Venice and Roma

Before I was to meet my group to take a water bus out to Murano to see the glass blowing factories, I sat down by the waterfront to have lunch. Every morning during this time of year, the high tides spill over the coast and slowly fill up San Marcos’ Square. I had to slosh through this on my way to the waterfront. While the flooded square makes a gorgeous and unique site, the wet shoes that accompany it are less than desirable. I digress, my lunch was the remains of my cheese feast from the night before, sans wine of course (it was only one, and who would assume any was left…). I was unable to enjoy my meal in solitude though and I ended up sharing my bread rolls with some flying rats. I have gotten used to using the public transit in both Athens and Rome; the public transit in Venice is quite different. Instead of packed on a metro or bus, I had the spray of the Venetian harbor wetting my face through an open window. After a short ride I arrived in Murano where I watched a glass horse blown and constructed in a matter of moments; true craftsmanship although utterly worthless to me. I explored the back side of the small island and was pleased to find open areas and a real park with grass. If I had a disc, it would have been the perfect place to play! Walking back, I was able to catch some great shots of the sun setting. It was only appropriate that I said goodbye to Venice in the midst of another torrential downpour. But my exploring was far from over, and I looked with grateful anticipation on the many sights I will get to see in Roma. I have a great map of Roma that shows many of the points of interest. With the bus/metro pass I have, I am systematically going to most of the locations. Today, before class at San Clemente and San Giovanni, I walked past the Mausoleum of Augustus; and after class past the Coliseum and the Circo Maximo towards the ancient city walls of Rome, all the time walking along the same road that conquering generals and emperors would enter the city and at whose end lies the Triumphal arch of Constantine. I had lunch on the Spanish Steps, and the night before enjoyed a Guinness at Piazza Venezia under the auspicious shadows of the ‘birthday cake’ (really the Monumento a Vittorio Emmanuele II; a 20th century monument designed in the classical fashion that many snobby Romans think is in poor taste. I personally enjoy it). There are many things to see in this vast city, and I will do my best to take it all in. One thing is for sure, I will know this city very well before my 6 weeks are up.

Venice

It was a five hour train ride from Roma to Venezia (Venice) stopping in Firenze (Florence) and Bologna. Arriving in the early-afternoon, we would need to wait a couple hours till we could check in to our hostel. As the skies let fall in a drizzle, I embarked on my own to find San Marcos Piazza. It did not take long at all to lose myself in the labyrinth that is Venice. This achieved my main goal though, and I found myself far off the beaten path.

The rain began to increase and so I took refuge in a small internet café where I was able to give last minute instructions to my fiancée who was registering me for classes next semester and I was able to show her, via webcam, the rain soaked Venetian street behind me. It should be known the title, Venetian streets, is a misnomer. The streets are actually sidewalks, and the avenues for transport are canals. (I got all the classes I wanted: Astronomy, Microeconomics, Moral Philosophy, Analytic Philosophers, and Metaphysics {replacing Philosophy of Law which was cancelled due to lack of interest}) When I did find Saint Mark’s Square, I was soaked through and looking forward to the hostel and a warm shower. After my friends and I freshened up and changed clothes, we went out into the night trying to find food and spirits. Armed first with wine, we continued our search for food. I decided upon cheese. I stopped in a small cheese store where I bought ten Euros worth of cheese; choosing an assortment of local cheeses and what the shop keep suggested. Rounding out my meal of wine and cheese was a loaf of bread. It was a feast! Sated and content, I left my hostel again to try and find what there is to do on a Venetian Wednesday night. I talked to some locals, and even helped a lost American student find her spot on the map (that was the extent of the help I could offer, it is a confusing city). Finally, I enjoyed a conversation with some police officers who were glad to help me and offered suggestions for young kid hang out spots that I might want to check out. Finally, in all the many wanderings I had that day, I could not help but notice one truth about Venice. What they say about Venice and romance is entirely true. Seeing couples in gondolas, or leaning close over a plate of pasta, or hand in hand watching the rain fall onto the breaking waves of the Adriatic coast I could not help but feel homesick for Amanda; I could not help but dream of the European adventures in store for us and the many experience we will share in the future. So, all in all, while Venice is romantic it can be direly depressing and lonely. There is a lot more to see in Venice than canals and necking couples though. We spent our next morning touring the museums of San Marcos as well as the Dogo Palace. Pictures are much easier sometimes, so I include a couple. But I will say that in Italy, I have now seen that ostentatious displays of wealth are not resigned solely to churches. Money and power, together, apparently always equals unnecessary demonstrations of those traits. Even so, there were some amazing pieces of art and sculpture done in both the name of religion and in the name of luxury.

These are two of my favorite pieces I saw while in Venice. The sculpture is Daedulus and Icharus. The painting is a eerie portrayal of the Pieta.

Roma

Our first full day in Rome was to be used following one of our teachers around on a walking tour of the City Center. While I have seen Rome before, it was great to walk around with an art professor and learn more about art around the area. The night before I had made my way to the Pantheon, which was my favorite spot last time I was in Rome. The restorative scaffolding that was there 4 years prior was now gone. It was more amazing than I remember. The day our class went, the skies were dumping its contents on us. Birds were floating on the gentle air between buildings, effortlessly. As the storm waned and waxed the drizzle would at times float listlessly to the ground. Once inside the Pantheon, we were still not free from the rain. The oculus in the center of its massive dome allowed the elements access to people and marble below. The floor was sleek and slippery, but looking up I could see the dark clouds and the water, falling through a two millennia old pagan temple, wet my face and I was happy because of it.

In the streets that day, thousands or students and citizens, but mostly young students, filled the streets and the piazzas. Not just a main street or two, they were everywhere. They were protesting the government’s reduction in educational spending and their discussion of privatizing college education. Whether it was the righteousness of their cause, the dreary, wet energy of the day, or simply my revolutionary tendencies, I could not help but be filled with an intense desire to join in their struggle. My fists belong clutched and pounding the air. My lungs need to breathe the fiery hot chants of justified revolt. My body needs to submit to the flow of a peaceful demonstration moving through streets regardless of weather and gaining nothing but momentum and power and people. I was dismayed at the feelings flooding over me. As we continued our walk and the crowds grew fewer, the emotions I was feeling subsided and I was left with a slightly empty feeling. Maybe revolutionary activity is in my future… (but peaceful, of course) Our apartment in Rome is a nice place and only two blocks from St. Peter’s Square. On the way home from out first day of tours and classes, still sopping wet from the rain, I couldn’t help but postpone my dinner a little longer and go have a look at the sun set over St. Peter’s dome. The square was empty because of the rain and I was able to snap some excellent photos. While our lodging in Rome is in a great location and they have great hardwood floors, it is 30 minutes from where our classes are and has no internet access. The only way I can check emails or post is by using an internet café a 7 minute walk from here. So, my posting might come sporadically and when they do, there might be many of them. We leave for Venice tomorrow morning and I cannot wait!

Hello Acropolis, Goodbye Athens

The day after my ankle injury, my history class went on an excursion to the acropolis. The long walk there and the steep terrain made it an impossible trip for me to make. Fortunately, my instructors purchased a ticket to the acropolis for me so that I would be to go when I found the time. Busy with group excursions and saying good bye to friends and packing for the transfer to Rome, I found my time quickly running out. The day before I was to leave Athens, I woke up early and set off for the centerpiece of Athenian history. For the walk over, I serenaded myself with Mozart’s Requiem. This seemed all together fitting and proper, especially as the great hill rose larger and larger in my sights. Music truly can be the perfect accent to an experience, and since I was making this trek by myself it worked very nicely. As would be expected, the entrance to the acropolis was choked with hundreds of tourists. American’s in Nike t-shirts that bloom plumply at their rotund bellies. The Asian tourists whose cameras dangle always around their necks like ornamental offerings to a Samsung god. And swirling through the air, beaten together into a rich Babelic cacophony was the conversations of every language imaginable. It was a windy day and on top of the hill (acropolis means the high point of the city) and the wind was pressing clothes to the skin like wet drapery. My hair was flowing and the wind whistled into one ear mixing with the entire rabble and contrasting to the music playing through a small ear bud headphone in the other ear; now listening to Mozart’s string concerto. The Parthenon, completed in 432 BC, was constructed either as a temple to Athena or was the new Treasury of the Athenian empire after it dissolved the Delian League and moved its riches to Athens. In the seventeenth century, the occupying Turks housed munitions in it. Until this point, the Parthenon maintained much of its ancient glory. An explosion set off the munitions stored in the temple, and the shattered shell of a once breath stopping sight are what remain as result for us now. I saw sitting in the grass around the steps of the western façade of the Parthenon a broken brass canon. While I cannot be for sure that this is a remnant of the Turkish firepower housed here that caused its destruction, I feel that it served as a perfect contrast; and it made a sweet ass picture. In the foreground we see the dark colors of a device of war which contrasts with the white marble of a temple for the goddess of Wisdom. Further, the history tells us that it was because of the oppressive and censuring government of a military rule that beauty and art and architecture of an ancient civilization are lost forever. While this picture does not show it, the canon is cracked down the middle. Its reign of hate and war is rusting and broken, resigned to sit, lost in the weeds at the feet of the temple it destroyed. But rising from that, is the perpetual emblem of Greece. Broken and battered, but not destroyed, its perseverance reminds us that art and beauty will always be a stronger power than hate mongering. Finally, being that high in a low lying valley, your view is truly superb. I could see on the slopes of the hill and the Hephastion. I could see the Theatre of Dionysus and the Herodian Theatre. Further I could see Lyvettikos hill and the stretching sea of white homes that comprise Athens. In the distance, as the fast wind blew the smog and haze from the horizon, I could see the Port of Piraeus and massive ships waiting but looking like tiny paper vessels placed in puddle of water formed after a recent storm. It was proper that I say goodbye to Athens with my solitary trip to its most famed site. I was content with Athens, and while I had made some new friends and some close friends, I was ecstatic to begin the truly Roman chapter of my Roamin Ruminations.

Dinner and a Greek Job

Last night Tony, Sam and I took our 28 year old, doctorate holding history professor out for a beer or two. English and an archeologist, Robert Pitt has been our favorite, most captivating, and most interesting teacher. We were able to talk about digging and history and all the other things archeologists have to deal with. Even leather hats, whips and battles with Nazi enthused treasure seekers... wait... Furthermore, we learnt that archeology is, at least that performed by the British, a drinking sport (not to hard to believe, bloody brits are pissed most of the time anyways). Whether it is cliché or not that a very well educated British man loves Monty Python or not, Robert likes the Pythons. Seven or eight of the guys set up a movie night at his place; pizza, drinks, and obtuse British comedy with the assistant director of the British School of Archeology, sounds pretty cool huh? Sam and I show up at the gates of a large compound, Robert standing out front with his goofy smile. The British compound has been in Athens for well over a century and at one time held a supreme view of the Attic valley. It is an oasis of vegetation in the middle of a heavily residential area of Athens. A massive hospital (yes, socialist) blocks the view from his balcony now. Regardless, because of the diplomatic arrangements between the British and the Greeks, the Archeology compound is technically British soil; like an embassy is. So, without intending, I have now stepped foot on the ground of Great Britain, alright! Robert took a year off between college and grad school in which he took an organ apprenticeship in Liverpool. He played every day on the massive pipes there. In his rather comfortable apartment, he has a Steinway grand piano. After some prompting he played a couple pieces for us. My favorite, a fugue by Bach, was amazing; his fingers moving like ten frantic, cracked out mice scurrying up and down the ivory keyboard. Sam had brought out his guitar and so we encored his professional performance with our amateur attempts. But, I learnt that gin and tonic plus standing up equals my best harmonica playing... Recently, I have spent a couple free afternoons, between class and dinner, in the saloon with Andreas. I have become his assistant and I help with highlighting and cleaning up and mostly PR by saying hello to people passing by and meeting all the customers. I have a job now in Athens. HA. I am leaving now for the Acropolis. I was unable to go with my class since our trip was the day after my ankle injury. But I can not not go. God bless the double negative. So, I am going... And tomorrow evening I board a plane for Roma and I will need to say good bye to Athens...

Home in Athens

Class has been interesting while here in Greece. It is nothing like what we have back at St. John’s and that has made work more difficult or at least routine more difficult. But the work is not challenging and with the exception of our Byzantine liturgical tradition (which is quite tedious) they are mostly quite enjoyable. I have learnt more about ancient Greek art then I thought possible and I will gladly add this information to my arsenal of pretentiousness. History is split between in class and on site adventures. Our last class was spent at the ancient agora. This central marketplace was used for many centuries as the hub for commerce, politics and many aspects of Athenian social life. In the same complex we also saw the Hephastion, or the Temple of Hephaistos. This is a magnificently well persevered temple. On the walk back from the Agora, I was quickly crossing a street with my classmates—I say quickly because of the nature of pedestrian travel in this city, stop signs and yield signs and right of way and turn signals are foreign concepts here; it can be treacherous--when I hear a horn honk at me and my name yelled. I turn around quite confused about this and see Amelia, one of my new friends via Andreas, smiling and waving at me from her car. This seems like an innocuous incident in of itself, but when put in the proper context it is quite astonishing. I am walking down a busy Athenian street, having only been in this city for 5 weeks, and a woman I have met many times feels friendly enough towards me to stop, honk and wave hello. Whatever aspirations I had about meeting locals and assimilating as best I could into the Greek culture have been as near to fully realized as possible. Andreas owns the hair saloon across the street and lives in one of the apartments above. Once a week, even though he is 35, his mother comes to his home and cleans things and cooks him a couple dishes of Authentic Greek Cuisine. I have been the second-hand benefactor of the Greek tradition of mother’s babying their children far into adulthood. The food has been delicious and it is a great feeling being the recipient of real Greek hospitality.

In the Mean Time

I have spent a lot of time during my stay in Greece under the wing, so to speak, of Andreas. I have had the opportunity to meet a very worldly and educated crowd. One evening I met a 52 year old Greek stage actor who also works as a photo journalist around the world; his name, Aristotle. Athens has a vibrant night life, and with Andreas I have been able to explore the true side of it; much better than going to the English speaking bars that my classmates are so fond of. One of Andreas’ close friends owns a hip club in the central district called Gazi. Go to Gazi at 2300 and you will be sadly disappointed, the night life does not begin until 1 or later. Knowing the right people has its perks and I have been treated like a VIP at Letom (motel backwards; clever I suppose). If you do not like electronic or techno house dance music, Letom is probably not for you. I have however; found that dancing can be alright. I am also going to tack onto this post my experience at Olympia. Olympia, as I am sure all of you already know, is the original site of the Olympic Games. Running for over 14 centuries, the Olympic Games were the most prestigious games in Greece. The Temple of Zeus, a wonder of the world is partially preserved there still; although his statue has long since been looted. Unfortunately for me, I was hobbling around on my sexy blue crutches and the many miles that we needed to walk was a strenuous experience. On the way to Olympia we stopped first at the ancient city of Corinth, and then visited the even older city of Mycenae. After a certain point, the piles of rocks begin to look very similar and the charm of antiquity is lost. In the museums, the idealized sculptures of victors, and gods, and heroic Greeks initially seemed beautiful and amazing in the detailed work and artistic skill. Just as they too begin looking drab and unrealistic, our class begins studying the Hellenistic period. Again my eyes joyfully dance as we look at art that tries to capture more then the physical rhythm of a person, rather they hope to show the internal movements and ethos of their subject. This is my favorite, the Dying Gaul.

Crete Pt. 2

Well, I wanted to write a post about Crete part deux. Unfortunately there was just not very much that was exciting during the second half of the trip. Xania, the second city we stayed in was actually much more beautiful and scenic then Iraklion. Walking along the sea front we had plenty to look at with the hundreds of bustling tourists sitting in restaurant street cafes. We walked along the sea wall and to the Venetian lighthouse. Along the way we would stop and peer into the surprisingly clear water of the harbor at the small sea life we could see. Tony and his keen eye spotted an octopus. His observation was overheard by a local man and quickly a fishing lure was dangling within reach of the slimy critter. In seconds the octopus was on the ground and the old man had slammed its body into the ground trying to kill it. I think he ate well that night.

The Samaria Gorge is a high point of any trip to Crete and even Greece. I want to tell you about the vegetation and natural beauty of walking through a narrow gorge for 10 miles that finally opens to a view of the Meditterannean. I can not though. Posiedon and Zeus transpired against us as storms and lightning closed the Gorge. In a nutshell, that was Crete part two. But, some more pictures are in order!

Crete Pt. One (Ferry and Iraklion)

Thursday night classes finished around 6. We hurry to the apartment and quickly pack our bags for the upcoming trip to Crete. Sam and I stop by Andreas' apartment on our way to the metro and have ourselves a Greek dinner, boiled greens with chicken and spanicopida (spinach and cheese pie). As the sun sets through the trees of the National Park we hurry to catch the train out to the Port of Piraeus where our ferry, the Ariadne, waited. Arriving for the first time in Piraeus, it is obvious to me by the smell and sight that Piraeus is a port town, an ancient one at that. With little than an hour till we leave, Sam and I could not help meandering through the streets in search of the cheap Greek wine that has brought us so much joy. Equipped now with wine and a dozen boiled eggs from home, we boarded the ferry.

The ferry ride was fun. Saving 55 Euros we opted out of cabins. We slept on the deck curled up in our blankets as the ink black meditteranean night passed swiftly over our heads.

Crete was fun. Knossos, the cite of the ancient Minoan civilization was amazing. We arrived at 6 in the morning in Iraklion, and choose to walk the 5 plus kilometers to Knossos. Along the way we picked up some four legged friends. In most cities in Greece, stray dogs are abound. They seem clean, and seeing as our new canine friends were willing to accompany us on the duration of our walk, we were happy to have the local escort. Knossos was old; like really, really old, man. To try and put this into perspective: the Minoans were as ancient to Aristotle as Aristotle is to us. (M:A::A:? if you said, U for us, that is correct.)

In Iraklion, we were able to see a medieval Venetian fortress and the many museums full of broken Minoan pottery, very interesting... The fortress was quite exhilerating, though. The view from the top was spectacular.

I was reading a book by a Greek author at the time, "The Emptiness Beyond." This was a Cretan Cathcher in the Rye. As we took the train from Iraklion to Xania, I was astounded as the narrative in the story took the author along the exact same route.

(short side note: The author is clearly a very sexual being based on the novel. Andreas, the hairdresser, is friends with

a woman named VIcki, who dated the author for five

years and attests to the truth of this...)

Our first night in Crete concluded with a gyro pita

and a beer. Fantastic!

That is me with a Minoan pillar. I title it, Mikhalis and the Minoan Pillar. --------------------------->

Olympia and Clumsiness

The sun is setting over a small hill outside my hotel room window. My friends, Tony and Sam are resting before dinner. It has been a long day touring the ancient site and then the museum here at Olympia. The balcony door is open and I can hear the dogs barking in the distance. The vineyard below me is bathed in a golden sheen from the setting sun; but now has fallen into shadows as the sun falls further behind the tree lined ridge. The terracotta roofs of this small Greek village are dotted with solar panels. The final rays of the rapidly setting sun fall on a small terraced roof at the foot of the hill past the vineyard. From here I can see three men and a little girl sitting at a table while two other women and a young boy move about with food and drink in their hands. It seems that they are laughing as they eat their evening meal, but all I can hear through my open window are the faint sounds of Greek music wafting through the air. As the sky grows ever darker, the lights on the small hill, looking like they’ve been strung along clothe drying lines, are switched on. Wednesday afternoon, following our art class, my friends and I made our way to the concrete field of gladiatorial combat. The sun was obscured partly by clouds and there hung a stifling moisture in the air. Sticky with sweat and the humidity of the day, we slid up and down the arena with effortless movements of our legs. The rubber ball was wrested from hands and swiped from the air as contenders fought vigorously to sneak that coveted orb into the high metal rim. The game itself representing the exertion we all make in the labor of life; worthy competitors made equal on the playing field of existence, fighting with all their might to posses the ball of truth, but its worth is nothing without the subtle touch of wisdom necessary to shoot it accurately into the receptive mouth of happiness. (If you got lost in that analogy, go back try it again. Still no luck, haha, well me too. Some people think that obtuse analogies are a sign of good writing; too bad they aren’t reading my blog). Short end to the story, when you are worried about the deeper metaphors of life being played out in a basketball game, it is easy to trip over your own feet. The Greek hospital was quite an adventure in of itself, but fortunately my ankle was not broken. I will be hobbling on crutches while I recuperate from a high ankle sprain. I have a nice pair of blue crutches with red reflectors, very sexy. A comedy for all those fortunate enough to witness my blonde and bearded head bobbing up and down while I walk on three legs.

Mists of Delphi

Grey outside. Misting precipitation clinging to the sweater I have just put on--put on for the first time since arriving in Greece. The weather and the mountainous terrain set Delphi apart from Athens. The dreariness isn’t the only difference from Athens; but it might be to blame for the otherworldly feeling I get walking through the steep streets of Delphi. I can only imagine the many mile long treks from Athens or Sparta or Corinth or any of the ancient Greek city states along mule paths clinging to steep ravines as delegates make their way to offer at the Temple of the Pithian Apollo or ask advice and guidance from the famed Oracle. It is easy to imagine the affect of unearthliness that marbled pillars and temples and statues rising with a polished white sheen out of the rough rock and breaking the seemingly omnipresent fog and mist would have on the wearied traveler already expecting to commune with the gods.

(Wrestling at the anceint Delphic gymnasium+foreboding skies and heady scenery)

With the rain falling in a much more pressing manner, we leave our bags at the hotel and walk to the Archeological museum; saving the onsite walk for a dryer day. Our hotel is situated on the lowest of the four parallel streets that are cut into the mountain side and make up modern Delphi; and our room is on the lowest level with a balcony big enough for the three of us to stand on and gape at the river valley opening below like an open mouth exposing gums and cheeks of olive trees and lush green vegetation and teeth of white rock accentuating the color of green that marches unbroken from the valley immediately below to the glistening bay of Corinth that sparkles in our eyes while we drink in the entirety of an impressive sight. Again, it is easy to understand how the ancients looked upon Delphi as holy ground. (Outside our hotel room and view below)

The ruins of Delphi itself are impressive, but are incapable of arousing the awe inspired dedications and pilgrimages that marked its earlier history. While the building structures themselves have, for the most part, been lost to the mists of times that swirl constantly around that mountain peak, the overall plan of the city is easily recognizable. Narrow streets winding upwards along the mountainside with avenues packed full of the Treasuries of various Greek powers and temples and statues and monuments that are sometimes built to crowd the monuments of other powers after recent military victories; a kind of religious/military one up manship. The sacred streams of the Pithian Apollo still trickle down from the rocks above; while priests and pilgrims from around the Aegean world bathed in the holy waters, it was only fitting that I rinse my beard in its cleansing waters.

Sam felt an overwhelming urge and falling on his knees demanded and begged for a spontaneous baptism into the pantheon of Greek Gods and giving his suppliance and devotion to Apollo in particular; I could do nothing but humbly comply (I was bathed in the waters of Pithian Apollo and as such was as near to an Apollonian Priest as we had) and quench his burning desire with a couple handfuls of the holy water that had flowed for ages over the now worn and smooth rocks, ethcing into the rock a timless legacy of its ancient tradition and importance.

It should be noted that since my ordination and Sam's baptism we have had eerie instances of foresight and prophecy. So, as the nations of Greece used to go to the Oracle for political, social and military advice; I suggest that the nations of the World might find some useful (and divinely inspired) suggestions from us. Thanks Apollo.

Fresh Fruit

Whole fish and local catch sit in beds of ice swiftly melting in the early afternoon sun glaring heavily and unhindered despite narrow streets and vendor’s awnings. The distinct aroma of fish, pungent as they bake in the sunlight releasing odors better suited for the shores of harbors and seas rather than the cobblestone streets of Pangratti’s local farmers market. Old men whose beards are starkly white, pebbled along ancient cheek bones long ago stained a beautiful olive brown by the incessant and inescapable Mediterranean sun sitting at small tables. The old men seem as permanent fixtures in all spots of local flavor. It is like moss growing on the north side of a tree; if there are old Greek men discoursing or playing backgammon then I know I am in a ‘Greek’ place. Gnarled and weather worn hands deftly sort through the mosaic of fresh vegetable and fruits; my eyes follow their movements as they fill bags with peppers, grapes, olives, onions, eggs, and tomatoes and countless other delicious organic treats. Placed between cornucopic displays of green and red grapes of varying sizes are bottles of the growers own wine. And between the bowls of olives—more types and shapes and colors of olives than I could have imagined—rests the farmers freshly squeezed olive oil; a necessity for cooking and a tantalizing novel and delicious delight. With arms weary and sagging by the weight of our newly acquired profusion of produce, Sam and I leave the steep hill and narrow street of the market. Not the fresh wine whose origin sits nestled on the vine that was sold at the market, rather the cheap table wines of local creation serve as our lubricant for the evening, as with most evenings. Tony and Sam passing the guitar between themselves while I huff away at a harmonica and our other flat-mates listen with loose and appreciative motions and an occasional freestyle verse. The song ends and I excuse myself to search for sustenance. A search I remember excitingly that will yield bountiful results. I slice one of the tomatoes, its deep red color leaving me expecting blood to squirt. The first bite doesn’t disappoint and I am intrigued about how the produce, all of it, seems more vibrant in taste. The uniformity and aesthetic appearance of American crops is strikingly missing; the tomato under my culinary scalpel has an odd shape so that it only lies on its side. The local farmers have opted out of cookie cut genetic engineered veggies and instead offer a product of superior quality, flavor, taste and even (in the two weeks I’ve been able to observe) shelf life. Back to the tomato though, a dash of salt and I know that I have found my staple diet while I stay in Athens. I was not content with one tomato so I slice two more and laying them in a bed of the freshly squeezed olive oil I sprinkle salt and pepper. With bread in hand I carry my simpleton feast to my friends. If the tomatoes were not amazing enough on their own, the olive oil adds a depth to the flavor and a level of complexity that pleasures the taste buds with caressing touches of oil and juicy tomato until the climax is reached when a slice of bread, thoroughly sopped with oil is adorned with a final slice of tomato and with flourish like an artist’s brush strokes salt is sprinkled affectionately on top… Today is our last day in Athens for a while; we are leaving for Crete tomorrow. Homework has been piled on and preparations and anxiety is mounting. Having finished what I can this evening (including this blog) and having re-read my words, I can think of nothing more fitting than to sate myself with one last tomato.

Hair

Andreas, our neighbor and hairdresser, has been a great friend and resource as we get settled into Athens. Explaining good places to eat and clubs to go to while filling our glasses with wine or birre. Our acquaintance began with his desire to sculpt my hair. Here is the fruition of his passion.

Passing Days in Athens

Academics and learning, academics and learning, academics and…. I have to repeat it and remind myself that I still need to be in classes and I still have books to read. I try and set my mind into the rigorous mindset of schoolwork and schedule. But my classes themselves are as much to blame for the undefeatable feeling of vacation as any thing else. Our first history class took us through the Plaka and past the Acropolis to the top of Philopappos Hill for an unobstructed view of the Attican Valley and the port of Piraeus and the many temples snuggled around the Acropolis. Our next class, art history, was a walking tour through the Dark age, Orientalizing, and Archaic periods of Greek art at the National Archeological Museum; a location that will serve, every Wednesday, as our classroom. After classes, if we don’t jump right into a siesta, a group of guys will head to the basketball courts to play around. In the intense midday heat of Athens, we can get a great workout and sometimes compete against local boys, games which can get competitive and we bump and scuffle hard against the Greeks but both parties enjoy the game. Other days, I head to the hill that the Marble Stadium (of the 1896 opening games) is built into and start running on the track set along and hidden by the uppermost seats of the stadium. Local men run through the shade that the trees hanging over the track offer, or do pull ups and climb rope ladders on the outdoor equipment. An oasis, a truly local spot where I can train like a Greek Olympian of yore (although clothed) on track and simple machines while also hoping to bronze my pale Irish complexion. And coming home from an exhilarating run, breathless from the exertion and the sight and atmosphere that the track lends, I climb through our kitchen window and make my way up steel staircase to the roof of our building. The odors of Phil’s cooking (making true to his promise) are still in my nose promising a delicious feast to come. A glass of Greek wine—procured from a merchant on our street who fills the big plastic jugs directly from wooden barrels—sits in my hand having been stuck there by Phil with a smile and a ‘bloody hell, here drink this’. I can see Buddha, Andreas’ dog, prowling around outside his salon and then pissing on a street corner. I can see the Parthenon and Lykabettos Hill, like green and rock megaliths breaking the white housed sea continuum of Athens. I see solar panels on every rooftop. I hear the church’s bells chiming again and the cool breeze rustling my hair. The sights and sounds plus the refreshing offering to Dionysus clutter my sensory platter. But like the omnipresent rays of the sun, its setting overpowers everything else and I find myself breathless again.

Salt of the Earth

The travel guitar, ¾ sized for easy transport into Europe, rests on Sam’s knee, quiet a moment. Jamming with trashcan percussion, harmonica and guitar to Sam’s limited repertoire of sing alongs; the incessant honking of Turkish drivers laying on their horns even in the late night breaks the momentary silence through the open window of our eight person hostel dorm room. Andrew and Madeline take the moment to say good night and head down the hall for the evening. Two German students traveling together through Istanbul befriended us with broken English and so we stayed up that first night smoking apple rose nargile and learning playing backgammon and sipping the cider rich apple cay between hands of cards, the live music of local instruments keeping spirits and energy high late into the night. We arose and with warm embraces parted way as Madeline was heading next to Ethiopia and Andrew into Berlin. Ukraine’s finest tri-athlete, Daniel, spoke up next suggesting a cigarette. Watching as the smoke hung heavy on my friends' lips and slowly dissipated into the humid sticky evening air or clouded around the single bright bare bulb lighting our room I had to laugh as I remembered Daniel’s farcical swimming cap and ‘leave nothing to the imagination’ skin liberating Speedo. Each bare chest however, catching judging glances from passerbyer’s in this modest Islamic country. No shame in Danny’s eyes stripping to near nothing; the same self assuredness apparent as he refuses to get in ‘dis cold water, I get a cold and sick is bad for triathlon in Tarsus’ and so lights another cigaro to pass the time while we swim. Danny’s boisterousness was offset by the wonderful food he had made and packed from Kiev, and we were glad to have him in our crew for the eccentric flavor it added. With the nights last song enjoyed I entered into attempted discourse with Vincent from Boudreaux concerning subjective and objective reality and its bearing on the meaning of human existence. Phil, the Australian chef drifter, offering his own simple philosophies to the discussion in an English more indecipherable (albeit suffering from his philosophy of choice for the evening, ‘why not have a beer, when you can have a beer?’) then the Frenchman’s. (Mismatched pack of Vagrants) Fitting, that in a city of cultural crossroads our comrades come from diverse lands. Epitomizing the character of easy going, our new friends have proven to be invaluable aspects of truly enjoying and experiencing our travels. Good bye’s said—although not in actuality; a Canadian named Andrew meshing into our small group of American students for the trip to Athens, and plans made for Phil to stay and cook fine and real dinners for us on his way through Athens—we commenced our arduous journey to Athens.

(Turkey waving goodbye)