I have been hiding in the sweet sanctuary of our air conditioned office for the last three hours, doing nothing but skyping with my family, staring at facebook pictures, writing a blog, (click on that one, please) contemplating the nature of twitter, the destruction of genuine relationships, and ironically, through facebook, I came upon this article detailing the demise of creativity in Americans.
I would like to write them a thank you letter, but I'm not putting the stamp on it until something comes out of it. For instance, a new institution where the creatively challenged can go to learn how to imagine a better world.
One of the things I talked to my mother about was my general black outlook on the world. I'm going to lay it out straight, because this is my blog and because I can. We, the thirty-ish and under, got a shit hand dealt to us. Maybe it is the job of every 30-ish year old person to recognize the holes in the ground and either start filling or keep pointing and hollering about it, but in our case, I feel like this is really, really ugly. Really ugly.
Really really god awful, monkey faced, warty toed, monster ugly.
I don't think I need to go into details about all of the crappy worldwide troubles that are amongst us. The world has always had troubles and will keep having troubles until we finally burn it to the ground or fill it so full of garbage we abandon ship, WALL-E style. What bothers me the most is exactly what this article is talking about. People are less inclined to make things interesting. No one is succeeding when they take off on the road less traveled. They pack their bag, promise to write, and the next you hear they either succumbed to a cube-job because they needed insurance or worse, you never hear from them again. They've landed so far and so deep in the hills that they're only interested composting their own poop and catching rabbits for supper. They've signed out of society. Tell me, please, how is the five percent of persons who refuse to play along going to change anything?
I was talking to Nikos, a driver, about his prospects of the future of Greece.
"It's going to be very bad. It's already bad and it's going to be worse. Our children don't have a future. They're signing themselves into slavery. Greece is going to have a difficult road ahead."
an interjection that is maybe not, maybe, yes, related. I asked him next if he ever considered leaving.
"Me? Leave Greece? Never. I'll die here."
His patriotism was moving, but what I took home was his opinion of his child's future. It's obvious even to him that our future lies in boxes.
One possible explanation for my miserable view is my own disappointment, which is personal. Maybe it's not fair to shove on everyone else my mediocre advancements and cellophane ceilings, illusionary opportunities and bad decision making. Maybe if you talk to the artists who are making it today, they will describe an interesting world that is rife with new media, new adventures in sociology, fascinating new developments in the human experience.
I say they're blinded by their own padded pockets, but moreso, I say that the people who are saying this are few and far between.
It's difficult to say what's caused this hardened view on things. The six year old version of myself would not approve. She would wonder when I stopped drawing stars and playing MASH (ps, I had no idea there would be an online version. Mosty I was hoping for a Wiki explanation for my friend and reader, Despina, who might not get the social context)
My mother voiced the slightest alarm at the possibility that I was growing cynical. She wondered if it might have something to do with the fact that I was making a go in a country whose culture wasn't mine, whose ways I don't know, and I say, well... maybe. But probably not.
The world is the world. I think, actually, I would be even worse in the states because on top of being disappointed, I would be sleeping. Most of the United States is sleeping. That's how they get through their days.
I'm going to say to you, and to my mother, that while this might all sound very dark, I still see the beautiful. Every day. Yesterday G and I stopped in at Melilotos and found Despina and Kostas hard at work. (Harder after we got there. I swear I'm her Chinese cat, bringing luck and business.)
I found two clear crystals on the table.
"What are these?"
"Oh, I have a thousand. The homeless guy pays for his meals in crystals. Wait...I'll show you."
She disappeared into the back and reemerged with a two plastic carry out dishes full of old chandelier crystals. She dropped them on the table.
I was laughing with such delight, partly at the absurdity of it and partly because the inner six year old was so happy to see so much sparkly...
She held up a very large one shaped like a diamond.
"This one was for many meals."
The phone rang and she answered it to take an order. I was grinning like a cheshire cat at G.
"I love this," said I.
But even more than this, I love that Despina is the kind of person that takes crystals for currency. Despina is creative. If only we can be gifted a few more Despinas...the world might stand a chance.
If I could just understand how to do my part, how to make a dent in the wall...
Showing posts with label meditative ramblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meditative ramblings. Show all posts
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Mice Dreams/ Lesson Days
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.
Until then, a bedtime story.
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.
Until then, a bedtime story.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Wish Jars
The moon is hanging low and yellow at the end of Solonos street tonight, smeared with drifting clouds. It's full.
When I was in Epheses with Hande, we went to the house where it is believed Mother Mary spent her last days. There's a church there now where people go to pray, and a board where they leave their wishes (prayers), tied with a rag to the wishes of others and assembled into a sort of cottony jumbled heap of white.
I was having trouble knowing what to wish for, standing their with my pen hovering in the air and searching for what was the essence of everything I wanted or needed at that moment in time. Hande was watching me struggle.
"I would start with your health."
So starting with my health, I wrote down three separate wishes (prayers) and tied them to the board. Hande did the same. As we walked away she told me that her mother comes all of the time to this place.
"Why?"
"Sometimes to ask for something, and many times to thank her for answering."
I should mention that Hande's family is technically Muslim.
Nearly one month later, I have to plan a trip to Izmir to thank the Lady for granting one of my wishes, if not two, considering I'm still walking, talking, moving, breathing and bleeding as does any healthy human being.
No, I'm not telling you what the wish was. There are still two more to go. I don't know how these things work; is it a package deal? All or nothing? Does uttering one out loud dispell the others?
I've been working a lot of positive magic lately. I have a jar full of torn paper from writing down nice things that someone in particular does for me. I did this because I was getting crabby about things that I maybe don't consider so nice. It was an attempt to refocus my attention.
I'll restate that the jar is full and still growing.
I have a lot of jars. It goes along with my obsession with honey which has only grown stronger since living in the Mediterranean where there are happy bees. Anyone who's seen Greece in the Spring could see why. Flowers are shooting out of the pavement here. Anyway I go through a jar of honey about every two and a half weeks, and we're not talking the little plastic bear size. There's Pooh Bear, and then there's me. That's all.
The result is that each time I finish the honey, I can't let go of the jar. It's a memory of that wild Greek honey I enjoyed every morning for breakfast and every night in my tea... or just the fact that I'm having wild Greek honey twice a day, which is certainly one of the highlights of my decisions upon coming here.
I have these jars and I want to do something beautiful and artistic with them but I can't decide what. I want them to benefit other people. I want the happiness that I had each time I opened the jar and dropped my spoon into that thick amber matter, had a little taste, a small moment of ecstasy on the tongue, I want that to be transferred to someone else. I can't decide, it's true, but I do have some vague notions competing for the gold.
They require little tokens, symbols, and messages. Maybe old photographs. Feathers. Buttons. Strips of poetry. A gold coin.
I imagine them being found on windowsills or the hood of cars. I'm not bothered by thoughts of them going unappreciated (most beautiful things aren't) It's just important to me to have my camera battery replaced so that I can document them before I send them out into the world. My poor camera battery has been in need of being replaced since before Izmir. Maybe I should have made four wishes....
Went to Ancient Corinth again today. On the road between the ancient site and Nafplio there is a row of farmers' booths selling wine, oil, fruit, herbs, and honey. I don't know how it got started but George started stopping at one in particular and I've become their customer. The honey they put in the jars comes from pine trees. It's heavy and sweet, thick and opaque compared to the crystalline stuff in the supermarkets. Sometimes we take clients by so they can sample the different honeys. Most of them had no idea there is such a thing as "different" honeys. The two farmers that run the stall don't speak a lick of English but their smiles say everything when they see the black van rolling up. It doesn't matter if we buy one apple or ten bottles of their garage produced wine; they're happy to see a frequent customer.
We were running late today. No time for wine and honey sampling. We were about to roll on past, the farmers just waving hello, when George wheeled to the side of the road and said "You have two minutes. Go and get it."
The clients were a bit puzzled but I think in the end they found it amusing that the American assistant buys her honey on the old road to Nafplio.
When I was in Epheses with Hande, we went to the house where it is believed Mother Mary spent her last days. There's a church there now where people go to pray, and a board where they leave their wishes (prayers), tied with a rag to the wishes of others and assembled into a sort of cottony jumbled heap of white.
I was having trouble knowing what to wish for, standing their with my pen hovering in the air and searching for what was the essence of everything I wanted or needed at that moment in time. Hande was watching me struggle.
"I would start with your health."
So starting with my health, I wrote down three separate wishes (prayers) and tied them to the board. Hande did the same. As we walked away she told me that her mother comes all of the time to this place.
"Why?"
"Sometimes to ask for something, and many times to thank her for answering."
I should mention that Hande's family is technically Muslim.
Nearly one month later, I have to plan a trip to Izmir to thank the Lady for granting one of my wishes, if not two, considering I'm still walking, talking, moving, breathing and bleeding as does any healthy human being.
No, I'm not telling you what the wish was. There are still two more to go. I don't know how these things work; is it a package deal? All or nothing? Does uttering one out loud dispell the others?
I've been working a lot of positive magic lately. I have a jar full of torn paper from writing down nice things that someone in particular does for me. I did this because I was getting crabby about things that I maybe don't consider so nice. It was an attempt to refocus my attention.
I'll restate that the jar is full and still growing.
I have a lot of jars. It goes along with my obsession with honey which has only grown stronger since living in the Mediterranean where there are happy bees. Anyone who's seen Greece in the Spring could see why. Flowers are shooting out of the pavement here. Anyway I go through a jar of honey about every two and a half weeks, and we're not talking the little plastic bear size. There's Pooh Bear, and then there's me. That's all.
The result is that each time I finish the honey, I can't let go of the jar. It's a memory of that wild Greek honey I enjoyed every morning for breakfast and every night in my tea... or just the fact that I'm having wild Greek honey twice a day, which is certainly one of the highlights of my decisions upon coming here.
I have these jars and I want to do something beautiful and artistic with them but I can't decide what. I want them to benefit other people. I want the happiness that I had each time I opened the jar and dropped my spoon into that thick amber matter, had a little taste, a small moment of ecstasy on the tongue, I want that to be transferred to someone else. I can't decide, it's true, but I do have some vague notions competing for the gold.
They require little tokens, symbols, and messages. Maybe old photographs. Feathers. Buttons. Strips of poetry. A gold coin.
I imagine them being found on windowsills or the hood of cars. I'm not bothered by thoughts of them going unappreciated (most beautiful things aren't) It's just important to me to have my camera battery replaced so that I can document them before I send them out into the world. My poor camera battery has been in need of being replaced since before Izmir. Maybe I should have made four wishes....
Went to Ancient Corinth again today. On the road between the ancient site and Nafplio there is a row of farmers' booths selling wine, oil, fruit, herbs, and honey. I don't know how it got started but George started stopping at one in particular and I've become their customer. The honey they put in the jars comes from pine trees. It's heavy and sweet, thick and opaque compared to the crystalline stuff in the supermarkets. Sometimes we take clients by so they can sample the different honeys. Most of them had no idea there is such a thing as "different" honeys. The two farmers that run the stall don't speak a lick of English but their smiles say everything when they see the black van rolling up. It doesn't matter if we buy one apple or ten bottles of their garage produced wine; they're happy to see a frequent customer.
We were running late today. No time for wine and honey sampling. We were about to roll on past, the farmers just waving hello, when George wheeled to the side of the road and said "You have two minutes. Go and get it."
The clients were a bit puzzled but I think in the end they found it amusing that the American assistant buys her honey on the old road to Nafplio.
Monday, June 21, 2010
would
If someone would be so kind as to hand me a fat wad of cash, I would do the following things:
Buy a bus.
Build a Studio.
Have two sets of sheets.
Go to India to buy the sheets.
Send my fam back at home the things they need:
?
Wear dresses from Turkey every day of the week.
See an opera in the ancient theater of Herodes Atticus.
Fly baby Scarlett and her mother to see it with me.
I read somewhere that in the Great Depression, while everyone was jobless and going hungry, there was corn and cotton in the fields, eggs under the chickens, you get the idea. There were all of the resources needed except for money.
The comparison was made that it was like a baker who had eggs, milk, sugar, flour, and was told to make a cake. But she didn't have ounces or liters.
I know it's silly to feel broke, but I would still like to wear dresses from Turkey every day. Being a new-agey, "The universe provides all" kind of girl, I know that if my higher consciousness really wants to wear dresses from Turkey every day or see my sister and her daughter in Greece, it will happen. But if I had money, I could make it happen so much faster...
Buy a bus.
Build a Studio.
"Studio Matisse" by Rhoda Isaacson
Have two sets of sheets.
Go to India to buy the sheets.
Send my fam back at home the things they need:
?
Wear dresses from Turkey every day of the week.
See an opera in the ancient theater of Herodes Atticus.
Fly baby Scarlett and her mother to see it with me.
I read somewhere that in the Great Depression, while everyone was jobless and going hungry, there was corn and cotton in the fields, eggs under the chickens, you get the idea. There were all of the resources needed except for money.
The comparison was made that it was like a baker who had eggs, milk, sugar, flour, and was told to make a cake. But she didn't have ounces or liters.
I know it's silly to feel broke, but I would still like to wear dresses from Turkey every day. Being a new-agey, "The universe provides all" kind of girl, I know that if my higher consciousness really wants to wear dresses from Turkey every day or see my sister and her daughter in Greece, it will happen. But if I had money, I could make it happen so much faster...
Sunday, June 20, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Sun-Slappers
38, Voulis street, Ground floor, Athens 10557, GREECE
Everyone is walking very slowly in Athens these days. Helios is feeling downright cocky, thrusting out his biceps and roaring like Hulk Hogan. HEEEEEEEAAAAAT, oppressive and long lasting, starts dialing up around 8:30 AM and goes into 9:00 PM. It just strengthens my devotion to maneuvering the streets in the extremities of the day, the early early morning and the late of the evening. Everything is more chill. Even the taxi drivers and motorcycles seem more relaxed. Deep down in their malaka hearts I'm sure they would still like to mow me down, but they're too sleepy to act on it.
An interesting byproduct of the hot weather is the rash of pretty girls that come out in it. Suddenly the metros, buses, cafes and sidewalks are crawling with lean, leggy babes wearing thin excuses for clothing. Mostly they're not doing it American style, or even European style. Greek girls have a "pretty" all their own, just like Austin girls. Whereas Austin girls have this glow, this spark of life and the perfectly faded jean shorts going on for them, Greek girls are a little more typically girly. Romantic. Their wear flowy dresses and ribbons around their wrists. They've braided their hair. They ears defy gravity, for surely their earlobes should be hanging down to their chinline a la National Geographic with some of these discs and baubles I've seen dangling about, but somehow they keep it all together, looking striking on the sidewalk.
Then there are the more high maintenance ones who still believe that beauty lies in applying blush like sheet metal and high heels as tall as minorets. They're more for the "stuffed in" look, preferring corsets and spandex mini skirts. Don't get the wrong idea, though. It has remained the same for the past two hundred years. Greek girls are good girls, and this is why every female tourist from countries with a "loose" reputation is at risk for getting wooed in a way that will leave her shocked, or melted, or in love and possibly consider changing their address. I'm not thinking of anyone in particular , of course.
And anyway maybe the address changers change their address hundreds of times.
I would like to know where these belles were in the wintertime? Do they stay huddled up together in a communal "beautiful" vault? Are they part nymph, coming out of the woods to flaunt their tawny arms and strappy sandals? How is it that when they get on the A2 bus from the center to the coast, all of those entering know all of the ones already boarded? Is it a secret club? Do they have a "pretty girl" handshake or hair flip?
The mystery may never be solved. We must move on.
These 100 days I've tried to write my life in part, to create a habit and break down the walls I'd constructed around routine, at least as a concept. I'm not a fan, but I see its usefulness. I've broken all of my rules about saying too much or being careful, keeping some subjects protected. I promise I've broken them, even if you don't realize it. I've tried to focus on writing about things I'm learning or observing, and in the end I'm revealing everything about myself. In a discussion with Despina, who has started uncovering the joys of b*ogging herself, (she spends many of our discussions dreaming up future b*ogs or ones that she wishes she had done instead) she brought up doing a b*og with more meaning than just recording her thoughts and some little things that happened in her day. Current events or strong topics that bear more weight.
The very same day I read the b*og of my fellow O.H.D, who happens to work in a newspaper, wrote how ardently opposed he was to writing about current events or his opinions on the matter. He just doesn't care about what he thinks. He also mentioned, or at least implied, that by not addressing his day to day life in a more direct way, he's been neglecting something necessary.
I don't know what's right, but when I look back on my posts and read the little things that struck me, the headaches I was dealing with, the day to day tone that seems to be following patterns (three days of frustration, four days of happiness, two days of melancholia, etc) I don't know. It gives me some kind of satisfaction because I'm looking back on my journey. My former selves. I feel like I keep blossoming and these little posts are tracking my the circumference of my bloom.
Every once in a while I come across something in this new city of mine which, I believe, I have only recently, officially claimed, and I get a clear flashback to when I arrived. It might be passing the seedy hotel I checked into when the first night, or the tram stop that I took to get to the sea captain's house that fateful summer before. I get flooded with all of the emotions I was feeling at those moments. The careful navigation of the unfamiliar tram, the uncertain anxiety in the hotel room... it's as if I'm wearing that old self on me like a t shirt, the old self just being one, discardable part of this new, more solid, more learned girl that I am. (But I promise in a year I'll be looking back at this version the same way, you see what I mean?)
These are all personal reasons, but one day I'm going to look back and see that I also recorded things that will have disappeared. Blue skies and clear water are just two which I'm nervously chewing my lip over, wondering how much longer this will last. Sure, it's interesting that I'm here in this historical "crisis," but as I've mentioned before, there was a generation that survived much more difficult and notable things; out of those who wrote a few things down, the majority weren't concentrating on their opinion of Roosevelt or the economy. They wrote about their lives. We're not only reading them, we're turning them into films. Songs. Heroes.
So there, in a nutshell, is the reason I'm happy I took on this endeavor. Even if it means I've lost a lot of sleep. Even if I'm suffering from the feeling I'm being watched as I pick my nose (by the way I've been informed that it's NileGuide, not Nile Guide or nileguide, and to that informer I had no idea someone so busy would bother with my little b*og. I'm honored.) I'm happy I did it. I'm happy Mr. OHD joined in and I'm happy I get emails of protests when I miss my 24 hour deadline.
It doesn't mean I'm happy I'm committed to another 35 days. Call me fickle.
Oh, one last thing to wrap it all up. One of my favorite quotes ever is from Gwendolyn Brooks. She says, roughly, she got rid of her mirror a long time ago. She found that when you learn to truly be yourself, people aren't looking at the outside anymore.
She also said " I wrote about what I saw and heard on the street."
SPEECH TO THE YOUNG :
SPEECH TO THE PROGRESS-TOWARD
Say to them,
say to the down-keepers,
the sun-slappers,
the self-soilers,
the harmony-hushers,
"even if you are not ready for day
it cannot always be night."
You will be right.
For that is the hard home-run.
Live not for battles won.
Live not for the-end-of-the-song.
Live in the along.
Everyone is walking very slowly in Athens these days. Helios is feeling downright cocky, thrusting out his biceps and roaring like Hulk Hogan. HEEEEEEEAAAAAT, oppressive and long lasting, starts dialing up around 8:30 AM and goes into 9:00 PM. It just strengthens my devotion to maneuvering the streets in the extremities of the day, the early early morning and the late of the evening. Everything is more chill. Even the taxi drivers and motorcycles seem more relaxed. Deep down in their malaka hearts I'm sure they would still like to mow me down, but they're too sleepy to act on it.
An interesting byproduct of the hot weather is the rash of pretty girls that come out in it. Suddenly the metros, buses, cafes and sidewalks are crawling with lean, leggy babes wearing thin excuses for clothing. Mostly they're not doing it American style, or even European style. Greek girls have a "pretty" all their own, just like Austin girls. Whereas Austin girls have this glow, this spark of life and the perfectly faded jean shorts going on for them, Greek girls are a little more typically girly. Romantic. Their wear flowy dresses and ribbons around their wrists. They've braided their hair. They ears defy gravity, for surely their earlobes should be hanging down to their chinline a la National Geographic with some of these discs and baubles I've seen dangling about, but somehow they keep it all together, looking striking on the sidewalk.
Then there are the more high maintenance ones who still believe that beauty lies in applying blush like sheet metal and high heels as tall as minorets. They're more for the "stuffed in" look, preferring corsets and spandex mini skirts. Don't get the wrong idea, though. It has remained the same for the past two hundred years. Greek girls are good girls, and this is why every female tourist from countries with a "loose" reputation is at risk for getting wooed in a way that will leave her shocked, or melted, or in love and possibly consider changing their address. I'm not thinking of anyone in particular , of course.
And anyway maybe the address changers change their address hundreds of times.
I would like to know where these belles were in the wintertime? Do they stay huddled up together in a communal "beautiful" vault? Are they part nymph, coming out of the woods to flaunt their tawny arms and strappy sandals? How is it that when they get on the A2 bus from the center to the coast, all of those entering know all of the ones already boarded? Is it a secret club? Do they have a "pretty girl" handshake or hair flip?
The mystery may never be solved. We must move on.
These 100 days I've tried to write my life in part, to create a habit and break down the walls I'd constructed around routine, at least as a concept. I'm not a fan, but I see its usefulness. I've broken all of my rules about saying too much or being careful, keeping some subjects protected. I promise I've broken them, even if you don't realize it. I've tried to focus on writing about things I'm learning or observing, and in the end I'm revealing everything about myself. In a discussion with Despina, who has started uncovering the joys of b*ogging herself, (she spends many of our discussions dreaming up future b*ogs or ones that she wishes she had done instead) she brought up doing a b*og with more meaning than just recording her thoughts and some little things that happened in her day. Current events or strong topics that bear more weight.
The very same day I read the b*og of my fellow O.H.D, who happens to work in a newspaper, wrote how ardently opposed he was to writing about current events or his opinions on the matter. He just doesn't care about what he thinks. He also mentioned, or at least implied, that by not addressing his day to day life in a more direct way, he's been neglecting something necessary.
I don't know what's right, but when I look back on my posts and read the little things that struck me, the headaches I was dealing with, the day to day tone that seems to be following patterns (three days of frustration, four days of happiness, two days of melancholia, etc) I don't know. It gives me some kind of satisfaction because I'm looking back on my journey. My former selves. I feel like I keep blossoming and these little posts are tracking my the circumference of my bloom.
Every once in a while I come across something in this new city of mine which, I believe, I have only recently, officially claimed, and I get a clear flashback to when I arrived. It might be passing the seedy hotel I checked into when the first night, or the tram stop that I took to get to the sea captain's house that fateful summer before. I get flooded with all of the emotions I was feeling at those moments. The careful navigation of the unfamiliar tram, the uncertain anxiety in the hotel room... it's as if I'm wearing that old self on me like a t shirt, the old self just being one, discardable part of this new, more solid, more learned girl that I am. (But I promise in a year I'll be looking back at this version the same way, you see what I mean?)
These are all personal reasons, but one day I'm going to look back and see that I also recorded things that will have disappeared. Blue skies and clear water are just two which I'm nervously chewing my lip over, wondering how much longer this will last. Sure, it's interesting that I'm here in this historical "crisis," but as I've mentioned before, there was a generation that survived much more difficult and notable things; out of those who wrote a few things down, the majority weren't concentrating on their opinion of Roosevelt or the economy. They wrote about their lives. We're not only reading them, we're turning them into films. Songs. Heroes.
So there, in a nutshell, is the reason I'm happy I took on this endeavor. Even if it means I've lost a lot of sleep. Even if I'm suffering from the feeling I'm being watched as I pick my nose (by the way I've been informed that it's NileGuide, not Nile Guide or nileguide, and to that informer I had no idea someone so busy would bother with my little b*og. I'm honored.) I'm happy I did it. I'm happy Mr. OHD joined in and I'm happy I get emails of protests when I miss my 24 hour deadline.
It doesn't mean I'm happy I'm committed to another 35 days. Call me fickle.
Oh, one last thing to wrap it all up. One of my favorite quotes ever is from Gwendolyn Brooks. She says, roughly, she got rid of her mirror a long time ago. She found that when you learn to truly be yourself, people aren't looking at the outside anymore.
She also said " I wrote about what I saw and heard on the street."
SPEECH TO THE YOUNG :
SPEECH TO THE PROGRESS-TOWARD
Say to them,
say to the down-keepers,
the sun-slappers,
the self-soilers,
the harmony-hushers,
"even if you are not ready for day
it cannot always be night."
You will be right.
For that is the hard home-run.
Live not for battles won.
Live not for the-end-of-the-song.
Live in the along.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I've read something that is really eating at me. I'm posting it here because I know you. You won't click on the hyperlinked text, even if you say you will.
Now that you've read it, here's my beef. To do it, I'm going to put on my inner Queen Latifah for just a minute. In essence, it means I'm going to get finger-snappy, judgey, and just a teenie bit rigid.
Girl, you'd better get yourself together. Yes, you should have washed the dishes. You should spend more time with your kids. If you feel guilty about these things, I hate to tell you honey, but you should be.
I'm seeing this tendency of women, of people in general, to forgive all of their little lazy flaws because they think they should be satisfied with their life as it is. It's tricky to tell you this, but if you are not satisfied there is a reason. You're missing something. I would imagine that this lady, Ms. Danzieger or Catherine Birndorf, is a victim of having achieved everything she clawed her way up to but still failing to see the big picture, which, I'm sorry to say, usually is understood by people able to maintain a clean kitchen, have time for husbands and daughters, and are at peace with how they've chosen to spend their time. Case in point, the people of the dying generation who survived two world wars and a Great Depression. Where will we be when these examples of strength have completely disappeared? Who will we have as role models? Will they all be telling us to stop being so hard on ourselves so that we can float in a mediocre world, trying to feel okay with the decisions we made?
I'm not going to bother defending myself or pointing out where I fall into the same traps as the author, because obviously, OBVIOUSLY I do. We all do. There's a little bit of devil's advocacy going on here, also, because if I were to step outside and read what I'm writing, I'd probably have a response like, "Calm down, girl. We're all doing our best."
But what bothers me is that an M.D. is telling women that they should be easier on themselves, when what she should be saying is, take a step back. Evaluate what's happened in your life. Are you really "fulfilled" or are you telling yourself you should be? (To be fair I haven't read the whole book. It's quite possible she does it on the very next page.)
You know why people accept these big ticket items like death and loss with grace and courage? Because these are the few times that things are made very clear for us. Suddenly we know not that we are ignoring the dishes but WHY we are ignoring the dishes. Or not! We hold to the people we love and remember that we're strong. When we're running around trying to climb up some phantom ladder, obviously we're not so sure, because it's an illusion we're after. It's an illusion we're creating, whereas things like DIRTY DISHES are real! They're there, just waiting for us to go after them. They will reward us, also, with INSTANT GRATIFICATION. How often do we get that in life? Shouldn't we be jumping at every opportunity? Every floor to be swept? Every child to be hugged? Don't you think that's why some old people sit there looking so content with themselves, even if all they did in a day was polish their shoes and order their medicine over the phone? It's because they're on top of their needs. They don't wait until everything snowballs and makes them feel incapable of taking care of the little things.
In Skinny Legs and All, the character Abu was a man that had burnt everything to the ground. He was high; he fell low. You know where he found solace? Washing dishes. This zen like activity gave him peace and clarity. His life even started coming back together after he took a job doing nothing but washing dishes.
It's a stupid example. I don't mean to write an entire piece on the importance of dish washing, but you know what they say, your exterior reflects your interior. If my dishes, or my laundry, or even my butt... if any of these things are getting out of control, it is because my inside is out of control. So I'd better get in there and grab a sponge, some soap, and get to cleanin'*
*I just want to tell you again I'm speaking metaphorically here. You knew that. Okay.
The scene: my bedroom. The alarm beeps at 6:35 a.m. As I reach to turn it off, the usual thought pops predictably into my head: I should have gotten up earlier.
Sunlight filters through the shutters as I get out of bed, careful not to wake my husband, who is dozing next to me. I walk down the hall and peek into my daughter's room—she's still asleep, curled up and cozy, with her stuffed dog cradled in her arms. I turn right to look in on my son, who has tossed off his covers and is snoozing with his arms and legs splayed out, proving yet again that sleep can be an aerobic activity. I smile, then think, I don't spend enough time with my kids.
I pass through our living room, where dozens of photos covering bookshelves and end tables remind me that I'm blessed: I have a tight-knit family, wonderful friends, a job I love. Then I see my desk in the corner, piled high with unpaid bills, and I groan. I have to catch up on those.
I enter my kitchen to start the coffee, averting my eyes from the dinner dishes still piled in the sink. I should have loaded those into the dishwasher last night.
An hour later, after an invigorating jog through Central Park with my dog, I feel strong, energized and optimistic. As I step into the shower, I catch a glimpse of my rear view in the mirror and think, Still my biggest feature—some things never change!
Do you see a pattern here? By most people's standards, I have it all. I'm happily married; my kids are thriving; I love my job as editor of the amazing magazine you're holding in your hands. But even so, on this beautiful morning, I have a dull ache of dissatisfaction. Regardless of how fulfilled I am, I find ways to sabotage my own happiness, as if I don't deserve it all. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence that I'm lucky and loved, these glass-half-empty-isms fill me with feelings of inadequacy, dissatisfaction and guilt.
Did I say me? I meant we. All of us. All women.
We struggle every day to achieve a happy, balanced life, yet we allow the slightest misstep to throw us off-kilter. And it's usually the little things that knock us sideways—family squabbles, friend tensions, job uncertainty, body-image issues. I think of these as X, Y, Z problems because they're the ones that should come at the end of a list of happiness stealers. The life-and-death issues—illness, loss of a loved one, divorce, financial ruin, real trauma—we tend to face with courage, forbearance, even grace. Our challenge is to make sure our minor problems don't grow into full-scale issues because we've allowed them to persist and take over our lives. In fact, if you don't take care of an X, Y or Z problem, it can become a major life event. Think about it: Being bored in bed can be a precursor to seeking out other flirtations, even infidelity, and then you have a potential big problem, as in divorce.
Sunlight filters through the shutters as I get out of bed, careful not to wake my husband, who is dozing next to me. I walk down the hall and peek into my daughter's room—she's still asleep, curled up and cozy, with her stuffed dog cradled in her arms. I turn right to look in on my son, who has tossed off his covers and is snoozing with his arms and legs splayed out, proving yet again that sleep can be an aerobic activity. I smile, then think, I don't spend enough time with my kids.
I pass through our living room, where dozens of photos covering bookshelves and end tables remind me that I'm blessed: I have a tight-knit family, wonderful friends, a job I love. Then I see my desk in the corner, piled high with unpaid bills, and I groan. I have to catch up on those.
I enter my kitchen to start the coffee, averting my eyes from the dinner dishes still piled in the sink. I should have loaded those into the dishwasher last night.
An hour later, after an invigorating jog through Central Park with my dog, I feel strong, energized and optimistic. As I step into the shower, I catch a glimpse of my rear view in the mirror and think, Still my biggest feature—some things never change!
Do you see a pattern here? By most people's standards, I have it all. I'm happily married; my kids are thriving; I love my job as editor of the amazing magazine you're holding in your hands. But even so, on this beautiful morning, I have a dull ache of dissatisfaction. Regardless of how fulfilled I am, I find ways to sabotage my own happiness, as if I don't deserve it all. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence that I'm lucky and loved, these glass-half-empty-isms fill me with feelings of inadequacy, dissatisfaction and guilt.
Did I say me? I meant we. All of us. All women.
We struggle every day to achieve a happy, balanced life, yet we allow the slightest misstep to throw us off-kilter. And it's usually the little things that knock us sideways—family squabbles, friend tensions, job uncertainty, body-image issues. I think of these as X, Y, Z problems because they're the ones that should come at the end of a list of happiness stealers. The life-and-death issues—illness, loss of a loved one, divorce, financial ruin, real trauma—we tend to face with courage, forbearance, even grace. Our challenge is to make sure our minor problems don't grow into full-scale issues because we've allowed them to persist and take over our lives. In fact, if you don't take care of an X, Y or Z problem, it can become a major life event. Think about it: Being bored in bed can be a precursor to seeking out other flirtations, even infidelity, and then you have a potential big problem, as in divorce.
Now that you've read it, here's my beef. To do it, I'm going to put on my inner Queen Latifah for just a minute. In essence, it means I'm going to get finger-snappy, judgey, and just a teenie bit rigid.
Girl, you'd better get yourself together. Yes, you should have washed the dishes. You should spend more time with your kids. If you feel guilty about these things, I hate to tell you honey, but you should be.
I'm seeing this tendency of women, of people in general, to forgive all of their little lazy flaws because they think they should be satisfied with their life as it is. It's tricky to tell you this, but if you are not satisfied there is a reason. You're missing something. I would imagine that this lady, Ms. Danzieger or Catherine Birndorf, is a victim of having achieved everything she clawed her way up to but still failing to see the big picture, which, I'm sorry to say, usually is understood by people able to maintain a clean kitchen, have time for husbands and daughters, and are at peace with how they've chosen to spend their time. Case in point, the people of the dying generation who survived two world wars and a Great Depression. Where will we be when these examples of strength have completely disappeared? Who will we have as role models? Will they all be telling us to stop being so hard on ourselves so that we can float in a mediocre world, trying to feel okay with the decisions we made?
I'm not going to bother defending myself or pointing out where I fall into the same traps as the author, because obviously, OBVIOUSLY I do. We all do. There's a little bit of devil's advocacy going on here, also, because if I were to step outside and read what I'm writing, I'd probably have a response like, "Calm down, girl. We're all doing our best."
But what bothers me is that an M.D. is telling women that they should be easier on themselves, when what she should be saying is, take a step back. Evaluate what's happened in your life. Are you really "fulfilled" or are you telling yourself you should be? (To be fair I haven't read the whole book. It's quite possible she does it on the very next page.)
You know why people accept these big ticket items like death and loss with grace and courage? Because these are the few times that things are made very clear for us. Suddenly we know not that we are ignoring the dishes but WHY we are ignoring the dishes. Or not! We hold to the people we love and remember that we're strong. When we're running around trying to climb up some phantom ladder, obviously we're not so sure, because it's an illusion we're after. It's an illusion we're creating, whereas things like DIRTY DISHES are real! They're there, just waiting for us to go after them. They will reward us, also, with INSTANT GRATIFICATION. How often do we get that in life? Shouldn't we be jumping at every opportunity? Every floor to be swept? Every child to be hugged? Don't you think that's why some old people sit there looking so content with themselves, even if all they did in a day was polish their shoes and order their medicine over the phone? It's because they're on top of their needs. They don't wait until everything snowballs and makes them feel incapable of taking care of the little things.
In Skinny Legs and All, the character Abu was a man that had burnt everything to the ground. He was high; he fell low. You know where he found solace? Washing dishes. This zen like activity gave him peace and clarity. His life even started coming back together after he took a job doing nothing but washing dishes.
It's a stupid example. I don't mean to write an entire piece on the importance of dish washing, but you know what they say, your exterior reflects your interior. If my dishes, or my laundry, or even my butt... if any of these things are getting out of control, it is because my inside is out of control. So I'd better get in there and grab a sponge, some soap, and get to cleanin'*
*I just want to tell you again I'm speaking metaphorically here. You knew that. Okay.
Monday, June 7, 2010
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.
“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, May 22, 2010
How TV Kills
I've been observing Athens dogs lately. These are the "community" pets everyone is so crazy about when they arrive, because nowhere on earth are the strays so seemingly happy, well fed, well adjusted, intelligent, the perfect dog with the perfect life. They spend all day sleeping in the sun, they wake up in the evening to chase cars, run in packs, eat the food provided by the tavernas or the charity workers, and even if their four to six year life span is a smidge shorter than the 16 year old Golden Retriever who has raised all of the kids in the house, I know which one I would pick.
What I like the most about these dogs is that when you do catch them awake, they are trotting along the sidewalk, crossing at the intersection when the light changes, and generally ignoring all of the hands that bend down to give them a scratch. They've got somewhere to be, someone to see, something to do and there's just no time for a belly rub right now, people. Maybe later. Sorry. It's proof that when you're stimulated, your mind doesn't wander over to the realm of the bored and attention starved regions of the brain. I also find that when I have things to do, people to see, somewhere to be, I'm running. And I'm smiling! I even said it today. "Pou pas, Paige?" "Ego,Treho!"
I darted into Melilotos and wished Kostas a Xronia Pola! And to risk diving into a tangent here, wondered if I wouldn't like celebrating a name day more than a birthday. What would Agia Paige have been like, anyway?
But I dart. I shout. I hugged Despina and promised to return. I ran down the sidewalk, past the corner with the table full of tavli players (who I swear are paid to stay there by the tourism commission board) and GIASSOU to Yanni and Ireni, owners of the laundromat on the corner. Picked up the newly cleaned shirt of George, for George, who was pulling a double shift and had to do a superman-in-the-phonebooth sort of thing and go from casual pink to formal black. I paid the cleaners, stood on the sidewalk and he roared up in B.B. rolled down the window and I passed it straight through. Waved to Vangelis, the owner of the coffee shop. Waved to George the barber. Sometimes it feels like I work on Sesame Street.
Then I went into the office and retreated into thinking land. I thought, I stared at the computer, I thought some more, scribbled on a paper... and after five hours of this I was sick to death of thought and computers.
I swear all of this is getting somewhere.
Once home, my first thought was "paint!" But some other wicked demon grabbed my ear and said, "let go. Relax. Sketch nothing in particular while you're watching TV." I believe this activity is more accurately defined as "doodling."
And honestly, if I had found a nice, epic movie, something with pretty, sparkly colors to keep my eyes sugared, I might have managed to relax a little, but silly me landed on the documentary about Chinese counterfeits and now my life is ruined.
Now I'm aware that the Chinese are not only responsible for ripping off the heartless gay fashion designers of the world, or even heart-stopped post impressionist painters, but electronics. Computer programs. Breast Cancer medication. Eggs. Yes, eggs. They have discovered a way to take the chicken out of the process entirely and it's actually cheaper. If I weren't so disconcerted about the fact that these eggs have proven to cause dementia when eaten consumed in massive quantities, I would bother my raw food fly girl to find out if that makes it vegetarian.
I don't really care. I didn't even want to know such a thing was being done. And if I had not watched the process with my eyes, step by step being narrated by a cautionary English gentleman, I would have thought this was just another fear tactic thing. Even if it is, it's working. My doodle is something frightful, just a window into my poor, tortured conscience. I'm so full of questions like, "are mutant eggs worse than the feudal system? Would we have been better off living in pig mud and dying at thirty six, already a great grandmother?
But the even more important lesson I am taking from this is that I must avoid the television at all costs. Look at what I lost tonight. A painting, my good mood, and my trust in eggs. Oh to be an Athens dog, chasing cars and sleeping on the steps of hotels. What a world, where they're the lucky ones.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
HONG KONG CRISIS AVERTED
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?"
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?"
Monday, May 17, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The power of words
A lot of little treasures in my email today. This is likely because three days ago, a man from Pakistan was caught squatting in an unrented apartment on the first floor of my building and was asked to leave. On his way out he did a number on the wires and no one has had so much as a doorbell until today.
I’ve noticed that when you let your inbox go for a little while, treasures come. Namely, I got a lot of serendipitous bits that apply directly to the pretzely thoughts in my head. Sometimes this happens by chance, and sometimes this happens because I send out specific, direct questions to people who I love and trust.
Without telling you the direct questions (that would spoil the fun, I will list, anonmymously, my favorite pieces of news and guidance. I’ve put them together so that it’s a sort of patchwork letter of love and light.
I've taken a lot of chances over the past few years and a lot of them don't work out. I haven't found a city that I love. I've dedicated myself to people that left me. I've spent money to support a career that is inching forward at a painfully slow pace. But I'd rather give something a shot than to stay stuck and dreaming of something else that I never try for. The choice I have made is to live cheaply, work as little as I can at an easy job so that I can have the rest of my time to put towards my art, which may or may not ever pay off.
It is a strange state of limbo. I just keep cleaning out closets.
I hung an empty black picture frame in my room. I feel that is full of significance.
When we're incomplete, we're always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we're still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on--series polygamy--until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter.
If this is what you want then push forward without hesitation. If you are done move on without looking back.
a lot of what we do is done, subconsciously, indirectly, to avoid the thought of death, or to make ourselves so unexpendable through our accomplishments that death will hesitate to take us, or, when the scimitar finally falls, to insure that we "live on" in the memory of the lucky ones still kicking.
Do what the 80 year old version of yourself would do.
Yes make art - enjoy your talent. It takes a lot of time to become a painter.
commit to whatever decision you make, throw yourself into it, and then do your heaven and earth-shaking best to make it work.
The cloud will go away soon:)
Roses did super this year.
Planning on seeding in styrofoam cups in a few days: Bitter Melon, Emerald Okra, Texas Pink Eyed Peas, Vining Squash, Muskmelon, Parleys and a bunch of summer flowers and Burgundy Beans
I am a little miffed with Boots right now because he had the audacity to buck me off the other day. That’s what I get for letting him have too many weeks in the tall grass. I got back on him that day, and we came to an understanding, but I’ve got a doozy of a bruise on my elbow which all the grandkids call “gross”. I am Thankful I was not seriously hurt, except for maybe my ego, which healed up almost immediately.
Bill is making Squash Casserole, Baked Sweet Potato and Apple Brown Betty as i write. Have a major veggie need. Soon whole wheat/oat/pecan cookies or muffins.
I’m not sure if this email makes any sense at all, but I hope it gives you hope that a brighter future is ahead of you.
Imagine after the Trojan war, Ulysses sailed to the other side of Italy looking for his home Ithaca.
If you end up on the run from the federales, you can always hide under my floor boards.
if you 're out of ideas for a Sunday out, we will be at Flisvos bay with my cousin, her husband and all our 3 children
I miss you
Hoping to see you soon
Stay well dear
Take care,
my friend,
Keep on Dancin'
and God be with You!
I’ve noticed that when you let your inbox go for a little while, treasures come. Namely, I got a lot of serendipitous bits that apply directly to the pretzely thoughts in my head. Sometimes this happens by chance, and sometimes this happens because I send out specific, direct questions to people who I love and trust.
Without telling you the direct questions (that would spoil the fun, I will list, anonmymously, my favorite pieces of news and guidance. I’ve put them together so that it’s a sort of patchwork letter of love and light.
I've taken a lot of chances over the past few years and a lot of them don't work out. I haven't found a city that I love. I've dedicated myself to people that left me. I've spent money to support a career that is inching forward at a painfully slow pace. But I'd rather give something a shot than to stay stuck and dreaming of something else that I never try for. The choice I have made is to live cheaply, work as little as I can at an easy job so that I can have the rest of my time to put towards my art, which may or may not ever pay off.
It is a strange state of limbo. I just keep cleaning out closets.
I hung an empty black picture frame in my room. I feel that is full of significance.
When we're incomplete, we're always searching for somebody to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we're still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with somebody more promising. This can go on and on--series polygamy--until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure every relationship we enter.
If this is what you want then push forward without hesitation. If you are done move on without looking back.
a lot of what we do is done, subconsciously, indirectly, to avoid the thought of death, or to make ourselves so unexpendable through our accomplishments that death will hesitate to take us, or, when the scimitar finally falls, to insure that we "live on" in the memory of the lucky ones still kicking.
Do what the 80 year old version of yourself would do.
Yes make art - enjoy your talent. It takes a lot of time to become a painter.
commit to whatever decision you make, throw yourself into it, and then do your heaven and earth-shaking best to make it work.
The cloud will go away soon:)
Roses did super this year.
Planning on seeding in styrofoam cups in a few days: Bitter Melon, Emerald Okra, Texas Pink Eyed Peas, Vining Squash, Muskmelon, Parleys and a bunch of summer flowers and Burgundy Beans
I am a little miffed with Boots right now because he had the audacity to buck me off the other day. That’s what I get for letting him have too many weeks in the tall grass. I got back on him that day, and we came to an understanding, but I’ve got a doozy of a bruise on my elbow which all the grandkids call “gross”. I am Thankful I was not seriously hurt, except for maybe my ego, which healed up almost immediately.
Bill is making Squash Casserole, Baked Sweet Potato and Apple Brown Betty as i write. Have a major veggie need. Soon whole wheat/oat/pecan cookies or muffins.
I’m not sure if this email makes any sense at all, but I hope it gives you hope that a brighter future is ahead of you.
Imagine after the Trojan war, Ulysses sailed to the other side of Italy looking for his home Ithaca.
If you end up on the run from the federales, you can always hide under my floor boards.
if you 're out of ideas for a Sunday out, we will be at Flisvos bay with my cousin, her husband and all our 3 children
I miss you
Stay well dear
Take care,
my friend,
Keep on Dancin'
and God be with You!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
The Open Road
My fellow OHD wrote in his last post that he is working the weekend in an unstable, coastal environment weilding a heavy instrument and operating in front of enthusiastic fans at late hours of the evening... in other words he might not be able to post. But he will write, he promised!
But it’s funny now that we’ve decided to go down this road together, writing continuously for one hundred days, the universe is conspiring to keep us steadily progressing at the same pace. Last night my internet went out and I wasn’t able to post.
So below, a little tardy, is my post of yesterday. My advantage is that the few people I’ve been informed are following are deep in dreamland right now and you don’t even know that I had technical issues, not that I would EVER take advantage of something so trivial as an eight hour time difference just to buy credit for keeping my word.
But it’s funny now that we’ve decided to go down this road together, writing continuously for one hundred days, the universe is conspiring to keep us steadily progressing at the same pace. Last night my internet went out and I wasn’t able to post.
So below, a little tardy, is my post of yesterday. My advantage is that the few people I’ve been informed are following are deep in dreamland right now and you don’t even know that I had technical issues, not that I would EVER take advantage of something so trivial as an eight hour time difference just to buy credit for keeping my word.
There are some laws to having a good road trip:
1) Thou must depart at an ungodly hour,
preferably when the sun is still slapping the snooze bar on its great, solar alarm clock.
2) Thou must stop for coffee, but not until just outside of the city limits, lest thou feelest that good time is not being made. Preferably said coffee purveyor should be slightly off-color with interesting characters as patrons.
3) Thou must have a road companion who is a) good at conversation and b) knows when to shut up and just enjoy the scenery. This is very difficult as these people come few and far between, though the road has a way of teaching you how to behave.
4) Thou must have a destination, even if is completely self-made. “We are journeying to the largest ball of cheese in the world, and then we will go to the childhood home of Mark Twain’s grandfather.” 
5) Thou must have a mission, likewise, even if it is self made. Listening to all of the albums of Led Zepplin in reverse order. Finding the best peach pie on the planet. Collecting water from every body of water you pass or stopping to peek in every old town hall.
6) Maybe the most challenging law of all is knowing when to wander, when to press on, and when it is time to turn around and head back.
My grandfather knew these rules. Like some people have a revolving door of lovers, he had a revolving door of RVs. When my grandmother was alive they would travel together, crossing national parks, stopping for photo opportunities and historical markers, using widespread relatives and grandchildren as an excuse for their continental migration. When she died, sadly due to an accident on the step of the RV, he sold it, bolted down that revolving door and swore he would never drive one again.
No, it didn’t last.
Throughout the decade he lived without her he had at least four that I can remember, each one with it’s own set of charms and quirks. Each time he sold it he would state, crankily, it was because no one ever went with him. Could I go back in time, I would have insisted on so many more journeys in the co-pilot chair. If only I had been able to step back from the hamster wheel of whatever it was I was trying to accomplish (what DID I accomplish?) and see that the moments I felt the most calm, the most myself, happened within the laminate wood-paneled walls of his RV, watching the show through the window, the wild terrain, the sleepy towns, all rolling easily by on the opposite side of the glass, spun out on wooden spools manned by silent, invisible giants.
Unfortunately in a one day Delphi trip many of the specifics in the “Laws” are decided for us, but it still lifts the spirit to get out of the angry champagne bottle and burst out toward the ancient oracle, set in a valley in the mountains surrounded by caves and footpaths. Lucky for us our clients were full of pep and corny jokes. It was a light-filled day.
We have befriended the guys at Vakhos, a taverna we like to take our clients to as it has an oustanding view of a valley of olive trees stretching to the gulf of Corinth and genuine, "Mama made this twenty minutes ago" cuisine. While the clients visit the site, George and I go and sit at a table away from the main dining area and have coffee, read the news, send some emails, you know, very un-mystical sorts of things to do while in Delphi... and each time I’m here I wish I could just stay a little longer. See the village at night. Wander the hills surrounding it. Spontaneously I asked one of the brothers that waits the tables what it would cost to rent a room there off season.
I don’t know what I’m subconciously putting together here, but I have a need to wander, half-nomad style, with a base and a point of reference, but free to roam and without an itinerary.
Not long after my grandmother passed I started becoming increasingly drawn to the color orange. One day I was in a store with my father going crazy over some item in a bold shade of tangerine, and he informed me that it was the favorite color of his mother. Could the love of orange have blown through the air and landed on me when her spirit left, no longer needing to hold onto something so specific as a favorite color?
Could the need of the limitless possibilities in a road have also landed on me when my grandfather was launched into the infinite?
I just don’t know. Regardless, I have a strong hunch that if I have to stay trapped in this concrete minefield without a few soul-expanding journeys sprinkled in between, my resemblance to him will be much less in his uncharacteristic displays of wild spirit and much more in his characteristic fits of crumudgeondom*.
*For the one Greek reader I’ve learned has taken up reading these posts, imagine an old crab from the sea told to live in a chicken coop. That might best describe what a crumdgeon is, and what could be my fate if I don’t learn how to rise above.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
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.
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.
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