Athens

Let me tell you a little bit about Athens. I only spent two days there, but it certainly made an impression.

I don't know if you have been to Naples, but Naples is a confluence of noise and chaos and big hair and slutty clothes and dirt. It is like Rome on crack, and Rome can be overwhelming in and of itself.

Athens is like Naples on the craziest high of her life (Yes, I believe Naples is a woman - a loud, big haired, big hearted, voluptuous woman, in the throes of wicked PMS).

Athens is loud, and so very dirty, and so very chaotic. If you are prone to seizures and particularly wanted to partake of one, I would suggest standing on a street corner around say, the Plaka.

Something particularly interesting I noticed, was that while, say, the Romans take a profound delight in preserving their buildings and their cobble stoned streets, the Athenians seem to abandon a building rather than restore it; they simply build up something new instead.

Walking through Athens, I continuously noticed beautifully decrepit majestic old buildings, most certainly on their last legs, boarded up and abandoned; right next to them would be a monstrosity of a grey concrete building, serving neither beauty or history, its only purpose being a bland utility.

Athens struck me as such an odd mixture and hodgepodge of too many disparate elements. It was slightly discombobulating.

This was right below the balcony of my hotel room - it displays quite nicely what I mean:

Essentially, there is no real unity about anything - perhaps that is just what happens when a city gets old enough. But that can not be the only explanation, because I have seen other cities preserve a continuity that Athens really seems to lack.

However, I don't mean to complain, merely to observe. Because, there are some spectacular things: it offers sights like the view from my hotel room window (yes, that is the Acropolis lit up at night):

And then, of course, there are statues so beautiful, that you have to take a picture, not caring that an irate museum guard is heading in your direction and yelling at you in a flood of Greek accompanied by a flurry of hand motions.

I would say he is worth possible eviction from the Acropolis Museum, wouldn't you?

The picture does not quite catch his cheekbones in their full glory, but I assure you, they are there, and they are magnificent.

My Bread Crumb Trail

It appears that I might officially have a stalker.

On Sunday, as I was walking back from the market, wondering why I had been stupid enough to buy a large melon as well as enough broccoli to sink a ship, and enough tomatoes to drive a hoarse opera singer from off the stage, a motorbike passed me. On it was the man I met last week who dumped his kid by the side of the road so that he good try and persuade me to go to Peroulia with him: he beeped, and I pretended not to see him.

I headed to the path from the village; it leads across the top of the valley and down to the sea and my cottage. It is very secluded, and very beautiful - it is like a magical path in a fairy tale that leads to the witch's cottage.

Not MINE. A real witch.

In fact, I was thinking the other day that, if someone was so inclined, my body could be dumped over the path's edge. down into the valley, and I am pretty sure I would never be found again - it really is so densely overgrown.

Letting my mind wander along those cheerful thoughts, I walked along, enjoying the Sunday morning quiet, when I heard the put-put of a motorbike coming up behind me.

I didn't want to know who it was, but I did. I sure did.

"Moped?" he nodded to the back of his bike.

I shook my head. He rode beside me for a little ways, smiling and nodding.

"Moped?" with a wheedling note thrown in.

I shook my head again, and he took off.

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I have stopped saying "no" in any situation, because it is too close to the Greek word for "yes" which is "ne." And I can never remember what the Greek word for "no" is, so I find myself just shaking my head.

In a weird type of way...."I'm just a girl who can't say no...."

Name that musical. And then name the T.V. show that featured it.

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Yesterday, at Cafe Art, as I was having a coffee and writing away in my journal, he drove by again. He was immediately called over to the cafe across the street, and so joined a group of friends there.

I put on my sunglasses, wiggled down into my chair, and sort of tried to cover my face with my ever expanding bush of hair.

I don't know what I thought that would do....maybe at the very least make me look completely unapproachable.

Every time I looked through my hair curtain, he was looking over.

But, he did leave without putting in a third request. Either he didn't want to humiliate himself in front of his friends, or my assertive nature finally made its mark.

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However, if I disappear suddenly, you know who to ask. And you know where to look. I am leaving you a generous bread crumb trail.

Produce Woes

After getting more than sufficiently overwhelmed and bewildered at Agios Georgios on Sunday mornings, my habit has become to head over to the parking lot next to the post office and across from the pharmacy, to gather an array of produce for the week.

Apparently one can buy eggs there as well, but I am so weirded out by the trucks full of chickens yelping away, as well as the grim, bearded old ladies who stand, arms crossed, watching over everything, that I have not ventured near. I am kind of scared that instead of eggs, I will end up with a live chicken.

My first Sunday at the market, I bought vegetables and fruit from the first stand I saw. The farmer was very pleasant and helpful, and when I completed my transaction and he realized I spoke only English, he seemed to perk up and become even more enthusiastic. He haltingly tried out a few words of English, and I gave him a thumbs up.

As I walked home across the valley that morning, I thought contentedly about my fresh produce and my nice vegetable man. I decided I would be a loyal customer and go back every week, and blackly ignore the other farmers and their stands.  I would teach him English, and he would teach me Greek, and he would tell me about his family, and I would tell him about how much I liked Greece. It would, I knew, be a wonderful friendship.

The next Sunday, I went back. He looked up, appeared to recognize me, and said "English?" I nodded. He gave me bags and started to weigh the produce I handed him. Only, this time, my grand total was almost three times as much as it had been the previous week, for almost the exact same stuff. I assumed that this was what is meant by fluctuating market prices, and shrugged and paid.

I was little over a block away, when I knew I had to admit the truth. My feet grew heavy, and my heart broke into shards. The vegetable man had shafted me. He had betrayed our blossoming friendship.

I would never trust another farmer again.

So, the next Sunday I walked into the market, and did a survey. I looked at all the different stands, and noted that my evil farmer's stand was off in a corner, comparatively speaking, and that he did not seem to have a booming customer base. There was one stand, though, that was bigger than all the rest, and had a constant stream of people. This produce looked like it had been plucked out of a picture book, so saturated were the colors.

I have returned to this stand two Sundays in a row now, and the produce keeps getting better, and the prices, so far, have stayed the same. The farmer is very kind, and packs my bags very nicely, making sure the heavy things are underneath the crushable things, and gets his assistant to translate the total into something I can understand.

But, my heart is still wounded, and I know it will be a while before I trust again.

Possible Pharmaceutical Error

The other morning was quite possibly one of the most ridiculous scenes of my life. My alarm went off, reminding me to take my thyroid meds, and I was most certainly not ready for it. 

Because I couldn’t imagine sliding my body four feet over so that I could make a reach for my pill bottle, I started to throw vicious epithets towards anything that seemed to deserve it. It seemed a constructive thing to do.

Then I laid there for a good chunk of time, trying to muffle the sound of the alarm with my pillows. When that didn’t work, I begged God to smite my phone. Failing that, I begged him to smite me.

Finally I realized that if I just made an effort for about 30 seconds, I could turn off the alarm, swallow my pills, and go back to sleep.

I moved enough until I was hanging over the edge of bed, feebly grabbing for my pill bottle and the shrilly beeping alarm. My hand kept missing and would slap lifelessly back onto the bed.

Moaning unceasingly, it occurred to me that death might be easier than this torture. I told God that I was ready to die. Death before effort, any time.
Miraculously, after a few tries, I got what I was was aiming for

But suddenly, through my addled brain, I had the panicked thought that maybe, four weeks ago, when she prepared my prescription, the pharmacist got it wrong. Maybe I was taking the WRONG PILLS! MAYBE I WAS BEING POISONED!!

It did not seem strange that this thought had not crossed my mind before now, at the crack of dawn, on a random day in the middle of Greece. No, it did not. It seemed like the most thoroughly logical thought that I had ever had.

I was so terrified of the poison that I was possibly consuming, that I actually summoned the energy and sat bolt upright in my bed and examined the pills. I looked at the lettering on them. I tried to remember what they have looked like the past few months. I thought about doing a google search.

But I didn’t want to get out of bed. I couldn't possibly.

At that thought, because I really did want to get back to burrowing under the covers, I threw all caution to the winds, and stuffed the pills in my mouth.

I went back to sleep, and awoke a few hours later a much more energetic person.

It might be odd that I find sleep more important than investigating my possibly potential death through pharmaceutical error.

Of Fish and Men

I have finally been accepted into the neighborhood.

On the way into the village, there is a farm inhabited by a massive cow, some chickens, a horse and two dogs. The first few times I passed, the dogs went nuts for about 10 minutes - I could hear them going at it both before and after I actually passed them.

The next few times, they jumped around and barked half heartedly. A couple of times after that, they threw out one loud bark, then went back to lying on the ground.

Yesterday, they didn’t even move. They didn’t even raise their heads. I am no longer worth their time, since I don’t ever do anything interesting.

It’s odd what a sense of belonging this engenders in me.

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Yesterday, I was reading Sense and Sensibility and drinking a frappe on the patio of Cafe Art, in the main square of the village.

Across the street from Cafe Art, there is another coffee shop, which also serves lunch (something that Cafe Art does not do). It seems as if the servers from both places move back and forth between the two cafes with complete ease, so I am not sure if they are just owned by the same person, or what. And if they are....why not just join them up?

As I took a break from one of Marianne’s more flowery speeches, my attention was grabbed by a commotion across the street at the coffee shop. A man trooped out of the cafe with a whole fish impaled on  a knife, a bundle of papers under his arm, and a lighter.

He was followed by the other half dozen men he had been chatting with.

In the middle of the street, he crouched down, put the paper in a pile, lit it on fire, and proceeded to blacken the skin of the fish. All the other men were laughing hysterically, while crouching around him and handing over their newspapers.

If a car happened to pass and it was driven by a man, he would stop, get out, and squat down on the ground with everyone else.

Any time a woman passed, she would stop for half a second, take in the whole situation with a withering glance, then close her eyes as if begging God for patience, and march on by. It was hilarious: the resurrection of the eager, fascinated little boy in these grown men, and the impatient, sophisticated rejection of them on the part of the women.

I don’t quite get the fascination of holding a fish over a pile of burning papers in the middle of a grubby street, but then I am female and don’t pretend to understand the intricacies of the simple joy which this type of situation seems to universally inspire in the hearts of men.

For some reason, I just loved being witness to such a scene - it was such an eager, unashamed embrace of the simple, sometimes bizarre things that give joy.

Murderers and Thieves

There is nothing like living on your own, with absolutely no one to distract you; it is inevitable that you come face to face with your own insanity.

Yesterday evening before I went to bed, I sat down on the couch and reached for my journal which, for the past three weeks, has had a nice spot on the coffee table next to my Greek phrasebook.

It wasn’t there.

Not a split second passed after I noticed the journal’s disappearance, before this thought crossed my mind:

“Oh my gosh. Someone has sneaked in here, stolen my journal, and is now hiding behind the french-door curtains, and now that he knows I know the journal isn’t here, he is going to come out from behind the curtains and say ‘Looking for this?’ And then he is going to kill me.”

Because that makes a lot of sense. I couldn’t possibly have mislaid the journal.

I slowly turned towards the french doors and stared at the curtains, trying to discern if my journal thief/murderer was large enough to make the curtains bulge out. After a breathless few seconds, I tiptoed to the curtains and flung them back.

I am here to tell you that there was no murderer behind the curtains. The journal was found under a pillow on the couch.

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About a week and a half ago, I went to the top drawer of my dresser to get some cash. Besides holding my underwear, the top drawer also serves as my bank.

I grabbed some bills, and noticed that there was a lot less money than I thought there should be. I counted, and sure enough, I was about 200 euros short.

My first thought: “Damn Robyn. I knew he seemed too nice and weak chinned to be trustworthy. How am I going to get my money back from him?”

And then: “Nahh. I hate confrontation. He can have it. But damn it all, now I have to get into Koroni and find an ATM machine, and that means I have to figure out bus schedules. I hate the damn bus so much. This sucks.”

Robyn, you see, is my neighbor: a very slight, very mild mannered, very quiet British man. To my knowledge he has never been in my cottage, and has no clue that the top drawer is my ATM.

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So, I have had to face the fact that, rather than admit my own failings - for instance: that I am disorganized and never really know how much money I spend on anything -  I jump to the most illogical solution possible.

This, I believe, is commonly called denial.

I should probably work on that.

Mr. Corvette

I think I have solved a mystery which has been plaguing me for a few years.

I guess it’s about four year’s ago that, when I was working in Calgary and had a schedule that allowed it, I would go to noon mass at Sacred Heart downtown.

There were always the same mix of people - old ladies who bustled around saying hi to each other, old men who fought over who was going to read the entrance psalm, and crazy religious freaks strung with about 3 dozen medals and crosses who hand out pamphlets about how evil Jews are.

I mean, come on.

Then there was me (utterly normal; not freakish at all). And waaayyyy up at the front, this Man.

I didn’t really pay attention to anyone the first few months, other than to shoot people into their various categories, until one day I was surprisingly early for mass, and pulled into the parking lot at the same as the Man did.

His car. Good grief, his car.

Yes. Yes it is a Corvette.

Anyway, all of a sudden I went...HOLD UP, MARY WOODARD....this situation might deserve some investigating.

Because usually (there are wonderful exceptions - I do know this), as bad as it sounds, when a guy goes to church everyday, it’s because he is a little bit crazy fanatical, and has possibly replaced any semblance of masculinity with the ability to quote papal encyclicals at the drop of a hat. Not that there is anything wrong with papal encyclicals - masculinity and theology should most definitely not be mutually exclusive. But for some reason, a lot of times, for a lot of men....they are.

Let me describe this man in broad strokes: he goes to mass every day and from there proceeds to tie rosaries around his wrists, and carries around the liturgy of the hours, and talks about liturgical abuses until you want to kick them in the head. He really doesn’t have any social graces, he is usually extremely judgemental of any female who wears less than a floor length skirt and a turtle neck, or has a spark of independence, and unless a woman professes to ardently desire at lease one dozen children in eleven years or less, she is definitely not worth any of his time.

In short, ew.

So, Mr. Corvette’s car balanced out the fact that he was at church everyday and whispered that he might actually be more, shall I say, normal - not in a mainstream way, but in a “he pursues a few things that most men like, and maybe he isn’t totally weird” type of way.

Then, my attention caught, I noticed that he had ink black hair, tanned skin, and stunning - I mean stunning - blue eyes. And that we was very reverent during mass, and always stayed after to pray for a little bit.

My brain short circuited. 

So, I admired from afar, all the while trying to puzzle out one thing (Yes, during the homily. And possibly during the readings. And also maybe during the profession of faith. SHAME).

Which brings me full circle to the beginning of this post. I kept wondering what type of background he has, because he is NOT your normal white-bred boy.

Well, now I know. Yesterday, at divine liturgy in Charokopio, Greece, I saw someone who could have been his brother.

I will stop eating chocolate if Mr. Corvette doesn’t have some Greek blood in him.

Mystery: Solved. I can now go back to paying attention in Church.

Quirks

There are so many quirky things about living here.



1) Last Saturday, at about 1 or 2 in the morning, I heard the rumble of a big truck. It sounded as if construction was being started on something. I laid in bed utterly bewildered. Was this some weird Greek custom - to start construction work, before dawn, on the weekend?



The next day I asked my neighbor about the noise. She said the guy in the property across from us has a tractor as his sole means of transport. So, on the weekends when he stays out late drinking, he tipsily drives his tractor home and wakes up the neighborhood. I think that belongs in  a book. Possibly an Alexander McCall Smith one.



2) When going for walks, it is not uncommon to see goats being led along the path. They are white as snow, and really dumb looking. The person leading them always looks vaguely depressed, as if he is wondering “What did I do in my past life to deserve spending this life with GOATS?”



3) Everything, as you already know, shuts down at around 2:00, and opens up again whenever the owner feels like it. This is somewhat charming, until you walk into the village specifically to mail a letter, thinking that the afternoon rest MUST be over by now, only to discover that whoever is in charge of the post office hasn’t felt like re-opening it. And then, because you are really really hungry, and haven’t had a chance to try one in its native land, you walk to the bakery to get a piece of Spanakopita....and find that it is closed as well
.

There is something quite shocking about getting used to a life centered around leisure, as opposed to one centered around convenience.



4) The children here actually look and act like children. Contrary to the unimaginative, pasty, constantly bored looking, perfectly groomed mini adults that coat North America, these kids wear cotton shorts and t-shirts, are dust covered from playing outside all day, and ride bikes around the village while yelling at each other. Their hair is windblown and quite possibly scattered with leaves, and their faces bear the marks of ice-cream bar snacks. They are not perfectly clean, coiffed, and dressed. They always look like they are having so much fun, and as if they are perfectly content with life.


Its like this:

As opposed to this:

Finally, and most excitingly, bamboo grows here, people!



I want for a walk the other day, and came to a bend on the path that was overshadowed by long graceful green branches. On closer inspection, this was revealed to be bamboo, and I felt a thrill of excitement. Other than Tigers and Koala Bears, Pandas are my favorite animal. I had sudden visions of importing a baby Panda, and helping it pick bamboo for its dinner. Maybe I could train it to crush bugs for me, and maybe on days when I was tired, I could ride it into the village, sort of like this:

.....because that's not weird at all.

The Princess and the Pea.

I think my bed has embarked on a very successful endeavor to kill. me.

The mattress is like a rock. I wake up every morning, bent over like a 200 year old Sicilian woman with a basket of tomatoes on her back. For my back to feel remotely normal again, it takes fairly extensive sets of:

Downward dog

...combined with cobra

...finished with spinal twist.

It also happens to have lumpy springs that poke me in all the wrong places. I am a tummy sleeper, and as a consequence of this, I have a massive BRUISE on my hip bone. Last night, I must have shifted in my sleep, because the next thing I knew, I had woken myself up with an unholy yelp. A random spring had poked my already delicate hip bone and caused me excruciating pain.

I think sleeping on a plank would be a better experience. At least it wouldn't have metal coils whose entire purpose in life is to make me look like the victim of a fall down the stairs.

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There is one more issue with my bed. For some mysterious reason, I prefer to sleep on the left side of any bed I am in. The only problem with this, is that the air conditioning unit  is positioned on the wall about 8 feet above me.

As much as I love my little cottage, I keep noticing odd things about it. The knobs are put on crookedly. The floor tiles have a definite curve to them. The light switches are placed somewhat haphazardly.

In fact, it looks like someone with no attention to detail put the place together. Which is fine. I don't really care. Except - would I trust someone who can't put a door knob on correctly, to properly install an air conditioning unit?

Not a chance. I keep having visions of the thing sliding down the wall and crushing my skull in.

So, I sleep on the right side of the bed. and wake up every morning, with not only a sore back, and a bruised hip bone, but a feeling of intense discombobulation.

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I tell ya. Its hard being a princess in this pea filled world.

Happy Animals and Zucchini

So. I don't really eat that much meat. I don't object to eating meat, I just prefer to not make it a daily staple. However, every once and a while, I get so hungry that nothing but a hunk of animal flesh will fill the empty hole in my stomach. It's not often, but when it happens, I go with it.

The other day, after walking about the countryside, and paddling away in the sea, I was so hungry I thought I was going to pass out. I didn't have any meat on hand, so I ate a spoonful of peanut butter to tide me over, and I walked into the village to buy something that would satisfy my carnivorous cravings.

I stood in front of the meat shelf for what seemed like half a day. I had forgotten that all the labels are in Greek, making them completely....well, greek to me.

The problem is -  I have a requirement of my meat when I do eat it. Don't laugh, but it has to come from a happy animal. Don't. Laugh.

After reading various books, and listening to a few documentaries while being stuck in rush hour traffic, I came to the conclusion that the meat from factory farmed animals is disgusting. It should only be touched while wearing gloves and a mouth mask. And possibly goggles.

I have to look at my plate and be able to envision a sunny meadow, and a gamboling animal, and a gentle farmhand, and fresh clean feed, and a soft bed, and.....

Isn't that a nice picture?

The point of all this is, I couldn't figure out if there was any happy animal meat at all, and so I went home empty handed. And I stared into my fridge, and contemplated carving a piece of flesh off my thigh (where I could most stand to lose it), and roasting it with some garlic and olive oil.

But after assessing my ingredients, I came up with magic. It was so filling, I almost could not move afterwards. I am going to share it with you, and after trying it, you will forever thank God that I am in your life.


Wondrous Zucchini Patties


Ingredients:
(Keep in mind, these measurements are approximate - I never really measure anything. You are going for the final texture - it should handle almost like raw hamburger.)

2 cups grated zucchini
1/4 cup quick cook oats
1 egg
1 clove garlic, crushed
2 tbsp finely chopped red onion
2 tbsp crumbled goat feta
salt and pepper to taste
a dash of red pepper flakes
olive oil for frying

Directions:

Grate zucchini, and put it into a bowl with a healthy sprinkle of salt. Let sit for at least twenty minutes, so it starts to sweat out some of its water content. After at least 20 minutes, squeeze out as much water as you can.

Once zucchini is de-watered, add in the rest of the ingredients (minus oil), and mix it all together. It should be a thick, moldable mixture. If you can, let it sit for at least an hour, because the flavors really start to meld into everything.

Mold into patties (this recipe makes 4 good sized patties), and fry over medium heat, in a pan drizzled with olive oil, until both sides are a lovely golden brown.

I ate mine drizzled with:

Tahini Sauce


1/2 Tbsp Tahini
Splash of Lemon Juice
A small touch of crushed garlic
salt and pepper

Mix that up, add some water to thin it out, and VOILA.

Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel

Yesterday as I was lounging around and eating figs (filling my mouth with sunshine, daisies, and buttercups), I was thinking again about Mr. Motorcycle, and Mr. Las Vegas, and various other Misters, and I pondered the fact that I have had nothing but slightly weird experiences with members of the opposite sex. (Addendum: Except for those gentlemen who are my very good friends, and who are totally, incredibly normal....)

Its almost as if anyone who wants to date me has to be slightly nuts, or just kinda damaged. Or, twice my age.

I tell myself that its the aura of calm reliability I give off. They cling to me, like a drowning man to a raft.

I was thinking about writing a book: Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel. Subtitled: Really, Is This IT? Sub-Subtitled: Thank You, God.


I'm serious.
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Once I was out with someone, and in a very Ozzy Osborne kind of way, his brain was fried.

The bill came, and I watched him stare at it, and count on his fingers, and then pause, and then stare, and then try to use the calculator on his phone, and then get really annoyed and swear and bang on the table. This cycle repeated itself a few times, and then finally I couldn't take it.

"Do you need me to figure out how much you need to tip?"

"Yeah, I don't know whats WRONG with me."

I do, darlin, I do.
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And then one time, this happened:

 I was having dinner with a guy and he was munching away, and I was playing with the candle (I always do, I can't help it), and suddenly he said, "You know, I would probably never marry you (umm....well, thats ok because I'm not sure I  know you well enough to even consider that), but I'd want you as a mistress."

I swallowed my ice cube (it really hurt), and stared at him. "What?"

"Yeah, you would make a better mistress than a wife."

"What." (I'm gonna kill you now.)

"No, I mean it as a good thing. I would probably like you better, and want to be with you more than whoever I was married to. I just think you suit the role of mistress better than wife. I think we'd have way more fun that way."

He paused. "Or, you'll end up with someone twice your age, and I'll just be really disappointed."

While he finished his vodka martini (I think he was in the middle of a Bond obsession (maybe this accounted for the mistress talk)), I got up and went to the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to see if I looked like a mistress. 

I came to no solid understanding with myself, and concluded that mistresses probably don't go around with the word stamped on their forehead.

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Without even going into the other half dozen or so more stories I could regale you with, I have this to say:

Really? Is this IT? Thank you, God.

Old (er) Men

This morning, because I was in desperate need of zucchini and figs and various other sundries, I walked to Charakopio. Before embarking on my grocery run, I walked down to the kafenion to get a frappe. I am finding them increasingly addictive.

I sat on the patio outside the kafe, and sipped and watched people  I got that weird feeling you get when someone is looking at you. You know that feeling?

I looked in the direction of the 'I am being watched' vibe, and sure enough, on the patio across from me, there was a man staring at me with the most blatant expression of interest plastered all over his face. I just looked away, and continued to enjoy my drink. But every time I looked up, I swear, I don't think he had even blinked.

He had a little boy with him, presumably his son, so I was not too worried that he would try anything. I mean, who does that, right? I finished my drink a little more quickly than I wanted to, and got up. He got up to, and dragged the little boy to his feet. Oh, HELL no. I started to walk up the street, while observing the man and his son out of the corner of my eye, and saw the little boy dragged away from his soda, and plopped onto the front of dad's motorbike. I hurried my pace, and then felt immensely silly as they zoomed up the street past me.

Not two minutes later, I heard the roar of a motorbike coming down the street. Here was the man, this time without his boy (Where was the boy? In the dumpster?). Up close, he was definitely nearing fifty. He stopped next to me and started talking, yammering away at a breakneck pace. I started talking to him in English, to make it clear I did not understand a word he was saying. He paused for a minute and then said "Peroulia (a beautiful restaurant on the beach)?" And pointed to me, then him, then the back of his bike.

Seriously? We. Don't. Even. Speak. The. Same. Language. 

I shook my head.

"Cafe?" Again the pointing to me, then him, then the bike.

I. Don't. Even. Know. You.

I shook my head.

"Beer?" Again the pantomime. 

"No." 

"No?" 

"No."

He looked crestfallen. As if I had crushed his soul then fed it to a lame dog.

I started walking away, and he took off down the street at a funereal pace. 

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This is yet another confirmation of what friends always joke about: I get the "old guys." Yep. The forty and older crowd just love me. And 90 percent of the time, they are highly off limits. As in married.

In Las Vegas a few months ago, I was sitting in a lounge, minding my very own business, when a guy wedged himself next to me and asked me to dance. I looked at his left hand. I always do. 

"Sorry, I don't dance with married men." In truth, I don't dance at all, being very much incapable of it, kinda like this:

"How 'bout a drink?" He was definitely over 50, and dressed terribly.

"Thanks, I have a very good one right here."

He then proceeded to be, what I am sure he thought was very convincing and winning. Las Vegas was for FUN, Las Vegas was for letting LOOSE, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. He was staying in this very hotel! His wife was in a totally different state! Etc.

By this time my friends had responded to my death glares and pulled me out from under his arm, and we left.

And they laughed.

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And, Oh yes. I have more stories. Perhaps for another day.

All I can say is, I would trade my figs for the Greek god in my favorite cafe.

On using grocery bags properly.

I went to church again yesterday, and although I arrived about five minutes before 8:30 (when the liturgy is supposed to start), the lights were already up, and they were well on their way.

This time I received only a  few glares from under bushy eyebrows, and only a few be-whiskered chin wiggles of indignation. I am of course talking about the women here. The men don't seem to care that a new comer has invaded their sacred space.

I even got a smile from the old lady next to me. I decided, not based on her kindness of course, that she had been very beautiful in her youth. She has brilliant blue eyes, and a delightfully shaped face.

After the liturgy was over, and everyone trooped up front to get bread from the basket, I stayed in my seat. I was both tired from a restless night, and hungry from not having had any breakfast. I thought I would just be quiet for a minute to summon my energies.

Then, quite suddenly, a red lined basket was shoved into my line of sight, and I looked up to see the gruff candle tender smiling and trying to offer me some bread. I took a piece, and as I chewed it, I meditated on the delightful nature of small kindnesses.
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After church, I walked to the square where the weekly farmers market is held. They were selling chickens as well as produce (live, clucking chickens), and the smell was overwhelming.

I got half a dozen tomatoes, two fuji apples each the size of my head, a peach almost that big, 4 carrots, and two bananas for 4 euro. The farmer even shoved an extra tomato into my bag. He must know of my love affair with them. He told me that "fuji....delicious!" a theatrical kiss of the fingers "delicious!"

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Walking home, I engaged in my usual arm workout. Seeing as how I had about 60 pounds of clothes and shoes, and 30 pounds of medication packed to come here, I had no room for dumbbells. I follow trends, and the current trend is for women to have manly ripped arms, so my lack of free weights disturbed me not a little.

About a week ago, it occurred to me, that I should make use of my 10-15 pound grocery bags. So I spend the 20 minute walk doing grocery bag variations of arm workouts.

I am pretty sure I look idiotic.

In fact, I know I do. A farmer passed me on his bike, and he gave me a such a glance of bewilderment, mixed with withering scorn, that I felt like shrinking down into an ant hill.

It was a look of "What are you doing, silly girl? If you worked in fields and milked cows, and courageously stomped on bugs, you would have no need of flailing about with grocery bags. And beyond that - what are you even doing here? Go back to your own country. Idiotic girl."

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That is something I like to think about. What do the locals think of people visiting their sleepy little town? They must find it odd that Brits, and Aussies, and North Americans come here to spend a few months at a time. This village is all they know, all their parents knew. I am sure they might not be able to fathom the chaos of a lifestyle outside of it. And so, foreigners using their village as a means of escape must strike them as mightily strange. No wonder they treat us all like we are a touch crazy.

Possibly Chocolate?

Just in case anyone wants to write a real letter, with a real pen, and real paper (Mother, what is this strange piece of paper covered with an odd kind of font? I think the mail man brought it!), here is my address:

Mary Woodard 
Harakopio Post Office
Koroni 24004
Messinia, Greece



I would also not object to this:

Don't feel obliged or anything.

Bugs

I am having a really hard time with the bugs here. Not that they are absolutely excessive, but still. I struggle.

Before bed, among other things, I have taken to lifting my blankets up off my bed so that I can inspect the mattress. Just to make sure that there are no spiders or centipedes crawling about. I have found nothing there yet (knock on wood), but it is now part of my normal routine.

I used to do this when I was a little girl as well, for quite a....few years. It started when I sneaked into the living room where my parents were watching Star Treck; I arrived just at the point where one of the guys sees the foot of his bed moving, and discovers a huge pile of nasty worms there.

It was traumatizing. So, not only did I used to check the foot of my bed, I slept with my knees curled up to my chest. Even when my legs started to ache, and I just wanted to turn over onto my tummy and fall asleep, I wouldn't let my feet escape down towards the foot of the bed.

Yesterday evening I stepped into the shower, only to look up and see some sort of long bug nestled in the corner of shower cubicle right above my head. I froze for a few seconds, and then, decided in a spurt of bravery, that since I was already wet, I might as well finish my shower and then deal with the bug.

I kept my eye on the gross thing the whole time I was shampooing and conditioning, and believe me, if it had moved a millimeter I would have been OUT OF THERE.

When the time came for dealing with it, I was armed. I had a broom and a roll of toilet paper. I knocked the bug from the corner (and squealed when it plopped down), and then then I unraveled almost a full roll of toilet paper (why yes, I too I am concerned with the environment) so that I could cover the bug and squish it. I stared at the pile of toilet paper for quite some time, trying to get up the nerve to  reach down and squish, but I couldn't do it. I knew that if I felt any semblance of bug beneath my hand (and now, for some reason, I have "Wind Beneath my wings stuck in my head - Weird Al, I have a new song for you!), I would lose it.

SO,  I ran to get my shoes, and when I had them on, I stomped. And it made the most terrible crunching sound, at which I yelped (possibly in a very high pitched fashion), and started to feel queasy. Then I put the wad of toilet paper into its own trash bag, tied a few knots on it, and buried it in the trash bin.

All I could think was:
a) This is what boys are for.
b) I really need some chocolate.

And then, most disturbingly:

c) HOW did I get this way?

I might not want to know.

Some pictures!

In Italy, and apparently Greece, they do not really use dryers. When I lived in Rome, I was always a little entranced by the freshly clean laundry blowing away in the wind.

While in Italy, I had a round little Italian woman to do my laundry. Here, I do it myself. This has me meditating on the fact that (as I pin things to the clothes line, which is in full view of everyone who steps foot on the property), at this moment in time, I really wish I did not have such a penchant for choosing such brightly colored underwear. It is, frankly, quite embarrassing.

Its like the explosion of a Barbie party up in here.

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And now, at Caroline's request, I will share some pictures with you.

This is my bedroom, with the newly risen sun shining in (look, Ma, I made my bed!):

This is my living room/dining room area. I am sitting on that couch, right now, as I type, and I am occasionally looking out those doors at the sea, and the mountains.

Stepping out those doors in my living room, takes you to my patio. And from there, you can see this. This is at dawn, just before the sun makes her appearance. Lovely, no? Water surrounded by mountains. Is there anything better?

And here, just moments after the sun has arrived. In certain lights the water and the sky are the same color, as you can see in this picture. 

And there you have it. If you are lucky, at some point you might get to see pictures of Athens. And maybe my arm, just so you can see how brown I have gotten.