This is exactly the sort of thing I would have loved to wear when I was five, proving that some things transcend cultural boundaries.

Now, take a good look at the picture below. You may be wondering "What is that?" Well, take a good long look. Notice the partially-hidden broomstick. Yes, indeed, that is thirty-five-year-old, six foot Harry Potter, smoking a cigarette with Yasser Arafat.

I love Carnival.

Athena, the Goddess of Old Buildings and New Subway Trains

2006-02-21T02:07:00.000-05:00

When I first learned that I would be spending a year in Greece, I had a number of conversations with Greeks, Greek-Americans and well-traveled people of all sorts that went something like this:

Emily: Yes, I'll be in Greece for a year.
Person: Where?
Emily: Thessaloniki.
Person: Ooooh. That's good. You'll like it SO much more than Athens.

Complaints about Greece's capital all seem to follow a similar pattern: it's crowded, it's polluted, it's noisy, unpleasant, dirty, etc, etc. After four days there, I have concluded that people say these things either because a) They are from Thessaloniki and are totally biased, b)They have not been to Athens recently or c) I am just completely immune to dirt, pollution, crowds, etc. Maybe it's a combination of all three. Athens is lovely. Really, I liked it very much.

We arrived there on Thursday morning at the crack of dawn, on the night train. I should mention that the night train to Athens takes about six hours, so it doesn't exactly give you enough time for a real night's sleep. However, unlike on the train to Istanbul you don't have to wake up at four am to go through customs, and there were no prostitutes next door, so maybe it's not so bad after all. (By the way, when I say 'we', I mean me, a Greek friend of mine, his Polish girlfriend, and her Spanish and Bulgarian classmates. We were a very international group.)

Our first order of business was to drop things off at our hostel, and to get breakfast from a nearby cafe. Over coffee, we chatted, and I discovered that all of the Spaniards were both utterly fascinated by my American accent, and utterly confused by it. They kept asking me to talk, and then repeating my statements back at me, attempting to imitate my inflections. It was rather amusing. Unfortunately, I did not have much luck understanding them, either, as my Spanish is rusty and more North/Central American than European. When one of my new friends informed me that she is from "Balenthia", it took me a few moments to figure out that she was talking about Valencia. Plus, whenever I dig around in my brain for Spanish vocabulary, Greek appears.

After breakfast, we headed to Syntagma, a central square that houses the Greek Parliament as well as several Greek Parliament guards wearing very strange outfits that include pom-poms on their feet. I am told that these pom poms were designed to hide knives during warfare. I suppose they would hide knives well enough, but they are still not exactly inconspicuous. Here is a photograph of the Changing of the Guard in Syntagma. It was not as elaborate at the similar ceremony at Buckingham Palace, but there were several thousand fewer people in attendance, a fact which made it much more enojyable. (I have been to the Buckingham Palace Changing of the Guard two or three times, and I have always spent the duration of the ceremony squeezed against several hundred American tourists, usually with someone very tall in front of me. Thus, I have managed to catch some of the peripheral action, but I've never actually witnessed the ceremony in full.)
Following the Changing of the Guard, we wandered through the central park of Athens. I don't remember the exact name for it; the National Gardens? I don't know. Anyway, it was mostly closed, as an Israeli official was visiting, and security was tight. I admit that I had a private moment of satisfaction when we were informed of this and one of my co-travellers said "The Israeli President? What's his name? Arafat?" "Aha!" I thought, "Americans are not the only ones who are out of touch with world affairs!"

Anyway, here is a picture of the Greek National Guard ushering in the Israeli President. (All right, I'll confess: I don't know if it was the President or some other official, and I don't know the name of whoever it was. I do know it wasn't Arafat, though.) The whole thing took place on a red carpet that was rolled up afterwards. I watched it get rolled back up, and noted with amusement that "Made in the USA" was printed on the underside.

We walked through the park to the Panathenian stadium, an ancient Olympic stadium that was renovated for use in the first modern games as well as the most recent Athens games. It's a beautful stadium, and I was sad to learn that these days, it's mostly just for show. Nobody actually goes running in there. I think this is a pity, as I would love to run around inside the Panathenian Stadium.

It was while I was standing outside the stadium that I first turned around and glimpsed the Acropolis rising above the city. Now, my trusty Lonely Planet guide lists "the first magical view of the Acropolis" as one of the best things about Athens, so it may have been the power of suggestion that caused me to be so thoroughly impressed. But I don't think so. I think it really is just mind-boggling. When you are standing on a modern city street with cars whizzing past and people walking past chatting on their cell phones, you hardly expect to look up and see ancient crumbling ruins that represent the birth of western civilization just sitting there above you. At least, I don't expect that. But they're there. It's breathtaking.

After some more coffee, chocolate croissants and a walk through the cultural museum, we headed for the Acropolis, a trek which involved some map examination as well as some steep climbing up the hill to the Parthenon. It was a stunning trip though; I felt like I was walking back in history as I climbed the hill, and I suppose that in a sense, I was. Finally standing in front of Parthenon, with those massive columns in front of me and the entire city of Athens at my feet was a pretty incredible moment. Unfortunately, it was also fleeting, as the museum was closing (it was 2:30pm) and there were a large number of grouchy women with whistles chasing people around and informing them that it was time to get out. The people, of course, were all trying to take one last picture, or maybe two, or three, or seven. The women were not pleased by this, and continued yelling and gesturing towards the exit. I would have hated these women, but they vaguely reminded me of myself at 11:15 pm, when it is long past the time for the younger students to go to bed and they insist "No, no, I need five more minutes!" So I had some sympathy for them and we decided to save our in-depth trip to the Parthenon for another day.

At that point, sleep deprivation had caught up with all of us, and we made our way back to the hostel for showers and a long nap. In the evening, we woke up and headed to a taverna known for its raki. Raki is kind of like tsipouro, which is kind of like homemade ouzo. This raki, however, was not anise flavored. It was strong, though, and served in little shotglasses, which surprised me. In the movies, Greek people drink ouzo and similar beverages in shotglasses, and toast by shouting "Opa!" before they down the shots in one gulp. In real life, I have never seen a single Greek take a shot of ouzo and "Opa!" is what you shout when someone trips over something, kind of like "Ooops!" or "Watch out!" Well, nobody shouted "Opa"here either, and the Greeks sipped their raki instead of taking it in shots, despite the tiny size of their glasses. The Spanish students, however, insisted upon taking "chipitas" (apparently, this is the Spanish word for shot) and were very confused when the Greeks told them they weren't supposed to drink it that way.

Of course, we did eat as well as drink, and the food was quite excellent. My Greek friend and one of his Athenian friends ordered some sort of meat pie with cheese inside that they insisted was "man's food." Upon further investigation, I learned that "Greek women don't like this dish," and I was welcome to try it if I wanted to, but, being a woman, I would probably hate it. Obviously, at that moment, I decided that I absolutely had to try it, whatever it was, and I was going to say I liked it, whether I actually did or not. As it turns out, it was quite good, and nicely spicy. My friends shrugged at my reaction and said "Oh, maybe American women like [name of mysterious dish]." I don't really understand when I became "American women" in general, why Greek women wouldn't like a perfectly tasty dish, or even what the perfectly tasty dish was, exactly. It appeared to be something akin to ham with feta, phyllo, and spices. If anyone cares to enlighten me on this matter, please do so.

The next morning was spent in search of a new hotel in Plaka, as a large part of our group was leaving. We found a nice place with a lovely view of the Acropolis for quite a good price. February is really an affordable time to be in Athens, I suppose. Friday afternoon was spent wandering through the Public Gardens (now open to the public), drinking coffee near Syntagma, and getting lost in various areas of the city. We also saw the Temple of Olympian Zeus, or rather, the remains of it, which are quite memorable. There are several massive columns still standing, and some piles of other bits and pieces below. I have been informed that this temple was damaged during the second world war, when it was bombed by the Nazis. Hitler was apparently very angry at the officers who had caused this destruction, and later had them executed. I'm told by a friend that this is because he so greatly admired the Greeks and considered them the creators of Aryan culture. This whole story is very interesting, but could be exaggerated or mixed up, so don't take my word for it. (I try to be careful about where, exactly, I get my history.)

Now, let me say a few words about the Athens Metro. It's a brand new system, based on the London Underground, and indeed, it's almost the same, right down to the style of the maps
on the walls, and the escalators connecting platforms. However, being a lot newer than the tube, it's also a lot faster. I could hardly believe how quickly you can zip around, especially since the trains seem to come every three minutes. Oh, and it's clean. I can't believe it. I've never seen a clean subway system in my life. And they play music in the background. Best of all, there's a little electronic sign on each platform to let you know when the next train will arrive. They have these in London, and I always thought they were just about the best things ever. However, the really amazing thing about the Athens metro is that it is full of displays of ancient artifacts that were discovered as the system was being built. Above is a picture of some ancient pottery that used to be were the platforms are now. As I left for the train station early Sunday morning (and believe me, it was early, because almost every train was sold out) I stood, caffeine-deprived, on the clean platform of the Acropolis station, with a temple frieze in front of me and the Harry Potter theme playing softly in the background. It was a surreal moment.
However, it does get a little crowded now and then, I guess. Honestly, I think my bus (the number 58) in Thessaloniki gets more crowded on a regular basis than any other form of public transportation that I have ever used in my entire life, including the Athenian metro, the New York subway at rush hour, the various tube lines that I used in my study-abroad days in London, etc, etc. The number of people I have seen jammed into that little thing is like clowns in the circus. I've waited for the bus for forty minutes before, because three or four bus drivers in a row wouldn't even open their doors to let more people on. Ugh.
And that's the end of my little Bus 58 rant. The point is, Athens may be more crowded than Thessaloniki in general, but that doesn't mean that Thessaloniki doesn't have crowds. Actually, I was amused by my friends' reactions to Athens in general; one of them kept breathing in and making faces, insisting "ugh, this atmosphere is terrible." I told him that I honestly didn't have any idea what he was talking about. I think my lungs need dirt to survive. He was also unhappy with the moderate crowds we saw on the Athenian metro. He's from Thessaloniki, but clearly he is not familiar with the number 58 bus.
Enough with the dirt and the crowds. Here are some lovely pictures of the National Gardens. You'll see that they have turtles, fish (a whole petting zoo, in fact) and, of course, men playing backgammon.

And, here are some nice shots of the Panathenian stadium at night, as they were turning on the lights, and by day. I like it better at night.

Our evening trip to the stadium was followed by dinner at a nice taverna in Plaka. Plaka is the area surrounding the Acropolis, and it's lovely, with winding little streets and lots of nice tavernas. It's also the tourist center of Athens, however, and I swear I haven't seen so many Americans in one place since August. Here's a picture of a Plaka street by night.
(Speaking ofeating in Athens, I have been informed by my friends and thier friends that when Athenians want gyros, they order souvlaki. Is this true? I find this totally confusing.)
We went to bed early on Friday and woke at 8:30 on Sunday to breakfast in the roof cafe of our hotel, where we drank coffee and looked at the Acropolis. This was a nice way to wake up. Afterwards, we headed back to the Acropolis to finish exploring it. (MyGreek friend appeared enthusiastic about this, but I have to wonder if, somewhere deep inside, he was groaning "Oh dear God, not the damn Acropolis again." I wonder this because I have had many visitors in New York, and although I do enjoy playing tour guide, I have also had moments of "Oh dear God, not the damn Empire State Building again.")
The Acropolis was, once again, really impressive. I believe that sometime in October or September I wrote a long update about Tall Things, and how every city seems to have some sort of Tall Thing which tourists pay a lot of money to go up. Until now, I had thought that St. Paul's Cathedral was the best Tall Thing I had ever experienced, but now the Acropolis has thoroughly defeated it. After all, it's pretty much the birthplace of Western Civilization and all that. It's hard to top. I keep thinking back to eighth grade history, when we had to identify the word "Acropolis" and explain all of the various buildings inside it, and look at the sketches recreating what the statue of Athena may have looked like. (There is no statue of Athena nowadays, but apparently historians think that there once was, and it stood inside the Parthenon.)

The Acropolis also has a museum, of couse, which houses a large number of statues and artifacts that were found in the vicinity. It does not, however, house the Elgin marbles. The Elgin marbles, despite sounding like something that my cat would like the bat around the floor, are actually beautiful marble carvings from the Parthenon that were appropriated by Lord Elgin in the 19th Century, and brought to the British Museum, where they have remained ever since. A lot of people are not very happy about this, and I can understand why. It does seem that they ought to remain in their orginal home.
However, the Acropolis museum has no lack of beautiful artwork. I was particularly fond of these feet, which are very realistic. They look like, well, real feet. I was also quite taken with this cat, who lives in the most famous archeological site in the history of the world, and probably doesn't give a damn about anything except what food she can scrounge up from between the marble slabs. (I know I am obsessive about cats. Well, I'm just trying to give you another perspective on things. I could post about seventy separate pictures of the Parthenon here. But the thing is, you've all seen pictures of the Parthenon before. You've seen professional pictures of the Parthenon. You don't need my blurry versions with tourists wandering around in front of it, do you?)
After the Acropolis, we saw the new Byzantine museum, which is quite lovely, and took a brief stroll through the war museum before it closed at 2pm. We also took a large number of pictures of each other standing in front of fighter jets in front of the war museum. I don't have these pictures at the moment, as they were not taken with my camera, so I can't post them for you. That's OK with me. Quite frankly, I have very little use for a picture of myself next to a fighter jet, but maybe someday it will come in handy.
At that point, we headed for the train station to buy our tickets home and discovered that every single train was sold out, with the exception of the awful, crack of dawn 6:50am train, and the 11:44pm night train. As I had work to do on Monday, I opted for the wretched crack-of-dawn option, which was thankfully faster than the afternoon one, but also almost three times as expensive. Next time, remind me to make a reservation.
We finished the evening with a drink at a bar in Kolonaki, which is apparently the trendy place to have a drink. I can't tell you all that much about the area, except that the one place we went was quite nice, and seemed to be playing music specially selected for me. (I swear, the radio DJ was using my iPod for music selections). I chatted with my Greek friend and his friends, who quoted various Friends episodes at length, and nodded thoughtfully when I ordered vodka and cranberry juice. ("That's what they drink in New York, huh? Do you watch Sex and the City?") Sometimes I think Greeks could give me a lesson in American culture. On the other hand, they were anxious for me to explain an American stand-up comedy DVD they had just watched, and I tried my best to explain who Al Sharpton is.

And here my Athenian adventure comes to a close. Ultimately, I had a lovely weekend and I liked the city very much. However, I will say that I'm glad to be spending a year in Thessaloniki instead of Athens. The crowds and pollution may not bother me (makes me feel right at home, actually), but here in Thess I'm a little more removed from the tourists and the other Americans, and a little bit more immersed in Greek life.

Home-Sick

2006-02-20T04:06:00.000-05:00

Today is gorgeous. I mean, it is just a spectacular, sunny, warm-but-not-hot, blue skies sort of spring day. I am just completely ecstatic about the weather. It's the sort of day that makes me want to go for a run or walk or bike ride through Central Park and see the flowers and the green trees and the people lying on the grass.
Only problem is, Central Park is probably completely dead and grey at the moment. From what I hear, it's freezing in New York. Grinnell, IA was 9 below zero, according to the weather report. I have received a first hand account confirming that yesterday was approximately the coldest day Chicago has seen since the advent of the automobile. I guess I would not be so happy if I were in the states today.
I think perhaps this sudden desire to be in New York was brought on by my quite enjoyable trip to Athens, which reminded me of how much I love big obnoxious crowded cities, particularly in the Spring. More about that later, as there is much to tell. I confess I am utterly confused by the disdain for Athens that so many people seem to have. Maybe it's different if you live there.

Rules of Courtship

2006-02-15T07:08:00.000-05:00

One of the students I work with in the dorm is a fifteen year old girl. She has offered me some interesting tidbits of wisdom, which I will now share with you;

-"You should wear more make-up. You would look really pretty if you wore more make-up. And why don't you pluck your eyebrows? You should dye your hair red, because if you don't do it now, when will you do it? When you are a grandmother?"
I responded to all of this with "well, I'll think about it." She sighed and said "Don't think about it. Just do it."

- "Are you going to get married soon? Why not? At home, girls get married when they are fifteen, and they start families."
She has told me this four times so far. I don't know how I'm supposed to react. Maybe I should feel horrified that I'm a twenty-two year old Old Maid. Maybe I should ask her why she isn't married. In any case, I'm not starting any families. Seventy-four adolescents and a cat is already more than enough.

-"Do your parents know you have a boyfriend? They DO? In my country, parents never know about boyfriends, because they hate boyfriends. Parents only like husbands."
Huh. Interesting. How do they feel about fiancees, then?

-"At home, the worst thing that can happen to a girl is breaking up with her boyfriend. If you break up, people say you are a bad girl. At home, we say that women are like electricians. One mistake, and your life is over."
Well. I guess I am glad that I do not live in her part of the world. Actually, I confess that I really don't get the electrician analogy. Would anyone like to (heehee) enlighten me?

-"Don't step on the black caterpillars, because they are messengers from Satan, and if you kill them, Satan will come after you."
This might be my favorite bit of advice. It definitely wins the Most Bizarre award, although it is in competition with a piece of advice I once received from a Russian student (not a dorm resident). He said "don't sit on the cold stone steps, because you will get syphilis, and if you have a penis it will turn black and fall off." If this were actually true, I suspect there would be a lot of syphilitic people out there.

And with that, I'm off to Athens for a few days!

We Are Happy To Serve You

2006-02-07T02:06:00.000-05:00

On Sunday I went to a cafe/bar downtown. I ordered a coffee and sat there with my Sunday paper (in Greek, but I got a free DVD), a novel, and a notebook in which to jot down observations for some essays I have been working on. I had my cell phone with me, tucked deep inside my bag and set on 'vibrate', because, deep down, despite their necessary function, I really hate cell phones. My coffee came with cookies. I ate the cookies.
There were about five other tables in the place, each occupied by multiple people. Each of these people had a cup of coffee. Each of these people had a cigarette. Each of these people had a cell phone in front of them. They were all talking, mostly to one another, but some of them were talking on their cell phones as well. Their coffee came with cookies. None of them ate their cookies.
This is my life in Greece.

To give you some idea of what I look for in a successful cafe/bar, here are descriptions of my two favorite places to get in a drink in the states. The first was once featured in a Woody Allen movie that I never saw. The latter was once featured in a five minute student film entitled "the Overture of Evil." It's about a guy who gets attacked by dementor-like evil spirits while the 1812 Overture plays in the background.
First, the best place to get coffee in New York is called the Hungarian Pastry Shop. It is cozy and charming and they never play wretched eardrum-popping pop music (my biggest cafe complaint in Greece.) It is right around the corner from my house, and they have a giant rack of delicious pastries, as well as the best croissants known to man. Throughout nursery school, I would go to the Hungarian most afternoons for 25 cent cookies, of which there are a wide array. If you go there on a typical afternoon, you will find a lot of people sitting alone with their newspapers or books or term papers or unfinished novels or whatever. This is partially because a lot of them are Columbia University students, but also partially because I am not the only one in New York who occasionally goes to cafes alone. I read Ulysses there once, and felt very smart until I noticed that the guy next to me was reading some medical paper that had words in the title that were long enough to be sentences. (There's a hospital across the street.) I also started drinking lattes there, which eventually led to me drinking coffee, which led to me developing a serious habit.
My favorite alcohol establishment in the states is technically known as "The Down Under Pub", but as this is in Grinnell, Iowa, there is really no name or modifying adjective required. There is only one Pub. The Pub is the sort of place where everyone would go to drink as much as possible, but they don't want to drink too much, because then they might need to use the bathroom, and the pub bathroom is real sketchy. Nonetheless, every single senior on the Grinnell campus frequents the Pub on Wednesday nights. Even if you don't drink, you go to the Pub and eat the free popcorn. I suppose you could say the free, slightly stale popcorn is kind of like the free nuts and/or cookies that Greek bars give out. I suppose you could also say that the smoke-filled carcinogenic air of the Pub is somewhat similar to the smoke filled air of bars in Greece. You could say that; but you would be wrong. The Pub is way worse. Every Grinnellian has designated "Pub clothes" that cannot be worn in everyday life, as one whiff will cause emphysema in all individuals within smelling range. It is truly foul. I miss the Pub.

Beverage consumption is big in Greece., though I haven't quite found a Hungarian or Pub equivalent. There are, however, cafes on every other corner. Sometimes there are multiple cafes on one corner. It's worth noting that in Greece, cafes usually serve coffee and alcoholic drinks, which is why it's called a cafe/bar. In the states, you often have to choose between a place for coffee and a place for alcohol. Here, you can down multiple legal addictive stimulants within the confines of a single establishment. You can do this all day long, and nobody will suggest that you leave. You can even do this until it is officially the next day, with the sun coming up and everything. I appreciate this, as the Hungarian closes at the ungodly early hour of 11:30, and even Pub nights end at 2.
Unfortunately, you do pay to sit there. A friend of mine once told me "everything is cheaper in Greece. Everything except cars and coffee." This appears to be true; on one memorable occasion, Joe and I paid a total of four Euros for our dinner of souvlaki, and subsequently paid eight for a hot chocolate and an herbal tea. I guess it makes sense. If people don't leave for hours, and there's no take-away business, prices are higher., particularly if you're sitting by the ocean. New York coffee to go costs about ninety cents, but the atmosphere tends to be a little less relaxing.
But here's the ironic thing about coffee to go in NYC. The quintessential to-go coffee cup is covered in ancient Greek-style designs. It is blue and white, with pictures of decorative amphorae and "We are happy to serve you" written in Greek-influenced letters. For Christmas, my parents actually sent me a "We are happy to serve you" mug, perfectly authentic right down to the crease on the side. It is, however, ceramic instead of paper. I think that it is perhaps the most appropriate piece of kitchenware that I have ever owned.
Anyway, I think I was talking about drink prices. Pub well drinks cost one dollar, if you can believe that. However, they are often concocted out of something called "Hawkeye Vodka", which I personally suspect is actually leftover cleaning fluid from the soy plants of Iowa. But there's really no way to be sure.
You do get something for your money in Greece; water and cookies (for coffee) or nuts (for alcohol) come with pretty much every beverage. But here's the funny thing; I swear, Greeks never eat their cookies. I look over at the other tables, and everyone is chatting, and there is always a plate of uneaten cookies just sitting there. I sometimes wonder if there are actually only a few plates of ancient stale cookies in each cafe that get handed out in turn to every customer, and then handed out the next customer when the first guy sends them back untouched.
I used to ignore the cookies too, out of a desire to conform, until one day, when the rebel in me bit into a round sugary one and discovered that there was chocolate inside. It was not your ordinary, run of the mill cookie from a package. It was chocolate. I left wondering if maybe nobody had told the Greeks that the cookies have chocolate inside, and if I should spread the good news. However, further investigation revealed that not all free cookies have chocolate inside, just some. Now I have the constant desire to take one bite of every cookie until I find the chocolate ones. I also take the nut dishes and pick out the almonds, cashews, and pistachios. The cafe owners in Greece really like me lot.
It is also worth noting that Greek cafes have the best hot chocolate in the known universe. They have actual hot chocolate menus, that list everything from banana hot chocolate to Aztec hot chocolate to hot chocolate with m and ms inside. No matter which one you choose, it tastes pretty unbelievably good, kind of like a melted chocolate bar in a cup. It makes Swiss Miss look like chalky water. It is worth five euro anyday. At least, any day that I have five euro to spare.
Now I've got to end on a frustrated note. My beloved french press coffee maker broke yesterday, forcing me to drag my feverish self (yeah, I'm sick) all the way downtown, in the snow, to find a new one. However, there were no french presses to be found. I searched all the little kitchenware shops near the Modiano market, I searched the upscale home furnishing shop, I searched Marks and Spencer's...I found nothing. Well, nothing except one thirty-three Euro french press at a fancy gourmet coffee place, followed by similar ones for 38, 42 and 115, respectively. I am hardly impoverished, but thirty-three Euros is a major purchase for me. I could buy thirty-three kilos of spinach for that amount of money. I could get my hair cut three times. I could take a trip somewhere interesting. Someone, please help me., I'm in dire, caffeine-addicted straits. Where can I find an affordable french press? And why aren't there any available? Is it because so many Greeks drink instant coffee? I just can't bring myself to drink instant. The Greeks have excellent taste and high standards in so many culinary matters, but their penchant for instant coffee is a sad exception.

Another One of Those Cat Updates, Plus A Random, Totally-Unrelated-To-Greece Digression

2006-02-03T05:27:00.000-05:00

So Brad, my coworker here in Greece, has created a podcast about his experiences. His most recent episode is an interview with me, all about my cat. (Some of you are shaking your heads and muttering things about my cat obsession right now. But the podcast was Brad's idea, I swear). It's really exciting. I'm on itunes! So is my cat! You can download it here:
http://feeds.feedburner.com/soundvoice

Also, while we are on the subject of things named 'Calypso', I'm going to reprint here the excellent first line of the book by that name, which happens to be part of Ulysses:

"Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls."

The reason I mention it is, well, the American Book Review published a list of the 100 best first lines in literature, (http://www.litline.org/ABR/100bestfirstlines.html) which got me thinking. The following are some of my favorite first lines. Congratulations to anyone who can identify them:

"This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it. "

"The summer my father bought the bear, none of us was born - we weren't even conceived: not Frank, the oldest; not Fanny, the loudest; not me, the next; and not the youngest of us, Lilly and Egg. "

"I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974."

"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it."

Of course, this is all very problematic, as I am separated from my book collection in New York, and separated from the library, as it is Sunday, so there are definitely many more excellent first lines that I would include if I had the chance to dig them up. Plus, it's very difficult to separate the quality of the first line from the quality of the book itself. There are a lot of really great books that have so-so first lines.

For example, take this one:

"On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge."

Well, OK, if you have so much as glanced at the title page of this particular novel, you know that murder and psychological intrigue and all sorts of exciting things are on the way. But if, for example, the young man crossed K. Bridge for a gallon of milk and cat food, and then went home to watch the Super Bowl, that particular sentence would never had made anyone's list of top first lines. At least, it wouldn't make my list. I don't care much for stories about milk purchasing and football.

And then there's this classic line, which is effective, memorable, thought provoking, and in my opinion, utterly untrue;

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

As for last lines, well, I'd like to see a top 100 list of those. It seems to be truth universally acknowledged that this is the best of all time, and I might just agree:

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

But I also really like this one:

"It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both."

A Tribute To Spanakopita

2006-02-01T04:53:00.000-05:00

I usually eat in the dining hall, where they have a never-ending supply of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and cabbage, plus oil, vinegar, bread, feta, and of course, meat. However, I sometimes reach the breaking point, where I just can't stand to see one more plate of the same stuff. So I branch out. A lot of times, branching out means pites.
Pites are not what they sound like to American ears. When I hear "pita", I think of the pocketed bread that you serve with hummus. In Greek, however, "pita" means "pie", as in a pie made of filo dough, stuffed with various things. The most popular ones are Tiropita, (cheese pie), and Spanikopita (spinach pie).
I had never heard of tiropita before I came to Greece, but I had definitely heard of spanikopita, in several contexts. First, there are a number of Greek and middle eastern places that serve it in New York. Second, the Grinnell Dining Hall used to serve it, and if you called the menu hotline, you could hear the dining hall lady announce, in her very American twang, that dinner was Spanako-PI-ta. It's really pronounced with the accent on the "KO", as spanaKOpita. This is a demonstration of the most important rule for English speakers learning Greek, which is as follows: Whenever you see a new word, read it aloud to yourself, paying close attention to the place where you, as an English speaker, naturally place the accent. Then put the accent somewhere else, because you are definitely wrong.
Anyway, spanakopita, in my opinion, is a useful food. You can eat it for breakfast, lunch or dinner, and it has vegetables (spinach), carbohydrates (dough), and sometimes protein (if you get the kind with cheese). Also, it usually has plenty of oil. In other words, it's a complete meal. Close enough, anyway. And it's readily available everywhere, from the Anatolia canteen to every other shop in the downtown area.
Of course, there are a number of places that sell Bougatsa, which is another Filo dough based pie food, also filled with spinach, cheese, creme and/or other assorted substances with varying degrees of nutritional value. A Greek friend tells me that pitas and bougatsa are very different. I personally cannot detect a major difference, but I'm going to take his word for it, since I have been known to fuss at length about the minor differences between New York pizza parlors, Indian Restaurants, or bagel stores. (Patsy's in East Harlem, the Jackson Diner in Jackson Heights and Absolut Bagels on 107th and Broadway beat everything else hands down, and that's all there is to it.)

What I Expected To Miss, But Don't

2006-01-23T06:16:00.000-05:00

There are some things I knew I was going to miss when I came to Greece, like the subway. There are also things that I didn't realize I was going to miss, like coffee to go. There are also things that I didn't expect to miss and don't miss at all, like the Bush administration. And finally, here are the things that I thought I would miss, but don't, as it turns out.

1) English as the Dominant Language
I was hanging out with some American students one night in December, and one of them mentioned that she wanted to share a cab home with me, because she found it difficult to deal with non-English speaking cabdrivers. "Funny," I thought, "I wonder why I don't really have a problem with cabdrivers that don't speak English?" Then I realized that I grew up in a place where the cabdrivers don't speak English...and neither do a significant portion of the inhabitants. Actually, between all the Greek English speakers and my bits and pieces of Greek, maybe I'm more likely to have common vocabulary with the people I meet here than I do back home in New York. I'm hardly fluent, but I'm functioning well enough to communicate in Greek when I need to...and the Greeks generally can communicate in English whether they need to or not.

2) American Movies
Although I would like some more afternoon showtimes, I have to applaud the Greeks for consistently using subtitles instead of dubbing. I suppose I could have gotten through King Kong in Greek; after all, most of the action involved giant creatures attacking one another in various combinations, and it's always useful to learn phrases like "Help, Help, a giant monkey!" in as many languages as possible. But Pride and Prejudice in Greek, well, that would be a wrench. Plus, subtitles actually do help me learn.

3) Casual Clothes
I expected Greek women to be all glamorous, fashionable and intimidating, and I expected to look like a total slob next to them. Well, they are, and I do, but I find that I really don't care much. They look better on the outside, but I don't smoke or wear heels, so I will definitely outrun everyone when the aforesaid giant monkey attacks us. Plus, I think it's too late for me to develop a reputation for style; not only would the kids be surprised, but I can picture everyone I know back home looking at me curiously as if to say "haven't you outgrown dress-up games by now?"

4) Being In School
I am, of course, still in school, as a both as a teacher type-person and a student-type person. However, I really thought I was going to miss being a full-time undergrad, with classes and papers to write and credits to accumulate. However, I must say, it's nice to have a breather. Especially since I can use my free time to do all the pleasure reading that I like, and I'm never up until 3am finishing assignments.

What I Miss

2006-01-22T12:22:00.000-05:00

Though Greece is consistently excellent, there are some things that I've been missing lately. Here they are, in no particular order. (Note: As this is intended to be a commentary on Greek vs. American/New York culture and lifestyles, all family, friends, pets, acquaintances, significant others, etc, are disqualified from inclusion herein.)

1) Non-Greek Food
Greece has a 98% Greek population. Thus, not only is the predominant culture Greek, but the less-than predominant culture is also mostly Greek, and there are not a huge selection of ethnic restaurants. I'd jump in the filthy Thermaic gulf for some pad thai or something. It doesn't even have to be something exotic; I ate a veggie burger with salsa the other day and it tasted better than ambrosia from Olympus.

2) Used Bookstores
Used bookstores are my favorite kind of store, hands down. Unfortunately, they are few and far between in Thessaloniki (at least, they are if you're looking for books in English).

3) Real Cold and Snow and Stuff
The Greeks are all wearing their down jackets and mittens and scarves, but it still feels like October to me.

4) Afternoon Movies
I saw the 6pm showing of Pride and Prejudice the other day, and it was definitely the early bird screening, with an audience that consisted of about fifty women over the age of fifty. I just don't understand it; why don't Greeks go to the movies before the night-time? I know things happen later around here, but surely some people still occasionally feel like watching a film sometime before dark? (Especially people that spend their evenings working with teenagers but still want to see the new Woody Allen film, dammit.)

5) Live Theatre
Of course they have live theatre in Greece. It's just, well, in Greek. So I haven't seen too much of it.

6) The New York Subway
It smells, it's crowded, gross, and costs two whole dollars, butit's fast, runs 24/7, doesn't get stuck in traffic and I love it dearly.

7) The Non-Smoking Section
In order to get my residence permit, I had to get a chest x-ray. As I handed my pictures over to the doctor at the public hospital, I couldn't help but think "Those have got to be cleaner than about ninety-nine percent of the lungs this guy sees on a daily basis." I really want to keep them that way, but I'm struggling. To be sure, there is, ocassionally, a place for non-smokers to sit...and it's often about two feet away from the smoking section.

8) Coffee To Go
I have a travel mug here, which I frequently carry with me as I'm on duty in the dorms. I was surprised to discover that this is an object of fascination to the kids; I've had about thirty separate students look at my mug with fascination and ask "what is that?" In Greece, see, there is no such thing as coffee on the run. Coffee time in Greece is when you sit down and relax, not when you caffeinate yourself into a frenzy. In theory, I like this, but in reality, I sometimes just want to take my coffee with me.

9) The Sunday New York Times
I really enjoy buying this on Saturday night and then devoting large portions of time to it the next day. I usually discard anything that involves cars, business, technology, read anything of interest in the magazine, News, City, Metro, Arts and Style sections, and devote the rest of the week to the crossword puzzle, which I will invariably have to abandon when I can't figure out the eight letter word for nocturnal Indonesian amphibian.

10) Weird People
Yeah, Greeks have their quirks. But I miss just plain weird people, the kind that roam the streets of Manhattan in their sock feet proclaiming that they are the Messiah, or the guy in Times Square who wears nothing but a cowboy hat and little white underpants with the words "Naked Cowboy" emblazoned across his butt. I miss the people in medieval costume fighting with foam rubber swords on the Grinnell Campus, and the weird guy down the hall who named himself after a tree. Maybe I ought to set an example, and do something outlandish. Ideas would be welcome.

And with that...it's started to snow. Wow. Maybe some Olympian god is granting all of my wishes. I'm going to stay right here and wait. Maybe there will be chicken korma for lunch...

Emily's Vacation, Episode III: Zeus, Isis, and the Beautiful Land of the Beans

2006-01-18T01:42:00.000-05:00

It seems that we made it to Turkey just in time. Yesterday's ekathimerini (the source of all Greek news in English) reports that Greeks have been advised not to travel to Turkey because of bird flu. I'm glad we made it before all of that happened, because Turkey was totally worth it.
However, the two days after Turkey were also quite memorable, so I'll relate all of that as well before I return to my usual life of posting about adolescents and cats.
After our return from Turkey, we spent an afternoon day relaxing, seeing the old town in Thessaloniki, and figuring out how to rent a car. The next morning, we headed off to Mount Olympus, and Dion. Dion is the ancient site of several shrines to various gods and goddesses. Actually, there used to be a whole city at Dion. Nowadays there is a museum there (which we did not spend much time in, as it was nearing closing time when we arrived) as well as the ruins.
I thought Dion as quite impressive. It reminded me of Pella to some degree, though I think I prefer Dion. Pella, the ancient center of Macedonia, is a nice site, but it is right off the highway, which makes it less stimulating for the imgination, in my opinion. Dion is a bit more atmospheric, in part because it is right below Mount Olympus. (see the picture above). My favorite part was the shrine to Isis, which I somehow failed to take any pictures of. It's half-sunk into a sort of pond, so you walk across a little bridge over the water through the ruins and look down, where you can see remains of the shrine just below the surface.
After Dion, we started driving up Mount Olympus, but we didn't make it very far, because the roads were all icy, as you can see from the following photo:

We did stop for some hot chocolate at the Stavros Refuge, which I assume operates as a sort of hostel place during climbing season, but was mostly a restaurant/cafe in the winter.
The next day was a slightly longer trip, up to the Prespa Lakes. The Prespas are rather secluded, and right up by the Albanian border. We set off rather late, at about 10am, and made our way through Giannitsa, where we stopped to pee, Pella, Edessa and Florina, which is a town to the north that the Rough Guide highly recommends and Lonely Planet is rather disparaging of. Personally, I really enjoy reading multiple guidebooks and often finding completely different perspectives on similar things. However, we didn't stay in Florina long enough for me to develop any lasting opinions of it.
We arrived at the Prespas in the early afternoon, and they were spectacular. I love snow, and I had been missing it dearly, so this was perfect. Take a look at this picture, and you'll understand why my sister proclaimed it to look "like Narnia!" At least, like Narnia if it had highways.
We drove through a very nice little town, the name of which I do not remember, although it seemed to have a lot of massive trucks passing through, and not a lot of space on the road for them to pass on. That was a little nervewracking. However, here's a picture of the place. I think it's quite a pretty one.

Finally reached the lakes themselves. They were simply gorgeous, tucked away between the snow-covered mountains. I can't believe I don't have pictures of the lakes themselves.
We stopped at a taverna in a town called Psaredes, right on the lake shore, where we drank tea and ate some very good fasolada, or bean soup. Fasolada is the specialty of the area, and every taverna seemed to have a big signout front advertising their soup. This was unusual, because for the most part, the Greeks don't seem to be big bean eaters. The dorm kids usually turn their nose up at fasolada when it is served in the dining hall, and one student in a class I subbed advised me to "go to taverna, but don't ever, ever try fasolada. Never!" I don't know what beans did to inspire so much distaste. I practically lived off of several varieties of bean soup last year when I was cooking for myself.
We left the Prespas before dark, so as to avoid those mountain roads at night, though we did swing past the Albanian border and briefly contemplate leaving the country for dinner. We eventually took a route back to Thessaloniki that went right through Kastoria, a lake front town that is named after the beavers that used to live there. Unfortunately, the beavers got turned into fur coats, and now Kastoria is the fur center of Greece. Every other shop seems to be selling fur coats. Since I need a fur coat even less than I need a Turkish carpet, I didn't do any shopping. Apparently the Russian Mafia shop there, though, and indeed, many fur stores advertise in Russian.
(Actually, I already have a fur coat. Well, it's something fur-like, anyway, and it was purchased on Halloween 2002 for only twelve dollars from the Rags to Riches consignment shop in Grinnell, IA. I really like it. My mom does not. She is probably going to go find it and throw it away as soon as this reminds her that it is sitting in my closet at home. The Russian mafia would probably not find it very impressive, but in its defense, I don't think any small animals died for it, unless there are synthetic mink running around somewhere.)
Unfortunately, once we got into Kastoria, we could not get out. We drove around for a good hour, looking for the exit ramp to the highway. We saw multiple fur shops in the process, as well as several streets over and over and over again. Finally, we somehow managed to get ourselves back on the highway and back to Thessaloniki, where I proceeded to get us completely lost once again, this time in pursuit of a taverna that I swear has moved at some point in the past few months.
And that concludes the chronicles of my vacation. Back to life...

My Vacation, Episode II: The Revenge of the Carpet Dealers

2006-01-11T11:03:00.000-05:00

Joe's departure was immediately followed by the arrival of my parents and sister a few hours later. After two days exploring Thessaloniki, we boarded the sleeper train to Istanbul, which was due to leave at 8pm and arrive the next morning at 8am. Here is a picture of my sister on the train. I am on the top bunk, as you can probably tell from the sight of my shoe dangling in her face. Hayley is knitting with some yarn purchased at the Thessaloniki market, and she calls this pose "the granny shot."
Although the beds provided were quite comfortable, the word "sleeper" did turn out to be something of a misnomer for several reasons. First, going to Turkey requires a lot of business at the border. At one point, at approximately 3am, my father was woken by some official of one nation or the other, and instructed to follow. He did so, in his socks, and ended up having to walk across the train tracks to a train station that he described as "probably the same station where they filmed that scene in Fiddler on The Roof where the daughter leaves for Siberia." There he purchased our tourist visas, from a man he described as "the guy in charge of filling the entire room with cigarette smoke."
Second, there was a prostitute in a nearby room, and she was making a lot of noise. I only heard a few brief interludes of noise, but my parents had the misfortune of being right next to her. Apparently, prostitution is legal in Turkey, although I don't think she waited until we had crossed the border to start business. So alright, I guess the word "sleeper" could accurately describe my train experience, but my parents were not so lucky.
We arrived in Istanbul the next morning at about 10am. The conductor said we were late because there was "a lot of traffic." I don't know why traffic would prevent a train from being on time, but I guess it doesn't really matter all that much.
We walked from the train station to our hotel in Sultanahmet, a very pretty old neighborhood which is packed with hotels of all sorts, from youth hostels to the Four Seasons. Actually, as it turns out, the Four Seasons Istanbul happens to inhabit the former prison building where the movie Midnight Express took place. I haven't seen the film, but for the rest of the trip, my mind conjured up images from The Shawhank Redemption every time I passed the place.
It was a nice walk, right past the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Unfortunately, we also passed about two hundred and ninety five carpet dealers, who saw us walking along with a suitcase in tow and immediately began their sales pitches. "You are from America?" they asked us. "Welcome to Paradise. You look so Turkish! Your daughter, she has a Turkish face! You need carpet? Come to my shop!" One man actually followed us for several blocks, offering to take us to his shop and to act as our tour guide. This deluge of salesmen was pretty much a constant presence for the next few days. They assaulted us in front of the Hagia Sophia, called to us from restaurants, begging us to come in, followed us to the Blue Mosque and waited for us as we exited, and tried to sell us postcards, hats, ceramics, meals, hotel rooms, and, of course, carpets. Every other person on the street was hawking carpets. I'm surprised the streets aren't carpeted in Istanbul.
Somehow we managed to push through the crowd of carpet salesmen to make our way to the Hagia Sophia, which is quite spectacularly beautiful. There was some reconstruction work going on inside, but it was still pretty stunning. The Hagia Sophia is a church now, although it was used as a mosque for a period of some time. It does however, inexplicably have giant decorative Arabic writing adorning the walls, and supposedly proclaiming the greatness of Allah, so it's not your typical church. I'm not exactly sure why this is the case (and even Lonely Planet didn't really clear it up for me). I would like to think that this was done in the spirit of inter-religious communication, tolerance, and general peace, love and happiness. Maybe that's the case. However, I'm also cynical enough to have my doubts about that hypothesis. Here's some pictures:

After the Hagia Sophia, we got accosted by a few more salesmen, ate lunch, got followed by a man who suggested that we come to his shop "because, you know, just by chance we might end up doing business!" and finally made our way into the Blue Mosque, which was also quite spectacular, though in a completely different way that Hagia Sophia. In fact, in some ways I think I found it even more impressive, probably in part because I haven't been in very many mosques before. Churches, I am familiar with; I've traveled a fair amount in Europe, and European travel almost always seems to involve at least several days of Going Inside Churches. Between my several months studying abroad in London, my family trip to Italy several years ago and my first four months in Greece, I have probably been inside more churches than all twelve apostles put together. I'm not complaining, mind you; in fact, I make a point of going inside Greek churches whenever possible, because I think they are generally quite beautiful. However, churches are not exactly new territory for me.

However, going inside a mosque was something new. None of the decorations show people or animals, because that is considered idolatry in Islam, so the entire inside of the huge dome was filled with beautiful elaborate abstract designs. The floor was carpeted, for prayer I assume (or maybe just because one of the carpet salesmen made a really good sales pitch to one Imam or another). I should have taken pictures, but I guess I was caught up in looking, so I didn't get around to it until that evening, when I took an exterior shot:

Those towers surrounding the dome are called minarets. The call to prayer comes five times daily, from various minarets of mosques around the city. The person who does the call to prayer is called a muezzin. I know all this because I took Major Western Religions at Grinnell, and I am sharing it with you just prove that sometimes a liberal arts education does come in handy. (It also proved very useful when I needed a name for my cat.)

As we left the Blue Mosque, we were met by the man who had suggested that we do business with him. That's right; he actually waited for us at the exit, and became slightly peevish when we refused to follow him to his carpet shop. However, no sooner had we left him behind than a new bunch of salesmen popped up. I discovered that a popular line is "Oh, you look so Turkish!" or "Hello, Turkish girl, come inside my shop!" Now, obviously these men did not really think we were Turkish, or they wouldn't have been speaking English. So I'm still wondering: would they have remarked on our uniquely "Turkish" appearance if we were blonde, blue-eyed Scandinavians?
After resting for a while at our hotel, we ventured out for dinner at 7:30 or so. This would be a laughably early mealtime in Greece, but Turks seem to eat earlier than Greeks. (Note: The Greeks eat late, and for the most part I have begun to do likewise. This was an easier adjustment for me than my move to college in Iowa, where they eat incredibly early. In fact, I suspect that Iowans and Greeks often eat dinner simultaneously, despite being eight time zones apart.) We went to a delicious restaurant called Hamdi, that has apparently been around for a long long time. It was quite good. Despite my usual avoidance of red meat, I even tried the meatballs and kebabs, which were delicious. Turkish food has some similarities to Greek food, but there are some marked differences as well: bread is big, puffy, and pita-like; pork is, of course, much less common; yogurt is less creamy and plainer, more like Indian raita than tzatziki; chick peas and hummus are far more common.
In fact, this would probably be a good time for me to comment on the many differences between Turkish and Greek restaurants. In Greece, even the simplest tavernas tend to b charming and atmospheric, with tablecloths and seats outside under tents or awnings. The kitchen is rarely visible to the customer, and the waiters are often relaxing and chatting over coffee and cigarettes, sometimes even when you wish they would come and take your order. You can walk into a Greek taverna and spend a number of minutes waiting for someone to come serve you. In Turkey on the other hand, you practically have to beat the waiters off with kebab sticks as you walk down the street, because they will persistently try to convince you to come into their restaurants. Once inside, (and you do usually sit inside, not outside like the Greeks) restaurants are often a bit more casual than tavernas, or at least a bit less old-fashioned in atmosphere. You can usually go up and look at the food before you order, which is nice. All in all, it was a welcome respite from Greek food, which I have been eating almost exclusively for the past four months.
Turkish and Greek coffee and desserts, it is worth noting, are almost completely the same. See my previous post for some details on that phenomenon. Basically, the Turks say the Greeks stole their stuff, and the Greeks say the Turks stole their stuff, and I really couldn't care less, as I come from a country where everyone steals everyone else's food all the time and what does it matter as long as it tastes good?
Day Two in Istanbul started a bit late, but we did make it to the Grand Bazaar by about noon. When I initially heard about the Grand Bazaar, I figured I might spend a few hours there, pick up a few souvenirs, and move on to other things. I like shopping, but I am not the sort of person who generally dedicates huge portions of time to buying things.
However, shopping in Istanbul is completely unlike any other shopping experience I have ever had. First of all, the Grand Bazaar is huge. It's this vast labyrinth of shops, bigger than some towns I've been in. They sell everything from jewelry and clothing to ceramics, spices, and chess sets. However, you can't just decide to buy something at the Grand Bazaar and hand over the money; you have to go through a whole complex process.

First of all, there are approximately several thousand shop owners crammed into one small area, and many of them are selling similar goods, so it's necessary to shop around in order to figure out who has the best prices. However, as far as I can tell, anyone who actually pays the price quoted to them by the shopkeeper is utterly naiive. They expect you to haggle with them. They even seem to want you to haggle with them. In some cases, they will haggle with you over prices whether you want them to or not.
For example, I wanted a Turkish tea cup or two. Turkish tea cups are these little glass cups with saucers and spoons that every other person on the street seems to be drinking from at any given time. They're rather distinctive looking and quite pretty, and you can buy whole sets of them in a variety of colors. I didn't want a whole set, though. I just wanted one. Or maybe two. I even found a merchant who was willing to sell them to me individually, but he wanted me to buy a whole set.
"I can't buy a whole set," I explained. "How will I ever take it home?"
"Look!" he said. "Two cups will cost ten lira. One set will only cost you thirty five lira. It is a much better deal."
"I know," I explained. I was completely in earnest. "But it's too big. I don't have room, I just want one or two cups..."
"Thirty!" he offered.
"I can't bring that whole box back to New York!" I exclaimed.
"Twenty-five!" he offered.
This went on and on until, big surprise, I ended up with an entire set of Turkish tea cups, spoons and saucers for what did seem to be a very good price, although there's really no way to be sure. If I put it in my suitcase the airline will probably charge me several hundred Euro for extra baggage. But the haggling was fun, anyway. Especially since Turkish shopkeepers tend to be very entertaining; I guess being personable is part of the job description. They call out to you every time you walk past their stall or stop even momentarily to glance at their goods; "Come inside!" they call, "How can I help you spend your money? Have a look at my garbage; it's cheaper than K-mart!" If you direct your attention to any specific object, they will immediately start extolling its virtues and explaining that they can give you "good price, very good price, just for you." When my father explained for approximately the two hundredth and seventieth time that he did not need a carpet, the salesman answered "Of course! Nobody need carpet!", but of course explained why he should buy one anyway.

By the way, one Turkish lira is equal to approximately seventy five American cents, or sixty-some Euro cents. One Turkish lira used to be equal to approximately one-millionth of an American cent, but I guess they got sick of all of those zeroes and decided to change things.

By the end of the day at the Grand Bazaar, I had a new pashmina, a new dress, some shoes, tea, and some Turkish teacups, but thankfully no carpets. My entire family trudged back to our hotel to rest, and several hours later trudged out again for dinner at a restaurant known for its excellent Imam Bayaldi (that's eggplant stuffed with other vegetables).

Now, here's a question; what happens if you're a guy who's not really into monogamy, and you'd prefer to have a large number of women at your disposal rather than stick with just one? Well, if you go to Grinnell College, you get your name scrawled in ballpoint pen under the "List of Sketchy Guys" in the basement bathroom of the library. But if you are a member of the Turkish Sultan several centuries back, you get a really gorgeous house, a large number of wives and concubines that your mother looks after, and a bunch of Eunuch servants to boot.

This is Topkapi Palace, or more specifically, the Harem of Topkapi Palace. It costs extra to go inside, you have to take a guided tour, and it's not exactly a monument to progressive thinking in regards to gender. However, it is quite spectacular. I'd say that I want to move right in, but that makes my inner feminist cringe and squirm and yell things. So I'm not moving in. But I took a hell of a lot of pictures.

Above is an entry hall and a courtyard where the concubines were presented to the sultan. Below, there's me next to a big fireplace, and some beautiful tiles from some region of Turkey known for its tiles. It might be called Iznik. But I'm not sure.

After the Palace we decided that we were sick of Europe, so we went to Asia for lunch. No kidding. You can do that in Istanbul. All you have to do is get on the ferry, which costs a mere one lira, and within fifteen minutes, you are in Asia. We went to a region known as Uskudar, which is not frequently visited by tourists. It's rather traditional, with a fairly large portion of women wearing headscarves. It was quite a nice change from the tourist-filled streets of Sultanahmet. I was amused by the large number of schoolkids hanging around gossiping over what looked like new report cards. I also spent some time drooling over the delicious fruits and vegetables at the market, and the pistachios. I don't know what's up with those Turkish pistachios, but they are way better than American pistachios ever dreamed of being.
Here is a picture of our Asian lunch. Well, at least, these were the offerings available to us. We did not actually eat all of things in this picture, though we may have been able to if we had really put our minds to it.

After lunch and some wandering through Uskudar, we headed back to Europe, took a brief detour through the spice market...

...and purchased some Turkish Delight from the store that supposedly invented the stuff. I know that I have been somewhat ambivalent about Turkish Delight in the past, but I am keeping an open mind and perhaps I will be delighted after all when I actually get around to opening my box of assorted delights. The pistachio samples they had were really quite excellent, I must say.
And then, sadly, we left Istanbul on the 8pm train. The evening trip was actually quite peaceful this time; there did not appear to be any illicit activity taking place in close proximity to us, and the Greek government let me back in the country without any hassling, which was very nice of them. Well, they did come inside our room and look around, supposedly for customs purposes, but it did not take very long. It was rather brief, actually; I probably could have had several pounds of illegal substances stashed in various corners of the room, and I doubt that anyone would have noticed. However, I didn't, so all is well, although it did take us longer to get back to Thessaloniki than it took my parents to get there from New York. Maybe there was traffic. I really don't know.
And thus I conclude my Turkish Adventure. Perhaps soon I will update again with Vacation Episode III: Olympus, Dion, and the Prespa Lakes.

The Past Two Weeks...

2006-01-10T10:06:00.000-05:00

...have been filled with adventure, romance, wonder, celebrations, scandal, cross-c0ntinental travel and more food than I thought it was possible to consume in a month, let alone a few weeks.

I'll start at the beginning, which was approximately December 24th, when Joe, my boyfriend, arrived in Thessaloniki. In fact, here's a picture of the two of us on the waterfront. I actually asked a complete stranger to take our picture, and she did so without running off with my camera, a fact for which I am very grateful. (Perhaps it's because I am from New York, but I am very neurotic about that sort of thing.)
We spent most of the next few days hanging around, wandering through downtown, and sitting in tavernas where I ordered different kinds of Greek food and made Joe try them. As a matter of fact, I would estimate that 85% of December 26th was spent in various restaurants, from the creperie where we had breakfast, the souvlaki place where we sat for two hours at lunchtime, to the waterfront cafe where we had afternoon tea and hot chocolate, and the taverna where we had dinner with some fellow Grinnellians. It wasn't our intention to spend the entire day in restaurants, it just sort of happened, mostly because we discovered that all of the non-culinary establishments were still closed for the holiday and it was a bit rainy. Actually, I think that spending multiple hours lingering over food and hot drinks is a very authentically Greek way to spend a day.
Joe eventually tried pretty much everything I suggested, including retsina, tzatziki, ktipiti (cheese salad), shrimp saganaki (even though the shrimp still had their heads on), domlmadakia (stuffed grape leaves), and a whole bunch of other things. He did not, however, try octopus. I wanted to order it for him, but I managed to come down with some sort of awful fever on the day that I had planned a trip to the seafood taverna, and so we ate noodle soup instead. I did however, show him the octopus for sale at the fish market, which is rather an interesting sight if you've never seen fresh octopus for sale before.
Unfortunately, I could not get him to eat the octopus by washing it down with his favorite alcoholic beverage, as Scruffy American and Enorkos suggested, because Joe doesn't particularly like any alcohol. He just doesn't like the taste. I tried to explain this concept to one of my Greek friends, and he was rather stunned. "You mean, he just drinks wine sometimes?" he asked. "No, I explained. "He really just doesn't drink." My friend looked at me as though I had said "He doesn't like to breathe." I was trying quite hard to hold back my laughter. Alcohol is much more a part of everyday life here.
I was also going to plan a trip to Pelion for us- Pelion is a peninsula in Central Greece which is, I hear, quite lovely this time of year. However, we were slowed down a bit by my fever, as well as the fact that most of Thessaloniki was closed for much of Joe's first few days here. This might be a good time for me to comment on the fact that I never know when the hell things in Greece are going to be open. I'm finally used to the fact that things close for a long afternoon break between 2ish and 5ish. I don't necessarily love that system, since afternoons are, more often than not, the times I have free. I have adjusted, though, and I no longer try to go shopping at 4pm. However, I did not realize that everything would be closed on the day after Christmas, nor did I realize that the buses would run on Christmas but not on New Year's Eve. Oh well. We did make it all around Thessaloniki eventually, including several walks up to the old town, trips to several museums, several trips to my favorite taverna in Athonos Plaza, a walk up to a nearby suburb on a hill, which had some lovely views (unfortunately my camera stopped working that day) and one rather sickly trip to the local masoutis (Greek grocery chain) to buy a thermometer and soup ingredients.
We did take a brief trip to Edessa, which turned out to be quite a lot of fun. Edessa is a town about an hour and a half away from Thessaloniki, and they have very nice waterfalls, and quite a pretty old town. They also have some massive dogs that will follow you around until you manage to convince them that you don't have food. That is quite common in Greece, actually; this whole country seems to be filled with stray dogs, who are almost always massive, docile, friendly, and will follow you wherever you go unless you manage to lose them or pawn them off on someone else. Brad and I were once followed by two big dogs who actually waited outside for several hours while we were at our friend Will's place.

Anyway, here are some pictures from Edessa. It's up on a sort of plateau, so the view is quite nice, especially at sunset. We found a tiny little church from the 14th century there, and a little tiny cave behind the waterfall. We also found the train station, but that was mostly because I got lost on our way to the waterfalls.

Coming Soon to a Blog Near You is Week Two: Emily and her family in Istanbul

Where Am I? Turkey

2006-01-04T10:12:00.000-05:00

Churches have been replaced by mosques and Greek letters have been replaced with Turkish and Arabic writing. Charmingly insistent men keep following us around and trying to sell us carpets. Across the Bosphorus is Asia. Cats wander through the streets and nap in the Hagia Sophia under stained glass shadows. Tourists wander in socks across the elaborate carpets of the Blue Mosque, marveling at the breathtaking dome while carrying their shoes in plastic bags.
Plastic forms in store windows wear skimpy sequined belly dancing outfits, but women are wearing head scarves. There are still more men trying to sell us those damn carpets, calling out as we pass "Hey, where are you from? You look Turkish! Welcome to Paradise! Come to my store, best prices, very good prices!"
The sleeper train was kind of like the Hogwarts Express except for the prostitute two doors down who was noisy but still better than dementors. You can hear the call to prayer resounding over the city every few hours, a fact which I find thrilling, despite my father's reminders that a similar thing can be heard in parts of Queens. Overall, I am enjoying myself immensely, and I will post a more thorough update once I have explored this place more fully.

Oh, and the reasons I have been absent from blogger include the holidays, visits from my boyfriend, my parents and my sister, and the fact that I have been out and about, seeing Greece and now Turkey, wandering through Thessaloniki, and being thoroughly unsuccessful in getting Joe to eat octopus (though he did try everything else, including the retsina, which made him cough and exclaim, quite appropriately 'It tastes like a tree!")

Greek and Turkish Delights

2005-12-14T09:47:00.000-05:00

In honor of Christmas, the Ottoman Empire and the upcoming theatrical release of The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe, (which is mostly upcoming to me because it has not been released in Greece yet) I feel that it would be appropriate to say a few words about Turkish Delight. I think most Americans really only think of Turkish Delight when they think about the Chronicles of Narnia. In fact, I would venture to say that most Americans don't actually have a clue what Turkish Delight actually is, but they are generally excited about it anyway, since they know it as the candy that lured Edmund Pevensie away from his family and into the cruel clutches of the White Witch. Any candy that causes a person to forsake their entire family for a second bite has got to taste pretty good, right?
Well, the author of this article (http://www.slate.com/id/2131903/nav/tap1/) really doesn't think so. Actually, whenever I see the stuff I think back to my middle school theatre days, when I played Susan in a local production of The Lion, etc, and the entire cast tried the stuff, only to declare it thoroughly unworthy of all that fuss. Personally, I do not have any particular malice toward Turkish Delight, but if a witch offered me a box of whatever kind of candy I wanted, that's not the first thing that would come to mind. I agree with the person who commented that, basically, it's just not chocolate.
In case you are not familiar with this particular confection, it's a sort of jelly-like substance, flavored with almond extract or rose water, and covered in powdery sugar. So really, it's sugar covered sugar, and it looks something like this photo here. I bought this stuff at the market, where, much to my amusement, it happened to be labeled "Greek Delight." I guess that's fair enough- the Turks conquered Greece for all of those years, and in exchange, the Greeks tried to conquer Turkish candy.
True, it's not really worth forsaking your siblings for, unless your siblings happen to be a real bunch of losers. But honestly, if I'm willing to suspend my belief long to enough to accept that a little boy walked through a closet into a magical land where the wildlife talks, I'm willing to accept that he also liked Turkish Delight better than chocolate.
Also, I think there's a uniquely gross feeling that one acquires from eating too much sugar, and that's sort of how I imagine Edmund feeling after eating all of the witch's candy; just saturated in sugar, but not quite full in any satisfying way. Chocolate can actually fill you up, but Turkish Delight just turns your bloodstream into syrup.

If you're not a fan of the Narnia books, perhaps because you can't overlook all of that Christian allegory, or because you find them a bit old fashioned, I've got another childhood literary reference for you. I grew up loving The Enchanted Forest chronicles, by Patricia Wrede. They were a lot funnier than the Narnia books, and a little more modern (The Princess knew sword fighting and decided to live with the dragons rather than marry the dope who was her betrothed.) The reason I mention these is as follows: in Book One, Dealing With Dragons, the king of the dragons is poisoned when someone slips deadly dragonsbane into his Turkish coffee. I believe one of the characters comments on the poisoning with statement along the lines of "It's easy to poison Turkish coffee. That stuff will take the roof off of your mouth."

Well, Turkish coffee exists in abundance here, but it has been renamed, you guessed it, Greek coffee. And no, it won't actually take the roof off of your mouth, but it is strong. So strong, in fact, that the coffee grounds are right there in your coffee cup, and when you finish, there is a little pile of coffee sludge at the bottom. It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "cup of mud". Apparently, some people tell fortunes with coffee grounds in the same manner that others read tea leaves. (Like professor Trelawney in the Harry Potter books, which brings my number of children's literature references up to three for this post alone!) I know that's not a very appetizing way of describing it, but actually, it's good stuff. I like it. It's made in a pot called a μπρικι, or a Briki, a word that I know because 'Making Greek Coffee" was a recent lesson in my Greek class. It's then served in a tiny little cup, just about the size of an espresso cup. I don't have a picture right now, but next time I drink some Greek coffee, I'll be sure to bring my camera. And I'll watch out for potential assassins.

Speaking of food, Greece has gorgeous, delicious pomegranates. I have been gorging myself on them, trying to get my fill before they go out of season. They are so good, even though they stain my kitchen counter, sink, and hands a bright reddish color, which of course leads to my hands staining other things, like the handle to my refrigerator and my jeans. But pomegranates are worth it. Persephone ate six pomegranate seeds and had to stay in Hades for six months out of the year. If eating pomegranates requires you to stay in the place that grew them, I will be be in Greece forever and ever. As a matter of fact, it was several days after I started eating pomegranates when I was informed that I am not legally permitted to leave the Schengen states until I get my residence permit. Maybe it's some god or goddess, getting their revenge on me for something or other.

If I were a cat, I could have an EC Passport

2005-12-08T09:07:00.000-05:00

And the latest news from Hellenic territory is....
I have a cat. She's damn cute. See?

I didn't intend to get a cat, but she wandered into the dorm one night, and all the kids loved her, and she is quite tiny and helpless, so I just didn't have the heart to send her back out into the cold. I would take her for a few days, I figured, or maybe a few weeks, and then let her outside again. Or maybe I would find a real home for her with someone at Anatolia. In any case, I bought some cat food, and some kitty litter and christened my friend Calypso, in honor of a) James Joyce, who wrote the best description of a cat that I have ever read in a book of Ulysses by the same name, and b) Calypso the nymph of the Odyssey, who was so seductive that she kept Odysseus on her island for nine years when he was supposed to be going home. It's an appropriate name, I decided, because she's a damn seductive cat, as evidenced by the fact that she is now living in my (previously much cleaner and quieter) apartment.

Then I emailed pictures of the cat to my sister, a lifelong animal lover, who announced that she was head over heels in love, and that I must find a way to bring my new roommate back to the States with me after my time in Greece is up. "I am doing research," she explained to me on the phone the other day. "Research on pet immigration laws. I contacted the Greek consulate about restrictions on moving cats from Greece to the US, and whether quarantine is required. They should email me back soon."
"Ah," I said, "Good. You should get a response from them sometime in, oh, June maybe..."
"But I just emailed them now" she explained again. "I already asked them."
"Right." It was the phone version of a nod-and-smile. I have had enough dealings with various Greek administrative offices to know that one must try to communicate at least two or three times before any questions are answered. Sometimes you have to try two or three times before you can even find a person who will admit that it is, in fact, their job to help you. And email is utterly useless; most Greeks seem to regard it as a newfangled curiosity that should never be used for actual communication, especially not if there is a cell phone available. My sister, I figured, would never, ever, not in a million years, get a response from anyone living within twenty blocks of the Greek consulate. She would have better luck discussing immigration with the actual cat.

Yesterday she emailed me. "I have been exchanging emails for a while with someone at the Greek consulate," she said. "They say that Calypso doesn't have to be quarantined. Can I bring her home?"

Just the other day I sat chatting over coffee with some study abroad students from Marymount Manhattan, bonding over our mutual love for Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown and stories about red tape at the New York Greek consulate. (I was definitely given three different versions of the student visa requirements). Two weeks ago, Brad and I went on a wild goose chase through Thessaloniki just to figure out how to pay our required tax fee - I mean, we each had one hundred and fifty Euros to fork over the government, and we couldn't even find anyone willing to take it. To top it all off, Residence permits take so long to be processed that they have almost invariably expired before they are issued, which means that I'm technically not supposed to travel outside the Schengen states for the next eight months to a year. I hear that Greek citizens need a visa if they travel to the US for a vacation, and apparently they can be tough to obtain.

However, my sister emails the consulate about a cat, and not only are they are suddenly communicative and helpful, (not just one email, but multiple emails) but the cat is allowed to go wherever she wants, red tape free. All she needs to travel, according to a friend who is bringing a cat home next week, is a health certificate and a "kitty passport" which costs ten Euros and identifies the bearer as a resident of the European Union. No kidding. What the hell is going on here? Is that why things take so long in Greece? Because people are devoting their time to cat passports?

That said, we have not determined that Calypso is actually coming to the US, we just know that it's legally a possibility. I'm not so sure that my current cats in New York would be thrilled to have a new friend. (And, as exactly thirty seven people have pointed out to me "they wouldn't be able to understand her! She probably meows in Greek! haha!") However, one thing is quite sure- this is one lucky cat. One week ago she was wandering through the cold of the Anatolia campus, and now she has food, clean water, warmth, an international fan club and no travel restrictions.

2005-11-30T08:51:00.000-05:00

Let me say a few words about language.

In Greek, a 'P' sounds like an 'R', an 'X' sounds kind of like an 'H', a 'B' sounds like a 'V', a 'v' is a lowercase "N', an 'n' is a lowercase 'H' that makes an 'e' sound, a 'u' is a lowercase 'Y', 'w' and 'o' are two different kinds of like a lowercase 'O', a 'D' sound is a combination of the "N' sound (which sometimes looks like a 'v') and a 'T,' a 'B' sound is a combination of 'M' and the Greek 'P' (but remember, the English 'P' makes an 'R' sound) and 'J' does not exist and is replaced entirely with 'TZ'.

People say that once you've learned one foreign language, it becomes easier to learn others. People told me that taking Latin would prove useful one day, because it would help me to learn some of those other languages. Well, Latin is useful. Very useful- when I'm doing Sunday crossword puzzles, or on those frequent occasions when I need to ask Quintus if I can borrow his catapult. Unfortunately, Latin is not really so useful when it comes to learning Greek. I guess this should not surprise me; the Ancient Greeks and Romans were very different in many respects. But didn't the Romans sort of appropriate lots of Greek culture, you know, classical sculpture and all of that? Why couldn't they have appropriated more of the Greek language along the way? It would make my life easier.

But maybe they did...after all, Spanish is one of those romance languages that evolved from Latin somewhere along the line, and there are some similar words in Spanish and Greek. For example, in Spanish, "aqui" means "here." The Greek "ekei", which sounds exactly the same, means "there." Spanish has words like "que" and "y", which sound exactly like the Greek "kai" and "H" (that sounds like "eee", remember the spelling lesson I just gave you?). Unfortunately, in Spanish, "que" means "that" and "Y" means "and," while in Greek "kai" means "and" and "H" is a feminine article that I can never quite put in the right place even without the dusty remnants of high school Spanish appearing uninvited from the file cabinet in the back of my brain where they have been mouldering for the past five years.

Speaking of my luckluster Spanish skills, I certainly hope that I am never called upon to use them again, because they have become hopelessly muddled and hybridized as of late; I can't even get through a simple "uno, dos, tres" without experiencing the urge to throw in a δυο or a τρια. All my foreign languages just become one big blob, like paint spilled by El Greco. Or Paella with octopus. Or just one big blob.

And to top it all off, "Ναι", pronounced "Nay", which sounds like "no" in pretty much every European language including Louxembourgish (go ahead- look it up), means "yes" in Greek.

Dead Monks, Dead Frogs, "The Dead"

2005-11-21T02:59:00.000-05:00

This weekend I decided to go along on a field trip to Meteora and Ioannina with some study abroad students. I admit that I was a little hesitant about this, since I usually prefer not to travel in a huge group of Americans. However, it all turned out really well. The whole thing was organized by two professors (one a Grinnell alum!) who knew their way around, which meant that I got lost a lot less than I usually do in new places, and I also got to see a lot more, since it's convenient to have a bus always waiting to shepherd you around.
Meteora is apparently the "second most important group of monasteries in Greece." I don't know why I put that phrase in quotes, since I'm not strictly quoting anything, but it is something that I've read in various places. The first most important group of monasteries in Greece is Mount Athos, where I am not allowed due to my lack of a y-chromosome. That's right- only men are allowed on Athos. In fact, female farm animals are not even allowed on Athos.
However, women are allowed to visit monasteries at Meteora, which is good, because at least one of the monasteries is actually a monastery for women. (I don't really know the difference between a monastery for women, a nunnery and a convent. I also don't know the difference between female monks and nuns. Maybe there is no difference.) All of the monasteries at Meteora are built way high up on big cliffs. The entire area is full of these huge rocks that are jutting out of the ground. Many of them are full of these strange looking holes. Apparently, the whole area was underwater many years ago, and somehow the water helped create all of this. I don't really understand it, but it is awesome. (Awesome in the real sense of the word, not in the "if you could pass the ketchup, that would be awesome" sense.) Here are some pictures, and they will show you exactly what I mean:

See? Awesome. We actually visited two of these monasteries (There used to be 21 of them, but now there are only six still in operation.) The first was the monastery of St. Stephan, and it's the aforementioned women's monastery. The church inside, of which I did not take pictures (I did not want to make any nuns mad at me) was painted in absolutely beautiful, vivid, detailed frescoes. Of course, some of them were pictures of people being thrown into hell and eaten by dragons, or demons coming to drag people away, or various holy people having various unpleasant experiences. However, they were some of the most beautiful paintings of hellish demons and painful death scenes that I have ever seen.

I should also mention the dress code. Visitors to the monastery are required to dress modestly; ie, no tanks tops, no shorts, and skirts below the knee for all women. Since most women tourists don't arrive in long skirts these days, the monastery provides them for everyone, so you get to walk around looking very fashionable, like this:

Here's something interesting about monastic life; it follows a completely different daily schedule than the usual one. The monks (regardless of gender) go to bed when the sun goes down, get up at 2am to pray for eight hours, eat their main meal of the day, work for eight hours, and then go to bed. It doesn't sound like a whole lot of fun to me, but I guess fun isn't really the point. I'll admit that I spent some time puzzling over the fact that I knew I had read something about monks getting up at 2am, and I couldn't for the life of me remember where. Finally, I realized it was this passage from "The Dead":

"He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two in the morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they did it for...The coffin, said Mary Jane, is to remind them of their last end.”

Well, James Joyce was right about one thing; monks do get up at 2am. I'm pretty sure they speak, though, since they talked to us when we paid our admission fees. I don't know if they sleep in coffins; they didn't let me see their bedrooms. (Besides, there are a few differences between Irish Catholic monks and Greek orthodox monks). However, this picture, taken at the second monastery we visited, is definite proof that they try to be reminded of their "last end" on a daily basis. Look at this:

These are skulls of dead monks. Apparently, after three years of being buried, the dead monks are dug up, their bones cleaned with wine, and put on display to remind the current, living monks of their own mortality.
We also saw a sort of monk dining hall (is it called a refectory? I don't remember) filled with wooden tables and benches. Monk's food is very simple, but it is also rumored to be very good. However, all monks are required to eat in the short period of only ten or twenty minutes, while psalms are being read. This is to prevent them from enjoying their food too much, since food is an earthly pleasure, and should only be for the sustainment of life, not pleasure. To be perfectly honest, I have a hard time believing this. This is Greece, after all. It takes most Greeks several hours to finish a cup of coffee. The enjoyment of food is practically the national pasttime. How could any Greek, even an exceptionally pious one, give that up for ten minute meals? I guess it all comes down to the fact that I won't be joining a monastery anytime soon.

However, there are those people for whom monastic life is, apparently, not difficult enough. These people have apparently been known to take up residence in the holes in the mountain rocks, to live a life of solitude. There are even some holes with remnants of wall paintings in them, because the inhabitant decided to decorate their home. However, these people appear to be a dying, if not entirely dead, breed, possibly because, well, to me it looks like it would be very easy to roll out of those little holes in one's sleep. Take a look:

Anyway, after we left the monasteries and removed our skirts, we got back on the bus and headed to Ioannina. The road from Meterora to Ioannina snakes through the mountains on tiny little roads that go perilously close to steep drop-offs. It is positively gorgeous, though you do feel like you are going to die through most of the trip. I spent all four hours with my nose plastered to the window, watching the mountains go by, colored yellow and orange from the fall foliage. I would have taken pictures, but if you've ever tried to take pictures from a bus window, you know it's pretty much a pointless endeavor. You can choose the perfect shot, but by the time you actually click the shutter the bus has invariably just driven by some power lines or a huge tree, and you get a blurred picture of these obstacles, with some extra glare from the reflection of the flash on the window. It's just maddening.

We arrived in Ioannina after about four hours, which included a stop at a truck stop, where everyone was sitting at little tablecloth-covered tables drinking wine and eating platefuls of food. (I'm telling you, the Greeks are not ten minute meal people. You can't even buy canned soup in the supermarket. I can just image the horrified reaction that Kraft macaroni and cheese would elicit.)

Ioannina is a lovely little city on a big lake, which is unusual, since Greece doesn't have many lakes. The people of Ioannina take full advantage of their lake, however; they use it for frogs. Yup, frog legs are the specialty of Ioannina. About six of us decided to order a plate of them at dinner, probably mostly so that we could take pictures and put them on our blogs. Here's what frog legs look like:

And, in case you were wondering, they really do taste kind of like chicken. They look like frogs, but they taste like chicken. I think that next time I am craving something that tastes like chicken, I will choose something that does not look like frog. But hey, I guess that if you're really freaked out about bird flu, frog could be one alternative. Or maybe if you're a monk and don't want to enjoy your food, you could just order food that looks like frogs.

Here I must pause to drift off on a tangent about culture differences. Since arriving in this country, Brad and I have spent most of our time with Greeks and Americans who are already quite integrated into the Greek way of life. So it was somewhat amusing to find myself thrust back into a group of Americans who are more, well, American. Most notably, I find that meals suddenly became very different affairs. First off, though America college students are generally quite fond of alcohol, they choose to go drinking after dinner, and drink vodka, rum, or tequila in outrageously priced cockails. (I cannot bring myself to pay seven Euros for drink. I just can't do it.) However, when they sit down to a meal, they don't drink at all. This is completely opposite to the Greek way of life: Greeks will never sit down to a full meal without some form of alcohol; retsina, wine, ouzo, and tsipouro all tend to appear on the table at a taverna with the same regularity as salt and pepper. However, Greeks also tend to stop drinking before they become belligerent or start to vomit, possibly because legal alcohol doesn't have the same quality of novelty to someone who's been able to drink legally since birth. I can't help but feel that the US has kind of screwed up when it comes to dealing with alcohol issues.

The next morning we all took a trip to the castle inside Ioannina, where they have several museums and a beautiful view of the mountains.
A Turkish leader named Ali Pasha lived in Ioannina some several hundred years ago, and he is buried within the walls of the castle, in something that looks vaguely like an ornate bird cage. Apparently, his mistress was drowned in the lake sometime in the early nineteenth century. I'm going to have to do a little bit more research on that, since I'm once again not clear on the details.

And, finally, we stopped at a cave on the way back, where we were treated to a long tour and some beautiful views of stalactites and stalagmites. I'll let you see this for yourself, and now I'm going to go plan our Thanksgiving celebration.

The Communists are coming.

2005-11-17T04:01:00.000-05:00

Damn. It's the first night in a long time that I'm not working, and I have a lot of errands to run, and I'd like to go to a movie, but I can't go downtown. Why? Because the Communists are protesting.
See, about thirty-some years ago, Greece stopped being a dictatorship and became a democracy, and it all happened on November 17th, when some students from the Polytechnic University had an uprising. Unforunately, that military dictatorship was backed by the US, because the Americans saw it as a safer alternative than Communism.
Nowadays, the 17th is a holiday in memory of the students who died in the uprisings. It's also a day when all of the Communists (and there are quite a few here, apparently) take the streets and protest, because they believe that this should be their day - that it should be a Communist holiday. I'm not so clear on the specifics, but from what I hear, they generally don't have warm feelings towards Americans on this day.
So I guess I'm staying in, though I'd really kind of like to go see what's happening downtown. Oh well. Maybe I'll sit here and yell at my Woody Guthrie poster instead. That would be a safer way of confronting the communists, though not quite as interesting.

Anyway, here are some pictures to give you some insight into the radical political scene in Greece:

This second one isn't really relevant, as it's Anarchist graffiti, not Communist graffiti. However, I thought it was sort of funny. I hear that the Anarchists often leave funny graffiti around town, but I unfortunately fail to understand it most of the time, as it is usually in Greek. My friend Will tells me that they sometimes scrawl the Greek word for "ballot box" on the trash cans.

Subbing 2: The Revenge

2005-11-15T08:33:00.000-05:00

No, not really. Actually, it was a great day. I subbed two classes: the first was an extremely quiet and obedient seventh grade class. Once again, we talked about the first Thanksgiving, and I described maple syrup, although it was a short class period so I decided not to hand out samples this time around.
My second class was a group of ninth graders. The head of the English Department suggested that I play some games with them, or come up with some fun non-academic activities. I had several games in mind, including twenty questions, dictionary, etc. However, they all wanted to play a game they called "Name Animal Plant", which involves choosing a letter and coming up with words that start with that letter in a variety of categories. First was J, and I got a number of interesting replies, including "Jailbird" for the animal category, "Junk food" for the food category, and "Justin Timberlake" for pretty much every category.
Next was 'Q'. They had a hard time with this letter, because, well, it's a tough one. The two girls sitting in front of me spent several minutes struggling to find a country or city beginning with Q. They kept suggesting Cuba.
"How about Queens?" I said. They looked confused. "It's a part of New York," I explained.
"Are you from New York?" the girl asked.
"Yup," I answered. "I'm from New York."
At this, a general shriek of excitement emanated from the student body, and followed by a grinding screech as about twenty adolescent girls dragged their desks forward until they touched mine.
"Have you seen famous people?" they all demanded.
"A few," I said. I was tempted to tell them about the conversation I had with David Sedaris, since that is probably the most exciting famous person encounter that I've had, but I knew they were talking about movie stars. I told them a few stories about the summer I spent working at the Delacorte Theatre in Central Park. They went crazy when they heard that I had actually seen Natalie Portman and Meryl Streep, but I had to explain that I had just seen them, not actually talked to them.
"Have you met Brad Pitt?" one kid asked me.
"Nope," I said.
"Why not?" he demanded, as though he were under the impression that Brad Pitt just hangs out in Central Park shaking hands.
"Uh, " I said, "Uh..I'm not sure. He just doesn't really come around visiting, you know?"
"How about Nicole Kidman?"
"Nope," I said. "I've never met her."
"Have you been on TV?"
"Well, kind of." I explained about how I've been briefly on camera a few times, but I think they expected me to say that I had guest starred on
Friends or something.
"Have you met George Bush?"
"No, and I really don't want to."
"You don't like George Bush?"
"No, not at all!"
"Do you like the Chicago Bulls?"
"I really don't follow basketball..."
"Do you like Greece? Do you like Greek food? What's your favorite movie? Who is your favorite actress? Do you know my second cousin who lives in New York? Have you ever been to Hollywood?" The questions kept coming, and despite the fact that I was giving some really dull answers, they were all hanging on my every word. At the end of the class period, I had four girls ask for my email address so they could show me around Thessaloniki. It was quite adorable, and very strange. I'm back in high school, but I am definitely way more popular this time.

Inspected, Injected, Detected, Neglected, etc.

2005-11-09T09:21:00.000-05:00

Wow, it's been a long time since I last updated. Well, there have been a number of things keeping me busy, most notably my quest to be legal in Greece.
Last week Brad and I found out that we are required to apply for residence permits before our three month student Visas expire. That gives us aout three weeks to finish a gigantic, massive ugly stack of paperwork. We've got to have proof of financial support, and proof of our citizenship in the US, and proof of insurance and proof that we are students, and proof that we are healthy, and then to top it all off, we've got to pay the government 150 Euros.
Most of these documents can be easily required by speaking to the right people at Anatolia, who then provide us with letters in Greek that hopefully say what they are supposed to say (this can be a little tricky; yesterday I managed to translate one of these letters and discovered that it did not, in fact, say the right thing.)
However, by far the most unpleasant part of the process thus far has been the trip to the hospital that Brad and I took yesterday.
We arrived at 8:40 for an 8:45 appointment. We waited in one waiting room until a nurse escorted us to another waiting room, and then, half an hour later, to a long line snaking out of an office door. Although we had no idea what we were actually waiting for, Brad and I got on line. About twenty minutes after that, we finally made our way into the office, where we discovered that the people in the office didn't speak English. We did manage to communicate our names and personal information, however, and we were sent to wait in yet another line down the hall. The people at the end of this line were all going into a little room and coming out of the little room with swabs of cotton pressed to their arms, so we assumed that we should be prepared to be poked by some sort of needle.
Sure enough, when it was my turn to enter the little room, the nurse started to prepare a needle while chatting to me in Greek. When she asked me a question, I explained δεω καταλαβαινω, or "I don't understand". She then proceeded to inform me in no uncertain terms that I should learn Greek, because the Greeks all learn some English and the Americans never learn Greek. I would have been upset with her for yelling at me, but the lecture definitely took my mind off of the needle that was entering my arm as she spoke, so I didn't let it bother me. Actually, I didn't even look at my arm through the entire procedure, which is kind of bad, since I now have no idea what they did to me in there, but is also kind of good, because I think it my have been unpleasant. The man after me fainted during his session with the lecturing woman, and he had to be taken away on a stretcher.
After Brad and I were done with our first needle encounter, we were to taken to yet another waiting room, where we sat until they called us in to be given TB tests. This time there was no doubt as to what exactly they were doing to me, partially because the nurse spoke English and explained it all, and partially because they finished the test by drawing big black circles around the spots where the tests had been administered, and then labelling them with the date and the name of the test. Brad and I were both sent on our way with sharpie writing all over our forearms, and instructions not to wash the area for the next few days. Personally, I wasn't thrilled about the fact that I was expected to spend the next few days with black writing all over me, and no advance notice; I mean, what if I was planning to attend a black tie event and needed to wear a strapless evening gown? What if I had had a hot date for that evening? What if I just didn't feel like looking like a dissection specimen for two days?
Luckily I never go to black tie events, my boyfriend is across the atlantic, and I don't really care all that much about the sharpie marks, although they are not overwhelming attractive, I must say. I'm more upset about the prospect of going back to the damn hospital tomorrow to have them check up on my TB spots again. I'm hoping there's no line, but I don't think I have much hope.
Meanwhile, one of the kids asked me about the writing on my arms today, and I explained the whole situation.
"Oh!" he said. "So you had to have shots?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Wow," he said. "I once had to have three shots in one day. It was really awful. But I told the doctor that I just wanted to get better."
"What was the matter?" I asked.
"Well," he explained, "All these blood vessels around my eyes kept breaking. I had all these little spots around my eyes."
"Oh no!"
"Yeah. Well, it was kind of my fault. It was because I was coughing really hard all the time." He mimicked some unpleasant sounding coughs for me. "But it was fake coughing. I was just coughing like that so I wouldn't have to go to school. Don't tell my mom, OK?"

Tanks or Sheep?

2005-10-30T05:06:00.000-05:00

Well, Tuesday was St. Demetrius Day, and Friday was Oxi day (Oxi is pronounced "Ohi," and it's the Greek word for "No." The Greek word for "Yes" is pronounced "Ne," which can be confusing as hell.). Saint Demetrius, you see, is the patron saint of Thessaloniki, and so his day is a local holiday. Oxi day is a celebration of the day when Metaxas, the Greek dictator, said "Oxi" to the Italians who wanted to invade Greece.
As a result of these two consecutive holidays, the school is closed, the dorms are closed, and the kids went home. Brad and I wanted to go somewhere for a few days, but we waited a little too long to find a hotel- everything seemed to be booked. I guess holiday weekends are a hectic time to travel, even if it's not tourist season. I did have a memorable conversation with a hotel owner in Meteora, though, when I asked her "Do you have any rooms available yesterday?" It took me a little while to figure out why she was laughing. I need to review the different between "Yesterday" and "Tomorrow."
That's OK, though; we had fun without a long trip. On Friday we went to the Oxi day parade, which is kind of like the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, except that the weather is not freezing cold, people don't show up three hours ahead of time to find places to sit (Greeks are infinitely more relaxed than New Yorkers. I find this simultaneously great and mystifying. ), and instead of big balloons in the shape of cartoon characters, there are tanks and people in traditional dress from all different regions of Greece. Okay, so it's nothing like the Thanksgiving Day parade, although it does have marching bands.
You know, when I studied abroad in England, I did a lot of travelling, and took a fair number of pictures of sheep. After I got home, I spent a lot of time wondering why on earth I had taken so many pictures of sheep. Well, I had a similar experience after I got home from the parade; I looked at my camera, and wondered why I had taken so many pictures of tanks. I don't particularly like tanks, and I certainly don't expect that I'll ever be sitting around the house one day and think "Wow, you know, right now I really feel like looking at pictures of tanks." I just don't ever do that. I'd be more likely to look at the sheep, which are at least attractive in a pastoral sort of white fluffy way, whereas tanks are just sort of menacing.
But I do have pictures of tanks; lots of different kinds of tanks. Maybe I'll even post some for you.
Anyway, after the parade, Brad and I went out to visit the grandparents of our friend Christos. They spend April-October in a house on the beach, and since it was about 90 degrees out (Lately Greek weather has been even weirder than Iowan weather; it was 45 last week) we went for a swim. The water was a little chilly, but still significantly warmer than the water in Maine. It felt pretty nice. I haven't been swimming in a while. After that, we went to a taverna by the beach and ate so much delicious food- shrimp and these little fish that are fried whole and fresh. The owner actually apologized to us because some of the seafood had been brought to him by the fisherman the evening before and not on the same day.
Afterwards, we sat around in the garden of the beachouse and talked. It was a lovely, relaxing way to spend an afternoon, especially one of the last very warm afternoons of the season. I contemplated taking pictures of flowers to balance out all of my pictures of tanks, but never got around to it. However, I was given a pomegranate, which was exciting. I've never had a pomegranate picked right off a tree before.
Yesterday was rainy and cold and I could not believe that it had been 90 degrees the day before. Brad and I decided to take a trip to Pella, which is an ancient city only a short bus ride away. Unfortunately, our bus ride was a little bit longer than we intended, and we somehow ended up an extra few miles down the road in Giannanitsa. Luckily, a friendly bus driver there picked us up, explained to us (In English) that he was headed to Pella, and stopped the bus and waited for us while we bought tickets from a periptera. Yes, you read that right; he stopped the bus, I got off, bought the tickets and got back on. I won't even bother to describe what would happen if I asked a New York City bus driver to stop the bus and wait while I bought a metrocard.
Anyway, we made it back to Pella, and saw the ruins of an ancient city there, which were quite interesting, and also saw some nice artifacts and mosaics inside the Pella museum. Pella, you see, used to be the head of the Macedonian kingdom before everyone decided to mysteriously leave in the first century BC.
Anyway, Happy Halloween to everyone in the US. Greece doesn't seem to celebrate Halloween nearly as much as the US does. I've practically forgotten about it. I'll have to come up with a costume. Maybe I'll be a high school student- everyone has been mistaking me for one lately, so it wouldn't be very hard to do.

Oh, and here's a tank:

And here's a crown that's much prettier than the tank:

Miss Emily, Bearer of Maple Syrup

2005-10-22T04:00:00.000-04:00

Well, another portion of my job began this week; I substitute taught five classes for an English teacher that was out of town. That's right; five classes in three days, with no prior teaching experience. But it wasn't nearly as harrowing as I expected it to be.
Well, OK, subbing ninth-graders (third formers) during the last period class on Friday was somewhat harrowing, particularly during the last fifteen minutes of class. I was trying to come up with an activity that was more enjoyable than simple vocab exercises, but the only activity that he kids appeared to be interested in was shrieking, gossiping and causing increasing amounts of mayhem as the final bell of the day approached.
However, I also subbed three class periods for a group of seventh graders who were a whole lot of fun. On the first day we read "I Hear America Singing" by Walt Whitman. I was of course very excited to be teaching Whitman, even on a very basic level. We went through the poem very slowly, going over vocabularly words like "varied", "carols", "mason", "blithe", etc. I just wanted them to understand the poem in a very literal sense, but one girl made me extremely hapy by raising her hand and explaining in very good English that "It's not about real singing, it's about all of the sounds of America together combining into a sort of beautiful sound, and the poet thinks it's kind of like a song." Of course, being a seventh grader, she had to add "and I like the part about mothers and women singing, because I think girls sing better than boys." This lead to a heated debate about the comparable musical abilities of each gender, and at the end of class I let anyone who wanted to come up and sing for the class. We had two musical numbers: a boy who imitated an Opera singer, and a group of girls who sang something from the Phantom of the Opera, but substituted 'La La La' for all the words they did not know, which were most of the words.
On Friday we had a double period together, and the lesson was about the first Thanksgiving. I realized pretty quickly that Greek kids really don't know anything about Thanksgiving at all; I explained that "it's a holiday celebrating the pilgrims and how they made it through the first winter," and the kids all looked confused and asked "what's a pilgrim?"
As a matter of fact, the two class periods devoted to the Thanksgiving lesson were filled with questions that I found completely adorable. "Miss, what is Mass...a...Shoo...Setts?" "What is a Conn-Eck-Ti-Kut?" "What is Pumpkin?" I showed them all a map of New England and drew a picture of a Jack-O-Lantern on the board, and they seemed to recognize that.
They were a pretty sharp bunch of kids, as evidenced by their reaction to a picture of the Mayflower in their readers. "Look at this boat!" One of them said. "It's old. But look at the boat behind it.That's not right" I looked, and sure enough, in the picture, there appeared to be a speedboat behind the Mayflower. I laughed, and explained that it was probably a picture of the Mayflower's modern day replica, not the Mayflower itself.
My favorite questions, though, had to do with maple syrup. The lesson explained how Squanto and Samoset taught the pilgrims to tap maple trees for sap, a fact which was somewhat complicated to explain to kids that aren't really familiar with maple syrup. "They drilled holes in trees," I said, "and they took the sticky stuff out, that's the sap. And then they boiled it somehow, and it became a syrup, a little bit like honey."
This explanation was met with a lot of puzzled expressions. "Like Resin?" asked one girl. "I put resin on my violin, and it comes from a tree."
"Eww!" shrieked her neighbor, "But you don't eat the stuff on your violin."
"But you can make retsina with it!" one kid piped up.
"Exactly!" I said. "Retsina comes from trees, too."
However, one kid still was not satisfied. "Miss Emily?" he asked, "Who had the idea to make sap into syrup?"
"The Native Americans did." I said. "They taught the pilgrims how to do it."
"But how did the Native Americans get the idea?"
"I don't know. I guess they were experimenting, and they found it it tasted good."
He looked doubtful. "Someone just said 'OK, I will take this sticky stuff from a tree and boil it and eat it?"
I had to admit, the kid had a point.
"Well, " I finally managed, "Whose idea was it to take stuff from pine trees and make wine from it?"
That seemed to stump them. However, we didn't pursue the topic, because the bell rang for break, and I went back to my apartment and dug out the container of maple syrup that my sister sent me from Vermont a few weeks back. I also bought a few kuluri (sesame seed covered dough sticks) and cut them into pieces, and brought the whole mess back to the classroom, where I informed the kids that they could try some maple syrup when we finished the lesson. This caused a general wave of excitement to spread across the room, because of course, there's nothing that gets the attention of kids more than food, especially sugary food.
"Hey!" I shouted, trying to get their attention, "settle down, please!" there was no reponse. "Hey!" I tried again, louder. Still nothing.
"Alright!" I called, one last time, "You can try the maple syrup, but first you have to settle down. Endaxi?"
The kids shut up immediately and stared at me. I could see them all thinking the same thing: "She speaks Greek?" It's amazing the effect that one simple word like Endaxi ("all right") can have.
While we finished the last few paragraphs about Thanksgiving, I passed around the maple syrup bottle, which featured pictures of people taking sap from trees. After a few more minutes of reading, including a tough time wading through a 17th century quote from William Bradford ("Miss, what does "hath" mean? What is this "unto"?) I finally poured some maple syrup onto a plate and let them dip the pieces of kuluri in to sample it. It was an interesting combination. They seemed to like the maple syrup pretty well. Unfortunately, I had to rush to clean up the sticky disaster that was left behind from having twenty seventh graders rushing to have the first taste. As I said good bye, one of the kids asked "When will you teach us again? So we can have some more of this?"
I guess it's a universal rule; food will always win affection.

Where are the Americans?

2005-10-14T08:34:00.000-04:00

For the past few months I haven't seen a whole lot of Americans. I mean, there are Americans at Anatolia of course (it is the "American College"), but there aren't too many of us walking around downtown.

However, I've finally figured out how to find Americans in Thessaloniki. The other day I was in Ladidaka, which is one of the city' historic areas, and famous for its restaurants. It was about 7pm, and I was just strolling along and taking in the atmosphere. Ladidaka is picturesque, with cobblestone streets and old buildings. It was also largely deserted so early in the evening.
However, as I walked past restaurants, I couldn't help but notice a trend. There were a few people sitting inside and eating dinner- and they were quite definitely all American. I'm not sure how I knew that they were American; maybe it was the fact that they didn't physically look Greek, maybe it was the fact that they weren't wearing trendy European clothes, maybe it was the fact that many of them were eating at the one steakhouse with a sign in English. However, they definitely looked like people I would expect to see on the other side of the Atlantic. Greeks just don't eat dinner at 7pm. Most restuarants don't open until 8pm, and if they are open early, people spend several hours sipping coffee or wine before they actually order food.

It was very funny. I don't think I've seen so many Americans in one place in a while.

OK, I've got to go. It's my turn to take the kids out. But before I go, here are some more nice pictures from Olympus.

Setting Free the Bears and More Food

2005-10-10T14:35:00.000-04:00

In Grinnell, this past Saturday was 10/10, a massive, obnoxious, raucous annual party at which many people consume enough alcohol to render themselves either comatose or nauseous for the remainder of the weekend.
In Greece, they don't have 10/10, but that doesn't mean you can't overindulge in various pleasures. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact. However, instead of drinking horrendous cheap wine in the pursuit of oblivion, Brad, our new friend Christos and I managed to become blissfully oblivious through the liberal consumption of cheap good wine and some of the most spectacular food I have eaten in my entire life.
For example: Crisp fresh cucumbers and juicy tomatoes with creamy salty feta cheese. Red peppers in olive oil still warm from being roasted. Crunchy cabbage in vinegar. Pork sausage with mustard (yes, I actually ate pork). A spicy feta cheese dip called tirosalata. Creamy tzatziki. Incredibly fresh cooked greens with lemon and salt. Chicken gastra, (a special local dish cooked at a low temperature for a number of hours) with plums, so tender you barely even have to chew it. Light sponge cake soaked in honey. Chocolate biscuit cake topped with whipped cream. Oh, and for breakfast, tiropita (like spanikopita without the spanaki, ie, spinach) bread, fresh honey and jam from fruit that tasted like it was wonderful and fresh.
Oh yeah- and good wine, of course. I don't actually know anything about wine, so I can't give you some impressive description like "an earthy fruity red with nuances of fig, peach blossom and tree nut" or "full bodied white with scents of pine nut and wheatgrass." I can't actually really distinguish between zinfandel or merlot or rose. But it was wine, and it came out of a barrel, which was pretty cool. And it tasted good.
All of this hedonism took place in Nympheo, a tiny village quite close to the border. What border, you ask? The border of a country known to some as Macedonia, to some as FYROM (the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia) and to some as Scopia. I'm not going to get into the political implications of which name is the official one, but basically, you shouldn't say "Macedonia" to a Greek unless you want to start an argument. See, the northern part of Greece is also considered Macedonia, and there are some disputes over who has the right to consider themselves a citizen of Macedonia.
Anyway, Nympheo is high in the mountains and quite beautiful. It was abandoned sometime in the early twentieth century, but in the 1980s some people came along and decided to restore it, and it's all cobblestone streets and picturesque houses. I didn't take good enough pictures, but here's a glance at it, anyway:

The other really cool thing about Nympheo is that they have a bear sanctuary, started by a rich wine-maker to save former dancing bears from the abuse they experienced in captivity. The sanctuary, called Arcturus, has seven former dancing bears, some former zoo bears, and some bears orphaned in the wild. They are mostly European Brown Bears, but there's on American Black Bear from the Belgrade Zoo. I took some pictures of the bears, and they didn't turn out so well, but I am going to post one anyway. I'm afraid that if I don't, you are all going to think I've just been reading too many John Irving novels and dreamed up the entire thing. See, here's a bear:

Anyway, the people at Arcturus seem to be doing really great work. Apparently there are now laws in Greece against forcing bears to perform, and two more bear sanctuaries are opening in Eastern Europe soon.

The other major event of the weekend was the Greece-Denmark football game. (And here I am obviously referring to European football, aka soccer.) It determined who goes to the World Cup, and it was not a good moment for Greece. So there are a lot of depressed Greek football fans right now. I guess I didn't escape sports-related misery when I left the US. But at least the Yankees lost yesterday.

Olympus

2005-10-03T07:12:00.000-04:00

I hurt all over. I can't go up or down steps without wincing. My leg muscles have gone from feeling great to feeling gelatinous to feeling like someone attacked them with a baseball bat. But I did climb Mount Olympus.
When it comes to field trips, I think Zeus hates me, because it rained at the beach last weekend, and it rained on Saturday, starting at about 3am, when I was awakened by a torrential rainstorm and had to run and close my windows. It died down in the morning as were boarding the buses for Olympus, but by the time we reached Prionia, it was pouring again, and my backpack was soaked before we even set foot on the trail. I was thanking every deity in the Pantheon that I had borrowed a windbreaker at the last minute; I had been planning to bring just a heavy sweatshirt, but Teresa, the assistant director of the dorms, came along just in time to talk some sense into me. (I did attend the information session, but it was largely in Greek, and although I did have translation for most of it, there may have been some parts I missed. I did understand lots of words like "shoes","very cold","shirts","flowers", etc. However, I only understand when people talk very, very slowly, so at a normal Greek pace, (ie, at the speed of light with no discernable pauses between words) I have hard time telling "Bring extra shirts and don't pick the flowers" from "Bring extra shirts and make sure they have floral patterns on them.")
Anyway, Prionia was the start of our trek. In case you are picturing some sort of town or village, I should explain that Prionia is Greek for "Parking Lot with Drinking Water, Mule Pen and Locked Bathrooms." Why were the bathrooms locked? I don't know. There were definitely quite a few people who wanted to use them. However, I am starting to learn that in Greece, you can never count on things being open when you would like them to be open, so I was not terribly surprised to find them closed.
So we started up the path, through the raininess and mud. It wasn't a tough hike at the beginning; one of our guides had told me to expect something akin to hiking in Maine, and in some ways it did remind me of Maine,(evergreen trees, etc) though it was a bit steeper than the hikes I've taken there. Here's a picture taken on the lower part of the mountain, between Prionia and the Refuge:

Apparently, it usually takes hikers between one and a half to four hours to get to the refuge in nice weather. In the rain, we all somehow made it in under three. When I say "we all", I'm referring to Brad and I, several Anatolia teachers and alums who were acting as guides and chaperones, and about sixty-five high school seniors. It wasn't pouring all the way up there, luckily, though it was definitely damp, and did get a bit chilly. We were below the tree line (the refuge is just about at the point where the trees stop) so we were somewhat protected from the weather, and there was the psychological advantage of knowing that something was there to catch you if you happened to topple off the path, not that anyone did. Actually, I have to say that I was just thrilled about the cold, at lest for a little while. Remember, I've spent the past month in the Greek sun, which is a little more intense than I'm used to, especially in September. My internal seasonal clock has spent the past few weeks shrieking "Why the hell is it so damn hot outside?" I definitely spent some time hiking through the 50 degree drizzle in a t-shirt, and it felt so wonderful. I was ecstatic. I think some of the Greeks might have thought I was completely crazy.

(Random Weather-and-Dampness-Related Digression: Speaking of cold and damp, I've noticed that Greeks react in horror whenever they see me walking around with wet hair. Since I've never actually used a hairdryer, I am used to American people admonishing me about my frozen hair in the winter. However, lately, whenever I wash my hair I'll have someone Greek ask "Aren't you afraid, walking around with wet hair?" My answer is usually a confused "Afraid of what? It's seventy-five degrees outside...")

Anyway, we reached the refuge at about a quarter to five. The refuge is a sort of hostel type place for hikers to stay on their way up the mountain. They have food, wine, lots of tea, coffee and hot chocolate, beds, snacks, drinking water and toilets. Of course, the toilets are Turkish-style; for those of you unfamiliar with that term "Turkish Toilet", it's basically a euphemism for "hole in the floor." However, a hole in the floor is way better than a hole in the woods if you ask me, so I was not complaining.

The Refuge was packed. There were even people sleeping in the dining room, because who wants to camp in the rain? We all ate lots of dinner, drank lots of tea and some wine, and went to bed at 1O pm. It was a cold night. I slept in sweatpants and a longsleeved shirt, with two blankets on top of me, and I was still a bit chilly. The novelty of the cold was definitely starting to wear off. We were told that the nighttime temperature was below zero degrees Celsius, which means it was somewhere in the twenties. (I am completely incapable of converting Celsius into Fahrenheit and vice versa. I spent an entire semester in London making inaccurate guesses about the weather and I will likely spend a year in Greece doing the same because I just cannot seem to get the conversion information through my utterly unmathematical brain.) Getting up in the dark at 6am is not easy in that sort of weather, but we did it. Its a good thing the lodge had coffee. I briefly wondered if my normal two cups of coffee was bad idea on this particular day; would it be worse to climb Olympus while caffeine deprived, or to climb Olympus while needing to pee? Caffeine deprivation won out in the end but luckily neither was a problem.

By the way, here is a picture of the view from the lodge:

We started climbing again at around 745 on Sunday morning. After an hour or so, we were well above the trees, and the farther we climbed, the more snow there was on the ground. It was foggy, and so there was not much of a view. It started to look something like this:

I confess that at this point, I was starting to get scared. The path was getting increasingly slippery, and I was afraid that coming down was going to be unpleasant, especially since I was not the only one wearing running shoes and not hiking boots. (They would have taken up half my suitcase!) The large amounts of fog (or should I say cloud) made it seem unlikely that we would see much at the top, and I was really enthusiastic about certain portions of the trail that seemed to go awfully close to huge menacing precipices. In fact, the first time I came close enough to see over the edge of the huge cliff we were on, I found myself shaking a bit, quite literally. Shaking is not a helpful climbing technique.

It occurred to me that perhaps Olympus was the home of immortal beings for a reason, namely the fact that has a way of claiming the lives of those who are not immortal. I decided that if I were a god, I would certainly make Olympus my home, and maybe equip it with a supernatural flying chariot system, public restrooms and an Indian restaurant. However, being mortal, I decided that avoiding an early death might be a good idea. Actually, our guide seemed to agree with me on this, and I found that heartening...until he explained that he was still recieving orders to go ahead through the snow. "Come on!" Our other guide tried to encourage me and the others who were scared. "Dont you want to be able to tell your grandchildren you saw Skolio?" I tried to explain that I wasnt going to have the opportunity to have grandchildren if I died within the next few hours, but nonetheless, we plunged ahead.

We reached Skala a few minutes later. Skala is Greek for "Ice encrusted sign pointing the way to Skolio" Here is Skala:

Skolio, our destination, is the second highest peak on on Olympus, only seven metres shorter than Mitykas, which is the mythical home of the Gods. It was a very short walk from Skala, and it was quite beautiful. It was at Skala that I decided that the climb had not been such a bad idea after all. We all got some rest, took lovely pictures, and marveled at the German hikers who were drinking beer on the mountaintop. It was still cold, foggy and snowy, but the view was pretty nice anyway. Here are some pictures. Im even in one of them, just so you all know that I am not just posting postcard images and making stuff up. I really did make it all the way up there, see:

I confess that I was still terrified of the trip back. However, once we got going, the clouds parted, the snow and ice melted, and the fog lifted. The view was absolutely unbelievable. I'll show you pictures, but I dont think they can do it justice. I felt kind of like I was inside an issue of National Geographic. Even the heights stopped bothering me. I tried to compare the Olympus precipice to a New York subway platform; in each case, one step over the edge could certainly cause death, but that just means you just damn well better not take that step over the edge.

Anyway, once the clouds lifted, the entire trip became more than worth it. It was even worth all of the pain that I'm in right now as I limp around the dorm. It is one of the most exciting things I've done in quite some time.

The trip back was easier in most ways, and a whole lot quicker. We stopped at the lodge for lunch, a little bit more wine, and some rest, then finished the last leg of the trip by 4:30pm or so. I think the bus ride home took about two hours, but it only felt like half an hour or son, because I was in a daze of exhaustion.

Anyway, here are some more pictures, and trust me, I've got lots more to show you...but right now I'm going to sit down and stretch for a little while longer.

Periptero and Paperbacks

2005-09-30T15:38:00.000-04:00

I've spent the past few evenings wandering around aimlessly through downtown, which has been quite enjoyable. Last night I walked through the market area and contemplated buying various random items that I don't need. The highlight of the evening occurred when the owner of a Greek foods store / bakery gave me a free loaf of bread, a free kuluri (sesame covered dough stick thing) and a free spanikopita upon finding out that it's my first time in Greece. People are very friendly here.

Speaking of shopping, I want to respond to Stefanos in Chicago, who responded to an earlier post, saying that ponytail holders might be found in a periptero. (Thanks Stefanos!) For those of you who don't know what a periptero is, it's a sort of newsstand/convenience store/kiosk that can be found on pretty much every street corner and is pretty much always open, even on Sundays and late at night. The periptero sell everything from bus tickets to phone cards to cough drops to ice cream. In fact, almost every periptero has an entire ice cream cooler next to it, and refrigerator full of drinks. Here are some pictures:

The funny thing about the periptero is, although they are approximately every ten feet, I always seem to forget about them when I need something important. (Hence, I didn't think to shop there for ponytail holders) I think this is because I'm not used to having them. However, they're really useful.

I also found a bookstore yesterday. A bookstore with books in English, and some of them cost less than 10 Euro apiece. You can't possibly understand what a miracle this is; English language books are so very expensive here, and the selection usually consists of three different paperback editions of The Da Vinci Code, each costing 14 Euro, and several different editions of Harry Potter, each costing somewhere between 14 and 25 Euro. I cannot imagine that there is a person in Greece that has not yet read everything that Dan Brown and JK Rowling have written. But anyway, this new bookstore had more things. I was extremely exciting. I am going to have to stay away from it, though, or my paycheck will be gone in minutes. Hey, if anyone out there is thinking of sending me a care package, they might want to stick a few paperbacks in there. I'd be happy to send Greek objects in exchange...

Tomorrow at 11 am, I will leave for Mt. Olympus, which I am climbing. Technically, I am one of the chaperones for 75 high school students. I'm quite excited about this, but a little nervous as well, since the information session was entirely in Greek. I was able to pick up bits and pieces ("two shirts" was one phrase I understood, and shoes were discussed quite a bit.) and there was someone who translated most of what was said, but I'm afraid I still missed a few things...

Well, I'll be back Sunday night, so stay tuned for more updates.

Oh, Crap

2005-09-28T14:12:00.000-04:00

So, I go to the laundry room today to pick up my clothes from the machine, and discover that a good portion of my white clothes, underwear, t-shirts, etc, are all now an icky grey-ish hue.

This is ironic.

Please, nobody tell the kids.

2005-09-27T11:57:00.000-04:00

Well, I'm feeling better; my sore throat is gone and so is the runny nose that I've had for a few days. I've been treating these things with Greek chamomile tea and Greek honey, both of which are quite good. I bought the chamomile from the market downtown; there's a place that always has a massive amount of it, which you can view in the picture above. One Euro bought me about enough chamomile for a small nation, so if you come to visit me, I will gladly make you some chamomile tea. I am also now the proud owner of a tea strainer.
I know, I know, this is not very exciting stuff here, but bear with me, I've been sick, and tea strainers are hard to find in Greece. The Greeks are more into coffee than tea, and it's strong coffee at that. Actually, I'm more into coffee myself, and I already bought a Greek coffee pot thing.
Anyway, I took a very nice walk through the old town today, up to where the orginal city walls still stand. It was a lovely walk, and the streets there are all narrow and cobblestoned; it's like traveling from a modern city to a medieval one in just a few short steps. Well, they are also very steep steps, because the old town is way the hell up at the top of a hill. However, the view is quite spectacular up there - nicer, even, than the view from the White Tower. Look at these!

I am, by the way, planning to take pictures of the school and my apartment soon, so that you can all see where I live. My work here is going well, although I am starting to feel like "Laundry Attendant" might be a good alternate job title for me. Kids are constantly approaching me and requesting help with their laundry, which I am happy to provide, although I don't know what to tell them when they ask questions about whites and colors. I think I actually separated whites from colors maybe once in my entire college career, and I never ended up with pink sheets or underwear. So, I keep telling the kids not to bother separating things, and then they shoot me suspicious looks and ask if I've ever done laundry before. Yes, I tell them, lots of times, and the tiny little yellow trim on your towel is not going to dye everything in the washer yellow - nor is the pink towel going to leave pink spots on your black pants.
Unfortunately, Murphy's Law dictates that someday very soon an angry kid is going t show up at my door with yellow sheets and pink polka dotted pants and I am going to have to deal with it.

Anthropological Squabbling

2005-09-26T07:11:00.000-04:00

OK, I've done a little more research on this whole cave thing, and I have determined the following.

Apparently, according to anthropologist Aris Poulianos (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aris_Poulianos) , who we did meet, the skeleton from the cave is an archanthropus, and this proves that humans have european ancestry going way back.

According to my Lonely Planet Guide, My Rough Guide, and various other internet sources, Pouliano's conclusion is "Controversial," and the skeleton appears to be some Neanderthal-type thing (or maybe homo heidelbergensis, whatever that is) that is much more recent.

According to Professor Simpson from the Grinnell English Department, not only did Poulianos stop allowing the skeleton be carbon dated, he (or someone from Petralona) actually snuck into Aristotle University in the middle of the night to get their skull back, because they didn't like hearing that it was a) more recent than the African species and b) actually a woman.

According to Emily Zdyrko, the caves are awesome. This viewpoint has not been disputed thus far.

The Oldest Man in the World

2005-09-25T14:19:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I woke up for our planned field trip to the beach, only to find that the sky was cloudy and I had a sore throat. It wasn’t a promising start, and I was sort of hoping that the whole thing would be called off due to bad weather. But when I arrived at the front of the dorm at 10 am to find all the kids packed and ready to go, I figured I ought to join them, because a free trip to the beach doesn’t come along every day.
The beach itself was on Halkidiki, a three-pronged peninsula of beaches that’s only a short drive from Thessaloniki. It looks like a really nice place to go swimming. Since most of the beaches I’ve been to are pretty far North (and here I am specifically thinking of Sand Beach in Maine) I automatically brace myself for pain when I decide to immerse any part of my body in seawater. However, the Aegean is warm! In fact, even in cloudy late September, it’s lovely. I was all ready to jump in; however, I realized that I’d forgotten my bathing suit. In hindsight, I think it’s a really good thing I did forget it; I’ve been coughing and sneezing and drinking tea all day today, so jumping in the ocean yesterday would have been a bad idea. However, there were several kids who were also feeling crummy (ah, the hazards of dorm life) so we all played Frisbee while everyone else swam.
Before we went to the beach we made a stopover at Petralona Caves, where we saw the home of “the oldest man in the world.” Basically, it seems that a Greek anthropologist discovered the skeleton of some prehistoric human-like being that he claims is the “oldest man in the world.” According to a friend of mine, this “man” was sent to Aristotle University for carbon dating twice, and it was twice determined that he’s actually much more recent than some other skeletons from Africa. Upon hearing this, the anthropologist who found him promptly decided that nobody else was allowed to do carbon dating on his find. Actually, we may or may not have met said anthropologist; we definitely met an older man who gave us a lengthy speech on the caves, and instructed Brad to “write home to America and tell them that humans come from here in Greece and not Africa.” Brad then turned to me and remarked that it’s hard enough to convince a lot of Americans that we’re descended from primates in the first place. I guess he has a good point there; although I’m skeptical of the whole “oldest man in the world” thing, they do seem to believe in evolution here.
Anyway, the caves were just spectacular, with stalactites and stalagmites everywhere, ranging from monstrously huge to tiny; in fact, the ceiling of one room was covered in stalactites (or stalagmites, whichever is on the ceiling) so tiny that it looked kind of like the ceiling was growing hair. There were lots of eerie-looking nooks and crannies, winding passageways and gorgeous rock formations. It brought to mind several scenes from the Harry Potter books. Unfortunately, photography was not allowed, although my camera was burning a hole in my pocket. If any of my anthro major/prehistory enthusiast friends are reading this, I apologize for the vagueness of my information here. Unfortunately, the tour was in Greek, and although my Greek is improving, anthropological vocabulary is still not my strong point. (Although did you know that the word ‘anthropology’ comes from the Greek ‘anthropi’, for ‘people’?) I do plan to do some investigating of my own, though, probably in the form of typing “Petralona Caves” into google. I’m still not sure whether the skeleton found was 1 million years old or 500,000, whether he was a Neanderthal or something else, whether he was actually a he and not a she, etc. I’m also not sure if the man we met was the famous anthropologist or just some guy who happens to agree with him. Basically, I don’t know anything except that those caves were pretty fantastic.

2005-09-25T12:05:00.000-04:00

Hey everyone! Very soon I am going to post an update about my recent trip to the beach and Petralona Caves. However, I don't have much time now, so I'm just going to go ahead and post some pictures- no, I don't have internet in my apartment yet, but I have figured out how to hook my computer up in the dorm playroom.

Above is one picture of the countryside of Halkidiki, and a picture of a fruit market in downtown Thessaloniki. I think Greece might have the most fantastic fruits and vegetables I have eaten. I am a particularly big fan of the grapes.

Below is one picture of the view from the White Tower (that Tall Thing I was telling you about) and one picture of Alexander of Macedon's palace, at Vergina. More pictures and updates are coming, including pictures of my apartment. However, first I have to fix my apartment so that it doesn't have lots of laundry strewn about, and I have to get the hell out of this playroom; there are about seventy five kids in here, screaming at the TV.