Paige up and decided one day to move to Greece. Language barriers, cultural differences, aggressive drivers (and dogs) aside, she has a pretty good time discovering Athens.
The Garden of Heroes Everyone was moved walking around the cemetery. I fed off of the meaningfulness that the Greek Americans were experiencing from learning so much about their ancestory. Always been a bit green when someone has close ties to a rich culture. My family's been living in the burbs of Texas and Florida for four generations with a few exceptions given to Southern Baptist missionaries who branched out.
I let George take over as he gets starry eyed, talking about the Revolutionary fighters, rebels and politics in general. Just followed closely behind and let the quietness sink in.
After Messolonghi our aim was Kalavryta where we would stop for the night. We stopped first at a roadside taverna that, aside from being Greek, could have easily been ripped up, stuck into the side of Highway 290 somewhere between Centerville and Austin, and none would be the wiser. Red checkered tablecloths, check. Dead animals on the wall, check. Boiled rabbit with pasta.. well... maybe in East Texas. The food was delicious. Everyone ate more than they'd intended and the bill was, I'm happy to report, dirt cheap. It was all part of the plan.
The trip into the mountains takes upward from an hour. We passed fruit, wine, and honey stands, cliff-dangled coffee shops, and herds of goats with clanging metal bells on their collars.
On the research trip the few days prior, George and I had discovered countless things to impress the people with. There is a great monument waaaay on top of the mountain, overlooking Agia Lavra and symbolizing that day when the heroes (now laid in the garden) stood with Father Germano of Patra and declared their revolt on the Ottomans.
The littlest boy didn't want to get out of his seat. He was so comfortable playing his Nintendo, but when I told him he would be able to hear the bells of the goats from all the way up here, he jumped immediately. The goats had made a big impression on him.
Kalavryta
This was just the first of many things we'd planned for their evening. There was the church to visit, a walk to the monument to the 1000 men and boys that were shot, dinner at a traditional tsipero place with mezze (tsipero is to Greece as fine tequilla is to Mexico) but when we descended from Agia Lavra, arrived at the Ski Cabin-esque hotel and got all of the suitcases at, we took one long look at our road-weary travelers and changed everything.
Pizza and beer in the main square and an 11pm bedtime was the night's itinerary.
But we'd obviously gotten through to them, because I learned the next morning that some of them had gotten up early and taken photographs of the old church with the clock stopped on the hour of the tragedy. Coffee and eggs in the hotel's dining room and we posed our final adventure to them: the ododontos railway descending down the mountain and across the Vouraikos Gorge, into a charming little village called Diakofto.
The gorge was reputedly formed by Herakles, (Hercules) to get closer to a girl he was in love with named Voura.
Based on the Arta Bridge experience with the small one, and knowing that one man was afraid of heights and his wife prone to motion sickness, and knowing that this pack was doweled together with Gorilla glue, I was already preparing myself for not getting to go. I say it like this because I've read about this little rail adventure in guides and magazine articles for the last year and a half, and have had it high on my list. But what do you know? They all said yes!
That one hour trip down the mountain on a non-air conditioned, screeching train was the best part of the whole adventure. The men were all standing on their tip toes looking down the mountainside where the Vouraikos river rushed along, slapping the rocks on her way down.
"WHOA, A TUNNEL!" (said the grown ups.)
I was imagining what it would be like if those fearsome klephts still lined the mountain ridge above us, these men who inspired both fear and admiration. coincidentally one of the wives was detailing a story about one of the Prevezans who had been held up by Albanian train robbers. They got everyone off of the train and took everything. He was held hostage for six hours.
Comparing what it would be like to be held up by Klephts in their fustanellas with their broad sashes and handlebar moustaches to Albanians in acid wash denim, their heads shaved except for their rat tails... I got melancholy. I'm not saying it wouldn't have been terrifying to have been held up by Klephts. There are written accounts of them behaving VERY badly, but there was a certain romance to their brigandage that is lost forever. The noble thief. The robber's code. It's gone.
We curled, curved, and squeezed through a few more narrow tunnels until finally we slowed and arrived at the sort of railway station you see in epic films, one long platform and a line of people, George included. Our chariot had beat us to the bottom and was ready for us to reload.
It's boiling in Athens. The last two days have been relentless, keeping me awake at night, the two fans situated around my bed blowing hot air. Nightmares have plagued the few hours of sleep I've been getting. Now, being called for work is not just an opportunity for industry, it's a climate-controlled refuge.
Waited intentionally until the early hours of the morning after, rather than spoiling the "final" 100 day post with something that was tired, off-the cuff, or just plain uninspired. The unfortunate thing is that I don't have any photographs to accompany this with. I had hoped that my Greek-American clients, having returned to the states a week ago, would have sent me a few supplementary photos so that I could share the amazing road adventure we had with them, but they must still be recovering, something my little camera doesn't seem to want to do. I'm putting it into the universe now that I need a spy camera that takes amazing photographs and can fit in the sleeve of my shirt. I need it to appear roughly in the next 48 hours. :) I don't know what I did to insult the technology gods but it seems a sacrifice is in order to stop this streak of bad luck.
We left off with the Greek Revolution because I was researching it intensely in preparation for this trip, which started in the coastal town of Preveza, in the region of Epirus. This kind, intelligent, boisterous family all branched from a patriarch that we'll call Spiros, and Spiros, in turn, had branched from a kind family from Preveza. Each year he returns home to spend a month or so with his sisters and cousins. It has been twenty years since his sons had been able to join him. This was the first time that their wives and the two punkin' head boys got to go.
When I first wrote about KalAHvryta, (mispronounced Kala VREE ta by most people, especially -and I say it with endearment- ours) it was on the return of scouting out every stone, signmarker, and roadside stand that we would be stopping at with our family. It's how I saw the ruined, red walls of the city of "Nikipolis" or the city of victory, built by Augustus to celebrate his victory over Mark Antony and Cleopatra, who did you know, was Greek? He was so intent on this city being "celebratory" that he forced people out of their homes in the surrounding villages to populate it.
When we picked up our passengers and brought them to this first stop just outisde of Preveza, they knew it.
"Oh," I said with disappointment. I hate when my clients know more than me.
"Spiros's family came out here and hid from the Nazis during World War II."
"Oh!"
This changed everything.
Imagine being in a small village, invaded by Aryans with the swastika, a Greek symbol from ancient times, turned into a symbol of aggression and cruelty and turned ON to the Greeks, themselves. The only advantage they had was knowledge of the land. The stones, the caves, the hills became their guardian spirits, just as they had in ancient times. It's not a stretch to understand why they believed into the nineteenth century that natural spirits existed and were to be given their due fear and respect. Nature wasn't their only saving grace, however, They had (have) a rebellious spirit. A "who are you to tell me..." kind of attitude toward each other, and the world. It inspired Churchill who famously said, 'Hence you will not say that Greeks fight like heroes but that heroes fight like Greeks'
What it must have been like! All of my nightmares are about being pursued by faceless men, hiding in places where I don't know if I'm concealed well enough, my heart beating so loud I'm sure it will be heard. Imagine if it was reality?
We took some meaningful photographs of the family behind the walls and moved on.
Crossed the Bridge of Arta, where legend has it, the construction was cursed. Each night the bridge would fall down. A bird with a human voice announced to the freemason that he would have to seal the mortar with the blood of his wife. Only then would the bridge stay up. Grievously he tricked her into coming, telling her to go and look for his wedding ring on the partially built bridge, and while she was innocently searching the other men lay a heavy stone on top of her, then another, and another, and she was left only enough breath to curse all those who crossed the damned thing.
The telling of this story didn't inspire courage in the littlest passenger.
On our way to Messolonghi we passed through a gorge where a church has been built in the cliffs.
Second littlest passenger looked up the daunting set of steps.
"We going up there?"
"Do you want to?"
"YEAH!"
And up we went. Imagine my surprise when I looked behind us, halfway up in the blazing 2pm heat and saw the entire crew trailing behind us.
That's how this family was the entire time. Maybe they were on good behavior but I don't think so. It was solidarity from the beginning to the end.
Once up, they were in awe. I was in awe. Guiltily, or boastingly (is that a word?) I confess that I'm starting to get used to this whole "awe" thing. There's a lot of cliffs in Greece, a lot of views that remind you how small, pink and fleshy we are.
Onto Messolonghi.
The scouting trip beforehand is also how I learned that Lord Byron, whose heart is buried in the sleepy, sacred town of Messolonghi, was grieved for 21 days after dying of a fever. He had been the bridge between the Greek revolutionaries who, true to Greeks today as it likely was even in ancient times, just could not get along. Not even with a stirring cause like unification and independence from the oppressive Ottoman empire was able to keep their suspicious minds and jealous hearts focused on the ball. It was his death, however, along with the grievous incident at Messolonghi that I wrote about which got the rest of Europe swept up in the romance of throwing out the Turks.
The merciless sun was beating down but the "Garden of Heroes," cemetery of the Revolutionaries and victims of the massacre, was at least ten degrees cooler.
I, on the other hand, here in the present, am getting hotter and hotter, as is my computer. We'll finish this up a bit later today.
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 PanepistimiouAve. "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...
General Strike, rain clouds looming overhead, and me sitting on my bed after having dreams about mice and dead people. It might sound morbid to you but for me, it's just my subconscious telling me to get my act together and tidy my nest.
The days have been so long lately they've all run together. Did you ever do "spin art" at a summer camp or school carnival? It's where you dump red yellow and blue puddles of paint onto a cardboard square, put it in a doohicky machine that spins it all around and afterward you've got art! It's an awfully good metaphor for my schedule.
Yesterday, as I mentioned, we had a very successful day with some clients I was apprehensive about. They're what I can safely consider to be "MY" clients, as in, I'm the one responsible for reeling them in. If they're not happy, I'm three times the more unhappy. Through luck, charisma, and a padded block of experience, I managed to make them not just happy... yesterday they were in a fantasy. They saw the Parthenon by the early morning light and the temple of Poseidon at sunset. They ate fresh calimari in a dive taverna in Kallithea watching Spain VS Germany on a tiny television set alongside three Pakistani waiters and their potbellied, Greek boss, cheering like mad at the Spain's grand victory against the machine. They rode the little train, climbed Lycabbetous Hill, ate fresh fruit in the cafe of the New Acropolis Museum
14 hours later, George and I were the walking, talking dead but these people couldn't stop telling us what fun they were having and it made everything worthwhile. When I say this word, worthwhile, I don't mean the day of working like a donkey and smiling like a jackass. No. I mean all of the other days I've felt socked in the head by those giant red boxing gloves on cartoons. The clients who don't say a word, not even goodbye. The days I wonder if this is a passing phase or something worth building on, and the many many days I feel like I'm spinning imaginary clothes for the emperor.
Despina once told me, life is like a stream. Sometimes you have still, calm waters, and sometimes you have rocks. You just have to enjoy the calm and push past the rocks. Push past so you can find more calm. It's not exactly how she said it but it's how I've got it etched into my thick head.
I call these rocks "lesson days." They're the days that are uncomfortable and make you want to drown yourself in something bad for you. Alcohol and cookie dough work well, although maybe not together...
They usually are uncomfortable because you have the impression of being in trouble, like everyone is mad at you, and usually this is because you missed something important and the world wants you to remember it for next time. Maybe that's why,for me, lesson days usually come all at once. I get two or three in a row. Even if I've been sailing along like a little kaiki enjoying Posedon's good mood and smooth waters, out from the depths of the sea comes the krakken with her massive tentacles and THWAP, THWAP, THWAP... down goes the ship and me flailing for air.
"Next time you'll remember!"
They're usually all related to the same issue, even if they come in different costumes. An example, losing things. I will have gotten through a trip across the ocean and back and not encountered one single incident of absent-mindedness, but here come the lesson days and I misplace someone else's camera, a fifty euro bill, and my favorite cherry lip gloss all together.
Glug glug.
Why am I going on and on about this? Because I feel like the whole last month has been one lesson day after another and I've got the bruises to prove it. This is not to say that nice things haven't been sprinkled in the middle, but having a good solid day like yesterday is exactly what usually signifies the end of "class." The world is giving me a little grace to heal so that I can swim into deeper waters, get a little stronger, get to the next sea monster and try my new tricks.
The other signifier of the end of the lesson days is vivid dreams.
"You have a specific relationship with your dreams," said G.
"You need them for your balance."
He said this while he was mucking with his computer and went right along into stating out loud that he should pick up his shirts and call his mother.
This morning I indulged in the unthinkable. I woke up, drank my coffee on the balcony, studied a little Greek, closed the book and went directly back to bed.
Just like that! I don't make a habit of it. My philosophy is to use up those precious stolen hours. Stuff them as full of activity as possible. Think of the thief with the stolen platinum card and those critical first few moments, before anyone has noticed something is missing, SPEND SPEND SPEND!!
But today, my trip back to bed gave me the gift of the vivid dream, the breaker of lesson days, the reminder that I haven't cleaned my room or done my laundry in far too long.They usually go in this way:
I find a little mouse that, while breathing, is sicky and starving. Usually it's my fault. I'd forgotten I'd had him as pet or it was something I was supposed to do, feed the little mouse... but in this case I found him on a train. I followed him in there. He had one eye and was losing his hair, but I picked him up and noticed a little cage not far from him. Picked that up too. Vow to take care of the poor creature and nurse him back to health.
In this particular dream I turned around to see trays and trays of straw in the train car, all with little mice eggs. Yes, in this dream, mice are more reptillian than mammalian. I said to myself, "Oh dear I have to take care of all of these too!" and put the little mouse on my shoulder and set about refreshing the hay and adjusting heat lamps. Other animals tripped in and out of my line of vision but I waited too long to write this and now I can't remember.
The train lurched into motion and I panicked. I hadn't intended on going so far. (My mother is, right now, giggling as she reads the obvious intepretation) I wandered through the train cars, all detailed in a sort of Alice and Wonderland fashion, until a gentleman invited me to sit with him. He looked like a tourist complete with a canvas bag printed in Hebrew letters... if not for the bluish tint to his skin.
"Have we met?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Oh! Are you dead!?"
(repeat.)
Skimmied out of my chair and moved further down the cars until I found an opening in the roof. Shimmied out of the hole and into the cityscape where a double decker bus was driving right alongside of us, two gorgeous flight attendants smiling their colgate smile at me from the railing.
"Would you like off?"
YES!
And they lifted me out.
I woke up peaceful.
Yes, it's bizarre. But there are those of us who say that our dream world is just as real as our waking world, just as the reverse is true. Our waking world is just as surreal as our dream world. Some have said that when we reach the end of this life we will wake up, just like we do in the mornings after a long, strange dream, and that's what keeps me going.It puts everything that feels so difficult about lesson days at a safer distance.
This has been a long and winding post. I'll save detailing what on earth sickly mice have to do with cleaning your nest for tomorrow.
Started the day at 5:30 am. Took the Greek Australians to Ancient Corinth, the AcroCorinth, a killer pottery shop where they spent a gajillion euros investing in their Greek heritage, and the beautiful port town of Nafplion.
I endeared the little ones to me, something that's happening a lot these days, because I'm full of weird stories. They're not mine, of course. I couldn't have dreamt up the story of Tantalos chopping up his son and serving him in a soup to the gods, who were so insulted they stuck him in a lake that drains when he's thirsty and under a branch with one fig, blowing away with the puff of a breeze when he's hungry.
They love the story of Demeter searching for Persephone, and how when Persephone is returned to her mother she's forced to spend only six months with her and then return to the world of the dead for six months after. Until she returns, Demeter is so sad that nothing grows. When she returns, she's so happy that everything flowers.
"WOOOOOW"
And yesterday, because we got lucky or being punished, depending on how you look at it, we picked up the second group immediately after dropping the first and did the whole thing again.
This time it wasn't the kids, but a 50 year old Toll road engineer who shouted from the back of the bus, "Tell us another story, Paige!"
But it's 2am, I'm dead, and in spite of this good fortune I'm heavy with a cumulative sigh being exhaled all over the country. Every time I wonder what I've gotten myself into, I try and imagine my life without it. I'm in it, yo, for better or worse. I got better when I was fresh and green, and now it's time to see what I can do when all of the easy roads are far behind or ahead, or covered with debris or just imagined...
Wanted to just post this song. Just a song that gets it right, for me, right now.
It's a bit somber, but you must remember I'm writing this at the end of the day when somberness usually hits the most chipper of us, and would you believe that most people don't believe I'm ever "un" chipper? It's us smiley ones that are usually holding the most clouds. I believe it.
A good night's sleep and it will blow away.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Took some Greek Australians on a madcap city tour today. Started with losing the yountest on the Acropolis. (Not my fault.) Went sprinting from the Propyleon to the Theater of Dionysus to find him sitting there, just chillin' with the security guard. His mother gave him some honest to goodness verbal lashings, in Greek and heavily Australianized English. As we collected the rest of the family, they all took a turn. Poor guy tried to justify. "It's not my fault I got lost," but they had been scared, and when people get scared they sometimes get angry.
There is an old man that sits at the bottom of the Acropolis. Every day he dresses up in traditional village costume and poses with a giant, gnarled stick. If you take a picture of him, he demands a Euro. If you don't give it to him, he gets aggressive. If you do, he's your best friend.
The second son tricked him by saying a polite "excuse me" and Click! THWAP! The old man whacked him with his stick. I'm not kidding! And I saw him do a kung fu yoda like leap to try and give him another. In any other country this would have been reported. His mother said:
"You probably deserved it."
I think that said boy is going to cherish his photograph for the rest of his life. It wasn't free, you know. Getting a beating is paying for it.
Next up, demonstrations in the city center made for a lot of walking. Cue giant thunderstorm. The first in over a month! These people must have some karma... but they were laughing and enjoying themelves. They were the quintessential good sports.
They were fascinated on the subject of gypsies. "How do you know when you see one!?"
I gave the identifying factors:
*Colorful clothes
*dark skin
*long hair
*Accordian strapped to back or tray of plastic toys in front.
*Keeps eyes firmly fixed on pockets.
I gave my argument that it's difficult to call these people bad when they're just doing what they've been taught since they were tiny. Steal, Lie, Beg.
They act like a tribe. Strike against one and you've got the whole fleet on your back. If one's in the hospital they all bring their cots, their music, their dishes and camp in front until he/she is released.
I always thought if I had a family I'd want it to be a bit like that.
Forgive the short post. I did another one today:
http://www.nileguide.com/destination/blog/athens/?p=149&preview=true
I'm kind of worn out. Things are a little blurry and I'm doing it again tomorrow.
The clouds were lined with gold tonight. Not silver. Gold. I'm not being metaphorical for once. It's so beautiful outside! The wind is licking up the waves and the ropes are clanging against the masts of ships. People are outside enjoying the break from the oppressive heat, but I have to tell you, every gift has it's yang, and the yang is that I couldn't go swimming. The water was just too rough. Instead I sat and watched the water being pushed around by Zephyros, Attikoulamou resting against the rail of the seawall.
I spent all day doing what is traditionally called the "Argolis" tour with a new driver we're working with. Let's call him Pedro. He drives a Viano, a souped up minivan presenting itself with a Mercedes logo and gray leather interior, one bench turned backward to be more like a limosine.
I sat in the back with my serene (the nice word for sleepy) clients and pointed out the window at various things. There was an echo in the car. It was the father's listening method to repeat the very last part of what I'd said. Demonstration:
"The Marathon Runner statue is standing at the official end of the first marathon race in 1896."
"Oh in 1896. The race."
"The climate in the Peloponnese is perfect for growing oranges and you should have some orange juice with lunch."
"We should have some for lunch, yes."
It was lovely actually. It's so nice to have someone listen to you. The funny part was that he was always chiming in just before I'd finished, like we were doing a campfire round.
My favorite part of the Argolis tour is showing people the Acrocorinth. It's your quintessential castle on a hill, used first for a temple of Aphrodite. When the men-folk took over the goddess worshippers, it was used to spy enemy ships or encroaching armies from far. You can see everything up there. Attica, Nemea, the Corinthean Gulf. You hear the kind of wind-whisper I've mentioned before...where you're sure you're being told something important but the language is such, you've long forgotten it, you just can't remember what it means.
I loved my sleepy people today. In between their choreographed routine of the car-nap head-bob, they made me laugh, I made them laugh, they listened to my stories. I told them all about the priests of Aphrodite being beekeepers, as bees were sacred to the goddess of Love and Beauty.
"sacred to the goddess of love and beauty!"
I noticed Pedro's eyes flicker with attention via the rearview mirror.
While they were at the site of Ancient Corinth, Pedro and I made a dash back to the highway for gas. He looked at me suspiciously.
"What were you saying about the priests of Aphrodite. I want to know."
I repeated that they were beekeepers of sacred bees.
"Where did you learn that?"
Hmmm! Where indeed?
The last two years I've spent absorbing everything I can put my mythologically itchy fingers on, trying desperately to catch up with over 2000 years of history of a culture that doesn't technically belong to me. Ways that I've researched include (but are not excluded to)
*Contacting Authors and having long chats.
*Sitting in bookstores for hours because there aren't libraries.
*Reading countless websites dedicated to mythology and Goddess stuff.
*Talking to people who just seem to know a lot.
*Downloading academic papers.
*Squinting over the tiny print of museum plaques.
*Renting videos from the library. (This was over the Christmas break. Thank you Montgomery County Public Library, I never really told you how much I appreciate you.)
And, I have to admit, after all of these things put together sometimes I feel that I have enough information to connect the dots and make theories of my own. Risky business, but it's the way I learn, also. I promise after I blurb something out completely wrong and hear about it after, I remember forever what is right.
Now that I'm comfortably in front of my red security blanket, I mean laptop, I did a bit of research.
The title Melissaios - or Bee-man, has a feminine counterpart in Mediterranean cultures called Melissa, of which Hilda Ransome informs us; “The title Melissa, the Bee, is a very ancient one; it constantly occurs in Greek Myths, meaning sometimes a priestess, sometimes a nymph.” This is an important observation, for the tradition of dancing Bee goddesses appears to have been preserved in a form of Bee maidens known as Melissa’s – or nymphs, and Greek deities such as Rhea and Demeter were widely known to have held the title. Additionally, the Greeks frequently referred to ‘Bee-Souls’ and bestowed the title of ‘Melissa’ on unborn souls. The 3rd century Greek philosopher and mathematician Porphyry of Tyre believed that souls arrived on earth in the form of Bees, having descended from the moon goddess Artemis, and that they were lured to terrestrial life by the promise of earthly delights, such as honey. Ironically, honey was also a symbol of death and was frequently used as an offering to the gods. The dualistic quality of honey is no coincidence, as the nectar and its maker – the Bee, appear to represent the very cycle of existence. One could say that as the Bee returns to its hive, so the Melissa returns to its god in the afterlife; the beginning is the end and the end is the beginning.
The definition of Melissa – the Honeybee
Bees, Melissa’s and caves go hand in hand in Mediterranean mythology – as we saw with Zeus, however the tradition may have commenced with the Bronze Age Mycenaean culture (1500 - 1100 BC) on the island of Ithaca in the Ionian Sea. The island, which was featured in Homer’s epic poems, the Iliad – the first Greek work to feature Bees - and the Odyssey, is renowned for a sacred cave with a curious double entrance; one passage orientated to Boreas – the god of the northern wind, and the other to Notus – the god of the southern wind. The cave was home to Bee goddess nymphs – or Melissa’s called Nagaden. Here Bees deposited honey in stone containers and traveled through the Boreas entrance in order to appease the god of the southern winds, who was known for destroying crops and giving rise to the planet Sirius in late summer. The portal was believed to be a divine ‘Path of the Gods’ that no mortal was permitted to cross, and even today the cave remains elusive to the casual traveler, residing in near anonymity in the vicinity of an ancient Olive tree believed to be at least 1500 years old.
It is fascinating, isn't it? Sparkly, mystical stuff that will have me forever looking at bees with wonder, but all of this to tell you, nowhere did I find that priests of Aphrodite are beekeepers. In fact, seems that the bee is more commonly associated with Artemis.
Did I imagine it?
"I'm a beekeeper," said Pedro.
And the discussion turned from wishy-washy goddess knowledge to hard core bee knowledge. Did you know they're using bees to sniff out bombs? Yes! They're apparently even better than dogs when you reward them with a little food for reacting to a specific scent. Documented here
and
It's worth noting that while searching, I came across this:
I'm not wondering why information gets scrambled in my head anymore.
Pedro loves bees. He waxed on about them as we were fueling, saying that when you study the way bees are organized, you see that humans are really, very silly. Because I don't actually know how bees are organized, I thought I would take a moment to understand. What I learned is that bees are efficiently organized according to their roles. Their roles are assigned accordingly: worker bees are sterile. They are not for making love. They are for making honey. Drones are the lovers. They are for fulfilling the queen, of which there is one. Her job is to make more bees.
There are nurse bees, who are worker bees not ready to leave the hive yet. Their job is to feed the larvae (baby bees) royal jelly. Now I'm quoting from the article because I love the way it's worded (article can be read here)
After that time, worker and drone larvae are fed on a mixed food composed of honey and pollen, while larvae destined to develop into queens are fed on royal jelly during their whole larval life of five days. Thus, queens can be reared from any worker larvae younger than three days.
They're kind of like an Indian Caste system in this way. Sorted out before they've even hatched and handed their destiny, which they live out until their death. They even need different times for hatching, the queen needing the shortest, the drone, the longest.
I learned more, but maybe you're not as interested in bees as me, Pedro, and, oh yes, my painting mentor and her "hippy bee wrangler." Apparently the city of Dallas doesn't appreciate my mentor keeping bees in her backyard and the "hippy bee wrangler" is going to relocate them.
"They do zip code honey in the hood. my zip is her major source. Love my gentle sweet industrious honey bees," says she.
So all of this to say, I think maybe I was wrong about the priests of Aphrodite being bee keeper, but it presented an opportunity to learn so much more! (Here would be a nice place to insert my gold lined clouds as a metaphor, but I'm resisting.)
You know, sometimes I'm wrong. That's just all there is to it. I'm Paige. A person. Not a bee. I don't know my destiny. I'm lucky when I know what it is I'm supposed to be doing when I wake up in the day. I do the best I can and lately I end up bitching about what went wrong late at night via this place that I write stuff. It doesn't mean I don't get up the next day and try again. Get a few things right, the other things wrong, repeat.
Just sayin'.
PS
I got a stern lecture from Pedro about cross checking my information. I complained saying that the myths are constantly told in different ways, according to who is telling them, according to the political climate of the time, and whether or not there are hidden meanings in the telling... it's all terribly subjective.
"Yes, but it is important. You must try to learn which is the right one."
If anyone happens to know anything about ancient bee keepers...
Today I learned the difficult truth about getting to the best places in a city; you must always go up.
Greece is a place with a lot of “ups.” Even the ancient YiaYias are power hoofing their way up or down stone stairwells with their shopping bags, black-clad with rubber-thick stockings in spite of 90 degree heat; you get the impression that if you were in a race, you would lose. For those who are not daunted by an incline in the peak hours of heat, you will be rewarded.
On this day I strayed "up" in Nafplio, a beautiful port town and once upon a time a well kept secret. Now throngs of tourists and locals are enjoying the main square and seaside cafes throughout the peak season. I could have planted myself there in the middle of the commotion, of course. Get an ice cream and people watch until dizzy with speculations, but instead, instead...
I slipped away from my fellow men.
Went down the little twisting streets until I came to worn,
faded
steps
and
started
up.
How quiet things get. Even the buzz of a TV coming from behind a sunburned blue door in a two century old building can sound like the score of a sweeping, epic film. Even sighting a common house cat becomes touched with magic. An omen. A god in disguise! The ridge of the walls lead you to strange and mysterious tunnels. Where do they take you? Dart in, like Alice down the rabbit hole, and pop out to find another twisting path leading up to an impressive castle. Stop, look over your shoulder, and be granted a "suck-in-your-breath" "MY GAWD" kind of beauty with the village dropping down into Disneyesque, perfect turquoise, the Bourtzi fortress in it's isolated place offshore.
My gaping was timed because truth be told, I was working.If I hadn't been working, god knows. I would have maybe found some company. Maybe been invited for supper. Instead I had to go down and meet the jokers we came with and wipe all of that "awe" off my face in case someone got suspicious. Lord knows we can't be walking around with awe.
If they had caught me up there, they would have found me with my work shirt draped over my arm, sweating in my camisole and smiling. Smiling! It's all I need. Just a little mystery, a little adventure. Something to remind me I'm not in a box, doomed to suffer days upon days of repeated record playing and mask wearing.
If I could make a living off of living in amazement, my face dripping with awe...
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?
I feel like I've been living in a dark house banging my head into all of the walls, and finally I've found the hall with the doors. One by one they are opening.
Don't think I'm leaving my job... in Greece it's not unusual to have so many hands in so many jars you look like, well...
So while two hands are keeping well occupied the others found it was time to brush up the old resume.
In other news, the Hong Kong Inquisitors simply adored Nafplio. I think. They were full of complements like, "We see now that Greek food is okay but not as good as Italy's." and "Oh, Nafplio is beautiful! A little like Italy!"
I would like to remind everyone that while Italy was enjoying its heyday, building a grand legacy what with the renaissance and stealing pasta from the Chinese, Greece was overrun by Ottomans and fighting to eat day to day. It would be like comparing... well I think the point is that I hate comparing. Even if it's to show how wrong a comparison it is.
I simply adore Nafplio. Yesterday was perfect. The way the clouds were gray and pilfering over the shimmering sea, the sun blaring out the distinction of the horizon... Nikos and I had the welcomed addition of yet another Despina (it's what happens when all of the babies have to be named after Orthodox saints. You get a lot of Georges, a lot of Marias, a couple of Depsinas..) Despina is a tour guide. The purpose of someone like myself is to show the people how to truly enjoy a place. Sure I know a couple of things and would never hold it in just because I'm not licensened, but I would never compare my antedotal tales and trivia to the sort of in depth, comprehensive overview a guide has been trained to offer. On top of that, if she's a good one, she'll adapt what she knows to what you seem to be interested in. Despina was just such a guide. She sat in that bus and talked her head off, answering their every difficult question with patience and clarity, freeing me to enjoying the shapes of the clouds. One was definitely a Minoan dolphin. I also saw a dragon eating a turtle.
While the clients were exploring the quaint roads of little Nafplio, Athens first capital, Despina and I sat at a cafe looking toward the Bourtzi castle, an island fortress just off the harbor. We talked about the love of the job, that we can never say "no" to work, remembered the days we never wanted to work, about how gratifitying it is when you can see on someone's face that they had a wonderful day and you had something to do with it. She also gave some incredulous wisdom through a personal story:
One time she was hired by a wealthy couple who had also taken a driver with a car. They did the entire "Argolida" tour, which is to say they saw the city of Ancient Corinth, made famous by one saint, the Corinth Canal, made famous by French engineering, the ancient city of King Agememnon, cursed descendant of "Pelops," and Trojan war hero, and Nafplio, adorable, "Italy-like" port town. Then they wanted to go to Sounion.
To give you an idea, it's like she took them to West Texas and they asked to see Galveston.
But Despina, a positive girl, said OKAY and they went. It was a twelve hour day but they made it. She was paid well. On top of the four hundred euro that was her fee for such an itinerary, they gave her a one hundred euro tip. Five hundred euros in one day! She said, 'This is great! I want to make this every day!"
The next day she went out with a friend for coffee in Kolonaki and her purse was stolen with every bill in it.
"NEVER BE HAPPY ABOUT MONEY!!"
I have my own version. The first time I was asked for a private walking tour, I was paid over what I'd asked. The next day I left my wallet in a coffee place on the way to Delphi. It was black and embroidered with red and turquoise flowers. I'd bought it in a bazaar in Istanbul. I'd stuck an interesting cracked button that I'd found in the parking lot in the pocket. And oh yeah, and all the money was inside.
You needn't assume mine has a happy ending even though Despina's didn't. I lost it all.
I don't know that it's so much that you can't be happy about money. I do think that there is something, SOMETHING, about being so surprised that you got a large amount at once you are proving that you don't believe it could have happened, and in some way that disbelief blocks you from believing you get to keep it.
My father is rolling his eyes now, I'm sure of it. "Maybe it means you shouldn't leave your wallet in coffee shops, Paige!" (well Dad, as always, you're right...)
but I'm convinced that good or bad, we bring about the events in our lives, which is why there is no real point to calling things good or bad. They happen in accordance with the decisions we've made and the way we perceive ourselves.
There is probably no real way for someone who doesn't care a lot about living a wealthy life to believe that getting a lot of money isn't a big deal, but it would be nice to start inching a little closer to comfortable. My goal for the future is to believe every penny I'm paid was earned, fair and square. No surprises. Radically alter what I perceive to be a "lot" of money. This is exactly why every opportunity that is coming up to earn a little more is worth my cracking open. Let's see what we got.
So. Door number one....
PS, this is a door in the neighborhood of Koukaki, the neighborhood behind the Acropolis and a neighborhood I would not mind at all opening one of the doors and calling it home.
Bleary eyed, bed-gazing, back is talking, but here I write. I've spent the last eleven hours with some of the most inquisitive people I've ever known. They wanted to know. Everything.
The only break I got from unleashing all of the lines I've ever learned was at the Naos cafe under the temple of Poseidon at Sounio, where they charge three euros for an espresso because they have the advantage of being the only ones there at the nose of the horse's head, the shape of the land of Attica.
Naos means temple.
It is "SOAN" when you spell it backwards. It doesn't mean anything I just thought I would point it out.
Wild grouse are protected here and hop like turkeys freely from the ground to the linen-covered tables, eating sugar substitute packets like the grackels do in Texas, only they're bigger, floppier, with giant orange feet and an akward, clumsy landing.
I was watching this when my break officially ended, the group calling me over to ask about restaurants for dinner, handing me maps and pens and phone numbers so that I might concierge my way into a thirty euro tip, just enough to cover the long sleeved shirt I bought because it was so unusually cold today, a bag of pistachios and sesame balls so that they might have a snack on their way down from the Acropolis... the one euro bus ticket I had to buy because Nikos got a last minute gig and after we dropped them, turned to me and said "Sorry Paige I can't take you home..." well, it means the trip cost me one euro.
Still, it was a Maxfield Parrish sky at the hour that I'd finished. Walking back down the quieted Syngrou Avenue had me playing the "maybe that's why..." game. Every shadow on the honey-lit columns, the temple of Zeus against the cadet blue sky had my little painter's heart singing.
"Maybe that's why I had to walk so far to find a kiosk selling a bus ticket..." my inner optimist said.
And as I watched a girl on the bus answering a text message from someone she clearly was lighting up inside for, her smile spreading all over her whole body...
"Maybe that's why I ended up on this bus."
The good people of Hong Kong no longer think their trip has been ruined due to the threat of another strike and volcanic ash looming in the atmosphere. Nikos may or may not think I'm a competant and useful assistant that he intends on using for more of his missions. I may never paint a sky as well as Maxfield Parrish, but by golly I'm going to have a good sleep tonight, and I almost broke even by telling stories about the gods.
Was a pretty good day.
"What do you do?" she asked, as I was putting on my shoes. "I'm a painter," I said. "House?" she asked. "Picture," I said. "Okay," she said, "but what do you actually do?"
Below is a letter I’ve written to Mandy Moore. Yes, as in the pop star, film star, magazine cover girl, wife of rock star, Mandy Moore. This is it the way I’d intended to present it to her, had I not put myself in the role of her “screener” and imagined what I would do were I to open a letter like this amongst five billion other pieces of fan mail. Well I’d probably chunk it. So, because I lost my nerve, I’m posting it here.
Dear Ms. Moore,
In the advent of indirectly stolen magazines (my sister from the “Nail Boutique” in Magnolia, TX and I from my sister) I had the pleasure of reading pages forty-nine through fifty-two of the January 2010 edition of Shape magazine. In these pages you bravely listed your New Years resolution to inspire the readers. I’m writing to offer some ideas on tackling items no. 4, 5, 6, and 8 (Learn Something New, Step out of your comfort zone, Take a break from Email and, mostly, Go on a REAL vacation, respectively.) What’s more is I’m offering to help you accomplish all of these things with one blow, like the tailor and the giants.
My name is Paige Moore and as far as I know we don’t have any immediate relations but that’s not really the point. I have a knack for coming up with unique ideas specific to travelers and have launched my own chapter of a larger company lovingly named “Travelµuse.”
To be direct, I wondered if you would consider Greece among your listed destinations which I notice share the themes of ancient, mystical places and gorgeous scenery. You’ll be astounded by how much of that you can find here, most of it still relatively unnoticed by the world even if Greece has become thought of as a common place to be a tourist. The tourists have not explored her ancient caves where you still find offerings to the nymphs, or sat alone on the island of Alonissos, in a village that is quite difficult to get to even if it’s in a country smaller than the state of Alabama. So think, dream, remember that artists such as Leonard Cohen, Lord Byron and Henry Miller have found their muse here. I predict the same would happen for you.
Most sincerely,
Paige Moore
I kept it short because I thought it had more liklihood of being read, and professional on the off chance she was already maybe considering a trip to Greece. It's not very inspired, though, and I know when I've written something really convincing and when I should let it simmer on the stove for a few more hours or toss it out of the window all together. No, I'm not looking for encouragement to return to the idea of writing to Mandy Moore, there is a deeper point to this.
What I really want is the chance to build something, an experience, for a person who has an open mind and who is out to dig deeper into this mighty world of ours. If I was in Arizona, I would ask her to come there. If I was in Mongolia, or Magolia, likewise. (Maybe not Magnolia, but I like how if you read either Mongolia OR Magnolia you might get these two very extreme locations confused.)
I happen to be in Greece which, lucky for me, is a place a lot of people dream about seeing, one day. My problem is that they all want to see what everyone else has seen and there are more than I realized that don't particularly enjoy stepping outside of the bus, let alone their comfort zone. What on earth would they say if I handed them all post it notes and told them to write a wish and leave it on Areopagus Hill? It would take one group to say "no thanks" and my frail little ego would assume it had been a stupid idea, which, writing here in my "safety zone" I know perfectly well it is a brilliant idea and the only thing stupid about it is the idea of refusing to do it.
If I were someone like Mandy Moore, someone who spends every day being in the consciousness of people around the world, her entire life exposed, and IF I wanted to “break out of my comfort zone” (I would imagine the comfort zone of a successful star like Mandy Moore is about 500% more comfortable than most of ours) I would implement the travel philosophy of the author of The Art of Travel whose name I do not have handy as I am writing without access to St. Google, St. Wiki.
This man believes that you should not travel before you’ve acquired a certain hunger for the destination. It makes sense, like not eating before you have an appetite. Don’t just jump on a plane for the hell of it; have an idea of where you want to go and why. He thinks it’s a shame that modern travel has enabled this more casual approach to a journey, because it’s cheap, relatively quick and easy, because everyone has been there and is talking about it, because they saw it on TV...
He went on about how much he would love a travel agent who would put together some really offbeat things for him. Watching a business meeting or stacking cargo on ships were two examples he gave as activities that might help him understand the country he’s touring as opposed to being confined to the museums and protected sites that tourists typically adhere to.
Dear Universe, please, please send me some travelers like this!! Let me flex my creative muscles and draw misshapen circles with rabbit ears in their itineraries.
And when they come, let them pay me well so I can go out in the world and do the same! I’ve still got so much I want to see. Just because I’m hanging out on one stoop doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hop off and pal about the neighborhood a spell, see what folks are up to these days.
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..."
I invited a dear friend of mine to join in my 100 freakin' blogs in a row challenge. Do you know he was crazy enough to say yes? Now I feel duty bound to complete my mission, if anything just to show him up. He might be able to do more push ups than me, but on writing about our own, nutty universes, we're certainly equal.
Anyway it's more productive than watching television.
Today, on paper, looks an awful lot like yesterday. I again woke up (something I love to do and even considered writing an entire blog about it.) I again took to wrestling with the concept of a dream trip for Turkish women. I wrote the following email to the one that I know, the intellectual one ( who I also considered writing an entire blog about and likely, one day, will.)
The email was as such:
Dear Gokce,
In my developing, strange new twist of careers, I have been asked to come up with a weekend getaway to Greece that will be marketed, primarily, to wealthy, Turkish women.From everything I've proposed, I understand that wealthy Turkish women are VERY different from American and even Western European women. (British, French, German, etc) which means, roughly, that I don't exactly know what to do.Initially I was starting to mix a variety of things such as cultural places... ruins, museums, points of interest, with spas and shopping. I put in a boat ride along the Aegean coast...The Greek men are telling me that I have to imagine ladies weighted down with gold who don't want to move a finger if they don't have to, maybe even have a place where they can hear Turkish music and eat Turkish food, and to come up with a plan for THOSE women.Could you please guide me? What on earth would a privilidged Turkish woman want from a trip to Greece? It's hard for me to get my brain around why you would go somewhere else just to see and do the same things you do at home.Sincerely,P
To which she responded, (among other things I took out because it's a bit irrelevant):
Dear Paige,
It is interesting to see how prejudices flow against my women in europe...
I guess west is still afraid of facing the east...
But I believe sun rises from east...
I love how she puts this. "My women." It's why I fell in love with her in the first place, really. She's a tribal warrior princess, defending Islam through its mysticism, Turkish women through years of strangely progressive practices such as divorce and abortions, things they've been allowed to do for centuries, and, selfishly, confirming my instinctive feeling that Turkish women, like any other women, are curious creatures who love to be treated specially but also want variety, culture, beauty, romance... and it doesn't need to come in superficial packaging.
At least I'm hoping.
So after I bent my brain into a few more pretzel knots, this is the kicker, we got ANOTHER call from ANOTHER Indian flight crew stranded in Athens and looking to make the most of it.
Ok, this is more or less where the similarities end. As I said, just leaving your house in this city means you grab your whip and your brown fedora and prepare yourself for snakes and nazis. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.)
The wind could have picked me up today and carried me off like Piglet, straight up out of the hundred acre wood. I stood there along the median of busy Syngrou Avenue and waited the coach full of Indian flight attendants and was hanging on with one arm to a light post and had the other hand shoved deep in my jacket for warmth. When they pulled alongside me and I got in, they were introduced to my hair long before they saw the rest of me.
"HI PAIGE!"
Because I'd had a little practice yesterday I have to admit today I slipped into automode which means I recite the stories by heart, usher them to "insert place of great historical value" and drift off into people-watching paradise. I like to watch tourists. They're always dressed on the quirky side, like no matter how sophisticated they might be in their high end, wrinkle free travelers clothes, when they're standing next to the lady in lime green tennies and a quilted purse big enough to fit a gallon of chicken, they look funny. Little games I play with myself to help the time pass include: Counting the ones with ice cream cones. Guessing their flavor. Guessing their country of origin (the tourist, not the ice cream) and mostly, what they're like when they're there.
Auto Insurance dealer. Has a wood shop in his garage. Cat owner.
Has a lot of brothers. Basketball fanatic. Has two more hats, just like this one, in different colors.
Married for fifty years. Teachers. He secretly writes poetry and she secretly reads it.
So today I was playing these little games with myself until my Indian flight attendants returned to me. These were a bit rowdier than yesterday's, all chain smokers, decked out in ripped jeans, tattoos, earrings.We all got in trouble when they decided to swing around the sacred olive trees of the New Acropolis Museum for a picture. One almost got eaten by the usually catatonic dogs of St. George's church because he bent down in his face and tried to give his ears a good rub. They were laughing like nuts, but it was quite likely because they were a) sleep deprived b) in a country they didn't expect to be in and c) were trying to have a nice time in spite of a) and b) so I hold them in the highest regard, not that they'll lose one second worrying about what I thought of them in the first place, something else I admire.
I got another ten invitations to visit in Delhi and am starting to warm up to the idea.
As the afternoon got later, something really magical happened with the sky. The winds grew even stronger, bending the trees over like naughty children. The clouds more pronounced, and the sunlight fell on the land in sharp shards leaving the rest in violet shadow. Standing on top of Lycavitous Hill with the entire city below and that magnificent wind howling, clanging the rope to the flagpole, saying something truly important in an impossible language, it was a moment that begged for an epic soundtrack.
"I like this life of mine that knocks me around a little. Please God let it be making me tougher. "
And with this little prayer I lead down the flight crew and we clamoured back into the still of the bus, curling down the road past the Aegean and θυμωμἐνο Ποσειδὠνα throwing the waves against the rocks like raquetballs.
My friend has stated he will use this exercise to "post the truth" for 100 days. My world is so gray right now, I'm completely confused at what is truth and what is illusion. My hope is that, at the end of 100 days, through the process of doing something repetitively and with discipline, be able to start functioning within the fuzziness as opposed to getting tangled deep inside of it. I'm going to do a cheesy little parallel here, something I learned from sitting in on too many sermons, but once upon a time a small Indian man taught me something important. He said "imagine you're on a boat and you see a big wave. You bend down and you ask it, 'What are you?' And he answers, 'I'm a wave!' The next day you're in your boat again and you see the same wave, but the wind has died down and it is calm. You ask it, 'What are you?' And it answers, 'I'm part of the sea.' Well, the idea is to go through life being the sea, not the wave."
I would like this exercise to make me a little less wave-like and a little more like the sea.
