There are only five days until Christmas. It should feel like Christmas, but it doesn’t. Not yet. Not for me. On Monday, though, I expect that all to change. On Monday, I will be home for the holidays. Right now I’m just trying to pass the time until I head to the airport and spend almost a day in transit to the one place where Christmas really feels like Christmas.
I can’t imagine spending Christmas anywhere except at home. I’ve been trying so hard to get in the holiday spirit here, but the effort has been largely unsuccessful. Despite decorating our house, playing Christmas carols (or more often, singing them), and going on day long shopping trips, I’m just not feeling it. There is a Christmas village set up in Syntagma square, which tricks me into the mood for a few moments. A large Christmas tree is surrounded by gingerbread looking houses where confections are sold, and long lines of people wait for a ride on the carousel, which seems to go dangerously fast. At night, especially when a hint of cold is in the air, it almost feels like Christmas.
But the illusion doesn’t last long. There are simply too many things here which don’t jive with my version of Christmas. The decorated palm trees, the relatively mild weather, the fact that not one Santa I’ve seen here has had a real beard and that without fail they are 100 lbs too thin. Christmas here isn’t nearly as big of a deal as it is in America. Of course, since the country is 99% Greek Orthodox, they do celebrate it as a religious holiday, but there is little emphasis on it being a holiday centered around tradition and togetherness. The Greeks spend much more energy celebrating New Year’s, when St. Vassilis brings them gifts. Santa Claus is nothing more than a Western import…along with much of their means of celebrating the Christmas holiday. Unlike in Germany where Christmas is absolutely authentic, most holiday goods here amount to nothing more than cheap imported junk.
Yet it’s not just the shortcomings of Greece, which put a damper on my holiday spirit. I’ve felt the same way in Germany and in Texas. It never feels like Christmas until I am home. I am a Christmas traditionalist. Christmas to me means certain very specific things, and without those things, it doesn’t seem like Christmas. Christmas is…decorating the Christmas trees with my family while Christmas music plays in the background; making batches and batches of Christmas cookies and candies; watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” with the whole family; driving around and looking at Christmas lights all over town; having my dad’s family over for a Christmas Eve brisket dinner; going to Midnight Mass; leaving out cookies and a note for Santa and a carrot for Rudolph; crowding into one room with my brothers to sleep so that no one can wake up without the others; sitting at the top of the stairs with my brothers right after we wake up and having our picture taken; opening the Santa Claus gifts, then the stocking gifts/family gift, and finally the gifts we bought each other all before anyone even considers eating breakfast; having my grandparents and now my aunt come over in the morning for more gift exchanging; going to my dad’s parents for Christmas lunch; going to my mom’s parents (and now my mom’s sister’s or brother’s) for Christmas dinner; coming home and playing with Christmas gifts until wee hours of the morning.
This, and this alone, is Christmas. I can’t imagine it any other way. I don’t want to imagine it any other way. That it might change when I get married or have kids is an idea I’m not willing to accept. It’s hard enough for me that I’m missing some of the pre-Christmas preparation. Missing Christmas itself would be completely unacceptable. I’m going home on Monday, and I can’t wait. Then, and only then, will it really begin to feel a lot like Christmas.
P.S. If any family members are reading, I have a proposal. Since we are having Christmas at Charlie’s house and since Charlie’s house is so close to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, don’t you think we should stop by and see if we can take a picture on the steps? Wouldn’t that be fun?
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Wednesday, December 17, 2003
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let it Snow!
It’s snowing here in Athens. I woke up this morning to a light grey sky splotched with dark grey clouds that were gently releasing the tiniest flakes of snow. The snowflakes fell slowly, each the lead ballerina in its own short glorious dance. During the course of my first period class, the snow picked up in intensity, with clouds of snow swirling in the wind. The flakes are noticeable, but not sizable. They cling to your coat, your hair, and your eyelashes, but they leave nothing but a lingering wetness on the ground. The snow will probably end soon, and by this evening or tomorrow, this morning’s magic will be nothing but a dreamlike memory. But for now, there is snow in Athens, defying the begonias blooming on my front porch and the patches of bright green grass that are appearing for the first time since I’ve been here, declaring loudly that yes, even here in Athens, there is a Christmas.
Friday, December 12, 2003
Randomness
I just typed a long blog and it disappeared. It claims to have saved it, but I have no idea where. I can't seem to find it. Fortunately, it wasn't a long story or anything, but simply some random thoughts. I'm frustrated and annoyed right now, so my random thoughts are going to be pared down to what Matthew refers to as talking points. Perhaps I'll elaborate later if I still find the thoughts interesting in a day or two.
---At the Monastiraki Flea Market last weekend, D, Kate and I could have bought a quarter for 2 euros. A man was selling old coins and among them we found a quarter. We asked the guy how much he would sell it for, not telling him what it was of course. He studied it for a while, and then declared that while most of the coins were only 1 euro 50 cent, this one was 2 euro. We found that to be pretty funny. Especially considering the fact that the dollar isn't worth crap nowadays. Even funnier was the fact that the guy across from him was selling a dildo. It was laid out on his blanket, not in any sort of package, right between some old doorknobs and a bucket of tools. It was quite the flea market.
---There's a kid at the elementary school who claims to be James Bond, Jr. He's a really funny kid. We met one day while I was typing at the computer and he kept whispering, "Close the computer." (They say close when they mean turn off.) All the while, of course, he was acting as if he had no idea who was saying this. (Hmm, Dad, remind you of anyone you know???). I see him all the time now, and he always runs up and gives me a big high five. I like him. He's funny.
---I'm not a very good English major. A lot of the other Teaching Fellows were either English or Literature majors, and they are much better fits for it than me. They like Byron and the Romantics. They can name and discuss all the literary periods. They have read Beowoulf, Canterbury Tales, The Iliad, The Odyssey and other such books in their entirety...and sometimes for fun. I, on the other hand, can make no such claims. While discussing this, Darrell made a very good observation. He said that he thinks that I don't so much like literature as I like stories. Excellent point. I don't really appreciate a lot of the things I'm supposed to as an English major. I don't want to discuss the literary merit of any work, and I'm not particularly interested in analyzing it. All I want is a good story. I want something that makes me turn the pages, that grabs my attention and my imagination, that is enjoyable to read. I want stories, not literature.
---At the Monastiraki Flea Market last weekend, D, Kate and I could have bought a quarter for 2 euros. A man was selling old coins and among them we found a quarter. We asked the guy how much he would sell it for, not telling him what it was of course. He studied it for a while, and then declared that while most of the coins were only 1 euro 50 cent, this one was 2 euro. We found that to be pretty funny. Especially considering the fact that the dollar isn't worth crap nowadays. Even funnier was the fact that the guy across from him was selling a dildo. It was laid out on his blanket, not in any sort of package, right between some old doorknobs and a bucket of tools. It was quite the flea market.
---There's a kid at the elementary school who claims to be James Bond, Jr. He's a really funny kid. We met one day while I was typing at the computer and he kept whispering, "Close the computer." (They say close when they mean turn off.) All the while, of course, he was acting as if he had no idea who was saying this. (Hmm, Dad, remind you of anyone you know???). I see him all the time now, and he always runs up and gives me a big high five. I like him. He's funny.
---I'm not a very good English major. A lot of the other Teaching Fellows were either English or Literature majors, and they are much better fits for it than me. They like Byron and the Romantics. They can name and discuss all the literary periods. They have read Beowoulf, Canterbury Tales, The Iliad, The Odyssey and other such books in their entirety...and sometimes for fun. I, on the other hand, can make no such claims. While discussing this, Darrell made a very good observation. He said that he thinks that I don't so much like literature as I like stories. Excellent point. I don't really appreciate a lot of the things I'm supposed to as an English major. I don't want to discuss the literary merit of any work, and I'm not particularly interested in analyzing it. All I want is a good story. I want something that makes me turn the pages, that grabs my attention and my imagination, that is enjoyable to read. I want stories, not literature.
Monday, December 08, 2003
It's A Circus Out There
Going to Ermou Street, the main street in downtown Athens, is much like going to the circus. To begin with, there are performers everywhere. One of the most popular acts is the statue act. People dress up and paint their bodies and stand perfectly still on top of boxes or other platforms in a variety of poses, acting as if they are statues. The really good ones make you look twice or even three times before you're convinced that they are actually alive. People stand and gawk, and when the occasional person throws a coin into the box at the performer's foot, the performer comes alive for a short moment, usually doing nothing more than artistically waving their hand, blowing a kiss, or elaborately curtseying. Every week I see the same performers, and I can't help but wonder how one comes to do this. Do they stand at home in front of mirrors for hours on end practicing being as still as possible? Do they really make much money this way? I can't imagine that they do, but there must be some reason they continue doing it.
Aside from the statue people, there are performers who are a bit more lively. There's usually at least one person playing the guitar and singing. Occasionally there are groups of people performing together. Yesterday, for instance, there were three men dressed in full Native American regalia, singing, dancing and beating their drums in the middle of the street. They drew quite the crowd. And there's always a few old men pushing carts that have big wheels which you turn with a handcrank and from which music emerges. They push the carts up and down the streets, cranking out the music, occasionally singing, more often that not making strange chanting noises. This usually attracts my attention the most, perhaps because I don't really understand it. I wonder if the men constructed the carts themselves and it's considered an art form, or if I'm supposed to reward them with money simply for turning a crank and pushing a cart all over town.
And then to make the circus complete there are tons of people selling things. I can buy scarves, rip-off purses, balloons filled with flour with faces drawn on them, balloon animal kits, flowers, and a variety of other novelties that change on a weekly basis. Plus there is food: popcorn, roasted chestnuts, roasted corn on the cob, pistachios, cotton candy, coconut.
It's a real honest-to-God circus. It doesn't matter one bit that every store on the entire street is closed on Sunday...Ermou Street is still packed. It's something to see, and every week there's something new and exciting. Maybe next time there will be elephants and a flying trapeze. I can hardly wait.
Aside from the statue people, there are performers who are a bit more lively. There's usually at least one person playing the guitar and singing. Occasionally there are groups of people performing together. Yesterday, for instance, there were three men dressed in full Native American regalia, singing, dancing and beating their drums in the middle of the street. They drew quite the crowd. And there's always a few old men pushing carts that have big wheels which you turn with a handcrank and from which music emerges. They push the carts up and down the streets, cranking out the music, occasionally singing, more often that not making strange chanting noises. This usually attracts my attention the most, perhaps because I don't really understand it. I wonder if the men constructed the carts themselves and it's considered an art form, or if I'm supposed to reward them with money simply for turning a crank and pushing a cart all over town.
And then to make the circus complete there are tons of people selling things. I can buy scarves, rip-off purses, balloons filled with flour with faces drawn on them, balloon animal kits, flowers, and a variety of other novelties that change on a weekly basis. Plus there is food: popcorn, roasted chestnuts, roasted corn on the cob, pistachios, cotton candy, coconut.
It's a real honest-to-God circus. It doesn't matter one bit that every store on the entire street is closed on Sunday...Ermou Street is still packed. It's something to see, and every week there's something new and exciting. Maybe next time there will be elephants and a flying trapeze. I can hardly wait.
Friday, December 05, 2003
Ich Liebe Deutschland
On Tuesday, I returned from a little holiday trip to Germany. Most of the time I stayed with my friend Laura in the area near Ramstein Air Force Base, but I also spent one night in Cologne with another friend from my time studying abroad in Freiburg, Jeff Ellis. I had a great weekend. I didn't do any crazy sightseeing tours, running from one must-see site to another (I did enough of that the year I was there), but instead I relaxed and enjoyed the country I got to know quite well two years ago.
I really like Germany. As soon as my flight took off and the flight attendants came on the intercom speaking German, I felt comfortable. After living for three months in a country whose language I don't speak, hearing a language I knew was refreshing. It was amazing how suddenly German, which I studied long and hard to learn, seemed so natural and easy. Stepping off the plane, it was almost, but not quite, like being home. Germany is a comfortable place for me.
I'd never really thought about it before, but I think there are certain places that are just right for certain people. I enjoy Greece, but I never feel completely in sync with it. The chaos irks me. I'm not a huge fan of taking long naps in the afternoon in order to go out at 3am and stay out all night. I don't like the fact that the bus that is scheduled to come at 1pm might come at 12:45, might come at 1:15, or might not come at all. I definitely hate the pollution and general lack of concern for the environment. Greece is a great place to live for a year...a great place to vacation...but it's not somewhere I could ever imagine living.
In all honesty, I'll probably live most of my life in the United States. This is what I want. But I could live in Germany. In Germany I feel more at home than I do in any other place besides home. I know how things work, and beyond that, I like how things work. I love the efficiency, the order, the respect for the environment, the political consciousness, the desire to do quality work. I feel like it's a very real place, and a place where I myself can be real, can be who I am.
I spent some time considering whether this was simply a condition of the fact that I had lived in Germany for a year, and that maybe I'd feel the same way about Greece after a year, but I don't think that's the case. As proof, I offer Houston. I lived in Houston for three years, but never really grew attached to it. I would never live there again. Houston and I simply don't mesh. Yes, there are places that can grow on you, but there are also places where you just feel like you're in the right place.
If you've never been to Germany, you should go. It might not be right for you. But it might be. And there's plenty to do there, so it will turn out to be a good trip either way. Instead of rambling on and on about the place, I'll just offer up some of the things I really like about it. If you go, I'm sure you'll come up with some more.
1. The way it's really really dark at night. So dark that you almost can't see your hand in front of your face...and therefore you can see millions of stars.
2. The way that there are woods and nature everywhere. The towns interrupt nature, instead of nature interrupting towns.
3. The bakeries...mmmmm. So much good stuff, it's impossible to choose.
4. The Christmas markets. Germany knows how to do Christmas right. It looks like Christmas, smells like Christmas, feels like Christmas, and tastes like Christmas. Try some gluehwein. Have some chocolate covered strawberries. Buy a hand carved nativity. Take a ride on the merry-go-round.
5. The way that people in stores ask after you've made a selection, "Nach einen Wuensch?" Literally this means, "Another wish?" It's as if they are little fairy godmothers who will grant you whatever wish you choose.
6. The Altstadt (old town). The downtown section of almost every town is almost completely pedestrianized. You can walk up and down the cobbled streets, window shopping, snacking, talking without fear of getting run over.
7. The sense of history. The towns are really well preserved. History is alive in Germany. There's a bit of pride, a bit of embarrassment, a bit of apology, a bit of protectiveness.
I really like Germany. As soon as my flight took off and the flight attendants came on the intercom speaking German, I felt comfortable. After living for three months in a country whose language I don't speak, hearing a language I knew was refreshing. It was amazing how suddenly German, which I studied long and hard to learn, seemed so natural and easy. Stepping off the plane, it was almost, but not quite, like being home. Germany is a comfortable place for me.
I'd never really thought about it before, but I think there are certain places that are just right for certain people. I enjoy Greece, but I never feel completely in sync with it. The chaos irks me. I'm not a huge fan of taking long naps in the afternoon in order to go out at 3am and stay out all night. I don't like the fact that the bus that is scheduled to come at 1pm might come at 12:45, might come at 1:15, or might not come at all. I definitely hate the pollution and general lack of concern for the environment. Greece is a great place to live for a year...a great place to vacation...but it's not somewhere I could ever imagine living.
In all honesty, I'll probably live most of my life in the United States. This is what I want. But I could live in Germany. In Germany I feel more at home than I do in any other place besides home. I know how things work, and beyond that, I like how things work. I love the efficiency, the order, the respect for the environment, the political consciousness, the desire to do quality work. I feel like it's a very real place, and a place where I myself can be real, can be who I am.
I spent some time considering whether this was simply a condition of the fact that I had lived in Germany for a year, and that maybe I'd feel the same way about Greece after a year, but I don't think that's the case. As proof, I offer Houston. I lived in Houston for three years, but never really grew attached to it. I would never live there again. Houston and I simply don't mesh. Yes, there are places that can grow on you, but there are also places where you just feel like you're in the right place.
If you've never been to Germany, you should go. It might not be right for you. But it might be. And there's plenty to do there, so it will turn out to be a good trip either way. Instead of rambling on and on about the place, I'll just offer up some of the things I really like about it. If you go, I'm sure you'll come up with some more.
1. The way it's really really dark at night. So dark that you almost can't see your hand in front of your face...and therefore you can see millions of stars.
2. The way that there are woods and nature everywhere. The towns interrupt nature, instead of nature interrupting towns.
3. The bakeries...mmmmm. So much good stuff, it's impossible to choose.
4. The Christmas markets. Germany knows how to do Christmas right. It looks like Christmas, smells like Christmas, feels like Christmas, and tastes like Christmas. Try some gluehwein. Have some chocolate covered strawberries. Buy a hand carved nativity. Take a ride on the merry-go-round.
5. The way that people in stores ask after you've made a selection, "Nach einen Wuensch?" Literally this means, "Another wish?" It's as if they are little fairy godmothers who will grant you whatever wish you choose.
6. The Altstadt (old town). The downtown section of almost every town is almost completely pedestrianized. You can walk up and down the cobbled streets, window shopping, snacking, talking without fear of getting run over.
7. The sense of history. The towns are really well preserved. History is alive in Germany. There's a bit of pride, a bit of embarrassment, a bit of apology, a bit of protectiveness.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Happy Turkey Day
I just wanted to wish you all a very happy Thanksgiving. I hope everyone has a relaxing, enjoyable day full of things to be thankful for. I'm heading to Germany today for a weekend visit with friends, so you won't be hearing from me for a bit. Eat a little extra for me today.
What I'm Thankful For...
1. My parents...for being the best in the world (plus in case you didn't know, my mom sends the best packages ever).
2. My brothers...for being three of the coolest people I know
3. Jeff...for being so amazing
4. My friends...for making me laugh
5. My extended family...for being less "extended" and more "family"
6. My education...for giving me so many opportunities
7. My job...for paying me to live in Greece
8. My health, my country, green beans, laughter, summer, e-mail, books...I could make lists all day, but I have a plane to catch. Hope you all have as many things to be thankful for as I do.
What I'm Thankful For...
1. My parents...for being the best in the world (plus in case you didn't know, my mom sends the best packages ever).
2. My brothers...for being three of the coolest people I know
3. Jeff...for being so amazing
4. My friends...for making me laugh
5. My extended family...for being less "extended" and more "family"
6. My education...for giving me so many opportunities
7. My job...for paying me to live in Greece
8. My health, my country, green beans, laughter, summer, e-mail, books...I could make lists all day, but I have a plane to catch. Hope you all have as many things to be thankful for as I do.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Making a List, Checking it Twice
In case you are feeling generous (now or at any point in the future), I thought I would make my wish list clear. This way you can surprise me with one of the things I’ve always wanted. And yes, I know many of these things are not at all practical given my current situation (or perhaps practical at all), but that does not lessen my desire for them, and thus should not lessen your willingness to procure them for me. And don’t worry, I’ll be sure to update the list should things change. Now, in no particular order, the list….
1. an old typewriter – with raised round keys that make loud clacking noises when you type
2. a digital camera
3. a good bike and a helmet
4. quality hiking boots
5. a canoe
6. an Italian leather journal – They sell them in Venice. They have beautiful leather covers and the insides are filled with homemade paper.
7. The chest I received from my grandmother restored and lined with cloth.
1. an old typewriter – with raised round keys that make loud clacking noises when you type
2. a digital camera
3. a good bike and a helmet
4. quality hiking boots
5. a canoe
6. an Italian leather journal – They sell them in Venice. They have beautiful leather covers and the insides are filled with homemade paper.
7. The chest I received from my grandmother restored and lined with cloth.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Ready or Not, Here They Come
Last night, Carl, a friend of the house, stopped by and Kate, Darrell and I hung around with him chatting. Carl’s age is a mystery. We used to think he was in his late twenties, but references to jobs he’s had and how long he has worked at them, make us think that perhaps Carl is actually in his mid-thirties. His age really isn’t important, but it was kind of interesting how far off we were on his age. I guess it’s true that you’re just as old as you act.
Anyhow, Carl, who is Australian, works as a consultant to the Olympic Games. He started with this in Sydney, kept it up in Salt Lake City, and is now in Athens on a 2.5 year contract. Hearing him talk about the upcoming games is hilarious. Anyone who has visions of how great these games will be seeing that they are taking place in the birthplace of the Olympics will be set straight after a short chat with Carl. I’ve been in Athens for three months and I’ve frequently wondered if I just made up the fact that the Olympics will be held in this city in less than a year. Unless you’re walking through Plaka, where stores selling Olympic souvenirs abound, it’s pretty hard to believe that the attention of the world will be on Athens in August 2004. I can see the Olympic Stadium from the third floor of the high school, or to be more accurate, I can see the part of the Stadium that is actually built. I can also see the cranes that are supposed to be working on it, but which I have never once seen move. It will take nothing short of a miracle for this city to be ready.
Anything that could possibly be an issue is. The taxi drivers are constantly striking because they refuse to meet the demands of the Olympics Committee which include issuing receipts, having cash boxes, and brushing up on their English. The entire city is under construction, none of which seems to be scheduled for completion before 3850. There isn’t one single mosque in the city for Muslim competitors/spectators to worship in. The athlete village is a decent bit away from the main venue, yet there is as of now no arrangement for how to transport the athletes to and from the events. Getting from the airport to town is a huge pain, because no one seemed to consider it a good idea to link it up to the new Metro. Trash piles up on sidewalks for weeks at a time because the garbage workers are on strike. Really, you’d think that someone just sprung the idea of having the Olympics here on them about a month ago. And to think that they’re still pissed that Atlanta got the Olympics for the centennial event in 1996 instead of them.
All of the above are problems that need to be addressed and need to be addressed soon. The real problem though is an apparent lack of interest and leadership. According to Carl, no one wants to put their name on anything because they don’t want to be held responsible for its failure. So instead of things getting down, papers are simply passed around. Then, when someone asks about it, everyone denies having ever seen it. The most amusing part of it all is their method of planning. I’ll play out Carl’s story for you…
C: (talking to Greek officials) You all need to make a plan for this (referring to security, events, whatever)
Officials: What do you mean a plan?
C: You know, what you’re going to do, who’s going to do it, how you’re going to do it, when you’re going to do it…
Officials: Okay. But, how?
C: What do you mean how? Just write it down.
Officials: Okay. Do you have a copy of how they did it in Sidney or Barcelona?
C: Sure. (gives them a copy)
A few weeks later the officials give Carl a copy of their plan, which he proceeds to read through.
C: Um, I’m not sure about this reference to the Harbor Bridge. How exactly are you planning to use the Harbor Bridge for the games here in Athens?
Yes, that’s right. The Greek officials simply copy the plan they were given, not even bothering to change obvious things like the names of places specific to a city. And the kids at Athens College don’t understand why I make such a big deal out of them not cheating. Cheating, which will be saved for another blog, is rampant here and Greece, and this is evidence of the fact that it’s not a habit that you just lose when you are out of school. So yes, they’re even cheating on the hosting of the Olympic Games. I’m not really sure how that’s going to work out. I had really wanted to stay around for the Games, but now I’m fine with the fact that I’ll be missing out on them. But if you do go, let me know what you think of the way they incorporate the Harbor Bridge into the show. I imagine that it’ll be pretty interesting.
Anyhow, Carl, who is Australian, works as a consultant to the Olympic Games. He started with this in Sydney, kept it up in Salt Lake City, and is now in Athens on a 2.5 year contract. Hearing him talk about the upcoming games is hilarious. Anyone who has visions of how great these games will be seeing that they are taking place in the birthplace of the Olympics will be set straight after a short chat with Carl. I’ve been in Athens for three months and I’ve frequently wondered if I just made up the fact that the Olympics will be held in this city in less than a year. Unless you’re walking through Plaka, where stores selling Olympic souvenirs abound, it’s pretty hard to believe that the attention of the world will be on Athens in August 2004. I can see the Olympic Stadium from the third floor of the high school, or to be more accurate, I can see the part of the Stadium that is actually built. I can also see the cranes that are supposed to be working on it, but which I have never once seen move. It will take nothing short of a miracle for this city to be ready.
Anything that could possibly be an issue is. The taxi drivers are constantly striking because they refuse to meet the demands of the Olympics Committee which include issuing receipts, having cash boxes, and brushing up on their English. The entire city is under construction, none of which seems to be scheduled for completion before 3850. There isn’t one single mosque in the city for Muslim competitors/spectators to worship in. The athlete village is a decent bit away from the main venue, yet there is as of now no arrangement for how to transport the athletes to and from the events. Getting from the airport to town is a huge pain, because no one seemed to consider it a good idea to link it up to the new Metro. Trash piles up on sidewalks for weeks at a time because the garbage workers are on strike. Really, you’d think that someone just sprung the idea of having the Olympics here on them about a month ago. And to think that they’re still pissed that Atlanta got the Olympics for the centennial event in 1996 instead of them.
All of the above are problems that need to be addressed and need to be addressed soon. The real problem though is an apparent lack of interest and leadership. According to Carl, no one wants to put their name on anything because they don’t want to be held responsible for its failure. So instead of things getting down, papers are simply passed around. Then, when someone asks about it, everyone denies having ever seen it. The most amusing part of it all is their method of planning. I’ll play out Carl’s story for you…
C: (talking to Greek officials) You all need to make a plan for this (referring to security, events, whatever)
Officials: What do you mean a plan?
C: You know, what you’re going to do, who’s going to do it, how you’re going to do it, when you’re going to do it…
Officials: Okay. But, how?
C: What do you mean how? Just write it down.
Officials: Okay. Do you have a copy of how they did it in Sidney or Barcelona?
C: Sure. (gives them a copy)
A few weeks later the officials give Carl a copy of their plan, which he proceeds to read through.
C: Um, I’m not sure about this reference to the Harbor Bridge. How exactly are you planning to use the Harbor Bridge for the games here in Athens?
Yes, that’s right. The Greek officials simply copy the plan they were given, not even bothering to change obvious things like the names of places specific to a city. And the kids at Athens College don’t understand why I make such a big deal out of them not cheating. Cheating, which will be saved for another blog, is rampant here and Greece, and this is evidence of the fact that it’s not a habit that you just lose when you are out of school. So yes, they’re even cheating on the hosting of the Olympic Games. I’m not really sure how that’s going to work out. I had really wanted to stay around for the Games, but now I’m fine with the fact that I’ll be missing out on them. But if you do go, let me know what you think of the way they incorporate the Harbor Bridge into the show. I imagine that it’ll be pretty interesting.
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
My Old Kentucky Home...
There’s something about human nature that compels us to make connections. Whenever we meet someone, we search our minds for anything that will build a bridge between us, no matter how distant we may actually be. As a foreigner in Greece, I am constantly asked where I am from, and then I am forced to listen as people dig furiously for an association.
Since I’m not from New York, Boston, DC, California or Florida (the apparent travel hotspots for Greeks), most Greeks have no real experience with my hometown or home state. Many, in fact, aren’t exactly sure where it is, and using the places they know, it’s still pretty hard for me to explain. Well, yes, Kentucky is north of Florida, east of California, and southwest of NY, Boston and DC. But hell so is Nebraska, Arizona, Ohio, Kansas and about every other state in the country. There’s not a tidy little explanation of where my state is. We’re not on the East Coast or the West Coast. We’re not really Southern (at least in comparison to Georgia or Alabama). We’re certainly not Northern. And we’re not quite Midwestern. We’re the gateway to everything, but we’re not quite any one thing. Try explaining that one to someone with a limited knowledge of both the English language and American geography.
Yet despite the relative anonymity of Kentucky, there are still connections to be made. KFC, for instance. The chain is all over Athens, and it’s the first thing that seems to pop into the minds of many Athenians when they find out I’m from Kentucky. Yes, of course, I say. You know, Colonel Sanders is my grandpa. Everyday we eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits straight from Harlen and Claudia’s kitchen. Finger-lickin’ good. Sometimes I’m not sure they realize I’m joking. Maybe I am heir to the most famous fried chicken in the world…me and every other Kentuckian.
But don’t despair fellow Kentuckians. There are those who know more about our state than KFC. The cab driver I had this weekend, for instance, upon finding out that I was from the Bluegrass State, immediately steered the conversation to bourbon. Great, I thought, a topic that I am extremely well-versed in. Bourbon. Is that what Jim Beam is? Is bourbon the same as whiskey? Hell if I know. But don’t’ worry…I didn’t let on. Instead I proudly announced the one fact that I do know about bourbon…to be real bourbon it has to come from Kentucky…just like Champagne has to come from France. That connection to France makes it sophisticated you see. Kentucky…just like France.
And oh yeah, I bet you never knew that the blue people who live in Appalachia are a topic of international interest. That’s right, one of the passages in the 7th grade literature book here at Athens College is titled “The Blue People of Kentucky.” Definitely an important thing to be learning about at that age. I hope they don’t forget the pearls of wisdom they gleaned from this reading. At least when they meet someone from Kentucky, they won’t have to talk about KFC. They can talk about Troublesome Creek, the Fugate family, and inbreeding. That’s a conversation every Kentuckian I know is dying to have. What, you think it’s strange that my brother is also my uncle?
To be fair, not all people I meet have such misguided ideas about Kentucky. Emmanuel (with two m’s as he pointed out), the self-proclaimed “Capitol Man”, who I met just this weekend while walking down Ermou Street in downtown Athens, proved to be quite the expert on Kentucky. In his own words: “Kentucky. The capitol is Frankfort, but Louisville is the big city. The first Saturday in May. The most important horse race in the world. Quite an event. Have you ever heard of a man named Rick Pitino? He used to coach the Wildcats, but then went and coached the pro team in Boston. It’s a pretty state, I’d say. Quiet, too. Nice.” After I informed him that Mr. Pitino had returned to the great state of Kentucky to coach the Louisville Cardinals, I asked him if he’d ever been to Kentucky. With his wealth of information on the state, I was certain that he must have some real connection with it. But alas, no. Emmanuel, aka Capitol Man, had never been to Kentucky or known anyone from there. He just liked memorizing random facts about every place in the world. Interesting, huh. Actually, it’s kind of weird. If the only people who really know anything about Kentucky are those who read reference books for fun, I think maybe I’ll just stick to the people whose connection to my state is KFC. At least that means they’re somewhat in touch with the world.
Since I’m not from New York, Boston, DC, California or Florida (the apparent travel hotspots for Greeks), most Greeks have no real experience with my hometown or home state. Many, in fact, aren’t exactly sure where it is, and using the places they know, it’s still pretty hard for me to explain. Well, yes, Kentucky is north of Florida, east of California, and southwest of NY, Boston and DC. But hell so is Nebraska, Arizona, Ohio, Kansas and about every other state in the country. There’s not a tidy little explanation of where my state is. We’re not on the East Coast or the West Coast. We’re not really Southern (at least in comparison to Georgia or Alabama). We’re certainly not Northern. And we’re not quite Midwestern. We’re the gateway to everything, but we’re not quite any one thing. Try explaining that one to someone with a limited knowledge of both the English language and American geography.
Yet despite the relative anonymity of Kentucky, there are still connections to be made. KFC, for instance. The chain is all over Athens, and it’s the first thing that seems to pop into the minds of many Athenians when they find out I’m from Kentucky. Yes, of course, I say. You know, Colonel Sanders is my grandpa. Everyday we eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and biscuits straight from Harlen and Claudia’s kitchen. Finger-lickin’ good. Sometimes I’m not sure they realize I’m joking. Maybe I am heir to the most famous fried chicken in the world…me and every other Kentuckian.
But don’t despair fellow Kentuckians. There are those who know more about our state than KFC. The cab driver I had this weekend, for instance, upon finding out that I was from the Bluegrass State, immediately steered the conversation to bourbon. Great, I thought, a topic that I am extremely well-versed in. Bourbon. Is that what Jim Beam is? Is bourbon the same as whiskey? Hell if I know. But don’t’ worry…I didn’t let on. Instead I proudly announced the one fact that I do know about bourbon…to be real bourbon it has to come from Kentucky…just like Champagne has to come from France. That connection to France makes it sophisticated you see. Kentucky…just like France.
And oh yeah, I bet you never knew that the blue people who live in Appalachia are a topic of international interest. That’s right, one of the passages in the 7th grade literature book here at Athens College is titled “The Blue People of Kentucky.” Definitely an important thing to be learning about at that age. I hope they don’t forget the pearls of wisdom they gleaned from this reading. At least when they meet someone from Kentucky, they won’t have to talk about KFC. They can talk about Troublesome Creek, the Fugate family, and inbreeding. That’s a conversation every Kentuckian I know is dying to have. What, you think it’s strange that my brother is also my uncle?
To be fair, not all people I meet have such misguided ideas about Kentucky. Emmanuel (with two m’s as he pointed out), the self-proclaimed “Capitol Man”, who I met just this weekend while walking down Ermou Street in downtown Athens, proved to be quite the expert on Kentucky. In his own words: “Kentucky. The capitol is Frankfort, but Louisville is the big city. The first Saturday in May. The most important horse race in the world. Quite an event. Have you ever heard of a man named Rick Pitino? He used to coach the Wildcats, but then went and coached the pro team in Boston. It’s a pretty state, I’d say. Quiet, too. Nice.” After I informed him that Mr. Pitino had returned to the great state of Kentucky to coach the Louisville Cardinals, I asked him if he’d ever been to Kentucky. With his wealth of information on the state, I was certain that he must have some real connection with it. But alas, no. Emmanuel, aka Capitol Man, had never been to Kentucky or known anyone from there. He just liked memorizing random facts about every place in the world. Interesting, huh. Actually, it’s kind of weird. If the only people who really know anything about Kentucky are those who read reference books for fun, I think maybe I’ll just stick to the people whose connection to my state is KFC. At least that means they’re somewhat in touch with the world.
Sunday, November 16, 2003
He Who Saves One Life, Saves the World Entire.
Rosa is, in my best estimate, in her seventies. She is not even five feet tall and speaks in a quiet voice. Yet both her presence and her words are commanding. Rosa is a docent at the Jewish Museum in Athens, which I visited this morning. She spent at least thirty minutes sitting and talking with Kate, Sarah and me about the history of Jews in Greece and of her own personal history. I am fascinated by the topic of Jewish history, especially in regards to the Holocaust, and when I meet someone who has lived this history, I find myself captivated.
The Holocaust was a horrific event in the history of the world. While initiated and carried out by the German nation, the Germans were aided and abetted by the world. The United States refused to allow any more Jews than normal into the country. Cuba turned away a ship that was to dock there, forcing the Jews back into the hands of Hitler. The Pope harbored the Nazis in Italy. Gentiles in German-occupied lands cooperated with German forces, turning Jews in for monetary rewards, knowing full well that their actions would result in the murder of these Jews. Einsatzgruppen in Poland, the Czech Republic, and Russia were assisted by local civilians as they murdered entire populations of Jews. Humanity and morality were abandoned by an incomprehensibly large number of people.
But not all. There were people who looked into the terrifying eyes of the Holocaust and challenged it to a fight to the death. Rosa -who lost her uncle in Bergen-Belsen, who had to change her name to a Christian name in an effort to remain unknown to the Germans, who was one of the mere 10,000 Greek Jews who survived to Liberation (Greece lost 87% of its Jewish population), who has every right to be bitter toward the world - reminded us that there is always a light in the darkness. In Greece, there was Angelos Evert, head of the police in Athens, who issued false identity cards to Jews, recording them as Greek-Orthodox. There were Bishop Chistostomos and Mayor Karrer of the island of Zayknthos, who were told to submit a list of all the island’s Jews to the German authorities, but who instead turned in a list, on which there were only two names…their own. Of course, neither was Jewish. These two men then proceeded to smuggle out all 257 of the island’s Jews. And there was Archbisop Damaskinos of Athens, who wrote an angry letter to the Nazis, denouncing their “intolerable acts of barbarism,” praising the role of Jews in Greek history, and refusing to collaborate with the Nazis, thus becoming the only head of a European Church to officially demand a stop to the persecution of the Jews. When Nazi General Stroop wrote back threatening to shoot him if he did not cooperate, the Archbishop defiantly replied, “General Stroop, the Priests of Greece are not shot; they are hanged. Please respect this tradition…” He then issued instructions to all monasteries and convents to give sanctuary to any Jews who came to their doors, and he issued false baptismal certificates to aid Jews trapped in the city.
Despite all of these individual acts of heroism, Greece lost a larger percentage of its Jewish population than any other country. But because of these individuals, there were survivors. Because of these individuals, Rosa is here today, sharing her history with those who take the time to listen. Rosa has not forgotten the horrors of the Holocaust. For her, 65,000 dead has more meaning than it ever will for any of us. But Rosa does not dwell on this alone. To dwell on the horror of it all would, in a way, be a victory for the Nazis. But to look past the evil, the collaboration, and the cowardice to the moral courage of a heroic minority is to refute the Nazi message of hate. It is a bold statement of resistance. A statement that, throughout history, too few of us have been willing to make.
The Holocaust was a horrific event in the history of the world. While initiated and carried out by the German nation, the Germans were aided and abetted by the world. The United States refused to allow any more Jews than normal into the country. Cuba turned away a ship that was to dock there, forcing the Jews back into the hands of Hitler. The Pope harbored the Nazis in Italy. Gentiles in German-occupied lands cooperated with German forces, turning Jews in for monetary rewards, knowing full well that their actions would result in the murder of these Jews. Einsatzgruppen in Poland, the Czech Republic, and Russia were assisted by local civilians as they murdered entire populations of Jews. Humanity and morality were abandoned by an incomprehensibly large number of people.
But not all. There were people who looked into the terrifying eyes of the Holocaust and challenged it to a fight to the death. Rosa -who lost her uncle in Bergen-Belsen, who had to change her name to a Christian name in an effort to remain unknown to the Germans, who was one of the mere 10,000 Greek Jews who survived to Liberation (Greece lost 87% of its Jewish population), who has every right to be bitter toward the world - reminded us that there is always a light in the darkness. In Greece, there was Angelos Evert, head of the police in Athens, who issued false identity cards to Jews, recording them as Greek-Orthodox. There were Bishop Chistostomos and Mayor Karrer of the island of Zayknthos, who were told to submit a list of all the island’s Jews to the German authorities, but who instead turned in a list, on which there were only two names…their own. Of course, neither was Jewish. These two men then proceeded to smuggle out all 257 of the island’s Jews. And there was Archbisop Damaskinos of Athens, who wrote an angry letter to the Nazis, denouncing their “intolerable acts of barbarism,” praising the role of Jews in Greek history, and refusing to collaborate with the Nazis, thus becoming the only head of a European Church to officially demand a stop to the persecution of the Jews. When Nazi General Stroop wrote back threatening to shoot him if he did not cooperate, the Archbishop defiantly replied, “General Stroop, the Priests of Greece are not shot; they are hanged. Please respect this tradition…” He then issued instructions to all monasteries and convents to give sanctuary to any Jews who came to their doors, and he issued false baptismal certificates to aid Jews trapped in the city.
Despite all of these individual acts of heroism, Greece lost a larger percentage of its Jewish population than any other country. But because of these individuals, there were survivors. Because of these individuals, Rosa is here today, sharing her history with those who take the time to listen. Rosa has not forgotten the horrors of the Holocaust. For her, 65,000 dead has more meaning than it ever will for any of us. But Rosa does not dwell on this alone. To dwell on the horror of it all would, in a way, be a victory for the Nazis. But to look past the evil, the collaboration, and the cowardice to the moral courage of a heroic minority is to refute the Nazi message of hate. It is a bold statement of resistance. A statement that, throughout history, too few of us have been willing to make.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Saying Thanks
I am the granddaughter of veterans of the Second World War. My mother’s father served in the infantry from before Pearl Harbor was bombed until after the war ended. My father’s father served in the Army Air Corps from the time he was old enough to be drafted until the war’s end. Both of my grandfathers were POWs, one managing to escape twice and one being freed in a prisoner exchange. Both were wounded. Both lost friends. Both proudly served their country because they believed in the ideals for which our nation stands. Because of stories they have told, questions I have asked and research I have done, I know all of this. I know the facts of their years of service.
But I don't know what it must have been like to watch your closest friends die. I can't comprehend how overwhelming the fear must have been at times. I can't imagine not knowing if you'll ever see your family again. And for that, I am thankful.
I have never been called upon to sacrifice in such a way. My beliefs have never been put to the test. I don't have to decide if I am willing to give up my life for ideals like democracy, freedom, or the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Yet, without multitudes of men and women throughout our country's history who were willing to put their lives at risk for these beliefs, I would not even have such concepts to ponder.
Today is Veteran's Day, a day to honor those men and women who have proudly served our country, who have protected the rights that we take for granted every day. Each of us must know someone who has served or is serving this role, and I hope we have all taken the chance to tell them how grateful we are. I know today there are many of us who do not support the military action that the United States is engaged in. That is our right, but a right that was given to us through the sacrifice of many, many lives. So take a stand against violence, war, and hatred, but don't forget to honor and respect our military personnel. They are performing a difficult job that most of us are not willing to do, and thanks to them, it is a job we do not have to do.
But I don't know what it must have been like to watch your closest friends die. I can't comprehend how overwhelming the fear must have been at times. I can't imagine not knowing if you'll ever see your family again. And for that, I am thankful.
I have never been called upon to sacrifice in such a way. My beliefs have never been put to the test. I don't have to decide if I am willing to give up my life for ideals like democracy, freedom, or the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Yet, without multitudes of men and women throughout our country's history who were willing to put their lives at risk for these beliefs, I would not even have such concepts to ponder.
Today is Veteran's Day, a day to honor those men and women who have proudly served our country, who have protected the rights that we take for granted every day. Each of us must know someone who has served or is serving this role, and I hope we have all taken the chance to tell them how grateful we are. I know today there are many of us who do not support the military action that the United States is engaged in. That is our right, but a right that was given to us through the sacrifice of many, many lives. So take a stand against violence, war, and hatred, but don't forget to honor and respect our military personnel. They are performing a difficult job that most of us are not willing to do, and thanks to them, it is a job we do not have to do.
Sunday, November 09, 2003
Shut Your Hole
Twice a week I help out in the college counseling office. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been working with a student who’s applying to schools in the University of California system. Let’s talk about a pain in the ass application. But anyhow, one of the questions on the application asks: “Do you have a special connection with any particular cultural, ethnic, societal, or religious group? If so, please explain here.”
We both kind of scoffed at the question, joked about his attachment to his Greek heritage and then left it blank and moved on with the application. I wondered how many people actually answer that question. At age eighteen, how many people say they strongly identify with any one group of people? At age eighteen, how many of us have the first clue where we belong? Actually it’s probably not right to limit that question to any age. At eighteen, most of us probably don’t have a clue where we belong. But do we at age 25? At 30? At 50? Ever? I am not sure. I think we just think about the question more at age eighteen, because belonging is more important then. As we get older, groups become less distinct. We don’t divide ourselves up into the jocks, the cool kids, the nerds, etc. We know how to function within the many different groups that make up society. But that doesn’t mean we actually know where we belong.
But despite the fact that I think most of us aren’t completely sure where we belong, I think we have much stronger attachments than we wish to admit to the groups which we use to try to define ourselves. Wait until someone criticizes a group you associate yourself with and see how you react. I compare it to the way you react to people who criticize your brothers or sisters. You can say whatever you want about them, but as soon as someone else opens their mouth, you defend your siblings to the death.
Anyone who knows me knows that I have a lot of critical things to say about the United States. I hate the corporate culture that puts money above human interest. I hate the ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. I hate the ignorance most Americans have regarding the rest of the world. I hate the apathy we display when it comes time to vote or take a stand about something we believe in. I hate our kiss-my-ass attitude. But I also really, really hate it when someone who is not American says any of these things. Suddenly, I am America’s greatest defender. I justify. I make excuses. I attack them back. Who are they to criticize my country…and thus criticize me? Because I am American, because, despite my resistance, I am part of all of this which I hate, I have the right to comment, to criticize.
The same is true of people who make negative comments toward the Catholic Church. Lord knows, I have a long list of complaints. Confession, come on. Do you really think there is any need for a priest to act as a go-between between you and God? The Church’s stance on women and homosexuals. Don’t get me started. The pope’s infallibility. Celibate priests. Holy days of obligation. The bread and wine becoming flesh and blood. There are plenty of things about the Catholic Church that I scoff at, argue about, and can’t reconcile myself to. Regardless, I am Catholic, and I don’t want to hear your criticism unless you too are Catholic.
We are constantly defining and redefining ourselves. We become members of different groups in the effort to figure out who we are and where we belong. But there are some groups that we can’t escape. We are bound to them, for better or worse. Whether we admit it or not, we do have special connections with certain groups. And because of this connection we can criticize, and we can become overly sensitive and perhaps even unreasonable when someone else makes the same exact criticism. It’s not the criticism, but where it comes from that matters. I can criticize the U.S. I can criticize the Catholic Church. Because I belong to these groups. Because I am an insider. And because when this is the case, there is, behind all of the criticism, love.
We both kind of scoffed at the question, joked about his attachment to his Greek heritage and then left it blank and moved on with the application. I wondered how many people actually answer that question. At age eighteen, how many people say they strongly identify with any one group of people? At age eighteen, how many of us have the first clue where we belong? Actually it’s probably not right to limit that question to any age. At eighteen, most of us probably don’t have a clue where we belong. But do we at age 25? At 30? At 50? Ever? I am not sure. I think we just think about the question more at age eighteen, because belonging is more important then. As we get older, groups become less distinct. We don’t divide ourselves up into the jocks, the cool kids, the nerds, etc. We know how to function within the many different groups that make up society. But that doesn’t mean we actually know where we belong.
But despite the fact that I think most of us aren’t completely sure where we belong, I think we have much stronger attachments than we wish to admit to the groups which we use to try to define ourselves. Wait until someone criticizes a group you associate yourself with and see how you react. I compare it to the way you react to people who criticize your brothers or sisters. You can say whatever you want about them, but as soon as someone else opens their mouth, you defend your siblings to the death.
Anyone who knows me knows that I have a lot of critical things to say about the United States. I hate the corporate culture that puts money above human interest. I hate the ever-widening gap between the rich and the poor. I hate the ignorance most Americans have regarding the rest of the world. I hate the apathy we display when it comes time to vote or take a stand about something we believe in. I hate our kiss-my-ass attitude. But I also really, really hate it when someone who is not American says any of these things. Suddenly, I am America’s greatest defender. I justify. I make excuses. I attack them back. Who are they to criticize my country…and thus criticize me? Because I am American, because, despite my resistance, I am part of all of this which I hate, I have the right to comment, to criticize.
The same is true of people who make negative comments toward the Catholic Church. Lord knows, I have a long list of complaints. Confession, come on. Do you really think there is any need for a priest to act as a go-between between you and God? The Church’s stance on women and homosexuals. Don’t get me started. The pope’s infallibility. Celibate priests. Holy days of obligation. The bread and wine becoming flesh and blood. There are plenty of things about the Catholic Church that I scoff at, argue about, and can’t reconcile myself to. Regardless, I am Catholic, and I don’t want to hear your criticism unless you too are Catholic.
We are constantly defining and redefining ourselves. We become members of different groups in the effort to figure out who we are and where we belong. But there are some groups that we can’t escape. We are bound to them, for better or worse. Whether we admit it or not, we do have special connections with certain groups. And because of this connection we can criticize, and we can become overly sensitive and perhaps even unreasonable when someone else makes the same exact criticism. It’s not the criticism, but where it comes from that matters. I can criticize the U.S. I can criticize the Catholic Church. Because I belong to these groups. Because I am an insider. And because when this is the case, there is, behind all of the criticism, love.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
No Worries
Everywhere you go in Greece, you find men carrying worry beads. These strings of about ten beads, usually wooden, sometimes metal, are occasionally stowed away in pockets, but are usually clutched tightly in the hand. The plump, agile fingers of men close in age to me, and the gnarled, arthritic fingers of men whose lives have spanned almost a century find a similar solace in these beads. These men rub the beads between their thumb and forefinger, they let the whole string of beads slid through their hands like water, they flip the beads quickly and expertly. I don’t know if they actually use the beads for their worries, or if they simply like the repetition and routine. Whatever the reason for their widespread popularity, I like them. I like watching men drink coffee in a café, unconsciously working their worries out with their fingers, the way babies do with blankets. I like watching old men, dressed in suits that have grown too big for their stooped bodies, walking with the beads hanging from their hands as if they are an extension of themselves. And, most of all, I like the way they remind me of my grandma rhythmically working a rosary through her hands.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
I Can't Hear You. I'm Reading
I go through spells where I consume books madly, as if I’m starving and they are my sole sustenance. I pick up a book and don’t put it down until it is done. And then when I’m finished, I immediately pick up another and begin the process again. It’s as if I’m addicted, and I can’t quit even if I want to. Then eventually the spell ends, and I have a short drought before the process begins again.
When I read, the whole rest of the world disappears. I might as well be deaf and blind. You can talk to me. I might even answer. But I'll have no idea what you said. It doesn't matter if I'm reading the ingredients in the toothpaste, the comics in the newspaper or War and Peace. For however long it takes, I'm lost in the world of those words.
I love books. They are not just one of life’s great pleasures, but for me, they are one of life’s necessities. I don’t think I could survive without them. I don’t need a TV. I could maybe get by without the Internet. But without books, I would starve. Living here, I’ve become even more aware of the truth of that. We have a TV, but it gets horrible reception and almost all of the programming is in Greek. I perhaps watch it for ten minutes a week. We also have the Internet, but the connection is miserably slow, so I use it to send emails and update my website but that’s it. Being here, I’ve realized how much time I waste in front of both the computer and TV, consuming things that don’t mean anything to me and are of no real value. I don’t miss them here. Especially because I have shelves full of books in my house and a whole library just a short walk from my house.
I don’t understand people who don’t like books. That’s right, Gregory, I don’t get it. I love everything about them. The way they smell. The way the pages feel. The flow of the language. An image that you can’t lose. A character you can’t forget. A world you are invited into and allowed to inhabit for a short time. I loved all of this as a child. Ask my parents about the times I took books to the lake so I could read while everyone else went fishing. Ask the librarians who I saw all the time as I read hundreds of books more than were required to earn the prizes for the summer reading program. Ask anyone who knew me. I was never without a book.
And I never want to be without one. Unplug my TV. Cut off my Internet. But don’t take away my books. I can’t live without them.
When I read, the whole rest of the world disappears. I might as well be deaf and blind. You can talk to me. I might even answer. But I'll have no idea what you said. It doesn't matter if I'm reading the ingredients in the toothpaste, the comics in the newspaper or War and Peace. For however long it takes, I'm lost in the world of those words.
I love books. They are not just one of life’s great pleasures, but for me, they are one of life’s necessities. I don’t think I could survive without them. I don’t need a TV. I could maybe get by without the Internet. But without books, I would starve. Living here, I’ve become even more aware of the truth of that. We have a TV, but it gets horrible reception and almost all of the programming is in Greek. I perhaps watch it for ten minutes a week. We also have the Internet, but the connection is miserably slow, so I use it to send emails and update my website but that’s it. Being here, I’ve realized how much time I waste in front of both the computer and TV, consuming things that don’t mean anything to me and are of no real value. I don’t miss them here. Especially because I have shelves full of books in my house and a whole library just a short walk from my house.
I don’t understand people who don’t like books. That’s right, Gregory, I don’t get it. I love everything about them. The way they smell. The way the pages feel. The flow of the language. An image that you can’t lose. A character you can’t forget. A world you are invited into and allowed to inhabit for a short time. I loved all of this as a child. Ask my parents about the times I took books to the lake so I could read while everyone else went fishing. Ask the librarians who I saw all the time as I read hundreds of books more than were required to earn the prizes for the summer reading program. Ask anyone who knew me. I was never without a book.
And I never want to be without one. Unplug my TV. Cut off my Internet. But don’t take away my books. I can’t live without them.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Tales of a Golden Kazoo
It is now time for you all to meet my friend Davos. Davos is a good friend for many reasons, but mainly because of his willingness to entertain his friends with his amazing skill at a most unusual instrument.
I met Davos only last week. It’s hard to believe I have known him for such a short time, because my memories of him are so dense and penetrating. Our friendship began on the beach at Gythia. Kate, Darrell, Sarah and I were enjoying the last rays of sun, when a man (who we later came to know as Davos) who was probably between 35 and 40 and wearing nothing but a blue speedo approached us. He crouched down and smoothly asked us if we had been swimming. Seeing that he had been watching us from down the beach for quite a bit and that none of us were wet or wearing swimming suits, it wasn’t quite as smooth as he had hoped. But he seemed friendly enough and considering that there were four of us (one of whom was a boy), we weren’t intimidated or concerned. He struck up a conversation, and we quickly realized that he was quite intelligent. He knew a number of languages, was very well traveled, well read and well educated. He owned a bookstore in town, which all of us found interesting. Additionally, he was full of local folklore, telling us all about the different winds and predicting how the winter would be based on signs he’d gathered through the year. We asked him for suggestions on a place to eat, and he informed us of the wineshop which I mentioned in an earlier post. It sounded charming (as it most definitely was) and we were convinced that we should go there.
Davos left the beach about 30 or 45 minutes before we did. When we left, we decided to go straight to this wineshop because we were all tired and figured that if we went back to our room we wouldn’t make it out again. We sat down as the sole customers and ordered our drinks and were deciding on dinner when Davos appeared at the shop. It turned out his bookstore is only a few stores down from the wineshop. He pulled up a chair and proceeded to order a wide array of food for us to try. It was all delicious and he was a most excellent host. This was Greek hospitality.
Dinner went on for quite a while, and we were all stuffed, tired and ready to fall into bed. Davos, however, had other plans. He kept making references to getting icecream, and while we kept telling him that we had no room, he was insistent. So when we left the restaurant and he began to walk down the street, we followed. We entered a door and suddenly found ourselves in Davos’ apartment, a very sweet bachelor pad. There were windsurfers, fancy bikes, and a huge amount of electronic equipment. I thought to myself, “Hmmm, maybe he has to get something.” But no, he emerged with some chocolate and water and had us sit down on his couch, which we all did while looking at each other and making puzzled faces. “Whatever,” we thought, “he’s a nice guy and with such a big group of us, it can’t really be sketchy or anything.” This was, however, before he turned out the lights and lit the candles. At this point, I couldn’t help but begin to giggle. I was overly tired and at that point of silliness. But it only got better. With the ambience set, Davos pulled out his guitar, positioned his microphone and began to play and sing for us. He did the Beatles, Eric Clapton, and Bob Dylan, playing okay on the guitar but singing like he had never before actually heard the songs. We tried to help out, but there wasn’t much we could do. So yes, at this point, I was out and out laughing. I couldn’t help it. Neither could Kate or Sarah. Darrell remained fairly composed. “What,” I wondered, “does he think he is doing? Is this normal? Would he do this even if we weren’t here and thought he’d just share it with us? Does he think we’re impressed? Am I in the freaking twilight zone?”
And then it was confirmed, I really was in another world. While playing a Greek song which none of us knew, Davos pulled out a golden kazoo and began to play. That’s right…a golden kazoo. It was made out of real metal and was quite elaborate. Yet it was definitely a kazoo…that weird, strange instrument that usually appears only in goodie bags at children’s birthday parties. There was nothing I could do at this point but collapse into gut-wrenching laughter. I buried my head in the pillows and howled. I literally thought I might die because I couldn’t catch my breath. It was unbelievably funny. It was a moment like no other. I looked around the room and took it all in, told myself to remember every little detail. It was a once in a lifetime occasion. It was not to be forgotten. No matter how hard I try I’ll never be able to tell you how funny it really was. But just imagine…a couch, a set of bicycles strung with Chinese lanterns, the soft glow of candles, a guitar, and a one of a kind golden kazoo. Ah, Greece.
I met Davos only last week. It’s hard to believe I have known him for such a short time, because my memories of him are so dense and penetrating. Our friendship began on the beach at Gythia. Kate, Darrell, Sarah and I were enjoying the last rays of sun, when a man (who we later came to know as Davos) who was probably between 35 and 40 and wearing nothing but a blue speedo approached us. He crouched down and smoothly asked us if we had been swimming. Seeing that he had been watching us from down the beach for quite a bit and that none of us were wet or wearing swimming suits, it wasn’t quite as smooth as he had hoped. But he seemed friendly enough and considering that there were four of us (one of whom was a boy), we weren’t intimidated or concerned. He struck up a conversation, and we quickly realized that he was quite intelligent. He knew a number of languages, was very well traveled, well read and well educated. He owned a bookstore in town, which all of us found interesting. Additionally, he was full of local folklore, telling us all about the different winds and predicting how the winter would be based on signs he’d gathered through the year. We asked him for suggestions on a place to eat, and he informed us of the wineshop which I mentioned in an earlier post. It sounded charming (as it most definitely was) and we were convinced that we should go there.
Davos left the beach about 30 or 45 minutes before we did. When we left, we decided to go straight to this wineshop because we were all tired and figured that if we went back to our room we wouldn’t make it out again. We sat down as the sole customers and ordered our drinks and were deciding on dinner when Davos appeared at the shop. It turned out his bookstore is only a few stores down from the wineshop. He pulled up a chair and proceeded to order a wide array of food for us to try. It was all delicious and he was a most excellent host. This was Greek hospitality.
Dinner went on for quite a while, and we were all stuffed, tired and ready to fall into bed. Davos, however, had other plans. He kept making references to getting icecream, and while we kept telling him that we had no room, he was insistent. So when we left the restaurant and he began to walk down the street, we followed. We entered a door and suddenly found ourselves in Davos’ apartment, a very sweet bachelor pad. There were windsurfers, fancy bikes, and a huge amount of electronic equipment. I thought to myself, “Hmmm, maybe he has to get something.” But no, he emerged with some chocolate and water and had us sit down on his couch, which we all did while looking at each other and making puzzled faces. “Whatever,” we thought, “he’s a nice guy and with such a big group of us, it can’t really be sketchy or anything.” This was, however, before he turned out the lights and lit the candles. At this point, I couldn’t help but begin to giggle. I was overly tired and at that point of silliness. But it only got better. With the ambience set, Davos pulled out his guitar, positioned his microphone and began to play and sing for us. He did the Beatles, Eric Clapton, and Bob Dylan, playing okay on the guitar but singing like he had never before actually heard the songs. We tried to help out, but there wasn’t much we could do. So yes, at this point, I was out and out laughing. I couldn’t help it. Neither could Kate or Sarah. Darrell remained fairly composed. “What,” I wondered, “does he think he is doing? Is this normal? Would he do this even if we weren’t here and thought he’d just share it with us? Does he think we’re impressed? Am I in the freaking twilight zone?”
And then it was confirmed, I really was in another world. While playing a Greek song which none of us knew, Davos pulled out a golden kazoo and began to play. That’s right…a golden kazoo. It was made out of real metal and was quite elaborate. Yet it was definitely a kazoo…that weird, strange instrument that usually appears only in goodie bags at children’s birthday parties. There was nothing I could do at this point but collapse into gut-wrenching laughter. I buried my head in the pillows and howled. I literally thought I might die because I couldn’t catch my breath. It was unbelievably funny. It was a moment like no other. I looked around the room and took it all in, told myself to remember every little detail. It was a once in a lifetime occasion. It was not to be forgotten. No matter how hard I try I’ll never be able to tell you how funny it really was. But just imagine…a couch, a set of bicycles strung with Chinese lanterns, the soft glow of candles, a guitar, and a one of a kind golden kazoo. Ah, Greece.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
We're All In This Together
When we were in Gyflio, we were walking around the Platia, the town center, and happened across a funeral. We saw what seemed to be a hearse parked out on the street, but we didn’t think anything of it until all of the people sitting in the cafes on the Platia or wandering around grew quiet and rose from their chairs. We followed their eyes and watched as a funeral party emerged from a nearby building, the funeral home I presume. Everyone in the party was wearing black and many were teary-eyed and holding on to each other for support. The coffin was loaded into the hearse, which was really nothing more than an old black station wagon with all but the front seats removed. The coffin rested in the middle and along the sides were electric candelabras. Flowers were piled atop the car. A professional drove the car, and the Greek Orthodox priest, dressed in full attire including hat and long beard, sat in the passenger seat. Everyone else walked behind the car as it crept forward. In front of the car, a band, dressed all in red and composed of people of all ages, walked and played a dirge.
The church was only a few buildings down from the funeral home, and when the party reached it, they all moved inside for the funeral mass. Flowers were piled in front of the entrance, and we could hear songs and the chanting of the ritual funeral service. The smell of incense drifted out and perfumed the entire town with its bittersweet odor. Following the service, the funeral party reorganized itself and made a slow trek along the sea to the cemetery. The band played its dirge, the mourners wept, and the entire town stood quietly and respectfully as one of their own exited the town and this life.
The rituals surrounding death interest me. Cemeteries and funeral services speak to the way in which people care for other people. While it certainly does not concern the dead, it is still heartbreaking to see an overgrown and forgotten gravesite. On the other hand, it is touching to see fresh flowers, a letter, or a small trinket atop a gravestone, especially gravestones which reveal that it has been many years since the person buried there passed away. I didn’t know the person whose funeral was being held in Gythio, but I felt connected to it, because I was in a town that felt connected to it. Not everyone in the town knew the person who had died, but they all stood quietly, paying their respects. It was a simple gesture. But it was a gesture full of meaning. The funeral was not for a person who would be considered important by worldly standards, but to family and friends, to the town, to the space of world to which he/she belonged, he/she was important. The dirges, the slow walk through the street, the public display of loss was appropriate. In Gythio, it was not true that when you cry, you cry alone. There the whole world mourns with you. There they have not forgotten how important one person is. There they have not forgotten how important empathy is.
The church was only a few buildings down from the funeral home, and when the party reached it, they all moved inside for the funeral mass. Flowers were piled in front of the entrance, and we could hear songs and the chanting of the ritual funeral service. The smell of incense drifted out and perfumed the entire town with its bittersweet odor. Following the service, the funeral party reorganized itself and made a slow trek along the sea to the cemetery. The band played its dirge, the mourners wept, and the entire town stood quietly and respectfully as one of their own exited the town and this life.
The rituals surrounding death interest me. Cemeteries and funeral services speak to the way in which people care for other people. While it certainly does not concern the dead, it is still heartbreaking to see an overgrown and forgotten gravesite. On the other hand, it is touching to see fresh flowers, a letter, or a small trinket atop a gravestone, especially gravestones which reveal that it has been many years since the person buried there passed away. I didn’t know the person whose funeral was being held in Gythio, but I felt connected to it, because I was in a town that felt connected to it. Not everyone in the town knew the person who had died, but they all stood quietly, paying their respects. It was a simple gesture. But it was a gesture full of meaning. The funeral was not for a person who would be considered important by worldly standards, but to family and friends, to the town, to the space of world to which he/she belonged, he/she was important. The dirges, the slow walk through the street, the public display of loss was appropriate. In Gythio, it was not true that when you cry, you cry alone. There the whole world mourns with you. There they have not forgotten how important one person is. There they have not forgotten how important empathy is.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
On the Road Again...Going Places That I've Never Been...Seeing Things I Might Never See Again
I just came back to Athens after a four-day weekend exploring the Peloponnese. We were given a long weekend, because today is “Oxi Day,” the day when Greece said no (oxi) to Mussolini’s request to allow Italian troops in Greece, thus effectively dragging Greece into World War II. It’s an interesting holiday I think, and the day is celebrated with parades, masses, flags, laurel garlands, boys and girls dressed in blue and white, and the complete shutting down of everything.
My weekend was fantastic. I love the Peloponnese. It’s Greece the way I want it to be, completely different from Athens and its cosmopolitan, consumerist culture. It’s the Greece of history, mythology, and life before 1/3 of the population decided to move to Athens. I spent the weekend with Kate, Sarah and Darrell roadtripping around in a car we rented. It was liberating to have a car and drive through the mountains and valleys of small town Greece. I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful this part of Greece is. It’s a stark beauty, with steep rocky mountains of a purplish-grey color, skies that are perfectly blue, water that makes you realize what color Agean blue is, and trees that are heavy with oranges. It’s a delicious beauty that you drink in madly but can’t get enough of.
We headed out early Saturday morning towards Sparta and the center of the Peloponnese. It’s strange, but the ancient towns that are so well-known really aren’t worth writing home about these days. So instead of stopping in Sparta, we went a few kilometers outside of town to Mystra, an extremly well-preserved ancient city. We spent a few hours exploring the churches, monastery, fortress, castle and random buildings that remained on this huge hill. It’s a great time of year to go exploring, because the weather is beautiful but the crowds are small. Leaving Mystra, we headed south to the middle peninsula, stopping at the top in a town called Gyflio. Gyflio is on the water, but it isn’t a tourist town, which made it all the more charming. A sailboat regatta was taking place when we arrived and it all looked picture-perfect. We took a room in the house of an older Greek woman, who was as sweet as could be and cooked us a mean breakfast of homemade donuts and other sweets the next morning. We spent the afternoon/evening at the beach, which was sandy except for the perfectly smooth multi-colored pebbles along the waters’ edge. The pebbles reminded me of the worry stones my grandpa gave to me when I was young, so I picked up a few and tucked them away in my bag. The sunset was a fabulous cotton candy pink and blue creation. Dinner that night was fabulous...it wasn’t even really in a restaurant but in a wine shop where the owner cooked for you on demand. Very small, homey, and amazingly delicious. The best food in Greece hands down.
Day two we spent driving around the Mani peninsula, which is again gorgeous. I know I’m overusing the description but I can’t help it. Our first stop was a cave which we toured by boat and then by foot. It was a neat experience. I was impressed with the navigation skills of our guide…some of the passages were quite narrow and made dangerous by protruding stalactites and stalagmites. Further down the peninsula, we stopped in the town of Vathia, which is now home to a single-digit population, but used to be home to few hundred people who lived in stone tower houses. The Mani people are known for being traditional and conservative. They are also known for their feuds. Up until the end of the 19th century, families would have huge feuds that would last decades in which the object was to eliminate every male member of the opposing family. It was for this reason that they all lived in stone towers, which they continually built higher in the hopes of surviving. I don’t know what brought about these feuds, but they were quite intense. Also interesting was the fact that none of the doors in the town seemed to be over 5 feet tall. Small, angry people it seems.
Day three we explored Monemvasia, which is this Rock of Gibraltar type formation. It’s an island which is connected to the rest of Greece by a causeway. From the mainland, it looks like nothing but a rock, but when you go out to it and go around the rock, you find an entire town that faces out to sea. It’s pretty cool, but kind of touristy. We spent the rest of the day driving up toward the part of the Peloponnese close to Athens. Distance-wise it’s not that far, but the driving is on tiny, windy mountain roads so it took a long time. It was a great drive though, so no complaints from me.
Day four we checked out Argos, of Jason and the Argonaut fame, which really wasn’t all that interesting. We also climbed among the ruins of ancient Corinth, the city to which Paul wrote his famous epistles. Corinthians 13:1-8 was quoted in multiple places in multiple languages. It was a nice connection to the familiar for me. We arrive home back in Athens in the afternoon, relaxed and pleased with the success of our trip. It was as if we’d finally seen Greece, and it was a wonderful experience.
So that’s it in synopsis…not brief I know, but I really did cut out quite a lot. I hope to be able to post more this week to expound on some of the more interesting aspects of the weekend, including the golden kazoo, the funeral we witnessed, forty-five minute breaks in the showing of tv movies, the old woman we stayed with, and the elderly people and their donkeys… I know you are on the edge of your seat. I’ll do my best to deliver.
My weekend was fantastic. I love the Peloponnese. It’s Greece the way I want it to be, completely different from Athens and its cosmopolitan, consumerist culture. It’s the Greece of history, mythology, and life before 1/3 of the population decided to move to Athens. I spent the weekend with Kate, Sarah and Darrell roadtripping around in a car we rented. It was liberating to have a car and drive through the mountains and valleys of small town Greece. I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful this part of Greece is. It’s a stark beauty, with steep rocky mountains of a purplish-grey color, skies that are perfectly blue, water that makes you realize what color Agean blue is, and trees that are heavy with oranges. It’s a delicious beauty that you drink in madly but can’t get enough of.
We headed out early Saturday morning towards Sparta and the center of the Peloponnese. It’s strange, but the ancient towns that are so well-known really aren’t worth writing home about these days. So instead of stopping in Sparta, we went a few kilometers outside of town to Mystra, an extremly well-preserved ancient city. We spent a few hours exploring the churches, monastery, fortress, castle and random buildings that remained on this huge hill. It’s a great time of year to go exploring, because the weather is beautiful but the crowds are small. Leaving Mystra, we headed south to the middle peninsula, stopping at the top in a town called Gyflio. Gyflio is on the water, but it isn’t a tourist town, which made it all the more charming. A sailboat regatta was taking place when we arrived and it all looked picture-perfect. We took a room in the house of an older Greek woman, who was as sweet as could be and cooked us a mean breakfast of homemade donuts and other sweets the next morning. We spent the afternoon/evening at the beach, which was sandy except for the perfectly smooth multi-colored pebbles along the waters’ edge. The pebbles reminded me of the worry stones my grandpa gave to me when I was young, so I picked up a few and tucked them away in my bag. The sunset was a fabulous cotton candy pink and blue creation. Dinner that night was fabulous...it wasn’t even really in a restaurant but in a wine shop where the owner cooked for you on demand. Very small, homey, and amazingly delicious. The best food in Greece hands down.
Day two we spent driving around the Mani peninsula, which is again gorgeous. I know I’m overusing the description but I can’t help it. Our first stop was a cave which we toured by boat and then by foot. It was a neat experience. I was impressed with the navigation skills of our guide…some of the passages were quite narrow and made dangerous by protruding stalactites and stalagmites. Further down the peninsula, we stopped in the town of Vathia, which is now home to a single-digit population, but used to be home to few hundred people who lived in stone tower houses. The Mani people are known for being traditional and conservative. They are also known for their feuds. Up until the end of the 19th century, families would have huge feuds that would last decades in which the object was to eliminate every male member of the opposing family. It was for this reason that they all lived in stone towers, which they continually built higher in the hopes of surviving. I don’t know what brought about these feuds, but they were quite intense. Also interesting was the fact that none of the doors in the town seemed to be over 5 feet tall. Small, angry people it seems.
Day three we explored Monemvasia, which is this Rock of Gibraltar type formation. It’s an island which is connected to the rest of Greece by a causeway. From the mainland, it looks like nothing but a rock, but when you go out to it and go around the rock, you find an entire town that faces out to sea. It’s pretty cool, but kind of touristy. We spent the rest of the day driving up toward the part of the Peloponnese close to Athens. Distance-wise it’s not that far, but the driving is on tiny, windy mountain roads so it took a long time. It was a great drive though, so no complaints from me.
Day four we checked out Argos, of Jason and the Argonaut fame, which really wasn’t all that interesting. We also climbed among the ruins of ancient Corinth, the city to which Paul wrote his famous epistles. Corinthians 13:1-8 was quoted in multiple places in multiple languages. It was a nice connection to the familiar for me. We arrive home back in Athens in the afternoon, relaxed and pleased with the success of our trip. It was as if we’d finally seen Greece, and it was a wonderful experience.
So that’s it in synopsis…not brief I know, but I really did cut out quite a lot. I hope to be able to post more this week to expound on some of the more interesting aspects of the weekend, including the golden kazoo, the funeral we witnessed, forty-five minute breaks in the showing of tv movies, the old woman we stayed with, and the elderly people and their donkeys… I know you are on the edge of your seat. I’ll do my best to deliver.
Friday, October 24, 2003
I Wanna Live Where the Green Grass Grows
I'm not a city person. I've decided once and for all. Some people talk about how being in the city makes them feel alive. In the hustle and bustle of downtown, they can sense the pulse of life. Something about honking horns, revolving doors, the rush of traffic, and crowds of people appeals to them. I don't feel that way at all. In the city, I feel claustrophobic, as if the whole world is squeezing in on me, crushing out every bit of life. It seems to me that life is out there somewhere, but that I can't reach it, and I'm stuck running after it without any real chance of catching it. The garish sights and sounds overwhelm and confuse me so that I feel as if I can't even think. I come home exhausted, usually without accomplishing anything.
I want to live somewhere where I have a patch of grass that is all my own. I want trees and maybe even some water. I don't want a skyline; I want a horizon. I need somewhere I feel like I can breathe, think and exist. It doesn't have to be out in the middle of nowhere necessarily. In fact, I'd like to be near a city. I am not so backwards as to think that the city has nothing to offer. If you want the arts, if you want museums, if you want sports...you need a city. I know that. And once in a while, I enjoy the city in all of its dirty glory. But I don't want to live right in the heart and soul of it, because for me, it is an empty soul. Despite the thousands of people running around, I feel lonely in the city. Outside of it, I can be completely alone, yet never feel lonely. I'd much rather keep company with nature than with strangers.
I don't think I ever want to live in a city bigger than Louisville. It's the perfect size. It has the right amount of green space, the right amount of city, and the right amount of places to go out. I'm not sure if it's the biggest small town I know of or the smallest big town. Either way, it works for me. Strange isn't it...the one place I couldn't wait to leave when I was younger is now the measuring stick for every place I would ever consider living.
I want to live somewhere where I have a patch of grass that is all my own. I want trees and maybe even some water. I don't want a skyline; I want a horizon. I need somewhere I feel like I can breathe, think and exist. It doesn't have to be out in the middle of nowhere necessarily. In fact, I'd like to be near a city. I am not so backwards as to think that the city has nothing to offer. If you want the arts, if you want museums, if you want sports...you need a city. I know that. And once in a while, I enjoy the city in all of its dirty glory. But I don't want to live right in the heart and soul of it, because for me, it is an empty soul. Despite the thousands of people running around, I feel lonely in the city. Outside of it, I can be completely alone, yet never feel lonely. I'd much rather keep company with nature than with strangers.
I don't think I ever want to live in a city bigger than Louisville. It's the perfect size. It has the right amount of green space, the right amount of city, and the right amount of places to go out. I'm not sure if it's the biggest small town I know of or the smallest big town. Either way, it works for me. Strange isn't it...the one place I couldn't wait to leave when I was younger is now the measuring stick for every place I would ever consider living.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Click Your Heels Three Times
Hanging in the halls of the middle school is a flyer advertising a meeting of the Refugee Club. At the bottom of the flyer is a quote: “There is no greater loss than the loss of one’s homeland.” This quote caught my attention, and the other Teaching Fellows and I got to talking about it. Was this really the greatest loss one could suffer? We started discussing the things that would be most unbearable for us to lose, and while there are many things we would not want to give up, there really are very few things that would be absolutely unbearable. Family, health, and intangibles like freedom, love and intelligence. One of the other Teaching Fellows argued that his homeland would not be the worst thing to lose. I wasn’t sure. The more I pondered it, the more I felt like it just might be the greatest loss. Perhaps I feel this way because I have a very dear attachment to my home, or maybe it’s because I take a very broad view of what home is. Home is definitely family. It is also freedom and love. In a sense, it is health because it is where I feel the most whole and well. It is who I am, so losing my home would be like losing myself.
In arguing that the loss of the homeland would not be that great, the other Teaching Fellow pointed out the fact that for all practical matters our homeland is lost to us this year. We live under the laws of another land. We are surrounded by a foreign language, culture, and religion. All of this is true, but I still don’t feel as if my homeland is lost. There is a huge difference between choosing to leave your country and being forced from it. When I am frustrated by my current home, I have the security of knowing it is temporary. I know that my home is still there and that upon returning I will find it almost the same as it was when I left. I know that if I really wanted to I could be home within one day. It would cost me a lot of money and would require hectic planning, but it could happen if I wanted or needed it to.
To be a refugee, to be someone without a homeland, must be terrifying. Not only is your future uncertain, but your past is nothing more than the few memories your mind is able to cling to. What must it be like to be forced out of your homeland by war, political chaos, disease or death? Could you imagine leaving your home and knowing that you may never return and that even if you do it will not be the same place that you knew? I choose to travel, to go to new places and leave behind old places. I will probably live in a multitude of different places during my lifetime. But I am not homeless. I have my home, and I can return to it whenever I want. And even if I am not there, I have the peace of mind of knowing that the one place in the world where I am known and understood and comfortable is there and waiting for me. It is my home, not only in my mind, but also in reality. In this world, I have a place where I belong. There are so many who do not, who understand in all its literal terror the phrase “You can’t go home again.” They may find a house, a job, a life in a new place, but still, I think, they must be homeless. Home is so much more than a place. It is a feeling, as warm and soft and comforting as the baby blanket your mother has saved for you to pass on to your children. Home is where we come from and where we aspire to. It is who we are and who we hope to be. We all deserve a place where we can go and say that we are home. We all deserve ruby slippers.
In arguing that the loss of the homeland would not be that great, the other Teaching Fellow pointed out the fact that for all practical matters our homeland is lost to us this year. We live under the laws of another land. We are surrounded by a foreign language, culture, and religion. All of this is true, but I still don’t feel as if my homeland is lost. There is a huge difference between choosing to leave your country and being forced from it. When I am frustrated by my current home, I have the security of knowing it is temporary. I know that my home is still there and that upon returning I will find it almost the same as it was when I left. I know that if I really wanted to I could be home within one day. It would cost me a lot of money and would require hectic planning, but it could happen if I wanted or needed it to.
To be a refugee, to be someone without a homeland, must be terrifying. Not only is your future uncertain, but your past is nothing more than the few memories your mind is able to cling to. What must it be like to be forced out of your homeland by war, political chaos, disease or death? Could you imagine leaving your home and knowing that you may never return and that even if you do it will not be the same place that you knew? I choose to travel, to go to new places and leave behind old places. I will probably live in a multitude of different places during my lifetime. But I am not homeless. I have my home, and I can return to it whenever I want. And even if I am not there, I have the peace of mind of knowing that the one place in the world where I am known and understood and comfortable is there and waiting for me. It is my home, not only in my mind, but also in reality. In this world, I have a place where I belong. There are so many who do not, who understand in all its literal terror the phrase “You can’t go home again.” They may find a house, a job, a life in a new place, but still, I think, they must be homeless. Home is so much more than a place. It is a feeling, as warm and soft and comforting as the baby blanket your mother has saved for you to pass on to your children. Home is where we come from and where we aspire to. It is who we are and who we hope to be. We all deserve a place where we can go and say that we are home. We all deserve ruby slippers.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Wedding Bells
My cousin is getting married today, and I, obviously am missing the wedding. So in lieu of my presence I am sending my very best wishes. I hope that today is a beautiful day filled with wonderful moments.
Traditional Irish Blessing
May God go with you and bless you,
May you see your children's children,
May you be poor in misfortune and rich in blessings,
May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward
Congratulations Michael and Laura!
Traditional Irish Blessing
May God go with you and bless you,
May you see your children's children,
May you be poor in misfortune and rich in blessings,
May you know nothing but happiness from this day forward
Congratulations Michael and Laura!
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