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.