City tour with Stavros

Last night I got a message from one of the drivers in our team.
"Paige, you're going to do a full day city tour with a driver named Stavros tomorrow. Be at the port before 8am. Clients name: ***"

So the next morning, like a little soldier, I was standing on Syngrou Avenue at 6:55 because I had called my driver named "Stavros" and told him I would be needing a ride. Up swings a silver bus with an accordian door.

"GOOOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL!" said a smile from beneath a large pair of sunglasses.

"Kalimera!" said I, getting in, being careful not to tip over the pink can of basil in the cup holder.

Surveying Stavros, the pink can of basil, blood red chairs and the snow white plush tiger guarding the rear of the bus, my inner smile lined parallel to the outer one.

We did some back and forth banalities on our way to the port. Once wedged in the queue of trip-crazy taxis and elephantine buses he excused himself for a little pitstop.

I took advantage of the moment to explore my surroundings.

Stavros returned.

"My sweetheart! Do you want a coffee?"
He held two packs of cigarettes and two cans of iced espresso beverages in his hands.

"Oh no, Stavros, I don't think so, but thank you."

He shrugged and put the spare in the cooler before getting to his first pack of the day.


7:50 I assumed ranks with the other drivers picking up tourists from the cruise ships.

They're a happy bunch, the tourists.

8:10, I had mine and we made our way back to the Basil Bus. I had a sharp dressed crew that seemed intelligent and polite, two sets of parents and their varied-aged children + one girlfriend. They took their seats, I took mine, "This is our driver, Stavros!" smiling, smiling, all the time smiling, when I look over and see Stavros frantically pulling at his door.

"Den doulevi!" (it doesn't work) he reported, all traces of his "smiling" vanished.

Slam, slam, slam... and one of the clients leaned up and said, "Eh, Stavros, maybe if you pull the seatbelt through the handle and click it into the fastener it will hold.

Stavros followed the first part but improvised on the second by relooping the seatbelt into a magnificent bow. His eyes were raised like McDonalds arches. Sweat beaded down his magnificent forehead. He held the door closed until we reached the first stop, ten minutes down the road.

You'll be happy to hear it magically got repaired.

9:00 my people were at the Acropolis and Stavros invited me for another coffee.

We sat with two other drivers and the three men spoke in rapid Greek. Shop talk from everything I picked up. You can't go that direction anymore, that road is closed, and then, if I'm not mistaken, some idle gossip about who knows who.

(The man in blue is not Stavros.)

(The sandwich next to the styrafoam cup was also offered by Stavros. He was quite the gentleman.)

10:30, to the Marble Stadium where the 1896 Olympic Games took place. 11:00 the Temple of Zeus. I dutifully waited for my peeps, who I have to say, were awfully quiet after the door incident.

Next the stretching of the Evzones on the half hour and the grand trilogy of architecture on Panepistimiou Ave. "And what next, Paige?" "And where are we going now, Paige?" "And what will we do then, Paige?" and I was going a little bit crazy.

Time to drop them off at a museum where they can explore without my yabbering. The two men had me intimidated with their almost undetectable tone of condescencion. I lead them to the left; the enterance was on my right. I'd barely sat down with Stavros along the fencing outside of the Archaeological museum (where he bought me a sugar free ice cream) when they came like a little choo choo right back to us.

"It doesn't open until 1:30."

Think think think! Faster faster faster!!

"Okay! Plan B, let's go for lunch!"

"YAY!"

And we zipped over to Paradosiako where the sun came out and the world looked rosey again.

My intimidating men were even impressed at the quality of the food. Somehow I got credit for it. The moods began to improve.
 "Why don't you eat with us, Paige?"

Well because I'd already had a sandwich and an ice cream but work is work. Sometimes you suffer.

Then THREE HOURS of shopping ensued. I entertained the kids with Greek myths.

"You tell good stories!!"

Where have I heard that...

And after a little bit of kitten-herding I told Stavros we would meet him at the Melina Mercouri statue.

"I'm already here!"

So I tried to hurry them a little, knowing that the po-po aren't kind to drivers idling in this area but two were missing.

"Quickly, quickly.." but it was too late. We came upon Stavros shouting with some extra policey policemen and he looked at me, eyebrows raised wildly over the rim of his sunglasses.

SE PARAKALO! ELLA!

(well, it means get your ass over here, PLEASE, but that's not a direct translation.)

The last two had seen us from far and we jumped in the Basil Bus like bank robbers.

My people were so happy. They had a fantastic day. I was so pleased...


and I was exhausted.

5:00 drop off at the port.

5:30 I was walking down my street.

6:00 I was not.

Pics from my hood

Slide show time! These pictures don't exactly display my amateur photographer status, which I think is steadily climbing. But these are more of an informative, who's who and what's what for you, so that you've got some visuals, you know? It's nice to imagine things and all, but sometimes a picture is worth a thousand adjectives.

(Well, I mean sometimes.)

 This is Voulis Street. I've mentioned it so many times, when you arrive in Athens you'll have it on the tip of your tongue. It's shady, narrow, close to everything, but still feels like an old Greek neighborhood. What a street.

I've mentioned the men always playing Tavli. Well here they are... I disrupted them because I didn't want to be rude and just start touristing myself into Obnoxia, just clicking away like they were automatons*. (That's not a word. I made it into something that sounds like an old Kingdom, as in, I dwell in the land of Obnoxia...) Anyway it was a big surprise they bothered to stop their game and look up. Must be the red hair. Takes people off guard.

*Honestly I was starting to wonder if they were automatons. They're ALWAYS there!!

I took a boot with a broken zipper and a sandal with an unglued pad to this shoe repair shop that's been here since the time of Hercules. He didn't charge me for either.

Front entry to my office. My office which is not in McDonald's. You see how we progress in this world?

 This is my corner desk by the window. I have beautiful folders and a Vera Bradley marker board. Fancy me.

This is the man who sits at the end of Kodrou Street (the Plaka side of Voulis) every day. EVERY day. You see he was born around the time the shoe store opened and the Nemean lion was meeting it's end...

Here he is again. See how the pigeons are drawn to him like rats to the Pied Piper?

The devoted Groupie...

This is where I'm cheating on Deseo's because their coffee is infinitely superior.

See how many different kinds of coffee they have? Ethiopia or Costa Rica? Mexico or Columbia? (And they serve it with a cookie!) You can count on this place being featured in NG in the not so distant future.

And to end, we have my new favorite poster, tacked on a column. Look closely now...

Φιλοτιμο

Today I was running late to meet a dear friend, waiting for me in her home high on the hill. I took a bus and got off as close as I could, but it was still a long way up. After fifteen minutes I'd passed maybe three blocks and was sweating rivers underneath my clothes. A yellow cab turned the corner and my body's instant reflex was to wave like a madwoman.

Slid into the passenger side, told the driver the street name and immediately started rummaging for money because I'm sorry to report, I was a little curious if I had any. Phew! A ten euro bill! And as the relief washed over me he stopped the car and looked at me.

"This is your street."
But oh no! He'd passed my fair lady's house, who knows how far back. I gave him a withering look and told him so in a kind of "man, I'm a moron" way, but prepared to get out regardless. He stopped me and did a u -ee, meandering back and forward through the maze of one ways and hairpin turns until he arrived squarely at her front door. Amazing where you can get in this world by paying attention to what's going on outside of the window. Exactly where you wanted to be!

Proudly presenting my ten, he shook his head and asked for smaller change.
"Den Eho." I don't have it.
I pulled out of my pocket a sorry little two euro coin. "See?"
He nodded and took it, giving me a salute.

I'm recording this story because Athenian cab drivers have the reputation somewhere slightly above Enron executives and kitten killers. You might recall a few times in this here long string of thoughtless ranting where I've said exactly what I think of them, but this man went out of his way to get me where I wanted to be and took under the minimum for his fee. You know why? He's human, and that is something I would like to emphasize about the country of Greece, and even the city of Athens.

Homeless people flock here because the weather is good and because Greek people are kind to strangers. Note, I'm not implying they're going to be warm and sweet. I said kind. What I mean by that is that they may not offer food, lodging or work with a smile, but they offer it. Not on a Non-profit, mass organized social program sort of way, but one human being to another.

The gypsies are notorious for begging at restaurants. Time and time again I brush them away, only to watch the table next to me either drop a few coins or offer them their leftover plate of food. I grew up with a line of thinking that these people should be doing something else to raise their family. Get a job, go to a church or a center where folks are trained  and equipped to deal with these "people," anything, anything except ask for a handout.

I think Americans, and maybe even moreso, Texans, poo poo asking for money. We're supposed to be able to stand on our own feet, no matter the grueling tasks that it takes to do so. Stand against a tree and be shot for robbing a bank before you ask for a handout. Here, I think they see things a little differently. Maybe it's residual from all of those stories of gods in disguise, but desperation is recognized and pitied.

But it's not just about money, either. Once inside my friend's house, seated on two wingback chairs in front of a fan, the conversation turned to corporal punishment and the death penalty. I lamented that Texas has more often than not won the belt for most executions. She remembered that the guillotine was used into the 1950's. How strange that two of the world's most advanced nations would still be so primitive in their handling of criminals?

"I don't think the Greeks ever had public executions," she said without conviction.
"Oh but they have!"
She didn't believe me, so I reported a story I'd read, written by a traveler in the 1800's who had watched one of the rare executions in Athens. It was instituted by the Bavarian King, I believe, and the prisoner was lead freely to the place where he was to be beheaded. Half way down he started fighting with the executioner. The people were cheering for the criminal! He was eventually restrained, the deed was done, and the audience plotted on how they would kill the man who gave the blow.

She clapped her hands in delight. "That's them! That's the Greeks. The rebels."

Stray dogs and cats are fed here. People invite their neighbors over to watch football or eat the oversupply of supper. Items are purchased on the credit of one's character; no plastic involved. Even the arrogant policemen have been spotted letting illegal immigrants get off on a "Don't let me see you here again" kind of imaginary warning.

It's called Φιλοτιμο, filotimo, and is a word that doesn't exist in any other language. The closest we can get to translation is "earnestness" combining the words "filo" or "friend" and "timo" or "honor," but the only way to understand it is to see it in 3-D. You see it every time someone is being helped.

I've been told, and to some degree I've experienced that it doesn't mean the person who was kind to you one day isn't capable of turning around and screwing you the next, but the point of all of this is to say that Greece is a human country. People still count. It's why they're so angry, so even if it's a tad annoying, the strikes, the rallies, the irregular visiting hours, it is part of the package.Take it or leave it.

verbage and spewage or the one where I exploit freestreaming thought

I woke up from a dream where an old friend, Irene the anthropologist, held a sheet to my chest while I rocked back and forth. She tapped it, shook it, and there was my skeleton. She tsked, “I’ve never seen it so well formed, before, Paige! You should take better care of your bones.”
“But Irene, maybe it’s because we’re in front of the fire?”
And she laughed, because yes, there was a roaring fire in a fireplace you could have fit Hansel, Gretel, AND the witch into along with the woodsman and his second wife.

I want a second cup of coffee.

The first one did the trick of breaking last night’s dream into fragments so I can function with the one of today. The more persistent one fueled now by bananas and peanut butter on taost. I mean toast. (but taost would be lovely with a thin spread of jam and some Te.)

The second one might actually kick me into action. 

The birds are so loud I believe they’re starting a revolution. Maybe today is their protest. They’re assembling to show their outrage against the cats who have a superior life in Athens. They prowl the ancient ruins, slip under the sewer grates and dine on fish and chicken left for them by the waiters at the tavernas and the crazy women who think they’re going hungry so they put sacks of cat food in their car and drive all over the city leaving bowls of it in the alleys. The birds, on the other hand, end up as feathered pot-hole covers. Flying rats. Corpulent slobs, subjugating themselves to manhandling thanks to their dependence on free and easy birdseed offered in paper sacks, in front of Parliament.

I saw one such pigeon today. The man selling the birdseed caught the poor li'l feller and handed him to a boy, who had so much fun holding him in his grubby hands, then releasing him the way he's seen it done on tv (with bravado, both arms spread eagle) as the pigeon lurched forward, only to return with hopes of more birdseed. The boy squealed and pinned him to the pavement again by the wings, awkwardly trying to pick him back up and repeat the great effect.

The pigeon came back again.

I said he was manhandled. I didn't say he didn't deserve it.

The cats would just acquiesce. They know they have a superior life. They’re protesting nothing, because when you’re free you have little to complain about.

Took some nice Arizonians through the city today. A job that I thought would start at 7am started at 9:30, resulting in a lot of time sitting in standby position on my bed. Once they're picked up I run down the stairs, out the door, past an angry dog in an abandoned shop that never fails to make my heart leap into my ears, down into the tunnel going under Syngrou where I wave to the same Pakistani who sets up his sunglasses and knockoff purses every workday (I don't know how this relationship started but every single time, we smile and wish each other a good morning) and then to my little place on the median where I wait for Big Black Bus to arrive. Today it arrived so late! There was a little mishap with A's and B's, so close in the alphabet but so far in the port of Piraeus, and I did not meet our friendly Arizonians until when I met them, as seems to be the same time I meet anyone, by the way. Thanks to the solid skills of George they were already in an improved mood, but...

later that day...

the husbands were glowering as the wives lead them through the shop stalls of chintzy Adrianou Street, buying ceramic houses and plastic koboloi. As I saw moods diving into sour waters I proposed to take the men elsewhere, but they didn't accept! So I gave them a meeting point and ran off. I had four plastic bottles in my arms, you see, and it can be tricky finding the BLUE dumpsters, the ones that claim to be intended for recycling. Naive, maybe, but I still believe they get there.

So I made the corner of Apollonos and ran past the religious shops for the Orthodox church, priests darting in and out in their black robes and stovepipe hats,

past the yellow-walled barber shop with the men's faces obscured by clouds of shaving cream,

turned right on Voulis past George the barber in his white coat; he gave me a friendly "dirty old man" once-over going up, down, and back to the eyes while he gave me a sing-song KALIMERA and offered a coffee (at least he offers a coffee!) before returning his attention to the same bunch of tavli players who sit on that same corner day in, day out

... past the fruit markets and the bookstores...

why would anyone want to waste one day in Plaka hanging behind their wives buying plastic koboloi when with just these couple of turns and you see the true face of the city?

Τι να κἀνουμε;

What can we do?

Mission Two: How to turn tourists into travelers.

Saturday with the Fab Four and a box of paints

I'm a bit late with this, but I woke up late, and then I rolled out of bed and directly into a pile of new playthings, a gift to myself just for being me, a brand new Windsor Newton portable Easel complete with ten tubes of paint, three brushes and one canvas. Since I've arrived in Greece I've thrown all snobbery aside with quality of paint or brushes, just hand the crack over and let me go crazy! I'm starving here!

Five hours later Despina called and lured me out the door when she made mention of the possibility of combining and art museum with sampling the goodies from this pattisserie... I made all of the required-by-law adjustments to my person and met the whole troop (Kostas and the little ones) at Syntagma Square.

We needed to buffer ourselves for the onslaught of sugar with a meal first, so we moved back into the fabric district where there are some quasi-secret eateries on Romvis street. We chose "Miniatoura" in part because it was the one that had space for us. Sort of. We ordered a few things... chicken with eggplant, a plate of tabouleh, horiatiki, cannelloni, stuffed zucchinis with rice and meat, potatoes and a delicious vegetable pie that tasted like a combination of eggplant and zucchini. All of this on top of the standard basket of village bread and bottle of water left very little room to maneuver. Despina was managing her daughters while holding one dish in her hand and another in her lap. Two chairs were pulled up to serve as a shelf for the salt, pepper and bread. The little girls ate three bites each and jumped out of their seats to play, leaving both mother and father with cricks in their necks for trying to eat while they patrolled for wild, rampaging motorcycles or other vehicles that might prove disastrous to small bones.

I've learned a new word: Γκριναιζει. Grin-yah-zee. It means "grumble."
The little ones were doing a lot of it during lunch so while I was still reshuffling the plates as they arrived, (all different plates with geometric shapes and bright flowers to my delight) Despina was up, running after her restless wanderers. By the time I looked back up all three were standing at the dumpster, or maybe it was just a big abandoned box, on the other side of the pedestrian street with various items of pink and white toole. M. was carring a large stick with a tuft of it at the end, topped by a wooden castle. I. had a wispy turban on her head making her look like an Arabian princess. Despina was stuffing it inside of her overalls; a makeshift tutu.

It is true; the lord provides.

The concensus on the food was that it was decent.  In my personal opinion it was very nice, but I bow to the superior taste of a chef and a restaurateur. In any case I took a card because this place has the genuine feel of a little Greek eaterie without the weird, over the top stuff that the restaurants in the more tourist-traversed sections have town do. I would go back again. I might even take clients.

The hour late, the museum closed, we agreed we were too full to start in on the pastries and made a meeting point for a little later. I split down Ermou street to make an attempt at an errand, difficult in this country. Shops are typically closed on Sundays, even pharmacies, but they acknowledge that someone might need some medicine so there is always one open per neighborhood. It's a bit of a game, however, as it's not the same one every time. You must look up WHICH pharmacy is going to be open that particular Sunday, and for which hours as some might be from 9 to 8, some from 8-2, then 5-12, some from 8-8 (overnight)
And it all seemed so complicated I've never really bothered to learn how to find it. Instead I've just avoided the pharmacy on the weekends, but as life usually likes to force us to learn, this weekend it was unavoidable.

So that was what I was doing while the kids, Despina and Kostas went toward Melilotos. On Ermou street, I passed trains of immigrants, mostly Africans and Pakistanis, selling knock-off purses, belts and sunglasses. All I could think was "eggs." Sent myself into shivers.

Not surprisingly, the pharmacy I'd been informed was the "chosen" one was closed.

I'd like to end here because it gives a humorous detail to a chaotic country, but it would be unfair and untrue, because the informer was likely the one in the wrong here, and when I informed Despina she had only to say, "Paige, when are you going to learn never to rely on men!? They are ALWAYS wrong!"

Fast forward to Despina, myself, and her big one sitting in front of the window of a closed pharmacy reading the small print of the sign posted in every pharmacy listing the locations of the special-hours store. All this to say, eventually we succeeded.


Walked to the playground where I discovered that there is a pocket of Greece I can understand everything that's being said.

"GET DOWN!"
"COME HERE!"
"STOP THAT!"

And various things between the tumblers and the monkey-barrers, the sliders and the swingers, the ball kickers and the diggers.

LOOK AT THIS!
WATCH ME!
I'LL RUN, THEN YOU COME AND GET ME!



dizzy. Maybe it was pleasure. Maybe it was a sugar rush. They were just decadent. Delicious. Everything you want in something you're not supposed to be having. (I mean that only in the way that no part of my body was lacking in the vitamins you might extract from mousse with marzipan, I don't care if Green tea is an antioxidant.)

This is the end, but I'm adding a note. Don't think I'm just going to talk and  talk about painting and never show. I will. I'm just getting back into the groove, giving myself the freedom to play. Not worry too much about anything except the act of creating, much like the purpose of a "write for 100 days" challenge.  I'm so in the habit that I don't think I could sleep without knowing I'd click clacked something about something, and on occasion that "something" turns out kinda nice.

If this can happen for paint, my days are going to be happy ones, and I'm going to have lots of paintings for the walls of my house, maybe on the wall looking out to the courtyard with the lemon tree and turquoise spiral staircase. The black and white tile and the sleeping cats, pots of basil and menthe.

Just sayin'.

Lordy Lordy I feel 40. or... salvation through the purchase of a coffee mug

Not that 40 is a bad age. On the contrary, according to my grandmother, a wise and wonderful woman who was a pioneer in four hundred different ways than I could ever be, 40 is the prime of a woman's life.

But I feel I've aged ten years in the last ten weeks. There will be another strike on Thursday. Some clients I"ve been emailing back and forth for the last month, who had finally settled on booking tours with us, got skiddish and changed their flights, cancelling some of our plans.

I finally see the error of my ways, being a cheap traveler these many, many years. Stuffing bread from breakfast into my backpack for lunch, avoiding showcase sites due to admittance fees, I've been awfully Scroogey when it comes to tourism. I'm finally seeing how it can hurt, even if you feel smart while you're doing it. If you've gone to see a country, if you're enjoying it, show it a little love. Spend a little money. Not at the supermarket, on tin cans of tuna and bottles of milk. Just give. It will come back to you.

Now that it's aside, after the email from my Hong Kong tourists who are prematurely freaking out about the strike that hasn't happened, I needed a karma boost. I decided it was gift buying day. Our poor little office, which was such a success in it's arrival, has gone neglected for over a month now. We use it as a place to stash our stuff while we go across the street to the coffee shop. We use it for the fantastic, high speed internet, but we have not yet really used it as an office.

Today I decided I would.

I got there at nine. Stashed my stuff, tidied my desk, cracked open my laptop and got started. Hmmm. What does the world want of me today. I decided it was time to stop spending so much money at Deseo's coffee shop. It was coffee mug buying day. I went to Public.

Public is one of these book, electronics, artwork, toys, tourism supplies, notebook, pens, rubber doohickies you stick on your desk, clever post it notes, fancy flash drive kind of stores right on Syntagma Square, the main square of the city. They have just launched a line of new products from "BREATHTAKING ATHENS," a fresh, modern way of looking at one of history's oldest cities.

Breathtaking Athens has produced one of my favorite short films ever.


I watched this film the first time when I was in Houston over the holidays. I got misty-eyed with homesickness for Athens. Now that I'm here...well let's say I'm not so nostalgic. The film, however, still makes me proud to have chosen it for whatever we can call it. Home, base, battleground...

Anyway Breathtaking Athens has produced some fine looking coffee mugs.

Now looking at the photo here, you can see that the designs are modern and fresh. You can't see, however, how fantastically shaped the coffee mug is. It's fat and deep, but without being the obnoxiously over-sized variety that feels awkward in your hand. A good coffee cup is something I just cannot resist, not with my frugal head nor my teenie-weenie budget. So what do I do. I buy three. One for each of the team members that will be using the office. George, Steve, Myself.

Which turns today, an average Monday with freaking out Hong-kong Tourists and irritated bus and taxi drivers who had been depending on this file taking turns dialing my number to berate me with questions I couldn't answer... this day turned into GIFT DAY.

It started with the three coffee mugs then quickly morphed into my hunting for the diary of Frida Kahlo to offer to Despina as a thank you for her abundant energy on our secret mission on Saturday. (after reading last night's post we realized we had a common goddess of painting)

I couldn't find it. Apparently Athens is not as keen on Frida as, say, San Francisco or Austin, Texas, but they did have the soundtrack to the film which I snatched up.

Wandered over to Melilotos to find a happy, buzzy, busy kitchen with a metal counter full of tickets and everyone rushing about, pounding meat, chopping fruit, tossing salads. Despina was pivoting like an NBA pointguard, answering phones and stapling orders to plastic bags.
"Hello Paige! Παρακαλὀ" (answering another hungry telephone client)

When I offered her the cd she first rejoiced, then scolded me for buying, and finally put it on her computer's player. The sounds of a Mexican Cantina accompanied the wild, rapidamente tempo of the kitchen workers.



Hmmm. Mexican music in a kitchen. Where in the world does this remind me of?


Flashback to a 24 year old version of myself sitting in a booth, smaller than Despina's table, taking phone calls for an Italian American restaurant called Angelos on the east side of Dallas. Who was in the kitchen but a team of fast-working Mexicans, slopping spaghetti into bowls that Salma Hayek could take bubble baths in, throwing giant pizzas into ovens and generally determining the success of the entire place. Even Italian food is Mexican in Texas. They played their music, they sang along, they put that joy in the food and the people kept coming back, demanding more.

The difference was that it was also a restaurant where people sat and only occasionally did the phone start ringing at the level I witnessed at Melilotos today... so I was free to observe the chaos from my stool, drawing it into my sketchpad. Really if it hadn't been for a billion other reasons, I would have kept that job much longer.

So today a bunch of Greeks unwittingly ingested Mexican juju. I wonder what was the effect? They went home and painted their walls turquoise and coral? They had an intense craving for peppers?

After a fair bit of sitting and observing the chaos (alas, without my sketchpad) I was called away to more troubles in Hong Kong, but not before Despina presented me with a challenge.

She had taken a gander at my brochure which much like my website (www.travelmuse.gr) has a distinctively ancient Greece appeal.
"Some of us feel we must stop relying on ancient Greece as our legacy. We are always looking back and will never move forward."

It's a valid point. On the other hand, most people are attracted to Greece because they feel that the mythology is partly theirs if only by over exposure. Still, the challenge...

"Paige, why don't you try and present Greece in a way that's more modern?"

I guess a little like my coffee mugs.

Bravo Koritzi

My internet is on the fritz so until it gets ironed out, it just might APPEAR that I'm off schedule. Lathos. Wrong. But I do write at night, so bear with me. One day two will appear and that will mean that I'm up and running again.

I called Despina at 10:30 this morning. No answer. As I was in my office with functioning internet, I noticed that she was online, so I sent her a little message telling her I’d tried to call. She answered “Oh the girls must have hidden the phone.”

A plan was made to meet her and her mother at Melilitos by noon for what would be a preliminary run cooking lesson. A private one, as it happened, just for me. We needed to see what would be the issues, would it work out having a cook and a translator, all of these pesky little things that might come up when we bring the first round of visitors into the kitchen to learn how to make Greek cuisine. When I showed up in the little stoa, or alley that Melilotos is tucked inside, I saw a smallish woman with black hair smoking a cigarette, also waiting. Melilotos was still dark meaning Despina hadn’t yet arrived, so I got comfortable on the marble steps and she was eyeing me, eyeing me, until finally, “Perimenitai yia .... (I tend to fade out when people speak Greek to me, still latching onto the first word while they round to a complete sentence.)

“Oriste?” This is what I’ve been taught to say so that they understand I just want them to repeat so that I can try again.

As it turned out this was KIKI. I write all caps because that is her character. Don’t be fooled by the small package. When Despina arrived and opened up, she immediately offered to run for coffee leaving KIKI and I to sit. “Exeis Doulia etho?” (Do you have a job here?) I started to repeat “Doulia” and said, instead, “Dulia” like “Julia.” She made four quick steps over to me, clasping my face in both of her hands saying again, “doooLYAH.” And grinned. “eh!? Ohi, DULIA. Ohi.” (Not  ____. No.)

Finally, my own Greek Yia yia!

But KIKI is Despina’s aunt (I believe), not the star of the show, Ireni, which confused me a bit. I kept looking at the photograph of Ireni on the wall with her light hair and Mucha expression (click Mucha for visual reference) and finally, a light, a presence entered the place wearing a white muslin blouse embroidered with flowers and a serene expression. This was Ireni, master cook and teacher of today’s cooking lesson.

But what shall we cook? The discussion surrounding this went on for a few minutes while I sipped on my coffee. Every once in a while Despina would poll me.

“Paige, what is the most traditional Greek dish you think people would like to learn?”

I told her it seemed like her department. I’m the dum-dum that’s here to learn how to cook after all.

The discussion continued. Despina turned to me.

“Do you think people would like to learn to make Dolmadakia?” or stuffed grape leaves.

I said surely yes and told her it’s something they could find the ingredients for when they returned home if they hunted a bit, but the discussion continued and everyone had seemed to agree on a final point. Despina looked at me again, saying with finality,

“We will make pita.” (Pie.)

If you have been a faithful reader, and even if you have only peeped in for one or two entries here on this online journal, you will see many many mentions of tiropita, or cheese pie. It is the national snack of Greece and one that I have happily added to my snacking repertoire, but I’ve always expected it to be a bit of a bugger-bear to make, at least for a stir-frying, egg scrambling cook such as myself.

Allow me to fast forward the tape a bit so that you don’t get the full lesson with paying for, I mean enjoying it in person! We beat dough with our fists like welter weight champions. We rolled it out with a long stick and spun it in the air until it was as thin as a bedsheet. We washed spinach, once, twice, three times, and I was filled with the terrifying realization of how much dirt I have probably consumed in my life now that I know what it really takes to clean greens, the peaks of grit that had accumulated on the sink serving as hard evidence. We crumbled feta, cracked eggs, poured, beat, rolled, and spun more dough.

“You’re doing the hardest lesson first, Paige!”
I beamed.


Bravo Koritzi mou. Ella Koritzi mou. By the time I’d finished I was dusted until my elbows with Allevi, flour and a bit wounded from the all of the effort. What a wimpy baker I am. Every criticism for me was “MORE FORCE, Paige, don’t be afraid.”

Eventually the bulk of the work had been completed and Despina excused herself to go shopping for a baby birthday party she would be attending later. I continued rolling with force and the big stick, watched more vegetables being washed, and before I knew it, it was singing time. KIKI started, out of nowhere, belting a Greek ballad, and Ireni joined in while she rolled the dough. Then KIKI was laughing with such emotion tears were in her eyes and said, in Greek, we’re all crazy here!!

They asked me if I knew any Greek songs. I said I was a fan of Hadzidakis, and they immediately started in with this:

The pita went in the oven. Despina returned. We sat. They smoked. We talked about life. I drank the same cup of coffee I had been working on since Despina offered it which had also been drunk by everyone there. The community cup, marked with an orange poppy.

To pass the half hour needed for the oven Ireni decided to make spring rolls. Without much talk the four of us started in on wrapping vegetables in rice paper until there was none left. Finally, the hour was upon us and our creation was ready to meet its purpose, to fill our now hungry bellies and delight our senses. Honorable pita that it was, it did its job perfectly.

The phylo was dark and crispy, falling in paper thin flakes on my lips, my shirt, the table, everywhere. There was an unusual addend of spearmint with the feta that gave it a fresher, lighter twist than the usual greasebombs sold on the streets. Having it hot, just out of the oven, made by my hands (even partly) was perhaps the meal of the year.

A day in the life

6:am wake up
trudge to kitchen, boil water, stir nescafe, milk
Toast, yogurt, strawberries, banana

Read post of Mr. OHD

7:am, rushing now, slapping on makeup, choosing outfit according to some notion of appearing professional. Buttons help. Add lucky Chinese bracelets last minute.

7:25 waiting for big blackie to pull up.

7:45, Athens traffic

8:00 client pick up at Electra Palace hotel: Bob, Vicky, Andy, Gail...
"Ready to go to the center of the universe?"

9:00 Athens traffic



10:00 pull off to Cafe 90 for coffee #2 and tiropita. Chased off by a bus full of Ancient Greeks, waddling in with cigarettes and canes flying.

12:00 arrive at Byzantine Monastery of
Hosios Loukas. Ancient trees. Sacred bones. Taper candles in sandboxes. Chills and good vibrations.



LET'S GO!

12:30 Over Mt Parnassus into the ancient site of Delphi.

12:45 waiting for clients in empty taverna of Vakhos. Coffee #3.

2:45 pick up clients. WHOOSH! Back to Vakhos. Invited for lunch, Horta and tomatoes stuffed with rice and raisins. Clients: "MM MM, YUMMY!" Yay! Pay. Off we go.

3:45 Village of Arahova. CLICK! Back in the bus.

4:15 Somber moment at the monument of Distomo.  Tragic details here (not for the sensitive. Pita this means you.)

6:15, Athens Traffic
Bob tells me about an incredible woman. TV star, journalist, novelist, columnist, first person to interview the Dali Lama.


Great name.




7:15 arrive at Marriot Hotel. Goodbye! Good to meet you! Have a good cruise! VROOOM off to the theater where at

7:30 nine actors are ready to be taken to the Intercontinental Hotel

8:05, stumble out of Big Blackie, zig zag across three streets and up four flights of stairs. Throw off shoes. Salute housemates. Throw open refigerator. So... hungry...

8:15 fried egg and tomato on twice baked bread

8:45 Washing dishes, water heater turned on, visions of a shower, glass of wine, chapter two of post Skinny Legs and All book:








 RING RING! Turn off water heater. Shoes back on. Print out sign.

9:15 Athens Traffic (another protest)

9:30 Gas Station in the dark. Pakistani men speaking Greek, fill 'er up (στα Ελλενικἀ)

10:15 Venizelos International Airport, third level, McDonalds drinking Lipton Caramel tea from a paper cup and stealing french fries.

11:10 Standing in line of receivers holding sign, tottering like a bowling pin.

11:15 Welcome to Athens, Ms. Williams and family.

11:25 "Is that the Acropolis?" "Not yet. We'll tell you." "Is THAT the Acropolis?" "No, don't worry, we'll tell you." "OH! I THINK I SEE IT!" "No."

11:40 Drop off at the Carolina Hotel"No, it's perfectly safe. Yes, maybe avoid the center. Bye bye!"

11:50 Stumble out of big blackie, trip past prostitutes, zig zag across three streets, take elevator.

12:10 Brushy brushy, flossy flossy

12:57 Finish B*og

Bed.

Don't... know... what.... to....

Say about the day. Seems the whole city is on a slippery marble tilt, arms and heads falling off statues, plates breaking...

Didn't avoid the riots today though I was tucked in my usual place, the otherwise peaceful Voulis Street. I've learned that the word in Greek that I want is χἀος, "Khaous" or, chaos. See? It's a Greek word. A cavalcade of motorcycle cops came down, all screaming at each other in what seemed to be half instructions and half angry confusion. In the chorus I heard the word "MALAKA" 39 times in 20 seconds.
The office dwellers, tourists holding ice creams, coffee shop patrons, shop owners... we were all in the street with the encroaching BOOMS getting more and more difficult to ignore, the acrid smell of burning metal inflaming our nostrils and the wafts of pepper spray eventually drifting into our eyes, driving us back inside.

Soon after, from the other end of the street, a group of protesters who had tidily wrapped up the ordeals of the day: looting, bank burning, dumpster turning, car fires... were walking along, eating sandwiches, drinking coffees out of plastic cups, their scarves hanging loosely around their necks and the white paint being half wiped from their faces. Most were laughing amongst themselves like kids at lunch break.

To be fair, maybe these were just the ones shouting and carrying their red flags and not the ones lighting up cars and terrifying the shop owners, one of which was Michele, owner of Lithos Jewelry, standing alone outside and guarding her domain in front of a burning dumpster that blocked the street to the National Cathedral.

The difference with the riots of today were that the old timers were participating. It was not just a bunch of anarchistic youths throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails. The associated press quoted a man:

"We'll be on the streets every day, every day! You never win unless you fight," said 76-year-old Constantinos Doganis, who gets euro345 a month from his farming pension fund.

On polling the people in my environment including responsible, intelligent, mature business owners, no one seems to blame the people for exploding. They might even believe it's all necessary, justified, but with three people dead, they will have a hard time convincing me.

Remember what I said about manifestation? Remember a certain volcano? You think these things are coincidences?

Angel

Last night I had a dream that my bicycle was stolen. Actually, in the dream as I realized I had no bicycle, I was going back in my memory and found that I had left it at a bus station, forgotten to take it with me, forgotten to lock it, forgotten, forgotten, forgotten, and yet, when I came to the den full of people who were my company (all very detailed faces, voices and characters that I have never in my life met in person) I was raving wilding, tears streaming down my face that my bicycle had been stolen.

To paint a picture of the room full of company, there were two older gentlemen who were symbolically sympathetic and three younger ladies who were more skeptical. One of them was round faced with brown hair and pleasant eyes. Sitting in a flowered armchair she spoke up, and while she was speaking her eyes glowed like little golden nuggets of fire.

"I don't mean to be rude, but I've always found that if you dwell on poison you get sick. So your bicycle got stolen. It's okay. Move on. Smile."

Then she did just that. Smiled. And I felt like a little asshole.
First emotion upon waking was a wave of relief, remembering that my bicycle was safely stowed in the adjacent room. Second was the knowledge that the sweet faced girl had been the voice of what one might call my guiding conscience, my source of light, my angel, reprimanding me for coming out the month of April, a month of challenges and tough lessons, stomping my feet around and complaining. Mostly all day yesterday (pre and post pigeon poop. Certainly not during, which is probably why I enjoyed it so much.)

So, I got the point. Thanks.

Today I gave a walking tour to two smart girls from the United States by way of Berlin. I knew it was going to be a rough day as a) the buses were supposedly on strike. b) at sunrise, the communist party had broken into the Acropolis and draped a giant banner that read "EUROPE RISE UP" scaring away the tourists.

c) I don't know. I just kind of knew.

I also didn't know that one of the girls had a) a hurt foot and b) was diabetic. They decided to save this as a fun surprise for the end when I could hardly even escort them to their train because she was a) limping and b) in desperate need of complex sugars.

We got lost. Correction: I got us lost.

It became clear the usual route wasn't going to work for these girls so I tried to beeline for what would when I noticed an amass of demonstrators and police roping the streets off with tape. We got swept off course and when I say off course, I mean I didn't even know what neighborhood we were in. One of the sisters had to let me borrow her map.

They knew stuff I didn't know. One of them had just reread the entire works of Euripides.
They were making inside jokes about classical studies that I was not privvy to.

Really, my greatest asset was that I held the key to their having photographs of the two of them, together.

Why am I telling you all of this? Am I stupid or something?
Well, I haven't read all of the works of Euripides, but somehow by putting this down here, it makes the events of the day smaller. Maybe when I read them tomorrow I'll have a little laugh.

I will tell you that I walked around all day saying "So my bicycle was stolen. It's okay. Move on. Smile."

Do you know, it helped?

As part of ego-recovery therapy I used buying some vanilla and honey body milk as an excuse to break a fifty, which I then used to buy a scoop of Mastica ice cream.

They are both Greek products, I noticed later. The lotion is a brand called Aravita with an ancient bee as their logo

which  is a symbol found in the palace of Knossos, in Crete.

The Mastiha comes from a tree that will only grow on the island of Chios and has an indescribable taste... something you just have to try when you're in Greece.

I didn't do it on purpose, choosing a Greek lotion over, say, Nivea, and Mastiha over Coffee. Maybe subconsciously I'm filling in the little dent made in my armor of philhellenism, the chink put there by the seemingly ineffective protests and displays of wanton anarchy. And on the other hand, a friend said, "Sometimes I wish sleepy, robotic America would raise a fuss every once in a while." I wonder what the ancient Greeks would say, seeing that sign draped over the Acropolis. Would they sigh, shaking their heads, saying, "We left you in the best possible way we could..."

Or would they applaud?

Pigeon Poop Monday

Today I finished my book, the outlandish, most colorful, creative stance against war and religion that may every be written, and I left Mrs. Ellen Cherry Charles painting and all of Salome's seven veils on the ground. I have to admit I'm a bit sad that it's over.

But by far the best part of my day was after a good solid hour of bitching about the state of things (there is a bus strike tomorrow and so many airport employees will be on strike Wednesday that the planes will not even be landing in Athens) George employed me to help peel pigeon poop off of the Black Mercedes Minibus parked just behind Syngrou Avenue as he won't have time to wash it before his 4am transfer tomorrow.

Something about the directness of the task, the immediate gratification of transforming what was white and crusty to black and smooth, it was therapeutic. Perhaps they should prescribe it to patients with anxiety and depression.

I would like to say that I'm being positive about this "crisis." I can honestly say I'm being more positive than most everyone around me, my housemate included, who believe it to be some direct result of grand puppetry by the NEW WORLD ORDER, a reorganization of power. In fact if any of them read this I think I would get a real earful, if not lose some friends altogether. But I believe the NEW WORLD ORDER is being used the same way God is used, a single-headed target to channel all of your emotions into one, identifiable thingy which is in this case, passive aggression.

I do not think that if the NEW WORLD ORDER really exists, it gives one pigeon shit that Greeks talk nasty about it. I don't think they're having meetings in their office in some giant skyscraper that is towering  over the world, veiled by the clouds, where they examine their popularity rates among countries, and unfortunately not small, broke, Mediterranean countries no matter how important they are to the story of civilization.

One friend who we will call "Spiros" kept using this word, "THEY," and finally no longer to ignore it I said, "WHO??"

"The banks! The world leaders! The credit lenders, Paige! Who do you think is controlling things? Keeping the wars going, keeping these natural disasters from being prevented?"

I'm not saying it's not possible. Maybe there are some children who, because of Daddy issues or being beat up on the playground, grow up to be power hungry bureaucrats that want nothing but to stomp out small nations and let the dumb masses take over so that everything can more easily be controlled, but the very convenience in this theory is the reason I believe it to be discredited.

Nothing in this world is easy, not even its destruction.

But if I'm wrong, let those monsters sit up there in their 4,000 Euro recliners made from the tanned leather of endangered Manatees, sipping their gin from diamond low ball glasses representing a village in Africa cut down by warlords. Let them do it and let the Universe take care of them, for I believe far more in her than I do in even ten million angry people shaking their heads and shouting at the headlines. She will shake her back one day and they will go shooting into the nether regions of outer space like fleas from a dog.

Maybe they'll take us all down with them, but me, today, I won a battle against fecal matter, and it was satisfying. Tomorrow maybe I'll take a crack at painting and feel doubly satisfied.

They can't take that away from me.

The Orange and Green

9am Sunday morning found me walking alongside Attikoulamou on Kodrou street. I came upon a wide canvas of Attica blue tracing the roofline of the Aghia Soteira church, framed by a stretch of dark cypress trees and a sprawl of jasmine. From inside, you could hear the brothers singing, an organ accompanying, and one priest reciting his prayers out loud. Two suitcases clattered down the cobblestone and the road of seemingly distant Syngrou Avenue purred with morning drivers.

If only I had a recorder to share with you moments like this. THIS is music.

I promised to finish off reporting the loveliest of days by detailing my visit to the Orange and Green. G and I were walking one day, a dog day let's call it, for my heart was dragging along behind me like a tired dog, and I said out loud, "I think I would like an ice cream."
"Why didn't you say something earlier? We were on Makrigiannis street with all of the ice cream places."
"Well here is ice cream," I said, pointing to the inside of a cafe with orange and green chairs where there was a beautiful case of billowing clouds of gelato, every color in a box of crayons.


In fact it was this day. You see the power it had.

Well now that I was having a cat day, because my heart was literally purring, I decided it was also a nice time for an ice cream. Only natural to return to the place with the orange and green chairs, which I later found out bestows the appellation, "Orange and Green." I was just rolling up to a nice place to stop when I heard my name called out loud.

Funny the affect that can have on a person, hearing their name when they don't expect it. Instantly pulls you to the present, doesn't it?


Kostas and Despina, the owners of the order out only restauraunt Melilotos were there with their two little girls, sitting at a sidewalk table with four huge dishes of various ice creams. I met them but a month ago and together we've been scheming about starting a Greek cooking course to offer to visitors and locals alike.This is the second time I've run into them by "accident."

"Why don't you sit? Have something?"
Well as luck would have it...

Kostas and Despina were still spooning away a la John Henry at their mountains, but the two bowls on the adjacent side were melting into molten, rainbow sprinkled soup.

In true little girl form, the participants ignoring their bowls and more interested in the pink butterfly balloon attached to a pink stroller had more on their sleeves and cheeks than what was likely in their little pot bellies. G came along and joined us a bit later. His aura must have been pink also because the little girls flew to him like mice to the pied piper.

 My ice cream companions are what I don't hesitate to call quality folk. You know it by their restaurant, started out of frustration with being bossed around by penny pinching managers to compromise the quality of food with cheap ingredients. They've chosen to keep their kitchen "take out" only so that they can stay focused on their product, working only monday through Friday so they might stay focused on their blooming family. This day, being a Saturday, had been spent at a food forum in the arty area of Gazi where they had strolled (pinkly) through various tables of food vendors and gathered some information about other cooking classes being offered elsewhere in Athens.

Despina, who is a glassy lake regardless of whether she is detailing the flavors of ice cream that she chose, chasing after her street-magnetized two year old, or criticizing her fellow restaurateurs, spoke very plainly about the competition:

"These people are charging fifty to two hundred and fifty euros for a two hour class. They do not care about food, and I hate that. They only care about making money and staying a big name. I only want to work with people who love what they do."

Like they do!

 While we talked about the relevant, I was inwardly singing sweet love songs  my bowl of chocolate orange ice cream. Kostas must have intuitively guessed it, for the subject turned to ice cream and he happily consented that Americans do it very, very well. We discussed Ben and Jerry and how it was better before it became a giant franchise, continuing the theme of the belief of staying small, controlling quality, doing what you love and not doing it to become an empire. Village life. Oh Ben and Jerry, why couldn't you have been content with Virgina?

When the conversation turned to books and Despina and I raved about the genre of Magical realism.

"I feel that this kind of book is the way I am," and I agreed.
"Somewhere between dream and reality," and our discussion, evolving into dreams, omens, and creative coincidences, was also rainbow sprinkled with events; one parent or the other, sometimes both, breaking out of their chairs and running after one child or the other, to the bathroom, pulling off a chocolated t shirt..
Until finally one got so close to the street that the fire of motherly instinct took over the otherwise composed Despina. The lioness bounded after the endangered cub, snatched her up and scolded her to such a degree it sent the little one into a fit of wails.

She was put into the pink stroller for a mandatory nap.


Shortly after we lost G to the world of their big one, a four year old who had discovered the limitless potential of clean backs of airport signs and a parcel marker. He, being purveyor of both along with fountains of complements on her creations, had unwittingly become her new best friend.

The sidewalk was now quiet. More intimate. The story of how Despina and Kostas met was shared. As it's their story and very special, I feel wrong about putting it here without having permission, but we branched off to couples, drawings of couples, and how a therapist in Greece diagnoses the relationships of these couples by their drawings.

Apparently women tend to draw their relationship, themselves with their mate in a twisted embrace and men draw the picture with both people standing and looking away from each other. These are both indications of a poor relationship.

"The only drawing of a good relationship has the man and woman standing side by side, joined only at the hand."


Each person is supposed to have their space but there is also connection.

"Have you ever done the Hut trick?" said Despina suddenly.
I informed her that not only had I not done any trick of the sort but I didn't know there were tricks to be done with huts.

She pulled G out of drawing pie faced, body-less girls with legs like skyscrapers and informed him that he must help her by translating.
"If I stumble on a word it will break your concentration..."
So the big one was asked to be quiet for just a moment while Despina told a story to Paige. The expression on her face showed she was thinking long and hard about whether or not this held any real significance to her, but finally she agreed to try.

"Close your eyes!" Despina commanded.

Then she whispered her instructions in quiet Greek to G who spoke them to me in English, asking me to imagine a scene, detail what I saw, what I did, where I was...

My request, Mr Fellow One hundred dayer, Mr. OHD,  and anyone else who chooses to, is to stop reading at this point. Print it out and have someone read the next few lines to you. Mr. OHD, I ask especially that you include your answers in your next post, because only then can I tell you what it all means.

Here it goes. Close your eyes!

Imagine you're on a mountain path. Where is the path? What is it like, what is it made of?

The path leads you through some trees. What do the trees look like?

Past the trees you see an open field, and in the open field there is a hut. What is the hut made of? What does the area around the hut look like?

The door of the hut is closed. What do you do?

(If you go inside, what does the inside look like? Is there anything in there? Is it clean or dirty?)

Now go to the other side of the hut. There is a tall wall blocking you from going further. A bear is coming toward you.

What happens? How do you feel? What do you do?

And finally, you face the wall. There are no stairs, no windows, no doors. What do you do?

Such a perfect day...

Just after the full moon, things that you have been searching for always seem to show up. Today was nothing that I expected and everything I wanted it to be. It was everything I've wanted for the entire month of April, but it's found it's way to me now.

This morning I knew was my only free day to go and refresh my knowledge for an upcoming walking tour, but it was May 1. No one even emerged from their houses until 1pm. The streets were empty and the sun was out... everything was in agreement: today was not a day for work, but foolishly I thought I could push on.

First interruption: My father called. This was at ten in the morning meaning some indecent hour in the USA. I was standing in the middle of Monistiraki square, just over the ancient reservoir housed in glass, amidst the pigeons and the fruit vendors and the beggars and street performers. No matter how technology advances, it never ceases to amaze me to get a call from Magnolia Texas when I'm in a setting such as this one.

We didn't have a great connection the first and second attempts, and while I was waiting for him to redial my already overactive imagination was running wild with the reasons for a call at such an hour on their end, but when he finally made it through, a croaky, groggy father just missed his daughter, happened to be up, (has an excellent phone plan) and wanted to chat a little.  I sat back on the glass covering the ancient reservoir, there in front of the old mosque and the "little" monistary and we talked about race cars, upcoming adventures, the ruined Gulf of Mexico and the miserable state of Louisiana, the development of my (very) little niece, 100 day challenges... not much else. Pretty soon he realized he was very tired and we exchanged terms of endearment, closing the phones.

I sat there, glowing for just a minute, then tried to get back on track. Right. Walking tour refresher. I started out... in a different direction. I don't know why, but suddenly I was thinking, "Maybe I could do something a bit different. I want to go see the Keraimakos cemetary." Which indeed, would be a very nice place to see on a walking tour, but impossibly far from all of the other very nice things I've organized and tested long ago. This was occurring to me with each step, but soon there I was in front of the Ancient Athenian cemetary, named after the son of the God of Wine and the Daughter of King Minos, and the patron of Potters. Keraimakos, Ceramics, you see? It is such a beautiful setting. A HUGE Spread of ancient tombstones and statues honoring the mysterious passage from one life to the next. Apparently there used to be little statues and tablets put inside of the caskets, curses created by special magicians directed at those already passed. They were made of lead to speed them down to Hades. I thought, "that's serious business, cursing the dead." It says a lot about the ancients belief in the afterlife.. and all of this was going through my head when my feet took me left instead of straight and I started up a bridge. Why? I don't know.

So I went over the bridge and through a new neighborhood I've never seen before. A quiet, classy neighborhood that is home to "friends of the bicycle" which I am now enthusiastically researching. On my way to investigate their sign, however, I crashed my bare toe, dangling out of my stylish gold sandal (smart as a choice for a day devoted to walking) straight into a broken concrete post. Wow was it putting out some impressive, black blood. Whatever. Took down the website address from the sign and pressed on until I found myself back in the familiar territory of Thissiou and the parking lot sized pedestrian road of Apostolou Pavlou, stuffed with cafe tables and idle coffee drinkers, cigarette smokers, laissaiz philosophers...

Hobbling now and getting beaten down by the intensity of the sun, I passed Vrahakia, a taverna where we've occasionally taken clients because of the pleasant and flexible chef and owner, Christos. Passed it, thinking of him, and then my feet turned right around and walked all the way through the door and up to the kitchen. I was really not in control of anything today.

Still early, he wasn't busy and indicated to a table near the kitchen, grabbing his coffee and his ashtray and ordering the woman still busy at the prepratory work to make me an Hellniko cafe, or Greek coffee.

Conversation turned to the Ancient Greeks. Christos believes everything about them, mostly that they were the most advanced civilization. Ever.

Some Greek people that I've spoken with believe that the Ancient Greeks were the ONLY advanced civilization. Not that the others didn't exist, but that they were actually Greeks. Meaning: Ancient Egyptians? Greeks. Mayans? Greeks. Chinese? " "
So I delicately asked Christos if this was his theory also, swatting away at the judgemental voices in my mind.

"Look, it's simple. Civilization started and people slowly started to move. They went to the north, the west, the east, but the most clever ones came here because the weather is perfect."

It's very difficult to argue with this logic!

I interpreted it as that he acknowledged that there were other great civilizations, but obviously the ones that chose the prettiest water, the nicest spring, the mildest winter, are the ones who had the best heads on their shoulders.

I thanked him for the coffee and continued on my "path," which lead me to an old book seller. Not pressed for time, no one expecting me for anything, I hunkered down and flipped one by one the collected postcards from years past, the black and white photographs, the Greek comic books, and then I saw a tattered, water color illustrated childrens book in English. "Greek Folk Tales: The Good Advice"

I'm going to tell it to you here:

There was once a very poor man who had to find a way to feed his wife and small son, so he left for a bigger town and appealed to a very rich man for work.
"Yes you can work for me, but I will hold onto your wages or you'll squander them." So the man had no choice. He worked for the rich man until ten years had gone by. Finally he asked for his wages.

The rich man thought and thought. "Shall I give him one hundred? No it's far too much. But so is fifty. Is his work worth ten?" And finally he said to the man, "I'm giving you three pounds. I'll give you three more if you work another ten years." But the man was poor, not stupid, so he took the three pounds and started on the road home, despondant.

On his way he passed an old hermit sitting on a rock.

"Give me a pound and I'll give you a good piece of advice!" said the hermit.
Well, thought the man, I'm a poor man with three pounds and I'll be no poorer with two. So he gave the man a pound.

"Don't ask about things that do not concern you. Now give me another pound and I'll tell you advice even more valuable than the first."
And the man thought, I'm poor with two coins and will be no more poor with one, so he gave the hermit another pound.

"Stay on the path you've chosen and don't get lead astray. Now give me another pound and I'll tell you a final piece of advice more valuable than the first and second combined."

The man thought, I'm poor with one coin and there is absolutely no difference with having one and having none at all, so he gave the coin.

"If you get angry at night, don't act until morning's light, and that is my final piece of advice."

The man ends up learning by some very clear cut, folk-talish situations (meeting a giant hanging gold on a lemon tree, passing up a group of laughing men going into a tavern, coming home and his wife not recognizing him) that the man's advice is worth much more than he paid for it. He comes home rich, managed to avoid being mixed up with a gang of thieves, and avoids killing his wife and son because of a misunderstanding upon first appearances.

And I thought to myself, "Huh! Those are good pieces of advice," until I started looking at how I've lived just today.

- I ask about everything that doesn't concern me. I love stories.

- Don't get distracted from your chosen path? What if you forgot to choose one in the first place?

- The last one, let's say I follow it. One out of three is a start.

I closed the book and realized my terrible choice in reading posture had caused both of my feet to fall asleep. I wiggled one, stamped the other and moved along.

Next up, the blue and white train! The Sunshine Express. I've been acquainted with all of the employees so I sidled up and said "Kalimera!" My wasn't I the social one today.

"How are you!?" Said Adriano, the train's ticket seller.

Pointing down at my gorey toe, "Well I've got a new hole..."

"Oh no! We're fixing it now." Just like that a first aid kit was coming out of the driver's cabin. A flurry of Iodine and cotton and suddenly my toe was neatly packaged in a little brown band aid. Off I went.

Finally back to my corner of Athens, Voulis Street, where I see Panos of Acropolis House, George, Vangelis, owner of Deseos...

Then a good meal at Mitso's taverna, eating horta in olive oil and lemon juice, ground eggplant with garlic, horiatiki with a big slab of feta (you might remember a prior entry where I said I would start minimizing this. You forgot it? Yes, so did I.) All while being entertained with old Mitso in his saucer-sized eyeglasses and his hunch backed wife in a flowered dress, screaming at each other in Greek. "Woman, why did you put them at that table? I told you it was reserved!" "Go to hell! It was the only table open..."
I asked George if he thought they had ever been in love.
"Oh, they can't live without each other!" he said in genuine earnestness.

And finally a little bicycle ride to the orange and green. This part is so good it deserves it's own entry. Besides, I've been writing for two hours off and on and I'd really like to get back to Ellen Cherry Charles in Skinny Legs and All before drifting off to sleep.

To end where I started, I said this day had everything I was looking for. What I've been missing lately is relationships. Discovery. Being alone without being lonely. Perfect weather. A still, inner peace. The notion that you haven't been walled in, that you're not in a cage, that there is still more to explore. That you can still be well and happy if everything around you falls to smoke and ashes, and lastly, a couple of concrete facts to help you deal with all of the ambiguity in the world. Example: My daddy called me at two in the morning just to say "hey."


True, I didn't detail how the little adventures of today lead me to some of these grander conclusions but you will just have to trust me that without them I couldn't have concluded anything.

I've said that I hope to become still in spite of the waves. I've said that I'm looking for this country to teach me to be a little tougher, to stand on my own legs. I'm learning that to achieve these things, you must build yourself a strong foundation AND a network of support... and I think I might be rambling at this point. Look, I'm just happy. I have a little clarity for once. Sort of.

I'm going to bed.