Where My Whimsy Takes Me

A Story Because I Am Lazy

2012-02-01T16:01:00.003-07:00

So, having been absent for approximately 2.5 trillion light years, I have something to share with you.

I am entering a convent.

Next month.

Weird, right?

But it is un-avoidable. God has called me, and I must follow.

Or go to hell.

Because that is how it works.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Just kidding.

---------------------------------------------------------------

In other news, a lot a lot has been happening in my life, but instead of telling you about it, you get to read a story because I happen to be lazy. This story can serve a dual purpose by fulfilling my writing club obligation as well as giving you something to read.

A few weeks ago the lovely Meaghen, the fabulous Maja and I all decided that we needed to form a writers club. We would write two pages once a week, share it, and talk about it.

I put writing my story off until it was almost too late to get it done. Typical.

But now that it IS done, you get to see the product of my brains when I start to type without planning and give myself a deadline of one hour.

Lucky, lucky you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Duck

Warm air pulls her into the store and out of the cold as the sliding glass doors whisper open. Intoxicating smells waft over from the bakery, tempting her with the siren call of fresh, hot carbs.

She slides her coin into the handle of the cart and struggles with the locking mechanism - is it just her, or can no one else get it to work either? - and, after a few tries, yanks the cart free from its brothers. She plops her purse into the space meant for a toddler and rifles through its pockets, trying to find her list. A whispered curse escapes her lips as she digs deeper and deeper into the bowels of her bag, past coins and crumbs and candy wrappers and, amongst all that, still does not find the raggedy bit of paper she needs.

A pause in the frantic search: she stares into space as if trying to backtrack her morning. The list - where has she put it? Methodically she starts unzipping all the pockets of her jacket. Nothing. She digs her hands into the front pockets of her pants. Nadda. And then....a flash of remembrance zipps across her face: she pats her butt and sighs happily. Her slim fingers wriggle themselves inside the back pocket of her jeans and with a squeal of triumph, she reveals her list in all its glory.

She directs the cart towards the back of the store, towards the meat section. Duck. They better have some in. He likes duck. A small moan escapes her at the thought of no duck. Hurriedly she pushes the cart down the long aisle, desperate to discover the trajectory of her evening. It all rests, she feels deep in her soul, on the duck.

At the meat counter she taps the pointed toe of her black boot impatiently. An old lady is talking to the butcher in a wavering high pitched voice about her need for liver. Her doctor, she pipes into the butcher’s face, has told her that she must have liver. The butcher is in no hurry to get rid of her; he nods in sympathetic understanding and chats back to her as he wraps up the quivering red mass for the old woman.

Finally, finally, the old lady meanders off.

She approaches the counter; it feels as if the direction of her future rests on the answer to her question.

“Duck. I need duck for tonight.”

“A whole one? Breasts?”

“Breasts, preferably.”

“No problem. How many?”

“Two, please.”

"Coming right up."

The weight lifts off her shoulders; she stands a little straighter. Her smile goes from merely polite, to fully genuine. They have duck. It is a sign: the evening will be perfect.

With a swirl of brown paper and a length of twine, the butcher hands over her precious package, tells her to have a good day, and turns to his next customer.

The heels of her boots clip clop her to the produce section where she picks over the baby potatoes, trying, it seems, to find some that are all exactly the same size and shape.

That accomplished, she moves over to the assortment of bagged lettuces, examining them as closely as she can without actually tearing the bags open, searching for one with no signs of wilting.

Tomatoes are examined with extra attention spent on the smell, but it is when she gets to the raspberries that things get interesting. Container after container is meticulously examined - each and every one is discarded with a little sniff of disgust. The raspberries must be perfect; most of them are weeping piles of mush.

Looking surreptitiously over her shoulder she starts to shuffle raspberries between containers. The perfect ones go into one container, the ugly ones go into any other of the available containers.

Done with the produce section, she makes her way towards the bakery. Her final stop. If they have some fresh sourdough...MAN...she will have nothing to fear. It’s his favorite bread. Her eyes rest on the round bulbous loaf she is convinced she needs, a happy sigh issues out of her, and with that, all the remaining tension trapped in her body seems to float away.

Lined up at the cash register, she stares smilingly into space as she plans out her afternoon of cooking. Everything will be perfect. This is the start of a new a start. The duck and sourdough serve as confirmation.

I start to scan her items and she cheerily asks how my day is going. Before I can answer, she is distracted by the buzzing of her phone. Her eyes scan the screen of her Blackberry, skipping over the words of the text message.

Her shoulders sag. The ray of light in her face, so vibrantly there a moment ago, scuttles away leaving bleak despair.

“He couldn’t even call.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My husband. I was planning a special dinner. We were going to start over. But he has a meeting. Last minute. You know that means?”

I don’t answer. She isn’t really talking to me anyway.

Her voice drops low as she twists the massive, sparkling diamond on her left hand. “He’s not going to give her up. He’s not.”

She grabs her bag from the place where toddlers sit and walks, as if in a trance, towards the sliding doors of the store.

“Fucking duck.”

Addiction, by Meaghen

2012-01-23T11:05:00.002-07:00

In a little town in the south of France that has only two cafes and one good baker, the twilight of evening crept over the rolling farmland, along the D118 highway, and past the Salz before stopping abruptly at the corners of the town square. At the center of the square were two figures, sitting cross-legged and hunched over, a thin mist rising from their mouths into the cold air. As if in surprise, the dark mist hesitated over the two shadowed bodies before continuing its westward course to the Pyrenees.

"It's dark," said Meaghen.

"Why are we sitting in the middle of the town square?" Mary questioned the night.

"Cross-legged, no less?" Meaghen added.

This was just one of the many questions Mary and Meaghen had found themselves asking over the past few weeks, such as,

"Why are we laughing at everything?"

"Why can't we move?"

"Why don't we leave the apartment before 2:30pm?"

"Why am I dizzy?"

"Why am I single?"

"Why do we need ten hours of sleep per night?"

"Why does your nose look so weird?"

The soul-searching had begun after a Sunday spent at the market in Esperaza, where the two girls had gone to Mass, wandered through the farmer's market, bought a couple cookies, were force-fed a shot glass of tea (or water-infused honey), and watched the world pass by while sipping cafe au lait at their local cafe.

It seemed innocent at the time.

And then they woke up. On Tuesday morning.

"What day is it?" queried Mary.

"Is it actually 3pm," Meaghen moaned, "or is my clock wrong?"

"It's morning in Canada...somewhere," Mary justified.

"Lets go for tea."

They walked to the Bio Bakery, where they had already built a reputation for holding inappropriate conversations, eating entire loaves of bread, sneaking extra water for their tea, and shamelessly making fun of the staff, who nevertheless gave them free cookies.

Their waitress was a slight girl of about sixteen or twenty-two, who laughed after everything she said and spent three minutes putting the lid on the tea pot (or as the French would say, the the pot).

"She's totally high," Mary said.

"NO," Meaghen said.

The girl put the lid on the pot.

"She IS," insisted Mary.

"Sh!" shushed Meaghen, motioning that the girl was still standing in front of them.

"Standing in front of me, you mean," corrected Mary.

"Oh, right," acquiesced Meaghen. "I forgot your phobia about sitting with your back to the door."

Mary sipped her tea.

Meaghen sipped her tea.

Mary nibbled a cookie.

Meaghen scarfed a cookie.

Mary started to knead a piece of bread into mush.

Meaghen looked at her in disgust.

And then, simultaneously, the mental pieces fell into place. "The grey stuff," as P.G. Wodehouse might have said, "began to work." The light bulb turned on.

"We're addicted to Crack Rock."

Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's true. Remember that shot glass of tea, that you forgot about because it seemed so innocent at the time? We're pretty sure it had the Crack Rock in it. And that's why two chocolate bars disappeared from our apartment in a matter of days. And why we run into the bathroom when people knock on our door. And why we watched Due Date three times. In a row. And why Mary hasn't posted on her blog in weeks. And why I'm guest posting now. And why this guest post is so strange.

It's the Crack Rock.

A Productive Use of Time

2012-01-10T08:05:00.005-07:00

I think it's Meaghen's fault that this blog is so neglected.

(Damn you, Meaghen.)

In Greece I had no one to bounce ideas off of or to calm my nervous psychoses.

But with Meaghen here, I can rationally discuss all manner of things and have no need to encourage my narcissism and put my thoughts out into the ether.

We can sit down over Coffee and explore every possible option for why my period is ten days late, which may or may not include the most logical conclusion: I have been impregnated, simply from a glance, by the searing blue eyes of the charming French-man at the market.

Long meandering discussions are had about Downton Abbey: Is it right to force the kitchen maid to marry the dying soldier, even though she doesn't want to, but by doing so she is helping him die happy?

Meaghen: Absolutely not.

Mary: Absolutely yes.

Meaghen: She doesn't want to. She doesn't love him.

Mary: It doesn't matter. It's only for six hours until he dies and then she can go back to normal life. Besides, he dies happy, and it's no skin off her nose, so what's the big deal?

Besides it's war time. Suck. It. Up.

Meaghen: But it's a lie.

Mary: Sometimes it's good to lie.

Meaghen: Is it, Mary? Is it?

Mary: Yes. But only if you know that God isn't paying attention.

Meaghen:..........

(God: if you are reading this, I don't really believe that.)

Important discussions are had about highly important things such as:

a) How can Meaghen get Josh Groban's attention so that she can tell him how much she wants to have half a dozen of his curly-haired children?

and

b) Is Wentworth Miller REALLY gay?

Answers:

a) Create a Myspace account specifically for posting on Josh Groban's wall. Make completely outrageous statements guaranteed to gain his attention. Once his attention has been caught, insist on meeting him in order to gain his undying love. Success. End of story.

b) After hours of internet research - which was given attention and devotion to the facts that I am quite sure not one of our University papers benefited from - the conclusion is: No. Wentworth Miller has never, not once, confirmed that he is gay. To the contrary, he makes reference to his deep held desire to find a nice girl (Here! over HERE!). His supposed homosexuality is apparently a figment of Perez Hilton's imagination and as such, having found that out, Meaghen and I can now rest easier at night.

....Mostly because......if Josh Groban doesn't work out, Meaghen is making a flying dash into Wentworth Miller's manly, so excessively ripped arms.

I don't know why she gets all of the celebrities and I am stuck offering to become God-Mother of her future children whose faces, I am sure, will be plastered all over the tabloids from the moment they exit the birth canal.

Share just a little, Meaghen.

You wrecked my blog, and now you are trying to decide between two celebrities?

Not. Fair.

And finally: Listen to this song. It will make your world a better, brighter place, and possibly make your having read this blog-post.....NOT a complete waste of time.

Green Knee Socks

2012-01-02T09:13:00.002-07:00

A nice walk down the road from us - I am not sure in which direction; when do I ever know where I am? - is a little village called Esperaza.

We first came across it on a Sunday morning when we went to explore the farmer's market. In the middle of what I suppose must be the town square, there were booths peddling everything from Alpaca sweaters, to statues of the Buddha, to home-made fruitcake.

People were dressed in all kinds of terrible clothing - ranging from what looked like burlap sacks, to what could have been the carcass of a dead dog - walking around smoking pot and flipping their deadlocked hair in the wind.

Meaghen and I were thoroughly enchanted. So much character was infused into this town.

We went back during the week, found a Cafe that we liked and decided that Esperaza was worth visiting AT LEAST two days a week. It didn't hurt that, being a cookie monster, Meaghen found a bakery which makes cookies fit to force her into a swoon.

Esperaza's charms grew - the supermarket carried a particularly good kind of smoked salmon, the cafe served a very tasty green-mint tea and produced a lovely cafe au lait, and the way the light filtered through the trees and onto the river was particularly magical.

Slowly, oh so slowly, though, we started to notice things.

Almost every person we saw was either excessively tattooed, or carrying about 10.5 pounds worth of piercings on various parts of their body.

The terrible clothing was not limited to the attendees of the Sunday market: it seemed to be a daily occurrence, and something that did not improve on further viewing.

We decided that Esperaza is possibly the ghetto of the surrounding area. Perhaps it is equivalent to a trailer park. Maybe this is where ex-convicts are condemned to. Possibly it is a hippie commune. Any and all of these options seem feasible.

Beyond that, though, the town has the weird feeling of being a completely alternate universe. You can walk the length of a street and not see one person or moving car, or the hint of movement from any house. This is contrasted with the fact that music is pumped very loudly into all the streets of the town. Speakers mounted on buildings insure that, no matter where you roam, you are inundated with music. Not just any music, mind you, but loud, pounding, club-type music.

There are few things more strange than walking down a completely deserted street in a quaint French town, accompanied by LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem.

Yesterday, having settled in at the cafe, we took a look around and noticed that everyone was shooting back shots or drinking wine. In the morning. Well before lunch-time.

As we tried to figure out if drinking this early on in the day is a French thing, or merely an Esperaza thing, one of the men who had been standing around with his buddies came up, grabbed Meaghen by the shoulder, kissed her on both cheeks, turned to me and did the same, tipped his cap, and then walked off.

We stared at each other, bewildered. The other patrons of the cafe seemed briefly interested, then gave a collective shrug and returned to their alcoholic endeavors.

There was nothing for it, but for us to do the same, except that we were drinking coffee, not Rose.

As I sipped, I watched little kids wander around amongst their madly smoking parents, drinking Coke and yammering away to each other. Old men walked by with baguettes under their arms shouting greetings to anyone they passed. Motorcycles sped by driven by barely pubescent boys.

Perhaps, I thought, I had been judging the town too harshly. It all seemed perfectly normal.

And then she walked by. A beautiful woman. And yet...she wore tight tan pants.....tucked into olive green wool knee socks embroidered with little fairies. That's right. Her socks were pulled up OVER her pants, all the way past her knees.

Weird. So weird.

Give it Up

2012-01-01T13:26:00.003-07:00

Soo........

I'm not dead yet.

(Also: Happy New Year! Merry Christmas! Klassy Kwanzaa! Hip Hanukkah!)

Well, maybe my brain is dead. I have the drafts of four or five blog posts saved, but none of them are suitable for eyes other than mine.

In other words: pathetic doesn't even begin to describe it.

To move on....

Two weeks ago, I was again watching educational programming - Millionaire Matchmaker - and a guy came on the show asking for a woman who would be willing to be by his side, and possibly leave any career she was pursuing. As a pretty constant world traveler, he assumed that it would be too hard for her to work and be with him as much as he would like. Plus, he wanted any children they would have to be with him as well.

The Matchmaker called him a chauvinistic bastard. Any woman worth anything would not give up her career just to travel with him and take care of his children.

He looked at her like she had three heads. "Why not? That's what a marriage is. You stick together and spend as much time together as possible. I will give her everything she needs - why would she need to work?"

"Because any self respecting woman would!"

In the scouting interviews, the Matchmaker interviewed potential woman and said something along the lines of "He might want you to give up your job so that you could travel with him and your kids..."

Each and every time, the woman's eyes would light up and she would pipe up with "Oh....well...TOTALLY not a problem."

The Matchmaker would shake her head in despair: "Where are all the strong women?" True - most of them might have been gold diggers (...They are on a show called Millionaire Matchmaker...), betting on the fact that they could float along with a few nannies. BUT - there is, I believe, a deeper truth here.

I don't think it's necessarily a weak thing to devote oneself to the raising of children and the care of one's husband. It might even be rather courageous. Anyone who has spent any time with kids knows how demanding they are. And what is that saying about "behind every great man, there is a great woman"? Statistically, happily married men advance faster in the workplace and earn more than their non-married counterparts. Could it be that having someone support them gives an extra edge?

SOMEONE needs to take care of the house. SOMEONE needs to do the laundry. SOMEONE needs to shuttle kids around. SOMEONE needs to cook nutritious meals. Since when did all of those things become not a worthy, fulfilling way of spending one's day, but rather something to be shoved off on recent immigrants who can barely speak one's language, and who are willing to work for a small pittance?

Why is the cultivation of one's marriage and the raising of one's children considered something that can be done in the hour before work, and in the three hours - at best - you have together before everyone crashes into bed?

To end: here you go, the column that sparked this post.

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2003/01/the-wifely-duty/2659/

As the author says:

It turns out that the "traditional" marriage, which we've all been so happy to annihilate, had some pretty good provisions for many of today's most stubborn marital problems, such as how to combine work and parenthood, and how to keep the springs of the marriage bed in good working order.

And then:

When I asked her about what I had been hearing, she told me that she has seen many married couples who have gone without sex for periods of time ranging from six months to six years. Why? "Marriage has changed," she told me. "In the old days the husband was the breadwinner. The wife had the expectation of raising the children and pleasing him. Now they're both working and both taking care of the children, and they're too exhausted and resentful to have sex." I asked Greer the obvious question: If a couple is not having sex because of job pressures and one partner quits working, does the couple have more sex? The answer was immediate and unequivocal: "Absolutely!"

So.....let me get this straight......one person to take care of the money side of things, and one person to take care of the domestic side of things actually works better than both people trying to do both jobs at once? They might actually be happier? Life might run smoother?

Who. Would. Have. Thought?

Not that - inundated as I am with attractive visions of the career mother who "has it all" - I don't struggle with this idea. I do. However, if it came down to the reality of what could potentially further my happiness and the happiness of those around me, I would hope to be able to abandon the T.V. sitcom in my head, if need be.

After all:

Sex > Job (one would hope), and if it is true that the loss of the latter - for one person - improves the former -for both people - what is there to lose?

Better sit on that one for a while.

Baby, Baby, Baby Oh.....

2011-12-19T14:37:00.003-07:00

You know how, when you listen to a catchy song, and it stays with you for the next seven thousand hours of your life? Usually just one phrase runs on repeat through your head, which winds up with you filling your gas tank and belting out something along the lines of:

"Baby, baby, baby, ohhhh, Like, baby, baby, baby, Nooo...."

And then when the person across from you gives you the stink eye, you end up vomiting forth a really lame excuse for why you are singing a Justin Bieber song while paying way too much for gas.

"Um yeah....my dumb sister. Totally obsessed with him, and now I can't get his DAMN song out of my head. You know how it is... HAH. Like I would ever listen to Justin Bieber....."

Well, tonight I felt the need for some dance worthy music, possibly because I have not been able to get warm for the past week, and needed to shimmy my way across the living room to get my blood flowing.

The song "Lady Marmalade" from Moulin Rouge came to mind as something I had to listen to.

Don't watch the music video.

You just did, didn't you? Slightly scandalous right?

But it's fun to dance to.

Dancing accomplished, a little warmer, I went to wash dishes, and found myself repeating one phrase over and over again.

Slowly, very slowly I identified the phrase that was stuck in my head, and therefore what I was actually saying.

All I can say is, this song better be scrubbed from my head by tomorrow.

I really, really, don't want to be in a French speaking country and find myself in the produce section of the local supermarket, repeating "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?" over and over to myself like a broken record.

The cashier already thinks I am highly questionable since, today, I dared to venture into her supermarket dressed in sweatpants.

That, my friends, is a definite no-no and, since this is France, sweatpants are quite possibly worse than absentmindedly and un-intentionally propositioning the produce clerk as you pick over the apples.

Meaghen

2011-12-18T08:44:00.003-07:00

Meaghen has proven herself the man in this relationship.

Yesterday, I lugged a Christmas Tree up the stairs and tried to set it up in the little log stand that came with it. After a few....seconds...of trying to wedge the trunk into the little hole carved into the log-stand, I gave up. My hands were hurting. I was covered with pine needles. I was feeling vaguely depressed.

"Meaghen, I totally can't do this."

She ambled over to inspect my progress. "......right. Ok....I'm not sure what you were trying to do here, but....there you go."

With basically a flick of her pinky, the tree was standing proud and tall.

Today, we thought it would be an excellent idea to get our fire going. Meaghen broke wood kindling apart like a champ, built the fire and got it going roaring quite savagely. Part of me wanted to help. But the other part of me knew I would be next to useless. Snap a board in half with my foot?

Oh please.

Try to light wood on fire?

Let's be honest: I would most likely light myself before the wood caught.

Instead, I made her tea and put out a plate of cookies to show my appreciation for her manly gifts, and then painted my nails as our living room warmed up and the sounds of crackling wood filled the air.

She also sweeps the floor, because she knows it makes me really queasy to even think about doing that.

During the violent parts of Prison Break or whatever else we happen to be watching, I cover my head with a blanket and hyperventilate until she tells me it's OK to look again. Occasionally I grab her arm and squeeze it until her circulation is cut off. She rarely complains.

She fully supports my chocolate addiction. In fact, her's might be worse than mine. She doesn't judge me when I have chocolate for breakfast.

What a friend, right?

Meaghen: Consider this a proposal.

Hunger

2011-12-17T09:40:00.003-07:00

The Intermarche down the road from me is a fairly large, well stocked supermarket, which has all the normal supermarket amenities, including about 6 checkout counters. Very rarely, however, is more than one counter going at a time.

A string of about 6 or 7 customers with bulging carts can be lined up waiting patiently, and still, the man polishing the apples, the girl re-arranging the wrapping paper, and the woman counting coins at her (closed) till - all employees of the supermarket - will remain doing what they are doing, leaving one lone cashier to deal with everything.

No one seems to have a problem with this. A half hour wait to pay for your groceries? Not even a ripple of dissatisfaction. They all seem perfectly content to stare into space whistling softly to themselves.

A price check can take upwards of ten minutes. The cashier will pick up her phone and ask for assistance; until help comes, she starts an involved, highly animated conversation with the customer. When help ambles up at a leisurely pace, he proves to be puzzled by what is being asked of him, necessitating a mass exodus of the cashier, the customer, and any other interested parties, to that part of the store from which the item is supposed to have come.

And still, not even a whimper of despair comes forth from anyone in the line.

I, on the other hand, am basically shaking in an anxious agony. My thoughts start to spin out of control:

"Getting through the grocery store is not supposed to take this long. Haven't they heard of efficiency? Customer service? Oh dear Buddha I am going to DIE if I have to stay in the line a moment longer. Oh my gosh I might start SCREAMING. What if I fall on the floor, foaming at the mouth: would they let me through faster?"

A weirded out glance is directed my way, and I realize I am hopping from foot to foot in my complete anxiety to be rid of the place. I must look like I have to pee about three gallons of fluid.

"Deep Breaths, Mary. You can do this. You don't have to be anywhere. This is fine. Enjoy the wait. Smell the smells of the supermarket. Soak it in. DEeeeep Breaths....

"OH MY GOSH the damn hippy in front of my hasn't showered in about 500 days. This is disgusting. What is WRONG with him? Hasn't he heard of deodorant? I think my nostrils have to be fumigated. I bet I have some airborne disease now. He is probably carrying the plague. LET ME OUT OF THIS PLACE."

The anxious hopping starts back up, and I start to contemplate dumping my basket of food onto the floor in a grand gesture of self-righteous anger at European inefficiency.

Back home, even a 30 second fumble as I try to wedge my debit card out of its wallet garners grumblings of dissatisfaction, anxious glances at watches, and has the cashier tapping her nails against the register in an impatient staccato. And I get it, I totally get it; the number of times I have been behind someone and wanted to grab their wallet and get their damn card out for them are too many to count.

What is this terror of waiting?

If I am behind a line of ten people at Starbucks, and it takes the cashier more than two minutes to get all those orders and process all those payments, why do I start groaning as if death is imminent?

If I take my car for an oil change, and there is more than one car ahead of me, I will pull out and resolve to try again later - even if the oil needed changing about 1500 kms ago.

If I am in a line at the store, and the cashier is being trained, I don't even try to wait. I just dump my stuff and walk out. Too bad, amazing shoes that made my heart stop. You just better be there tomorrow.

It's not just me, either. I know very few people who are comfortable with waiting.

We live in a time where we have to wait for very little. Especially in North America, this is taken to extreme degrees: "If your pizza isn't there in 10 minutes, it's on us!" or "If your plumber isn't there within half an hour of your call, we pay YOU!"

We are encouraged to wait for very little; I can't really think of anything that we are told it is better to wait for - except for, perhaps, having children. Perhaps this is because children really slow you down....those little suckers really make you wait.

(At which point I stared at my laptop for 2 hours, drinking wine and staring into space, randomly answering emails. What did I start out trying to say? What is the resolution of this post - is there one? Where is my brain? Why am I so tired? Is it normal to eat chocolate in place of a balanced meal? Maybe that is why I am tired - my body is dying of nutrient deficiency. Is it possible to drink too much tea? What if there is no other way to stay warm? Am I drowning my organs? Why am I so neurotic?)

And then Meaghen grabbed my laptop because she wanted me to finish so we could watch more Prison Break together, huddled in the couch, screeching at the gross scenes.

From Meaghen:

And all of this just because you were dying of hunger and couldn't stand to wait in line for more than .003 seconds. I think we found the root of Western Impatience right there: hunger. In this case, physical. But in general? Spiritual. At least I think that's what you are trying to say.

Amen.

Thank you.

I'll be here all week.

Until March.

Just Listen

2011-12-14T15:05:00.003-07:00

I have too much floating around in my head to pull out anything resembling coherent ideas, so I leave you with two songs. They will be more enjoyable and lovely than anything I could have written. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsCCnpcGEWI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8pQLtHTPaI&ob=av2e

Insanity

2011-12-13T13:56:00.003-07:00

SO.

So.

The Baths at Lourdes.

I gotta say. Catholics really must look insane to the outside world.

Catholics are the kind of people who, at least once a week on Sundays, and sometimes every day if they are trying to be especially good, eat something which looks like bread, but is apparently Body, alongside something which smells like wine, but is apparently Blood.

..........weird, right?

Catholics are the kind of people who go in a little box, kneel down, and spew forth their dastardly deeds to a man who then tells them everything is a-ok as long as they go say Hail Mary and try not to do any of it again.

And they actually believe him.

Catholics are the kind of people who have a dozen kids and seem to think nothing of it.

You can't make this stuff up.

Catholics are also the kind of people who travel to small towns in France in order to get dunked in ice cold mountain spring water that supposedly has healing properties.

I mean, who DOES that?

Well, this girl for one.

It was the craziest experience ever.

After about a 45 minute wait outside a low stone building, I was called into a curtained room along with 5 other women, and led to a chair where I was told to put my bag. I turned expectantly to my guide, eagerly awaiting my next instructions.

She started to help me take off my jacket. Fine, good.

That accomplished, I turned to her again.

She looked at me like I was an idiot. In a flurry of motion, and a flood of French sprinkled with bits of English, I was informed that she wanted it all off. Every last bit of clothing. And underclothing.

HERE? In a room full of STRANGERS?

I am a repressed Canadian girl. We don't do public nakedness. We are the kind of people who don't kiss others on the cheek in greeting; we gingerly stick out a cold hand for a brief hand shake. And then we surreptitiously dump hand sanitizer on our hands. For the germs. Obviously.

I just stared at her. She sighed and motioned to the cloak she was holding. She would hold it up as I stripped down. No worries.

No WORRIES? I was expecting a little change room, and some sort of disposable bathing suit.

Clothes stripped, wrapped in a long cloak, I was then pushed through another curtain. Three women awaited me there, smiling angelically....which did not prepare me for what happened next.

The cloak was stripped from me and there I was, naked as the day I was born, but without the benefit of being unaware that I was, shivering in front of three elderly French women. I felt like delivering some sort of tirade:

"What is this place? Why don't you get change rooms? Can't I just walk into the water with the cloak on? Only my doctor gets to see me naked, and then only in bits, never all at once. And we always deflate the situation by talking about traveling. He tells me where I should go, and I tell him where I want to go, and they are never the same place, but that's ok because at least it's a distraction. WE, ladies, don't even speak the same language!"

I talk when I get nervous. A lot. Even if it's just in my head.

I also laugh. So, I laughed.

"Shhhhhhh, Mademoiselle. Shhh......."

I was distracted by the towel they then proceeded to wrap around me. After that it was a blur. I was pulled into water the temperature of barely melted ice and told to say a prayer of my choice. I could barely concentrate because I was shaking so much. It must have partly been the cold, but it also felt as if huge amounts of adrenaline were coursing through my body. In spite of the frigidness, it felt as if a bolt of warm energy was pulsating through every fiber of my being.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in a chair, wrapped in the trusty blue cloak, still shaking, but not at all cold. I put on my clothing in a numbed silence, and walked out into the brisk fall air.

----------------------------------------------------

I didn't get exactly what I asked for; I think I got more. It is as if joy is bouncing through my soul, and peace has been abundantly bestowed on me. There is also a strong stirring of hope that while I did not immediately get what I requested, it will happen. The miracle is that I am ok with that. I am fine with waiting.

This from someone who gets really, really, punchy if she is made to wait for anything.

-----------------------------------------------------

A priest I talked to on Sunday morning told me that healing is not always what one expects.

God desires us to be whole, and sometimes the suffering we carry allows us to be more whole and contribute to his glory in a way that would not happen if it was taken away.

Healing, then, is when his will and our will collide in a joyful one-ness that breeds an inexplicable happiness.

What more could one ask for?

Pink and Gold Sparkles

2011-12-10T13:12:00.002-07:00

It's been a very long day. But.... beautiful and amazing.

Lourdes is a gorgeous little town surrounded by the gently mountainous Pyrenees - it has all kinds of charm and story-bookishness to recommend it. This time of year finds it not completely besieged by tourists, and it definitely has a rather sleepy relaxed vibe to it.

Our train got in just before noon, and we spent the next...two hours trying to find our hotel. Technically this should have taken about half an hour. Max. When we did find it, we collapsed in relief, and barely stopped short of kissing the ground. Both of us were puttering to a complete halt after having gotten only about 4 or 5 hours of sleep.

We had even decided in our desperation prior to finding the hotel, that if we took one more wrong turning we were just going to give up and embark on a path of self destruction that would possibly end in our deaths.

"How should we go about it?"

"....I think we should start by ingesting our own weight in chocolate."

"Perfect."

"Followed by a 60 of vodka. Each."

"Done!"

At which point we turned a corner and saw our hotel. Fortunately.

I collapsed on my bed, put my ear plugs in and conked out for an hour, while Meaghen showered and tried to rid herself of the terrible stench she kept insisting her feet were carrying.

Sorry, Meaghen.

By the time we got our act together, it was late afternoon, and more than anything we wanted to see the Grotto.

So we did. (Not my own picture. Because guess who forgot her camera? And her cellphone? And extra underwear? And toothpaste?) <---- But none of this matters because....

What peace. What an overwhelming sense of heaven touching earth.

From the moment I touched the side of the Grotto and for the next, oh, fifteen minutes....all I could do was cry. And cry. And maybe also cry.

Not gentle ladylike tears either.

No no no. This was something more along the lines of one's soul being torn in two and emptied of woundedness.

------------------------------------------------------------

Tomorrow sees us heading for a triple whammy of holiness in various forms.

I don't know if I will be able to handle it. My soul might expand to a bursting point of monstrous proportions.

I just got a mental image of that: pink and gold sparkles. PINK AND GOLD SPARKLES is what my soul would spit forth.

.....my soul in a completely happy state is an Elton John concert?

Oh dear.

I think I need to sleep.

Lourdes

2011-12-09T11:26:00.002-07:00

Tomorrow - listen to this - we go to Lourdes.

O.M.G.

*Girlish squeal of delight and excitement.*

Do you believe in Miracles?

Because I do, and am asking for one. Bold move? Perhaps. But maybe my Chutzpah will get me somewhere.

Can I use "Chutzpah" in this context? Or is that just way too ecumenical? Is ecumenical even the word I want in this context?

I don't even know. My mind is distracted by other things.

Send up a little prayer for me that it is answered, and in the comments leave me any and all prayer intentions YOU have, and I promise on my own mothers life, that I will place them at Mary's feet.

As Meaghen played for me today.....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgAIwP5vpPQ

Accents

2011-12-08T07:00:00.003-07:00

My pajamas did not leave my body yesterday, until about four p.m. At that point, I transferred into yoga pants and a sweatshirt.

I have a vague recollection of being driven to brush my teeth because my own breath was bothering me, but that was the extent of any attempt at personal hygiene.

I didn't bother to brush my hair at all.

Meaghen and I might have watched one too many espisodes of Prison Break. As in three. Perhaps four. In between, we fell into deep comatose sleeps.

In other words, we were both struck down with a bizarre and vicious flu. It was fatigue and aches taken to the trillionth degree.

Midway through the day, someone knocked on our door.

We really didn't want to answer it, and so pretended not to hear.

A few minutes later the knock came again, only this time it sounded as if the person trying to get our attention had keys, and was actually going to enter our sacred space.

In a moment of completely blind panic, we hurled ourselves from the couch, and raced into the bathroom. We stood there for a moment, by the toilet, clutching each other in some bizarre fit of fear, each telling the other one to shut up and stop breathing.

Suddenly our eyes met, asking an unspoken question: What the hell is WRONG with us?

Typically, we are not this incredibly strange.

I think vanity fueled our bathroom bolt. We really did not want anyone, anyone at all, seeing us slumped on the couch, under piles of blankets, gnawing on chocolate, sighing over Wentworth Miller.

Add to this pathetic scene the fact that Meaghen's hair looked like she had stuck her finger in a light socket and left it there for a few hours, and that I - beyond the fact that my sallow skin and dark circles were giving me a striking resemblance to someone from Twilight - was wearing bright pink pajama bottoms with white polka dots, and you can understand our panic.

In a moment of sanity though, I realized that it would be much, much, much, much more embarrassing to be found in the bathroom with my best friend, than to actually answer the door in a complete state of hideous disarray.

It was the caretaker of the property, eager to inform me that he had dropped off a pile of wood for our wood-burning stove.

He is very friendly and very talkative, and.............has this accent. British. Beautiful.

I stood there in the door, trying to look somewhat dignified in my gorgeous pjs, as he maundered on, until I realized that I wasn't actually paying attention to anything he was saying. I was just listening to the melodious sound of his voice.

At one point I heard the word "donkey," and I tried to focus, but I couldn't. It was like being hypnotized.

Donkey? Why was he talking about donkeys?

Every once and a while, he would pause, as if trying to assess my mental condition, and I would pipe up with one of the words I had somehow held on to "Donkeys? Tell me more about this!"

Since he likes talking, and seems keen about these Donkeys, he continued and I listened; I still have only a vague idea of what he was trying to convey.

Finally, the topic of firewood and donkeys exhausted, we said goodbye, and I stumbled back upstairs to Meaghen, who had forced her hair into a braid and was brushing her teeth, just in case Paul had decided to actually come in.

"What did he want?"

"Wood. He dropped some off."

"Ooh! Where is it?"

"Um......I'm not sure."

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Probably. I....can't really remember."

"You were down there for a while. What else did he have to say?"

"Donkeys. There is a trail ride with Donkeys."

"That sounds awesome! Where?"

"Ummm.......he told me. I think he spelled it out. G....something."

"That doesn't help."

"We could call him and ask."

"Nahh....I think email would work better."

"Whatever. More Prison Break?"

A Small Act of Usefulness

2011-12-06T12:56:00.003-07:00

Today was one of those really weird days where you feel stuck in a giant bubble of sluggishness and unmotivation. The kind of day where you have a list of things planned, and not one of them gets done.

You know the kind of day where you sit on the couch drinking tea, with your laptop warming your legs, and you basically don't move for hours at a time, and when you do, it is only to go pee?

This was one of them.

It was the kind of day where you keep attempting to get up to accomplish something, but when you do the only thing that you can even remotely contemplate doing is to sit back down and watch another episode of Scrubs.

Or gaze into Wentworth Millers eyes via Prison Break.

It was the kind of day where, even though you are on a very healthy very strict cleanse for the next three weeks, all you want is chocolate. So you eat it, even though it is not allowed, and justify it by telling yourself that chocolate is very healthy. It possesses the most magnesium content of any food on earth. SO there.

It was also the kind of day where, in your random meanderings through the small alleyways and byways of the web, you find this and start bawling.

As my one useful act of today, I pass it on to you.

http://www.zenit.org/article-20956?l=english

Puppies

2011-12-05T15:21:00.005-07:00

Yesterday, after Church, Meaghen and I walked to Espereza in order to partake of the fabulous farmers market that is held there.

It was like hippie kingdom.

People in organic cotton and scratchy hemp dyed all sorts of terrible earth tones sat around in circles playing instruments, or waltzed around in erratic circles, completely out of time with the music.

The smell of pot was pretty overpowering.

Since it was way past lunchtime we attacked the first food stand we saw, which happened to sell crepes and quiche. Perfect. We stood there arguing with each other about which one would attempt our order, until the guy behind the counter interrupted us. "I can speak English if you want."

*Blush*

As we wound our way through dreadlocks, drums, and nag champa incense sticks, we happened upon a lady seated on the ground, possessed of a lap full of puppies. We almost lost it, because we had made a deal on the way over that if we found a puppy at the market, we would buy it.

We often make deals like this.

This one didn't even have to be bought. It was free!

Meaghen was ready to scoop up the dog right then and there.

Suddenly though, the thought of so suddenly becoming a parent started to freak me out. I haven't read any dog parent books. We hadn't prepared a welcoming space for him. What was the best kind of diet? Low Carb? High Carb? Vegetarian? Paleo?

Should we give it shots - What if he has an allergic reaction to them? Is there a trusted vet in the area - How does one know whether or not to trust a vet?

What about haircuts? How often is that supposed to happen? Are their doggie hair style trends? And shampoo - what would be best for his skin and fur? Surely one has to be careful not strip him of all his essential skin oils.

This, you understand, was all for a mongrel puppy.

Imagine me with a human baby coming my way.

I told Meaghen we had to discuss it over lunch.

We did, and came to the conclusion that we would spend a week doing research on puppy care.

This is definitely is not long enough to figure out the majority of my questions, but it does give me sufficient breathing room to pull the idea of a dog into my psyche.

Truthfully, it probably will not happen. The logistics of who would keep it and how we would get it back to North America are a little sketchy. Then again, sketchiness has never deterred us from anything.

We even have a name. Just in case: Bomer. As in Matt. As in him:

Our puppy might not be that scrumptious, but we will treat him as if he is.

Grace

2011-12-03T23:18:00.010-07:00

I have made reference to my love of Reality T.V.

It might be a part of my life that is here to stay.

Like dark chocolate. And tea. And heels. And Michael Buble.

The past few times when I have needed a minute or forty of downtime, I have ended up watching Millionaire Matchmaker.

Initially this was because I went "Millionaire Matchmaker? Yes please!" When it comes right down to it, I really want one of these:

This for the during the week:

This for the weekend:

And her, or possibly half a dozen of her, because I do not think you can over-estimate how much I loath cleaning:

Attaining all of that would just be way easier with my very own millionaire, right? My sugar daddy. My Mr. Moneybags.

So. OBVIOUSLY, Millionaire Matchmaker spoke to some small part of my soul. Or the majority of it.

I am just kidding. I have a lot more depth than that. I would be quite satisfied with these:

And him:

Even if we just lived in this:

It's not really much of a sacrifice, because....if you have Louboutin shoes and Ryan Reynolds........I dont think you need anything else.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Let's get serious, though.

As usually happens, after the first episode or two of any new show, I started observe a few things and then mull over them for the next week. Or two.

Don't judge. Mulling is part of my melancholic nature.

One of the most interesting things to me is that at some point, it seems that there is a realization that comes up, which whacks people in the face. The men (and sometimes women) who come to this matchmaker have "everything." They have multiple houses, cars, a plane or two, and the ability to do whatever they want.

They talk about being able to snag a different girl every night, and partying it up at the best places in the world, with the glitziest celebs. Yet, they go to a loud Jewish woman who yells at them and makes them sign a contract before joining her Millionaires Club which insists on "no sex before monogamy (monogamy = at least three months).

Why?

Well, after re-capping their fabulous lives, after describing in glowing detail how amazing their lifestyle is, a cloud passes over their faces. They have "everything," but no one to share it with. They might party it up every night, never with the same date, but at the end of a tough day they have no one to talk to. Most of them admit that their life is just kinda empty.

These men, who until this point in their lives have been just great with being lone wanderers, can't run away from the natural human inclination to truly share yourself with someone. They end up realizing that it would be just awesome to have someone who really knows them, who they can trust, who actually truly cares. It might also be great to have a few little someones to play with their vast vintage toy collection, or in their pool, or on their basketball court.

As the Beatles, those great philosophers of the Modern Age have said...."All You Need is Love."

And that is precisely what these searching millionaires lack. The snag is that no amount of money can buy it - something which, in a darkly hilarious way, they seem to struggle with.

The one thing they want most, after years of building up fortunes so that they can buy whatever they want, can't, after all, be bought.

God sighs darkly at the irony.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

A team of therapists and life coaches is usually brought in, and these men are taught about how to truly connect with a woman and enter into something with her that lasts longer than a night, or - let's face it - a few hours.

At 40 or 45 or 50, or whatever age they are, though, their habits are so ingrained, their way relating to the world such a firm part of their character, that they seem to quite literally need to tear themselves down in order to build themselves anew.

It is really, really hard. Most of them fail.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

This is all very scary.

As a society, we are so far removed from that which would make us truly happy: connection, self-giving, family, vulnerability, openness - that when we realize that we want all of that, it is SOMETIMES TOO LATE.

Our habits are our character: how damn hard is that to change, especially after 40 or 50 years?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I guess the good thing happens to be that Grace - that completely free and utterly unmerited outpouring - can make anything possible.

Good thing, right?

Discretion

2011-12-03T12:21:00.003-07:00

There are so many awkward things about not being able to speak the local language

The Junior High years I spent poking away at French did a very minimal amount for me.

Yesterday, Meaghen and I stopped by the bakery around the corner to get a croissant for her. We thought this would be a great way to welcome her to Couiza.

France. Croissants. Local Bakery. Makes sense.

On walking in however, we saw this amazing PIZZA with goat cheese, mushrooms and toasted almonds on it. We decided we had to have that instead.

We pointed to it, while doing a passable job (or so we thought) reading out the name on the card in front of the pizza.

The girl shoved a pizza into the box, threw it over the counter at us, told us the total, and barely stopped short of telling us to get the hell out of there.

She had put the wrong pizza in the box, though.

Meaghen and I looked at each other. Should we SAY something? She was really grumpy. It did not seem like a wise idea.

However, the flute like call of the goat cheese, mushroom, almond pizza was too irresistible. Like the Sirens hailing Odysseus. Or something like that.

So, hesitantly, we tried to tell her that she had given us the wrong one.

She glared at us, spewed forth a flood of French that probably damned us to hell and in the meantime cursed us to a life of being around her, and then finally, with the air of a long suffering martyr, exchanged the pizza for the one we wanted.

We sneaked out apologetically.

---------------------------------------------

Then, there is the mistaken assumption that because you are in a foreign country where you do not speak the language, no one can understand the language you do speak.

Today we made a much needed visit to the supermarket and after wandering around, picking up absolute essentials like wine and chocolate, we ended up at checkout, trying to decide which line was moving fastest.

The checkout line to our left was filled with two women who seemed to be glaring at the world in general.

"Those women are kind of scary."

"I think they are lesbians."

"Mhmm. The one on the left is particularly butch."

"I just don't understand why they can't make an effort to actually dress well and have nice hair."

We moved into the checkout line across from the two lovely ladies.

At which point I heard them bitching to each other.

They were British. and quite possibly heard every word we said, judging by the death rays directed at us.

Whoops.

--------------------------------------------------------

This reminds me of the game I used to play with my friends when we were in Roma.

We liked to play "Gay, or just Italian?"

We would pick a man and assess his clothing, hair, skin, and the way he walked or sat, and from that point put him in one of the two categories. Or sometimes both. The glory of the game was that it was always SO HARD TO TELL.

One day on the bus, we picked a prime suspect a few rows ahead of us.

"Hmm. His clothes are pretty perfect. Look at the way he has tied his scarf."

"His hair looks like he spent most of the day on it. How did he get it to spike so perfectly?"

"I dunno though, those shoes are pretty ugly. I don't if any straight guy would choose those."

"True, but look at the way he has crossed his legs. And his hands. Look at the way he has folded his hands."

At which point, the gentleman uncrossed his legs, unfolded his hands, stood up abruptly, glared at us, and stormed off the bus.

We felt pretty bad about that one.

---------------------------------------------------------

I have no idea where I am going with this, except, perhaps, that life is easier when you know the local language.

Also, when analyzing those around you, discretion is always advised.

Friendship

2011-12-02T02:30:00.002-07:00

Yesterday I almost fell down two flights of very steep stone stairs in my eagerness to open the front door, squeal in high pitched delight, and jump on a girl with wild curly hair.

The darkened street was filled with shrieks, there was jumping up and down, and the taxi driver who dropped her off might have stared at us with a completely slackened jaw, cursing whoever let such insanity into his beloved country.

That is right.

Meaghen has arrived.

She is the first friend I have seen in just over three months. I have made friends of course - but this is a FRIEND. The kind of friend who knows ridiculous stories about me, like when we made a pit stop at the ocean at midnight. I decided I had to go in the water right at that very moment, and so stripped down to my underwear. Only to have a lifeguard spotlight beamed on me.

I guess you now know that story too.

She is the kind of friend who has seen mascara running down my face as I struggle between hysterical laughter and desperate tears.

She is the kind of friend who has let me see her in the throes of an allergic reaction which made her eyes swell shut and made her lips look as if they had been pumped with a vat of collagen.

I might have laughed hysterically.

But I did not reject her, in spite of her profound ugliness.

I'm loyal that way.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The other part of our trio is not here - unfortunately she has met a boy which, for some reason, means that she wants to be around him a lot.

What is up with THAT?

Boys. They get in the way of everything.

Thanks for the rejection MICHELLE.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The three of us have no reservations about sharing our fears, no matter how absurd. This has turned out to be one of the best things about us.

"I saw this woman on the train today, and she was so gorgeous I stared at her for the whole train ride. Is that weird?"

"Why? Because she was a women? That happens to me all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I am a lesbian."

"......me too."

"Yeah. It used to worry me, but I've just come to the conclusion that there is a universal aspect to beauty that appeals to and attracts everyone, regardless of sex. So we are probably not lesbians. Plus we like guys too much. Like...Ryan Reynold's abs. They count as a separate entity all their own, right?"

"Ioan Grudffud. Michael Buble."

"Matt Bomer."

"Oh my GOSH Matt Bomer."

"Yeah. I don't think we are lesbians."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The three of us, especially over the past couple of years, have marveled quite frequently at how our friendship has been one of the greatest growing experiences of our lives.

We have no qualms about informing each other when one of us is really screwing up and needs to shape up.

Our friendship has shown us that you can be open and trusting and absolutely vulnerable, and have that treasured and respected.

It has taught us that you can let down you defenses completely, and not get battered in the process.

We have unquestionably become better, just for being in each other's lives.

----------------------------------------------------------

Michelle, you better be constantly logged into video chat so you can keep up with the awesomeness that is going to go down.

Be who you are meant to be

2011-11-30T01:43:00.002-07:00

Spending time in Greece, meeting many many new people, I had the unique opportunity of being amongst people who knew absolutely nothing about me or my family or where I have come from.

I have always, wherever I have been, come across someone who knew my parents, or knew someone who knew my parents, or knew one of my siblings, or knew someone who knew one of my siblings, or was a friend of a friend, or a relative of a friend, or a friend of a relative. The world is much smaller than we like to think it is.

Therefore, whenever I have been anywhere new and come across a new face, there has usually ended up being a small layer of vague familiarity somehow joining us together, and a gossamer layer of assumption already in place.

In Greece though, there was no thin bond from which to grow a friendship. All I had was myself: who I am. And that became a very interesting thing - because who are you? who am I? when the person across from you knows nothing, and you can choose what you want to reveal.

There is none of this:

"If you know Marcie, you probably know Bob!"

"Since you are a friend of Claire, you probably believe that...."

"I can tell you this, and I know you will agree with me, because if you hang out with Jim...."

Essentially, then, pulled out of any place of familiarity, you become who you say you are - who you want to be - and not who you are assumed to be.

This is, perhaps, why many people like traveling so much: you are torn away from the normal swing of things; quite suddenly the weight of assumption and obligation is pulled away, and only you are left.

This presents one with a beautiful opportunity. Stripped down, away from what others think you are, want you to be, need you to be, or think you believe, you can form yourself. Independent of outside influences - as much as that can ever happen - you can ask yourself who you are, what you believe, and what you want.

Travel then, or anything at all that takes you wildly away from your comfort zone, from what you are used to, is one of those achingly necessary events on the path of growing up.

At some point in every person's life, there has to be a separation, a move away from the security and knowingness of one's childhood. You must thrust yourself into the limitless abyss where you ask yourself if you believe what you have been taught, if you are what you are assumed to be, and if you want what it is hoped you will pursue.

If that separation doesn't occur, if that foray into self knowing doesn't happen, you live as a puppet - perhaps endlessly reacting to events in your past, never realizing how much they affect your present actions; following ideas that you were presented with but never chose, leaving you deprived of any ownership over them and therefore any real joy in believing them. You are but half a person if you don't know why you do the things you do, or why you believe what you believe.

I always vaguely wondered why an unexamined life is not worth living.

Wouldn't it be easier to just bumble along, unaware of and not caring about the intricacies of your own life and the lives around you?

Now, I don't wonder. The unexamined life is not worth living, because it prevents you from soaring to the heights of your own potential. It prevents you from stopping the cycle of habitual action that is purely a reaction to something - anything - but which is vast waste of your energies. It muffles the burning light in each of us which, if we tended to it, would grow into a great flame taking us down the path on which we will be most happy.

Honey, I'm HOME!

2011-11-28T12:24:00.002-07:00

So. I landed at Charles de Gaulle at about 11:30 on Saturday morning. Once I had my luggage, I was accosted by a charming black man in a suit.

"Taxi?" he asked.

I followed him.

To a parking garage where there was a large silver van waiting. My radar went off, and I grabbed my bags from him, and told him I would find my own Taxi thank you very much. It was one of those scams - they take you to your destination, for about double the cost of a normal cab ride. I know - because I asked how much he was thinking of charging me.

I finally reached Gare d'Austerlitz, but then had to lug my bags - by this time extremely annoying - around the station until I found the luggage lockers. The attendant told me he had no change left in exchange for my bills, that I would have to go find some, and shooed me out.

By this time, my 50 kilos of luggage was pulling my arms out of their sockets.

Finally, after a hectic while, which probably would have been eased by more than a rudimentary knowledge of the French language, my luggage was safely stored away, and I was free to explore Paris for about 8 or so hours.

I wandered around until I felt hungry, at which point I stopped at a crepe place. I realized, when my crepe came, that I was actually too tired to really eat much, and I think I offended the very nice, very attentive waiter, when I left quite a bit on my plate.

Heading in the general direction of Notre Dame, I ended up in this lovely park-like place - I think it was the Jardin des Plantes - and I sat for a while to watch little kids racing after each other. So sweet.

At long last, I got to Notre Dame. I walked into the smell of incense and the sound of chant; it felt as if my soul had come home.

In line for confession, I was accosted by a four year old British girl who was waiting impatiently for her family to get through confessing all their sins. We played "the color game" which meant she would ask me what color her shirt/skirt/head band/coat/ boots were, and I would have to tell her. I told her all the wrong colors, and she told me I was obviously color blind.

But that didn't seem to turn her off, because she ended up on my lap, whispering secrets in my ear.

When I finally got in the confession room and started to talk to the very nice priest, I began to bawl - as I always do in confession - I am not sure why, but so it is. He was very nice, gave me a lovely wooden rosary, some very beautiful ideas to contemplate, and then set me loose after running my soul through the washing mean, bleaching it, and returning it snowy white. So to speak.

Vespers and Mass followed, after which I just felt.....uplifted. Refreshed. In love.

Sometimes I really like being Catholic.

By this time it was quite dark outside, and my night train was due to leave in a couple of hours. I meandered through Parisian streets, hoping I was going in generally the right direction, but too happy to really care if I wasn't. By a strange twist of magic, I ended up back at Austerlitz with plenty of time to grab a sandwich.

It was the best sandwich I had ever had in my life. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I bit into it. But when I did, all hell broke loose and my body went:

OHMYGOSHYOUHAVEN'TFEDMEADEQUATELYALLDAMNDAY.

Awaking from my sandwich ecstasy, I realized I really had to figure out where my train was, and actually get on it. I successfully found my car, found my "couchette" and climbed on in. And then I realized I was in a compartment with three French men.

This would have slightly bothered me at any other time, but I was too tired and too entranced with sleeping ON A TRAIN, IN A CUTE LITTLE BUNK, that it pretty much washed over me.

After I put my ear plugs in, I just conked out. For the next seven hours, I floated between sleep and wake, rocked by the motion of the train.

My bags and I were thrown out onto the platform in Carcasonne at 5:30 AM on a very misty Sunday morning.

I had about half an hour to figure out where to get a ticket for my connection to Couiza.

But I had to get into the station.

Which meant I had to tackle two flights of stairs down, a walk through a tunnel, and then two flights of stairs up. With two suitcases, a purse, and a laptop bag.

In the station, everything was in French, everything was closed, and no one was around to help.

I tried to figure out schedules, and finally ended up buying a few tickets, in the hopes that one of them would be the right one.

I lugged my bags back down the stairs, back through the tunnel, and back up the stairs.

And then I realized there were two platforms, and I wasn't sure which one I was supposed to be on, and my ticket did NOT seem to tell me.

I looked at the clock. I had five minutes to figure it out.

I looked across to the station and saw a man sweeping. He was pretty much my only hope. I left my bags on the platform - there was no one around at 6am on a Sunday morning to steal them - raced down the stairs, through the tunnel and up the stairs, and tried to make him understand that I wanted desperately to reach Couiza.

Understanding brightened his face. He pointed to a bus waiting outside.

Oh. I was supposed to get on a bus, not a train. And I had three minutes to get my idiotic bags and board it.

Back down the stairs. Back through the tunnel. Back up the stairs.

I basically threw my bags down the stairs, raced after them and somehow managed to get them up the stairs at the same time, and then race to the bus and board it before it left the station.

I showed the driver my assortment of tickets. None of them happened to be right. But that is ok - because he only had to look at my face once to know that I would dissolve in utter hysteria if he made me go back into that station. He sighed and waved me on.

A 45 minute bus ride, and a short cab ride later, I was in front of Gite des Cathares.

I wanted nothing but to shower in very hot water, wrap myself in a blanket, and climb into bed.

But I couldn't remember where the land lady said she was going to leave the key. And I definitely had not written it down.

For about half an hour I overturned stones and prayed to various saints-of-lost-causes, and swore viciously in my head, and hoped a bolt of lighting would just kill me.

At the point where insanity almost overwhelmed me, I kicked over one last rock, and there it was. The key.

I yelped in glee, and hurled myself into my new home.

Two hours later, I was in possession of tea and goat cheese from the supermarket, a loaf of still WARM sourdough bread, and some of the most amazing butter ever to melt in my mouth.

Some things are so worth it. Even man - handling excessive amounts of luggage, at unholy hours of the morning, in country where you can barely make yourself understood.

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There is a moral, I suppose.

Pack light.

Or, alternatively, make sure you have a strong chivalrous man around who doesn't mind hauling around bags packed with ridiculous shoes and one too many bottles of magical ointments for glistening skin.

One or the other.

Farewell, Greece!

2011-11-27T07:38:00.005-07:00

I have been excessively MIA the past month।

I think, mostly, I wanted to just soak up my last remnants of Greece; secondly I have been entirely bagged, and the thought of stringing coherent sentences together was a no go.

And then thirdly, I was getting stuff ready to come here, to France: A village called Couiza, about 45 minutes outside of Carcasonne. I arrived here this morning, after a few days of chaos and hilarity, and am here for the next three or so months.

Let me start at the beginning.

I left "Villa Sunshine" last Tuesday morning, bright and early. It took 6 hours to get into Athens via bus, and I sat next to a lady who obviously had never heard about deoderant. Oh my gosh. Enough said.

I had three full days in Athens, since my flight did not leave until Saturday morning, and so among other things, I arranged a three Island cruise with a tour company. Basically, they pick you up at your hotel in a huge tour bus, cart you to Piraeus, usher you on board a cruise ship, and whirl you between Hydra, Poros, and Aegina. Midway through, they serve lunch in the glassed in dining room, and as the boat returns to Athens in the early evening, they have bouzouka dancing. Not bad for 99 euro.

It was magical. Hydra, especially, was an absolute fairy book. Unfortunately - and I should not have been surprised since I never keep track of these things - my camera battery died just as we landed in Hydra, the first Island. Oh the gods laughed
.

I got collared almost immediately by a guy traveling alone on business, and after about twenty minutes, I had predicted all the answers he subsequently gave me.

"I am spiritual. Not religious. I don't believe in the oppression of organized religion."

Check

"I am libertarian, I guess. But beyond anything, I seriously do not believe in elected government officials."

Check

"I refuse to eat meat. I am a complete vegan."

Check

"I could never bring children into the world. The world is grossly overpopulated."

AND check.

Could he be more of a cliche?

These differences of opinion did not prevent us from having a good time exploring Hyrda and Poros together, mostly because I just nodded and smiled, since he did not seem to expect or need a reply, and because I enjoyed making predications - and being entirely right - about what he would say or how he would react to things.

Beyond that, though, he was just a very well intentioned person - albeit misguided - as well as someone with a lot to say about pretty much everything. He actually, in some faint way, reminded me of combination of my two brothers next to me. So it was fun.

On the way to Aegina though, I ended up in a conversation with a man from the States, currently living in Switzerland.

I found myself embroiled in this discussion, which carried into dinner, first about traveling, books, and movies, and then about his two failed marriages, his current "partner," and, most importantly, as I kept trying to figure out: how you know when to end a marriage, and how, after repeated failures, you know when to begin another one. I mean, in his case, it seems that he is a) impressively hopeful or b) just really dumb.

He is a psychologist, and it was fascinating to get his take on commitment. By fascinating, I mean depressing. However, depressing can still be interesting. And interesting always takes the cake. Even if I can't sleep afterwards. He was floored that I was so interested, but when I explained that when I grow up I probably want to land in Marriage and Family Therapy, he was more than happy to oblige.

Oh the places you go.

On my last day in Athens, I climbed up to the Parthenon, was completely and utterly boggled and awestruck, and then headed back to my hotel in the early evening to work and pack and organize myself. At about 9:30 PM though, I realized I was so hungry that I was going to fall into utter collapse. This surprised me, since I had partaken of a big, rather late lunch.

Feeling sufficiently confident in the area, having wandered around it for three days, I headed out to find somewhere to eat.

I ended up at about 10 PM - the normal eating hour for most Greeks - at this Taverna with absolutely no tourists, but crammed with locals. Just what I was looking for. There was live Greek music playing, and if anyone heard a song they liked, up they would get to whirl around the tables. At a few points, almost the whole restaurant was waving their arms and kicking their legs and shaking their hips.

Yes, I joined them. But only after downing a glass of Ouza, and after intense pressure from the (god-like) waiter to "just try it." Oh my gosh it was so fun. And completely out of character. I blame the ouzo.

It was a perfect end to the Greek part of my travels.

Tune back to hear about Mary bawling in the middle of Notre Dame, sharing her sleeping quarters on the train with four frenchmen, being on the wrong train platform, and to put the icing on the cake, buying the wrong ticket for the bus to Couiza, but convincing the driver to let her on anyway.

I don't think I have had a more crazy twenty four hours in my twenty four years.

But what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and always turns into a great story.

No Shoes, this is true.

2011-11-19T11:01:00.003-07:00

On Wednesday I finally got my self back into Kalamata. I was going, I proclaimed to everyone, to see the open air market; in actuality, I really just wanted to go shoe shopping.

The market is everything a market should be: loud, chaotic, smelly, fascinating - a complete throwback to a different time.

Vendors yell at you as you pass, shoving grapes under your nose; skinned lambs are hung by their hooves just waiting to be basted with herbs and olive oil and cooked to perfection. Or, in my case, vomited on. Wheels of cheese are hacked into, and samples are waved in front of your face; dried figs array themselves in tempting piles.

I bought three perfectly ripe Persimmons, a bunch of glorious looking zucchini flowers, and a bag of cashews. After about 45 minutes, my introverted self was gasping under the weight of the sensory overload, and so I took myself off to the more sedate shopping district in the downtown area.

After wandering around for about an hour, weaving in and out of stores, trying on knee boots and ankle boots and flats and heels and pointy toed shoes, I gave up. All I wanted was a really comfortable pair of shoes, suitable for touring around in, that looked fabulous. How hard is that?

Nigh impossible. I can tell you that.

The only remedy for the situation was to take myself out for lunch.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Scanning the menu, I noticed a whole list of very scrumptious looking salads. This excited me, because I truly love salads. I haven't had one in three months, though - mainly because I can't be bothered to clean lettuce leaves, after having become acclimatized to pre-washed organic greens in resealable plastic containers.

I was almost through lunch, when the table next to me became occupied by two men - one around fifty, one nearing thirty-ish.

Somehow - I am never sure how these things get going - a conversation was started, and they invited me to their table. I had nothing better to do, and so I hopped on over, they ordered me a glass of wine, and tried to get me to share their plate of spanakopita with them. I told them I had just finished my own lunch, and was quite full.

"I saw what you had. A salad. This is nothing."

"It was quite a big one. Very filling."

"This is not real food. If you don't eat enough you will lose, and this is not a good thing. Not at all. Eat."

The only thing to do, was to distract them by getting them to speak about themselves. Who doesn't like to tell their life story?

They were "sea men" - the younger one was some sort of Captain - and they were on a shore leave for a few days. The older one was Greek, the younger one was from Montenegro.

As the conversation spun off onto different tangents, something that struck me was how gentlemanly both of them were.

At one point, in discussing funny misunderstandings that can happen in translation from one language to another, the younger man started to explain some swear words that are popular on board his ship, that in his language are not offensive, but in Greek could get you involved in a fight.

Quite suddenly, the older man touched his younger friend on the shoulder, "This is a very lady-like woman. She doesn't need to be hearing this."

The younger one blushed, and quickly changed the topic.

I could have eased his conscience and told him that I have two brothers who are marines, one of whom in particular, can make me ears bleed if he sets his mind to it.

At another point, when the waitress brought our bills to us, they grabbed mine because, "A woman with men should never pay."

And finally, as I got up to leave and thanked them for a nice afternoon, they both shushed me. "It is we who are happy that you spent time with us. You made our lunch such a good one."

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This is something lovely that I have come across traveling alone. People are more apt to start a random conversation with a single person, than with two or more people traveling together.

Or maybe it is that men tend to prey on alone - looking females.

In any case - I don't really care what the reason is - I have had reams of interesting conversations, from one with a Swedish man about the European economy, to one with a British woman on the bottomless generosity of the Greeks, to one with a Canadian woman about hitchhiking through Europe during the '70s. OH - and one about how olive oil is produced. Apparently, if your olive oil is not a rich shade of green, it should not be touched, even with a 10 foot pole.

More than this though - and I am about to sound completely naive to the more jaded - is that through these encounters I have been able to observe such slivers of goodness in everyone - generosity, kindness, intelligence, cheerfulness, peace, courage, old fashioned chivalry.

Talk about financial crises and the death of Western Civilization all you want, but when I think of that burning flame of goodness - sometimes big, sometimes small, but always there - inside each person I have met, I am hopeful.

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I hopped onto the bus at the Kalamata Station with no wonderful shoes, true, but a surprisingly light heart.

Who needs shoes, when you can spend the afternoon being prevented from learning how to sound like a sailor?

Change Is In The Air

2011-11-18T12:39:00.002-07:00

I am getting ready to leave Greece.

As usual, when confronted with change of any sort, I am hyperventilating just a little, and when I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I continue the thought that I fell asleep with.

11:45 PM: Oh my gosh I really need too....

2:30 AM: ...go to the bank machine so I have enough cash to pay the cab driver on Saturday. (After a suitable interval for peeing, excessive hand washing, and crawling back into bed) I really wish.....

5:00AM: .... they used plastic here. (After a suitable interval for yet more peeing, excessive hand washing, and hurling myself back into bed) I swear, at some point I am going to just ....

8:30 AM: ...lose 500 Euro somewhere, or throw it out by accident. I hate carrying around cash.

8:45 AM:(As I put on the kettle for Earl Grey) My gosh I have to stop drinking so much tea before bed.

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In some ways, I feel as if I am entering the real world again.

Well, the world in which I feel obliged to make some effort to look semi - human.

I have been to the pharmacy, and had the Korres rep help me pick out various things guaranteed to make me look less dead and more alive.

"This, you need this, very much, for these," patting a heavy concealer on my dark circles. "SO much better. Much, much, better."

After three months of randomly slapping on the minimum of both clothing and makeup, it is almost like being 12 again, with one's first bulging makeup bag.

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After scoping out the three hair salons in the village, and polling any village women who speak English, I decided on the Wella salon on the main street in Harakopio. The owner, I was told, spent 14 years in Germany, where she was trained in the tricky art of hair.

When I stopped by to make an appointment, the superb cleanliness, the marble floors, and the beautiful wood paneling impressed me, so I felt confident in my choice.

Do not let the fact that I rarely ever brush my hair mislead you - (truly, I didn't own a brush until about two years ago) I take hair cuts very seriously. My theory is, if you have a really good haircut, there is no need to do anything but occasionally shampoo and condition.

But that's up to you.

You have no idea what a hot mess was spewing out of the top of my head. It had turquoise streaks. It has also started to curl in weird ways. Most days it looked like I had stuck my finger in a socket and then dipped random chunks of hair in blueberry jello.

I walked into the salon a few minutes before my 9AM appointment - I was early: that is how excited I was - and she ushered into a chair, at which point the hairdresser pursed her lips.

"So...."

"I know. It's terrible."

"Hmm......"

"I want to keep the length, so just thin it out and color it so the turquoise goes away."

"Thin it out?"

"Mhmm. Because it's so thick."

"Ahhh. Right."

So, she set to work. Her assistant offered me my choice of coffees, brought a selection of magazines, and I started to ride blissfully away on a cloud of hair dye fumes, frappes, and the October Vogue.

But...when she started cutting, my heart sank.

Miss German hairdresser had no idea what she was doing.

She was doing dainty little point cuts, basically just ridding me of my split ends. What I needed, though, was a full on attack, like the Allies invading Normandy. I needed someone to start razoring and texturizing the life out of it.

I needed to shed a bear's winter coat, not a tea cup full of hair. Seriously.

However, the color is fabulous - or, at least, normal - my split ends are no more, and I guess I just have to put a little more effort into grooming in order to make it look OK.

Plus, it only cost a third of what I would have been charged at home.

I just have to find my brush and dust it off.

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Even with all of these (vastly) important preparations though, I can't run away from the fact that I am very sad to leave.

It has been so nice walking through olive groves into the village. The mountains never look the same, and the whoosh of the sea is so immediately calming, and always immensely enticing.

It is lovely to get to know everyone - by face at least - so that when a farmer stops to offer me a lift, I accept it because I see him at my cafe every time I am there, throwing back a beer. Or three.

It is fun to walk into the supermarket, and have the friendly cashier make me practice my Greek, by repeating the phrase she made me memorize the day before.

I love the quick acceptance and welcoming among the various ex-pats here - our shared foreignness is a glue which binds us altogether, making immediate friends of people who might not otherwise spend any time together, if given more of a choice.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

There is an ache present when I think of leaving. But I am ready to leave and move on.

I have a very strong feeling though, that this place will call me back. A part of me has planted a small root in this dense clay filled soil, which will one day need tending.

If Your Heart Loves God

2011-11-13T05:59:00.000-07:00

Walking along, seeing a gush of bouganvilla, my brain goes "Gee, that reminds me so much of Southern California." Watching a sudden burst of overwhelmingly torrential rain rush down from the sky I think, "Wow. This is so much like Florida rain storms."

Being buffeted around by waves on a windy day takes me back to summers at Pigeon Lake. I would wait breathlessly for stormy days, so that I could go into the water and experience with gleeful freedom the feeling of being thrown around by powerful gushes of water.

Stepping outside into damp - making mugginess, I am reminded of summers in Ontario with Grandma and Grandpa. The open air markets here remind me of the one in Campo de Fiori.

---------------------------------------------------------------

For so long I convinced my brain of the impossibility, the impracticality, perhaps the uselessness of seeing all the things I wanted to see; so it keeps telling that I am in SoCal, or Florida, or Alberta, or Southern Ontario, or back in Rome - which itself was so dreamlike, I still can't believe I lived there. To actually believe that I am in Greece is too unreal a thought.

The fulfillment of a dream can almost be too heavy a burden to carry. The weight of happiness becomes so heavy that the fear of being sent a bolt of lightening from a jealous God becomes ever present.

Oh, the twisted recesses of the mind.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

As far back as I can remember, my day dreams were filled with Parisian streets, and Roman courtyards, Pyramids and ancient ruins, lions leaping through Africa, and the smells and colors of India. But they were only day dreams, and none if it was practical in any sense, or perhaps even possible. I would push all my mind pictures away, write a paper, and my heart would ache a little in protest.

People don't fulfill their daydreams.

I mean, except for my friends who dreamed about being married....and are married.

Or my friends who longed for children....and now have them.

Or those who wanted be lawyers/doctors/nurses/ teachers....and now are those things.

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My point: Perhaps, not always, but certainly sometimes, our daydreams - even if they seem impractical, or too big, or any other discouraging thing - are the whispers of God nudging us towards happiness. Perhaps in ignoring those whispers, and in saying that those dreams aren't good enough, or right enough, or even doable, we are slapping God in the face.

We are saying that who he created us to be, and the desires he placed on our hearts are silly. Maybe a mistake. At any rate, entirely ignorable. We are saying that the path he wants us to take is not possible. So we forge our own.

But those heart-throbs, those daydreams, might mean something.

Peter Kreeft says it best - as he often does:

"... surely it is God who designed our hearts – the spiritual heart with desire and will as much as the physical heart with aorta and valves ... So our hearts can be worth following too even though they are sinful and fallible. If your heart loves God, it is worth following. If it doesn't, then you're not interested in the problem of discernment of his will anyway." (read the whole thing here)

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So maybe, just maybe, the fulfillment of that dream deep in your heart can also be the fulfillment of God's will. And maybe, just maybe, to be afraid of happiness is to be afraid of letting God love us.

Oh Gulp

2011-11-11T08:27:00.003-07:00

I made a promise to myself when I arrived on the shores of Greece: that I would forever leave junk t.v. behind me. I would move forward a better person.

It didn't last long.

At the end of a busy day when I have driven myself into a state of almost hysterical exhaustion, Real Housewives or Cake Boss seem to be the closest thing to having someone sit on me so that I stop moving. I slip into a comatose state, sip tea, and tension seeps out of me.

Of course - the goal would be not to get into that state in the first place; surely then (hopefully) the pull of terrible reality t.v. would slacken. I'm working on it.

I think part of the attraction, though, is that reality tv is an extension people watching - my favorite pastime. Of course, it is a highly dramatized, extensively staged, sometimes (almost always) unrealistic version of reality, but that does not prevent some very pertinent truths from escaping out of the woodwork.

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One Sunday, after a week of hiking around the area with a little too much intensity, when I truly needed nothing but to reach a state of absolute vegging, I stumbled upon a new show.

Made in Chelsea follows a bunch of upper class young Brits around. It's a smorgasbord of fabulous clothes, lovely parties, and extensive holidaying. Sprinkled with visits to bank managers to see about pulling out yet some more money, and random attempts at getting a job, it all makes for a show that no one should ever watch.

One story line in particular, though, seems to encapsulate much of current dating life in all its sadness. Playboy Spencer is in love with Caggie, and has been for about half his life. She kind of likes him, but for some reason won't actually date him. She encourages him, pulls back, crushes him, regains his trust, encourages him, pulls back....etc. In an effort to get over Caggie, Spencer randomly dates other girls, but never for long. All Spencer wants is Caggie.

Finally at long last, Spencer gives up on Caggie and finds a girl who he seems to really like. She is a "dancer" (yes, that kind) - definitely not part of the normal Chelsea crowd. They date for a while until one day, when Spencer lets his little dancer know how he is feeling. He tells her that more than anything, he just wants to take care of her. He wants to protect her, make sure she never wants for anything, make her feel safe and give her whatever she needs.

She gives him a disgusted up-down, curls her lip, and proceeds to beat him soundly into the ground. No one will ever, she says, take care of her. She will never be indebted to anyone. She has taken care of herself all her life and done a damn good job of it - why should she stop? She doesn't need Spencer. She doesn't need anyone. Dancing pays really well, and it makes her feel empowered.

So she breaks up with Spencer.

Spencer crawls back to Caggie, confused, but ever hopeful that maybe now she will go out with him. She does her typical flirting, then shoots him down when he seems too encouraged, and the cycle continues.

Spencer comes to the conclusion that he really has to change. He has to stop going out with other girls, and just wait patiently for Caggie, no matter how long it takes. He makes a concerted effort to be the man that she might go out with.

Finally, it seems as if he is getting somewhere. Things get to the point where once and for all he asks her if perhaps she could love him; he just wants to take care of her. She tells him - after two of her friends tell her that she is not being quite fair to Spencer by dragging him along all the time - that once and for all she never will love him "in that way."

Spencer, speechless, stumbles away, leaving Caggie to toss her hair, roll her eyes slightly, and muse aloud about how Spencer just wants too much. In the same breath she also muses on the lame-ness of men.

In the meantime, Spencer in a slightly bewildered way, is talking to his best friend. He is admitting that he is a throw back to a different time - a time when a man won a woman and cared for her. "All I want is someone to look after."

Whoa.

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A few things strike me about this. A woman can be such an inspiration to a man. She can move him to be better.

Women can also be bitches. With characteristic indecisiveness, instead of breaking off with a man or rejecting him with a nice clean cut, a woman will drag it out forever. I have seen it happen too many times, and it makes me feel embarrassed for my sex in general.

Most importantly though, I am reminded of a realization that made an impact on me a few years back.

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One of my favorite novels is Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers. It is brilliantly written with an absolutely swoon worthy hero.

The biggest thing though, is that it presented to me this crazy complicated idea of love, in a way that I had never thought about it before.

The love story between Harriet and Peter is a long drawn out complicated one, traveled by two overly intelligent, incredibly sensitive people. Many issues come up, but one of the biggest is from Harriet.

She holds Peter off because she has forged her own path for so long, and become so used to providing for herself, that to give it up means she is losing part of her identity and throwing away her independence.

The crux at the heart of everything is that, as lowly novelist marrying an aristocrat, Harriet believes she will become dependent on Peter, and forced into a position of continuous gratitude for all that he has brought into her life. She can not fathom that.

However, when Harriet can't hide anymore from the fact that she does indeed love Peter, what she also awakens to is that the best way she can love him back is to allow him to give her the world, and lay it at her feet. The biggest sacrifice she makes is when she consents to his generosity and accepts the weight of gratitude.

Contrary to expecting gratitude from Harriet for all he has to offer her, and something that she had ignored because she could not quite believe it, Peter is profoundly grateful that he has so much to give. It is he who feels immensely indebted when he finally attains the desire of his heart. It is Peter who feels bowled over and astonished and given the world, when Harriet finally consents to being loved.

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If your five year old presents you with a wilted dandelion as the supreme gift of her affections, you do not tell her to throw it away because it is ugly, you put it in a vase and exclaim over it, because it is a gift of love.

Sometimes then, love is not about how much you give, but what you allow yourself to receive. Women have lost touch with this, and as a result have helped mold a generation of young men, aimless and searching, with no direction for the boundless energy they possess and nothing to inspire them to greatness

Don't complain about the wimpy, aimless young men out there ladies: the solution lies with you, in the generosity of your hearts.

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Even from here, across the ocean, I can hear a series of gulps.

Rejoice with the wife of thy youth...

2011-11-09T03:45:00.005-07:00

I was supposed to go into Kalamata today, to investigate the huge open air market they have on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I also wanted to buy some shoes.

Anyone who has seen my shoe collection is rolling their eyes. "Need" is surely an exaggeration, they are thinking.

Well, perhaps - but I would feel much better if I had a nice pair of comfortable, yet stylish flats at my disposal. I quite possibly should have packed a pair in place of one - of the three - pairs of heels I crammed into my already bursting suitcases. Oh well.

Hindsight and all that.

However, my shopping plans were ruined.

I woke up this morning with a pounding head, and when I got out of bed I kind of almost passed out. I found a wall before I hit the floor, and slid down it, which prevented me from busting my head open or breaking something. Which is good; but it did nix my goal of boarding the early morning bus.

With visions of knocking myself out and being eaten alive by spiders before I regain consciousness, I begin to reflect on the fact that the Bible should be paid more attention to. Man, as it says, is not meant to be alone. Small nuggets like that are invaluable.

Instead of shopping my head off, I ended up hopping around the internet reading a few articles. I came across this one, by Naomi Wolf, who I really like. She does her research, is honest about it, and writes really well.

I was first exposed to her a few years ago, when I read her book Misconceptions, which is a minutely researched book detailing the various erroneous practices in Maternal and Obstetrical care rampant in today's modern world.

I have no idea how I got a hold of it; all I know is that I was equally parts fascinated, disgusted, and traumatized. But don't let that deter you: it is immensely well written and eyeopening. Two things a book should be, if at all possible.

Today I came across an article by the very same Ms. Wolf, and I had to read it twice, so I think you should at least read it once.

Something to whet your palate:

I am not advocating a return to the days of hiding female sexuality, but I am noting that the power and charge of sex are maintained when there is some sacredness to it, when it is not on tap all the time. In many more traditional cultures, it is not prudery that leads them to discourage men from looking at pornography. It is, rather, because these cultures understand male sexuality and what it takes to keep men and women turned on to one another over time—to help men, in particular, to, as the Old Testament puts it, “rejoice with the wife of thy youth; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times.” These cultures urge men not to look at porn because they know that a powerful erotic bond between parents is a key element of a strong family.

Enjoy!

http://nymag.com/nymetro/news/trends/n_9437/

One Hopes

2011-11-05T14:28:00.003-06:00

On Friday, when I was in the supermarket in Koroni, an older man bumped into me, and begged what I assumed was a Greek apology. I just smiled, shrugged, and made a move to get on with my day.

Suddenly he was trying to have a conversation with me, and when he realized I wasn't Greek - something he professed shock and awe at - he switched to English and asked if I was German or British. I told him I was Canadian.

Then he asked if I was from Toronto or Montreal. I told him I was from Calgary.

He slapped his forehead in glee. Apparently he has friends in Calgary. He then accepted me as one of his family, told me I had to come over for dinner at some point, gave me his name, and informed me, with pride, that he drives a taxi. Here, that is nothing to sniff at. It costs something like 200,000 Euro to purchase a Taxi Licence. He patted me on the back, and went on his way.

I finished my shopping and went to the harbor front, settled in at a gorgeous little Cafe Bar, and thought about the many odd encounters I have had while I have been here. I don't think I have gone out once without entering into a full blown conversation - many of which I do not understand - with at least one of the people who happens to cross my path.

I am not a particularly extroverted or loud person, I am usually content to not be in the middle of things but to sit in a corner and watch, and I am never the life of the party.

That type of person - the person who I am not - is someone I think would be more likely to have a constant stream of bizarre conversations and interactions to recollect.

Yet, here I am. I just have to look at someone, and they want to settle in for a chat.

And that, I think, is the crux of the matter. I actually look at people. I make eye contact. I smile.

I am beginning to realize that this might be a rather rare thing.

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A few weeks ago, on one of the Saturday hikes, I ended up in a long conversation with one of the most lovely ladies I have ever met. She is a small Dutch woman, with a gorgeously weathered face, lovely cheekbones, and bright blond hair. She - at 59 - and her husband - in his mid 60s - set out a couple years ago to backpack through Asia. They were gone for a year. She glows when she talks about it. It was the fulfillment of a dream she had held for about 40 years - which had been shelved when she met her husband, got married, had children, and worked as a teacher.

I quizzed her about Thailand and India and Bali, and she answered all of my questions in detail, and then told me that I should just go sometime. I told her I hoped to.

And then suddenly we were talking about me - something I usually tend to avoid at all costs, especially if the conversation turns personal.

Rather abruptly, apropos of nothing really, she looked at me and said, "I am sure you must have to be careful."

I looked at her, puzzled.

"You are so natural and friendly. You have a very free and easy way about you. You are very open and welcoming and interested in everyone around you."

I blushed, for I consider that a great compliment.

"Men, I am sure, misinterpret that, and many women, I am positive of this fact, become resentful, because they wish they could be as natural and open. I know - because you remind me of me when I was your age."

And suddenly I was telling her all about some of my slightly weird, sometimes hilarious, occasionally traumatizing experiences that seemed to prove her right. I told her how a certain easiness and trust I used to have, for people on whom I thought I could bestow it, is no longer in my possession, only to be replaced by a nervous wariness. I told her how demoralizing it has been to realize I have to stop and examine any natural impulses I have to be generous and friendly, because now I am terrified that a message will be read that isn't there.

She looked at me sadly. "What a world we live in, where a beautiful open character, full of friendliness and generosity must be hidden, simply because it is easier for some people to try to twist and warp goodness than to protect it."

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Sitting by the Harbor in Koroni, with the friendly taxi driver and the lovely Dutch woman fresh on my mind, I came to some conclusions.

Even if unpleasant things occasionally come my my, I do not want to be one of those people who shuffles by, never making eye contact. I don't want to never smile at strangers. I like smiling. I want to show my interest in people, because I am genuinely interested in them. I want to be friendly and open and welcoming not just to those I know, but those I don't, because sometimes when a stranger is friendly, it can make your day.

If I hadn't been all of those things, I never would have had a conversations about kibbutzim in Israel, or barley rusk pizzas, obscure music from the seventies, and how to card wool. I wouldn't have talked to a girl my age who told me about her two little girls, and how maybe she got married too young, but how she is happy, and her girls are amazing. I wouldn't have had a mysterious conversation with a possible gangster. I wouldn't know how Qigong works, how to make mincemeat, or how to properly cure olives. I wouldn't know what a tongue that has had a piece of cancer taken out of it looks like (really cool, actually), or what it is like to realize you live in a country where it is impossible to find a builder who can construct a house with straight walls.

Every good thing has a shadow side; the key must surely be to not let the shadow engulf what is good and hide it from sight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

And let's face it: Any size shadow is worth gaining enough trust from a local so that she tells me the utterly scandalous news that the gorgeous (stunning) post mistress is actually a Russian mail order bride, married to one of the most obese men we have both ever seen.

"At least he is a kind man."

"Well, that surely counts for something."

In tones of complete skepticism: "Hmm. One hopes."

Yes, one does.

Frenzied Psychopaths.

2011-11-04T13:30:00.002-06:00

I love reading, I love words, and I love writing.

I also never stop thinking. The majority of my thoughts - as I have divulged - are pretty much fluffy filler, but because my brain revs like a kangaroo on crack, it also produces a vast array of interesting (I think) thought snippets, which are usually unconnected from each other, but which keep me entertained and mulling, until I can resolve them. Each and every one.

The thing is, sometimes I go into overload, and I end up thinking about a much too large variety of different things. THEN, I freeze up when it comes to writing something, anything, because HOW DOES ONE CHOOSE BETWEEN THEM? It would be like lining up your children and saying: "That one. I choose that one to be my favorite, and worth my time."

What usually happens then, is I just wait until one train of thought makes itself known as the most insistent one, and I write about that. I know it's not fair, but usually the child who makes the most noise and causes the most problems gets the most attention. So it is with thoughts.

I don't not write because I have nothing to say, but because I have too much.

I need to talk about how essential men are.

Because, over and over, during the past few days, as I have walked to Harakopio, and trudged to Koroni, and gotten myself elbow deep in paint, this memory keeps coming up.

I don't know why, but it won't go away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

About a year or so ago, I ended up babysitting some of my younger siblings for a few days while my parents went somewhere and partied wildly for the weekend.

Haha.

I believe I was in charge of the three littlest girls and the baby boy - which, honestly, is not as big a deal as it sounds. Typically, they are all very well behaved and are great at entertaining themselves. One evening, as I was popping corn in preparation for movie night, a scream of tremendously high pitched proportions rent the air in two.

One of the girls had kicked another one in the stomach.

And she tried to lie about it.

And she showed no remorse.

Thinking that this certainly needed some big gun punishment, I banned her from the family movie and told her she had to clean her room instead.

She dissolved into utter hysteria, but I remained strong, and pushed her into her room and slammed the door.

About five minutes later, as sobs and gasps escaped down the hall, I was wracked with guilt.

It was too harsh a punishment, I decided. After she cleaned her room, she could come out.

Only, she made no attempt to clean her room, sneaked out, and tried to hide in the corner and watch the movie unnoticed.

Since she obviously had no sense of remorse, I figured that my initial punishment had to stand. No movie for her. No way, sister.

Five minutes after that, I started to waffle. The kid was tired. Of course she was testy. And she was probably missing her parents. Maybe it would be better to have a heart to heart, get at her real motivations, see what was really going on, and then let her watch the movie.

I pictured us on her bed, in cozy conversation, as I softly opened her bedroom door.

She whipped around to face me and screamed "I hate you so much. You are the meanest, worst person I know, and you are so unfair. I didn't even do anything that wrong."

Furious, I slammed the door in her face and sat on the stairs.

The kid had turned into a psychopath. OBVIOUSLY kicking sisters in the stomach is normal behavior. OBVIOUSLY sneaking out of consequences is not a punishable offence. OBVIOUSLY, I was the worst person in the world for installing some boundaries in her young life.

I shook my head in shock. What a psycho. She could stay in there till dinner TOMORROW with NO FOOD.

About three minutes later I was wracked with guilt. Again. Of course she reacted that way. She reacted that way because my punishment was too harsh, for something that, while admittedly bad, was done because she was tired. She wasn't really responsible. I had to try and talk to her again.

I poked my head in her room.

"You are WORST SISTER EVER. I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN."

This child is a stubborn beast when it comes to admitting any wrongdoing.

Probably about two minutes after I slammed the door yet again, I was withering away in despair over how terrible I was being to her.

At which point, my brother walked in the front door, fresh from not dealing with the drama of the evening.

I grabbed his arm and explained the situation to him. "Greg. What do I DO?"

"Umm. She is a brat. She thinks she can get away with anything. She needs to stay in her room." He looked at me like I was crazy.

"But, she was really tired. And maybe it was too big a punishment in the first place. Maybe I was unfair, and she is justified in being mad at me."

"Mary. Being tired is not really an excuse. She kicked a little girl in the stomach. And she lied about it. She needs to learn that there are real, hard consequences."

"I guess."

***Long Pause***

"Umm, well, maybe she could come out halfway through?"

He looked at me with raised eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Ok then. You deal with her. I obviously can't."

"Fine."

I smirked to myself. He would fold. No doubt about it.

He walked down the hall, into the room from which occasional death moans were escaping, told the miscreant that she was being a brat, and needed to suffer the consequences and shut up about it, closed the door softly, grabbed a bowl of popcorn, and settled into the movie, without a flicker of disturbance crossing his face.

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And this is why we need good men.

Typically, women lead with their feelings, men with their heads.

Let's not get into gender stereotype arguments here because this is true.

One is not better than the other - a child really needs both sides of the equation. The world really needs both sides of the equation.

BUT - sometimes we need one more than the other. This was one of those times.

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I couldn't get over the fact that I felt bad, terrible, guilty, and the devils spawn that my sister was missing out on something she really wanted. I just wanted to feel good, and I wanted her to feel good. It hurt ME too much to give her what she needed.

But the bare facts are that this child needed a check on her behavior, because in order to become a fully functioning member of adult society, she had to learn that certain behaviors are totally unacceptable. Like kicking. And lying. And screaming. And disobedience. Otherwise, yes, she would be raised into a little psychopath.

Beyond that "being tired" is not really an excuse. Part of growing up is learning to deal with life in a civilized fashion, no matter what comes up, no matter how we are feeling.

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Some bitter uber feminist, ranting about the same-ness of men and women is reading this, muttering about how she could be as mean as a man, no problem. I am sure she could.

I, on the other hand, am rather happy to know about the soft spot within me, that shying away from the infliction of pain, even if it is necessary.

In this world I am inundated constantly with the message that men and women are pretty much interchangeable and that men might well be unnecessary. A little voice inside me cries out "Not True!" but has a hard time believing it, and grasps desperately for proof.

That voice gains affirmation and strength when I reflect on that soft spot. In some odd way, it affirms my femininity.

At the very least, women need a good man to protect that softness - that essence of being a woman - from being crushed and warped in the process of giving parameters to stubborn little wills.

The world does not need an explosion of frenzied, entitled psychopaths.

Because....imagine that.

Death

2011-10-30T08:35:00.005-06:00

Today the clocks fell backwards an hour, so I got an extra bit of sleep before I schlepped it to Church. I was surprised when someone mentioned the clocks - in North America, the time change doesn't happen until next week, I believe.

The past two Sundays, Jimmy, my cake wielding admirer, has made an appearance at the Divine Liturgy. The first week I met him, he professed a disdain for ever going to Church; nevertheless, the past two Sundays, about 15 minutes before the end of the Liturgy, he has ambled in with a group of friends.

Accordingly, my habit has now become that as soon as the priest gives the final blessing and Jimmy has made his way forward for some blessed bread, I scootch out the back door, bolt across the town square, and into the recesses of the kafeneon I never usually frequent, which, hopefully, he will not think to investigate.

I hang out there for half an hour, have a coffee and watch the History Channel complete with Greek subtitles, and then take a back road to the farmers market.

He has also interfered with my coffee and reading schedule during the weekdays. Jimmy has now started taking possession of my customary table at the time I usually make a village appearance. So now when I go in, I take a side street that grants me a view of the Cafe's patio. If I see him, I zip round the corner, and head somewhere else.

The hazards of village life.

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Today, as I sipped my coffee, the guy -- Kostas? Christos? Yannis? Quite possibly one of those, but I wouldn't know since either a) he told me his name and I forgot, or b) he didn't tell me and I really don't know -- running the shop for the day decided to join me. He warmed up a large cream filled pastry, doused it with icing sugar, cut it into small triangles, and sat down. He speared a square of pastry, passed it to me, and motioned me to eat. He was very observant: the second I got close to finishing my bit of pastry, he would hand me another one.

I found myself almost in the same predicament as I was with Jimmy and his cakes a few weeks ago, except that I could not fake that I was eating the cake, since I was quite literally being fed.

My head started to pound just a little - the very fast first symptom whenever I start to ingest a large amount of sugar - and I tried to distract him by asking him various questions. Since his English is not good, he had to concentrate quite a lot, and as he furrowed his brow and tried to form sentences, he distractedly plowed through almost the rest of the pastry, until he unfortunately recollected himself, and oh so gallantly handed me the last piece.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Gill was absolutely shocked when she found out that I hang out at the Kafeneons at least four times a week.

"No. You never."

"Umm....should I not?"

"Mary, that is awfully brave of you."

"Well, I know they look at me weird, but whatever."

"Wow. I have never done that. I just wouldn't."

"......There is nothing wrong with going, is there?"

"Oh no. Not at all. Its just that women never go there. And it's so awkward. They just end up watching you the whole time."

"Oh. I just thought they were old and nosy. So I ignore them, and then glare at them if the situation warrants it."

"Robyn. Listen to this. Mary hangs out at the Kafeneons in Harakopio. By herself."

"Blimey. That's brave of you."

---------------------------------------------------------------

And here I thought all that they were referring to was the fact that the old coffee sipping men hate to have females on their turf and grumble away in Greek to themselves and occasionally give the stink eye.

Which just amuses me, and makes me want to go back even more.

Quite possibly, though, they were warning me of a very real thing - death by sweets.

It might very well happen to me one of these days.

Santa Baby...

2011-10-29T12:15:00.006-06:00

I am sitting here, listening to Michael Buble's Christmas album.

Never mind that Christmas is about two months away.

Never mind that listening to Christmas music alone, in the middle of Greece, with no snow, no Christmas tree, and no smells of cookies baking to fill the air is just.....sort of pathetic.

I don't care. Michael Buble's voice is like smooth dark chocolate. It produces the same affect as a glass of red wine. It sends shivers up and down my spine.

I would willingly be a home-wrecker, if Michael would be amenable to the idea.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Not really.

---------------------------------------------------------------

That was completely apropos of nothing.

Basically, I just had to share my joy. My obsession.

Although I will say, with complete reluctance, but in the spirit of honesty, that his "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas" has nothing on Bing's. Its true. No one will EVER have Bing's voice.

Sorry, Lover.

I mean, Micheal.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I keep trying to write what I have wanted to write about all week, what I intended to write about for this very post. But Michael, that charmer, just asked me to fall in love with him right now.

And I might have swooned.

Oh my gosh.

He just said that he is mine.

Must. Breath. Now.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I can't focus.

This is really ridiculous.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Damn it all.

Why did he have to marry this girl:

When he could have had this girl, burned nose and all. She would have gotten over her marriage phobia just for him. I promise, because I know her personally.

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Whelp...I might as well end this stream of conciousness right now. Nothing real is getting written today.

Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt

2011-10-27T09:38:00.005-06:00

There are so many things about being in a new country that are just a little bit off kilter. They do a lot of the same things I am used to....sort of.

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1) They drink coffee with milk. Sort of.

The other day I walked to Cafe Art, and almost froze on the way there. It is surprising how being near a body of water makes the temperature seem to be hovering around freezing, when in fact it is about...17 degrees Celsius.

Or, I just find the weather chilly in general, if it's below 25C.

By the time I arrived at the Cafe doors, and pushed aside the curtain of smoke that greeted me, all I could think was "WARMTH. NOW!" So, instead of my usual Frappe, I ordered a hot coffee with one sugar. They like to add the sugar for you - none of these dainty little packets on tables for the Greeks.

When he brought my coffee, the waiter asked if I wanted milk. I said yes, because even though milk not made of almonds makes me a tad ill, I have never been able to drink my coffee black. He plopped down one of those individual milk things - the ones with the peel back lids that little kids like to confiscate and make butter with (shake, shake, shake for about 19 hours straight.....Or maybe that was just my brother Greg....).

I poured the milk in, stirred, and was looking forward with immense pleasure, to warming my shivering insides up. But then...I took a sip and almost spewed the content of my mouth everywhere. The coffee had a weird cloying taste, and a sort of thick texture that stuck to the roof of my mouth and seemed to coat my tongue.

If I had been back home, I would have marched to the counter, and demanded (sweetly) that something be done.

When you don't speak the language though, there is not much to do in order to get your point across, short of dumping the coffee on the ground. That seemed a little extreme, and possibly a touch rude.

So, I took another sip, trying to figure out what was wrong with my innocent looking coffee.

After one more sip, I had it.

He hadn't given me normal milk, or even cream. He had given me a little container of sweetened condensed milk. I can't say I have ever really been a fan.

But, now I understand why there is half an aisle of various condensed milks at the super market, right next to the coffee section. I always thought it was weird before. I mean, what else do you do with sweetened condensed milk except make.....

Actually. I have no idea what one would do with such a thing.

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2) They eat three meals a day. Sort of.

Another weird thing about the Greeks, or maybe just the ones in this area, is that they only really eat once a day.

Or, so they say.

They don't like to eat breakfast, and instead walk around eating rusks, and cookies, and the occasional pastry.

The main meal comes at about 1 or 2, and it is a full on dinner with wine and various good things. And then.....they spend the rest of the day snacking.

My art teacher said that her neighbor always gets after her for cooking too much - she says eating more than once a day is bad for you.

This ticks Gill off, because, as she says, they eat all day long. Constantly. Biscuits here, rusks there, cookies, pastries, frappes, ice cream ......and then they take a break from the nibbling to actually sit down and eat lunch. After which the grazing continues.

Gill's neighbor insists that she doesn't eat breakfast; instead she drinks a large glass of milk, and has two big rusks (the Greek version of toast, except you buy it, already toasted, from the bakery). I dunno, but that sounds like breakfast to me.

Later in the evening, one usually finds groups of people sitting around drinking, and having a snack of about 4 sticks of souvlaki - each. There might also be some potatoes on the side. Maybe a coleslaw salad. But, they will assure you, this is not an actual meal, of course, just a "snack"before retiring.

I dunno...that sounds awfully dinner like to me.

I am not sure what the Greeks have against admitting that they eat three meals a day - I mean, just from looking at them, you can tell that they do. But if they want to keep up the fiction of semi-anorexia, then it's fine by me.

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3) They eat pork! There is no two ways about it. It can not be denied.

There is nothing wrong with liking pork, but I am definitely used to seeing it neatly packaged, cut into equally sized pieces.

They don't do it that way here.

I was walking across the street, when I was almost impaled by a big wooden stick. The stick was stuck through the body of a whole pig. The pig was nestled snuggly under a man's arm, and he was just ambling along, toting the pig, talking to his friend, not paying attention and on the verge of adding me on the stick next to the pig.

It was honestly one of the most shocking things. I froze in the middle of the street, oblivious for a moment to the mopeds and cars zipping by.

Gill one-upped me when I told her about it.

A few weeks ago, she was sitting outside the coffee shop, when a man drove by on his moped. Wedged behind him was a whole pig, hooves on his shoulders, on its way to be roasted in the Taverna.

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And there you have it. Life is the same, yet different. Just a little tilted.

Like dark chocolate sprinkled with sea salt.

Your whole chocolate experience changes and shifts shape; suddenly your eyes pop open to new chocolate dimension that you didn't even know existed.

Walking Backwards.

2011-10-25T12:15:00.003-06:00

Today I walked into Koroni to get more cash from the bank machine. There is no such thing in Harakopio.

Harakopio is a completely cash-based village. It is impossible to pay with credit or debit cards. The other day I asked the pharmacist if I could pay with my credit card (since the cash-stash in my underwear drawer was running low), and she just laughed. Debit card? Another laugh.

Apparently, if you buy a house here, you go to the bank and, quite literally, get a bag of cash and hand it over. There is something charming about that.

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As I walked to Koroni, I thought about how being without a car means that I have to put effort into attaining the necessities of life. Walking into the village every other day to get some more produce and perhaps some fish, and definitely some yogurt, is not quite tantamount to plowing in the fields, but it is certainly healthier - both physically and psychologically - than hopping into the car to drive a couple of blocks in order to get some milk.

I also thought about how I have always discounted walking as valid exercise. How silly - especially when the terrain is hilly, and you have a load of groceries to tote. Really. How silly of me.

The biggest thing, though, about spending long periods of time walking to and from various places, is that I have long blocks of un-interrupted time with myself. You are thinking that I have full days of un-interrupted time with myself - but with books, and the internet time can get very full, very fast.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I liken my brain to the energizer bunny - it moves very fast, it doesn't stop, and it hops from thing to thing in no particular semblance of logical order. One of the reasons I watch dumb shows like The Real Housewives or Sister Wives, is that the sheer stupidity distracts me enough so that my brain can idle for a while, and take a break from its spastic leaps and bounds.

But on long walks, I have no distraction. This would generally be considered a good thing - time alone is important for so many things - but today it got a little dangerous.

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I was on my way back from Koroni - about halfway through my treck back - and I was starting the almost sheer climb up the side of this cliff overlooking the sea.

I was carrying a few too many impulse buys from the health food store - I can never resist a health food store - and I was going a little nuts from my brain nattering away.

"Wow. Look at that view. Oh my gosh I am in Greece. This is a Grecian view. MARY YOU ARE IN GREECE: BE EXCITED! Wow. I wish I had read the Peloponnesian Wars more carefully. I should re-read them. Can I actually do that to myself? Maybe I should read Homer. But I almost died the last time I had to read The Iliad. That was my third time through. Three times is enough.

"But it shouldn't be. What is WRONG with me? I should love those books. Those are works of art. I should be lapping them up. UGH. I have to work on cultivating intelligence. Seriously. God is going to be so ticked off at me if I keep reading dumb things like the Shopaholic books.

"In fact, I am mad at me. I have to re-train my brain to appreciate important things. Like...politics. And world affairs. Maybe map reading.

"Damn it why did I wear these pants? I bet everyone saw way too much of my underwear today; they ride so damn low. Gah they are so weird. Who designed them? I have no idea what body type they are supposed to fit: maybe an elephant with a glandular problem but really small calves. Maybe my calves are just too big. Maybe it's me. Maybe I am oddly proportioned. AHGhhg. I totally am. My whole family is.

"Intelligent thought, Mary. This is a waste of brain energy. You can do it. Just focus. Wow my butt hurts. This hill is going to kill me. Maybe I should try running up it - just bust it out and get it over with. OH my gosh. I know! I will walk up it backwards. I bet that works a whole different series of muscles.

"Oh man alive does it ever. I didn't even know there were muscles in that part of my leg. Holy COW. Why didn't I think of this before?! Mary you are going to have killer legs. You are so smart!

"Mary! Start thinking of intelligent things, DAMN IT. Your legs do. not. count.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

At which point, my attention was caught by a small rock that made me stumble, so I had to focus on where I was going. I realized that I was about 3 inches away from the edge of a straight drop - perhaps a city block or two - into a pile of scarily jagged rocks.

I hadn't noticed, because I was, well, walking backwards.

The fact that I almost killed myself trying to re-train my brain and tone up my legs can be looked at from many different angles.

1) Multi-tasking is a bad thing.

2) Intelligent thought is over-rated.

3) Who needs backwards hill climbing legs?

Or, maybe, most importantly:

4) Learning how to pay attention to one's surroundings is a valuable tool to cultivate. Among many other things, it can prevent serious harm, and possibly death (This is said exactly how my Dad would say it to me, if I had not just pretended to be him and said it first).

Duly noted.

Desert Mother

2011-10-24T12:02:00.005-06:00

I have met a surprising number of people during the last few weeks. Going on the Saturday hikes, and doing an art class has really broadened my horizons.

Each time I meet someone, we go through the exchange of how long we have been in Greece, why we came, why we chose the area....and then there is a pause. I am furtively assessed - or not so furtively, depending on the person - and inevitably asked something along the lines of:

"You came with your boyfriend?"

A raised eyebrow always accompanies my negative answer.

"A few girlfriends then?" Apparently "a few girlfriends" = one male, on the scale of acceptable traveling companions. Which, to be honest and completely fair, is definitely quite accurate in terms of efficiency, safety, and map-reading abilities.

The other eyebrow is raised when I again answer in the negative.

"This is a family trip?"

Their jaw grows slack as they realize I have traveled here by myself.

In a last ditch attempt: "You have family here, then? You do look Greek. I should have thought of that right away."

As I shake my head, they usually begin to laugh nervously.

"Haha....Wow. So....that's really brave. Umm. Wow. SO....what made you do that?"

My first instinct is to wonder if I really come off being as incompetent and incapable as they seem to assume I am. Then, I have to admit that any female traveling alone into a country where she does not speak the language, especially if she is barely 5'3'' and still gets id'd whenever she tries to get a glass of wine, must come off as fairly bizarre. Or insane.

The answer I now give, accompanied by a rueful laugh is ..."I had a midlife crisis about twenty-five years too early."

They relax after that, because that is something they understand. Most of them have ended up here after some crisis or another, so they begin to equate my female child-looking traveling alone-ness, to their selling a house in London, in order to live in an olive grove and never flush their toilet paper down the toilet WHERE IT IS SUPPOSED TO GO.

I still have not recovered from that.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As time has passed - surprisingly and almost scarily quickly, one thing has hit me, over and over; it becomes bigger every time a new acquaintance discovers my alone -ness.

It is that so much of life only makes sense, or can only be experienced to the fullest, in the presence of other people.

For instance, when I am by myself, I rarely actually cook anything interesting, even though I love cooking. I will resort to a bowl of yogurt or oatmeal...over and over and over.....and over, rather than prepare a proper meal.

Why? Because cooking a meal and eating it is something that makes the most sense when there is more than one person. Eating should be a communal activity.

The same thing goes for sightseeing. It's incredible to look at the Acropolis, or to catch your first glimpse of a new town or city. But when there is no one around with whom to share your excitement with, it is as if the experience becomes a translucent fluttery thing.

It is in sharing our experiences and our thoughts that they are made concrete and given life.

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I have also realized how much I enjoy doing things for people. I was so excited for my second art class last week, because I realized I had a group of people for whom I could make cookies. They were so thrilled when I presented them at coffee break; little did they know how much they were filling a desperate void.

I contemplated making bread for my land-lord, but from previous horrendous and traumatizing experiences where have simply tried (perhaps naively) to be nice and helpful, only to have it vastly mis-interpreted by the male on the receiving end, I didn't want to go there.

Which made me melancholy, and wish for the days when it was normal to be neighborly, and absurd to read gross things into the impulse to be friendly and generous.

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All of this has led me directly to one undeniable truth.

I am not, and could never be a hermit.

Because I do need occasional long periods of solitude in which to re-coup, I assumed that I could handle going up into the mountains never to see human beings again, and be like the desert fathers, or something like that. And because I tend to lean towards the idea that God is only happy if I am miserable, I assumed that at some point, I would be required to swaddle myself in sack-cloth and sit on a stump being all holy and alone, eating mosquitoes and drinking rat blood.

Mary the Desert Mother.

But no. The point of life is to become the best of who we can be while using the gifts we have been given. And.....we are meant to be happy doing it.

I would make the worst Desert Mother there ever was. I know that now, and it took coming to Greece to figure that out.

What can I say...some of us just need a few more slaps upside the head.

Leaps.

2011-10-23T04:30:00.004-06:00

When my friends get married I find it a little weird, but when my friends have babies, I find it downright bizarre. I finally got to catch up with one of my longest running friends yesterday (18 years and counting!), and I got a peek at her lovely baby.

It has been amazing having a friend I am very close to, have a baby. She has had no qualms sharing all the gory pregnancy details with me - in fact, one of my favorite things soon became "TELL me. What's happened to your body THIS week?!"

And so, yesterday I got the D.L. on her labor and delivery.

As she recounted her hours of labor, and then the drama of pushing, and then the horror of the next few weeks of recovery - she had a really rough recovery - I started to understand why one would decide to be "too posh to push."

In fact, I decided that I might be.

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Our conversation was a far cry from some of the mommy blogs you see out there. You know the ones I mean - the new mommies who talk about labor and delivery as the best experience of their life thus far; the ones who gush about how transformative learning how to breath properly is, because when you know how to breath, you don't even feel labor pains. At all!

This is accompanied by pictures of an angelic looking woman, dewy faced, calm lips pursed together in a gentle smile, hair perfectly coiffed, being handed her baby seconds after delivery.

At which point the reader has one of two reactions:

1) Thank you Jesus! Pushing out a baby is easier than plucking my eyebrows! I can do this, no problem!

2) Liar.

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As we chatted, my mind kept exploding in these little burbles of shock.

"That baby is her baby."

"She is a mom."

"She gave birth to that baby."

"OHMYGOSHSHEHASABABY!!!"

For some reason, this experience of the girl - THIS girl - that I used to have week long sleepovers with actually becoming a new mommy is something that I can't quite wrap my mind around.

I have congratulated many other friends and acquaintances on the birth of their new baby without batting an eye and I have seen many friends get married, but this, beyond anything, just takes the cake.

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Of course, since I think long and deeply about pretty much everything, I was still thinking about my friend and her baby this morning and all day today.

From my vantage point, it seems as if having a baby is the biggest leap that anyone could ever make. You are being given a life to care for and cultivate goodness in. By all accounts you will love this little being with a vast enormity that defies description, but you will also be called upon to set him loose to freely follow his own path, to make his own mistakes, get hurt, find love, fail, triumph...

It is easier to endure pain oneself than to see someone you love suffer or struggle, and so parenthood seems to be, in some respects, utterly terrifying. The aim of parenthood is not necessarily to protect, but to build up that little life, making him strong enough to endure, tough enough to fight, always ready to struggle. To love much, but with detachment seems to be the call of the parent.

Perhaps this is why, then, that I am still reeling with the entrance into the world of this new little lady, and my friend's step into motherhood.

I am watching, at immensely close quarters, a very big thing. I am witness to a courageous, generous, truly awesome leap in the arc of my friend's life.

It's a beautiful thing.

Nerve Strain

2011-10-22T11:51:00.002-06:00

On Wednesday I went to go hang my clothing out to dry, and was greeted by a herd of cats. Or would it be a flock? A brood? A horde?

In any case - 5 kittens, accompanied by 3 cats started leaping around me the minute I went outside. They followed me around the property mewling their heads off and trying to rub their backs against my ankles.

Cats terrify me.

They are so serpentine and sneaky and demanding. They seem rather malicious. Ever seen the rather fabulous movie Mean Girls? That's right - cats are the queen bees of the animal kingdom. They will steal your boyfriend and embarrass you in front of the whole school if you let them.

I know I shouldn't paint with such broad strokes - there are, I am sure, perfectly lovely cats out there. These wild cats aren't them.

Anyway, I finished hanging up my clothes, ran through the front door before they could get in, and slammed it shut. They pawed and clawed at the door for the next couple hours. Finally, when I figured that my clothing would be dry and the cats would be gone, I opened the front door.

A pile of fur made a howling, flying leap at me, and with a terrified yelp I shut the door, and didn't venture out until the next morning.

It was like something out of a horror movie: Invasion of the Feral Cats.

I ended up solving the problem by lugging a water bottle with me whenever I went outside, squirting them whenever they came near.

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On top of that, a couple days before the cats invaded, I heard a weird rattling in my kitchen. I went in to investigate, and saw to my abject horror that a cockroach was trapped in one of the glass jugs on the shelf.

I put saran wrap over the mouth of the jug, put a bottle of olive oil on top of the saran-wrap (in case it is possible for cockroaches to climb glass walls and then claw through plastic), and waited for it to die.

While I waited, I investigated cockroach infestations and cockroach diseases in wikipedia and about.com.

I convinced myself that I was living in the midst of a cockroach infestation, and that I was going to succumb to all the diseases - possibly the plague - that they would give me.

The internet is a dangerous place.

In an attempt to be sane and rational, though, I had a talk with myself in which I was informed that I am much bigger and way more intelligent than any cockroach. Accordingly, I came up with a solution.

When the cockroach finally died two days later - they are remarkably hardy - I didn't dump it into the garbage as had been my plan. I left it in the covered jug - it is still there - as an example to any other cockroaches who might think it is a good idea to spend time in my house.

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Bugs are a really big deal here.

Every time I roll out my yoga mat, I stop breathing until I am sure that there is no spider or centipede trapped inside.

About a week ago, I was making dinner, and heard all this crazy tapping on all the windows. It didn't really register as anything important. A few minutes later, though, I was getting annoyed by a fly buzzing around my head, so I opened the french doors to let it out. Immediately, a herd of HUGE black flies zoomed their way in. I am not exaggerating when I say that there were about two dozen flies doing loop - di - loops all over my house.

I started to think about the X-Files for some reason. Wasn't there an episode about a fly man?

At any rate, I found it pretty scary.

Eventually they all exited the same way they had come in, and I was left wondering what, precisely, in my cooking had led them into such a frenzy.

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There is, perhaps, a rat in my roof.

Rats were not even in my thought processes until today. I went on the weekly hike, and Gill, the group leader was telling me about various things when rats came up. I started to breath really fast and asked, in a completely fake casual voice if they happened to be a big problem.

"Well, most people in the village have them."

I started to feel a little lightheaded. "Um. So, how do you know if you have them?" I didn't even pretend to be casual about it. She could tell I was terrified.

"Well, sometimes you can hear them in the roof, scurrying around."

Full on hyperventilation. Sky rocketing panic. Because....

Last Sunday I heard thumping above my head as I woke up, and I naively assumed it to be cats having a morning frolic as the sun came up.

Probably......not.

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I love it here, I really do, and I feel immensely blessed to be here.

However.

I might not return without someone in tow who does not mind dealing with bugs and rodents and possessed cats.

The strain on my poor nerves is just way too immense.

Public Service Announcement

2011-10-19T07:25:00.004-06:00

Today, instead of writing a blog post, I ended up getting pulled into the depths of The Atlantic magazine, reading article linked to article linked to article. One, in particular, stood out. In the interest of trying set various friends, and possibly myself, straight, I am going to talk about it.

Lori Gottleib basically confirms what I have been mulling over for quite some time: My (female) friends and I have it really, really, wrong.

The basic theme of the article: there is no perfect man. Choose "Mr Good Enough" now, while he still wants you, because by the time you hit your mid thirties, he is after someone ten years younger. Basically - it's ok to settle; that may in fact make you happy. "We grew up thinking that marriage meant feeling some kind of divine spark, and so we walked away from uninspiring relationships that might have made us happy in the context of a family." WHOaaaa.

I am not encouraging "settling" when it comes to non-negotiables like religious beliefs, moral beliefs, children....etc, and I don't think she is either.

But when it comes right down to it, there are the movies, and there is reality. Here is a clue: life is not a movie. Or, as the author says: "...realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all."

I am going to take it a step further. I am not sure, because honestly I am just hypothesizing here (obviously), but I would hazard a guess that if you marry that "teammate," and he is a genuinely good man, and a good father...he will become "the love of your life."

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I have had conversations with friends along the lines of:

- "But, seriously, he needs to lose about five pounds."

Does she really think five pounds on a 6' 2'' male frame is going to make THAT much difference?

- From a woman with a rather hawk-like nose herself: "He has a weird lump in his nose."

You want to counteract the effect of your own shnoz, do you?

- "I dunno....he once liked Martha, I heard. That shows abysmal judgement."

Well, you once dated a Business Major who had to take Intro Lit three times and almost got expelled for driving drunk.

- "He's awesome. But he doesn't know what a run-on sentence is."

Oh wait. That one was me.

- From a woman hitting her mid-thirties - "He's 44." Answering my confused look: "That means he is 9 years older than I am. I can't handle that."

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As the author says in her video interview: "If he doesn't call you at this time, he is outta there, because you think there are so many other men out there who are going to call you. And the fact is, that as you get older, they're not."

Further along in the video interview, because this made me laugh: "Literary women are a problem. A big problem. " Why? "Grammar and spelling are hugely important to these women." As she points out, he could be a very intelligent, nice person otherwise.

......hmmmmmmmm.

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And then, finally, this sums it all up:

"It sounds obvious now, but I didn’t fully appreciate back then that what makes for a good marriage isn’t necessarily what makes for a good romantic relationship. Once you’re married, it’s not about whom you want to go on vacation with; it’s about whom you want to run a household with. "

So, read the article, ladies: you know who you are. Take it to heart and remember, as John Cage from Ally McBeal says "Love is a lot more pragmatic than most people give it credit for."

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2008/03/marry-him/6651/

The Glories of Spending Money

2011-10-18T05:06:00.003-06:00

The other day as I was fuzzily making some pre-breakfast tea and shoving various pills into my mouth, I noticed with horror that I had - to my well trained eye - about two weeks left of one of my supplements.

It wasn't just any old supplement. It is the one responsible for making me sleep and preventing descents into hysteria; which, when I reluctantly do retrospectives in the interest of self knowledge, always seem intensely illogical and absurdly random. As, I suppose, is only natural.

There are times when I can do without it, but this period of my life does not happen to be one of them. I really don't want to expose a sleep deprived, hysterical, manic version of myself to the poor natives. Tourists might end up being banned from the area. Add my turquoise hair to the mix, and an attempt might be made to exorcize me.

Therefore, I went into damage prevention mode and started re-searching the various options at my disposal.

Quite possibly this led to a few hours of completely-unrelated-to-my-research "window" shopping in the depths the UK version of the Amazon website. Canada's version of Amazon is really sub-par.

Realizing that I could interact with a real human being and get what I needed, I went to the Pharmacy in Harakopio. The Pharmacist greeted me with a rush of Greek, I apologetically announced my North-Americaness, and she apologized profusely for not recognizing that fact. Apparently she can always tell the Greek from the non-Greek, and she just assumed I was Greek.

I explained what I needed, and as she did some phoning, I poked around. A flood of intense excitement almost laid me prostrate: one whole section of the store was devoted to Korres - a Greek make up and body care line.

Besides smelling heavenly, being of excellent quality, and having fabulous packaging, the whole line also happens to be free of a whole host of disturbing things, including parabens and PEGs and SLES and ALES....and other things.

Honestly, I have no idea what any of those things are, but magazines tell me they are harmful.

I went into a frenzy of perfume smelling, and lip balm sampling, and bronzer testing.

One thing led to another, and it became irrevocably obvious, and perhaps essential to my well-being that I purchase the White Tea/Bergamot/Freesia Perfume (for night-time wear), the Jasmine Body Spray (for day-time wear), and a make-up package designed to highlight the green in my eyes.

With an intense sense of well-being, fortified by the Pharmacists assurance that my order would be in tomorrow afternoon, I left the Pharmacy.

Yes, I thought, as I settled down to a warm cup of coffee, I could live here. What else does one need of life, but to be able to control one's insanity and smell delicious?

Absolutely nothing, that's what.

Communication

2011-10-17T06:06:00.003-06:00

A few of my friends have asked me why I won't just go for a ride with Mr. Moped.

In theory, I suppose that would be fun. It would be just the thing to put in the next best seller turned blockbuster movie ala Eat Pray Love. What else is a female traveling alone supposed to do, but sidle up to any available man? Or unavailable ones, if your taste runs that way.

However. I have this huge issue: Communication, and being able to do it well, is fundamental to my comfortability level. In a foreign country, short of ordering coffee, and pointing to things on menus, I do not enter into situations if I can not make myself clearly understood, and I can not clearly understand.

Some seem to thrive on hand gestures; others seem to be ok with semaphoresque type endeavors. Occasionally I have seen conversations carried out in grunts.

I am not ok with any of that. My preferred mode of communication is either the written or spoken word in my mother tongue (although I have weakness for the written). I do not willingly enter into extended situations where neither will be of use to me.

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An extension of this insistence on good verbal and written communication, now that I am reflecting on it, is kind of funny. Or weird.

I have rebuffed two maybe, three - oh dear, maybe four - guys simply because I realized that:

a) they couldn't speak properly

b) they couldn't write properly

There is nothing, in my world, more distressing than receiving a heartfelt declaration from the depths of a male soul, only to be going:

1) Ohmygosh he doesn't know the difference between "there and their."

2) Oh HELL no. He just said "you and me."

3) That is an interesting and entirely inappropriate use of semicolon.

4) That is not even a sentence. That is a dependent clause.

5) Did he really just say "Where are you at?"

6) Look at that. The then/than dilemma.

I could go on. And on.

Is this snobby?

Perhaps.

But then, maybe not. Where one of my friends might judge a guy she meets on his six pack, or lack thereof, I generally judge someone on their proficiency with language.

Cases in point:

1) I am head over heels in love with a blogger, simply because he writes like a demi-god. He is 18. This means that he is not only six years younger than yours truly, but also that he breaks my "he must be at least five years older than I am" rule. I am willing to throw age difference and rules to the wind. I am even willing to tear him away from his girlfriend. I am positive she is not good enough.

2) When Peter Kreeft came to a Theology on Tap when I was at school, I sat in the audience, impressed with his ideas, yes, but entranced with the way in which he worded them. I leaned over and told my friend that I wanted to marry him. She informed me that he happened to be married, and definitely over 70. I told her that I didn't care.

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There you have it. If you want to get on my good side, just use the English language properly. I am not asking for a Shakespeare sonnet here, but I am asking for something more than this train wreck:

"If I would have known that you wanted to go I would of brought you their, but I never would of thought about it; if you hadnt said nothing."

Let's play "spot the mistakes."

Evasion

2011-10-15T07:32:00.003-06:00

Remember the guy who tried to force feed me cake?

Yesterday, I had just ordered a drink at Cafe Art, and was heading outside to lounge at my favorite table on the corner of the patio, which has the best view of village comings and goings. I had my journal, some things to ponder, and I was looking forward to a few hours of constructive lounging.

Not so.

Jimmy was there. He ushered me busily to my table, sat me down, and asked why he hadn't seen me lately.

Then, I succeeded in inadvertently offending him in a monumental way, when my drink came out. I had paid for it already when I ordered it at the counter. When it was brought out though, Jimmy grandly asked how much was owed, and was informed I had already taken care of it.

"WHY you PAY? I pay."

I just shrugged, asserting my North American no man takes care of me feminism.

"SO. When you leave? November? End of November? Then you go home and FREEZE in Canada eh?"

I informed that I planned to hit up Paris a and the South of France first.

"FRANCE? Why France? You know someone there? You meet someone there?" He looked at me with a squinty eyed glare.

"I actually am meeting a friend there."

"What? A boyfriend?!" His eyebrows formed into a threatening v.

I contemplated admitting that, yes, I had a rendezvouz in Paris with my British lover who is my sun and moon and stars, but I knew I would not be able to get the words out without laughing. So I told him the truth, that my friend was a she instead of a he.

"So. You like spaghetti and meatballs?"

"Oh. Sometimes." That is actually my least favorite meal ever.

"You trust me?"

Not even a centimeter.

"You come to my house for lunch, and I make you spaghetti and meatballs, eh?"

I told him I wasn't at all hungry, and could not foresee being hungry at any point during the rest the of the day.

"Ok. So, maybe some other time."

I wouldn't bet on it.

"October 26. You doing anything that evening?"

"Oh...well, I'm not sure. I would have to check my calender." My incredibly full, no free minute calender.

"That is my birthday. You come, and a few of my friends, and we all go for dinner. You come, ok?"

"Well, I might be busy - I will have to check."

"What's wrong? You don't like being the only woman in a group of men?"

That's never really bothered me.

But... when they are all thirty years (at least...) older than I, with either no ability or very little ability to speak my language, yes, I am bothered.

"I'll see."

"Good. You come."

Now I just have to avoid Jimmy for the next two weeks.

Turquoise Hair and Calamari

2011-10-13T13:00:00.003-06:00

People (some who I have not talked to in years, some who I don't even like (just kidding - I like everyone, at all times ( that is sarcasm (but it does not mean I was kidding about disliking people (I WAS kidding!!))) keep sending me messages and emails telling me they like these tales of Greece and other random occurrences. It always weirds me out just a little because they have read enough to figure out how weird I am, but I don't know that they know. And I want to know what they know, or what they think they know.

Points of clarification in case my parenthesis prove too confusing. I wont even try to sort out what I know, and what you know:

1) I like everyone who reads this blog, simply by virtue of the fact that they read it! Yay me!

2) I do not like everyone, at all times. Doing so would deprive me of moments of vicious sarcasm and black cynicism.

Wait....does this mean I don't like anyone who doesn't read this blog?

At one point I got an A in a logic course. I am not sure if I could pull that off again.

This is a very round about way of saying that there is kind of a reason why Thomas shoved his hand into Jesus' side ...he needed proof. Prove it to me people - if you hang around here, click the "follow" button. You can even, in the spirit of public service, leave comments trying to inform me that I am severely psychotic.

I will respond and let you know I am already well aware of that fact.

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My day got off to a rocky start. Maybe this is why I am demanding affirmation.

I walked into the kitchen, straight into a puddle of water. While I attempted (unsuccessfully) not to think about what bacteria were possibly frolicking about in the lake forming in my kitchen, I tried to discover what was wrong.

It was, of course, the fridge, which had turned itself off and melted the contents of my freezer: a huge bag of calamari, and a piece of halibut.

Being barely functional when I first wake up, I pretended like nothing was wrong, turned on my kettle, made some tea, and ate some watermelon. After an hour, I felt sufficiently ready to cope with the day, and got myself ready to go find Pete to come and fix my fridge.

You should have seen me though - one side of my face (the side not squished into the pillow) was attacked by a mosquito in the night, leaving me looking like a cross between a basement - bound, video game obsessed teenager in the midst of the worst breakout ever, and a child with a vicious case of chicken pox.

But that wasn't the only thing going on. My hair has taken on a life of its own. I mean - it usually verges on being its own separate entity, but of late, it almost needs its own name. The term "big hair" doesn't even begin to describe the situation over here.

Besides that....some of my (fake) blond highlights have turned a suspicious shade of turquoise. I am not entirely sure how this happened. Possibly the sea water?

It was one of those sob -worthy "What has happened to my LIFE?!" moments. There I was, blotchy face in need of foundation so heavy I have never had to own it, with turquoise hair exploding all over the place (which I am too afraid to go get fixed, because you should SEE the haircuts and hair colors walking around here), wondering what kind of disease I would get from the fridge water I had stepped in. Because surely, there had to be SOMETHING in that water that would enter into the cracks of my feet, and crawl its way to my heart and give me tachycardia and kill me.

Good thing I am all alone here.

The result of my morning was a mound of fish that needed cooking. Which I did, but now do not want to eat. Let's face it - I bought the Calamari as an experiment, and it really only tastes good when it is soaked in batter and deep fried. I am not about to do that to my butt.

The good news is that so far my heart rhythm seems normal; hopefully my body will successfully conquer whatever disease the fridge water gave me. If not, I bequeath a fridgeful of Calamari to whoever gets here first to collect my body.

Art Lessons

2011-10-12T12:09:00.003-06:00

Today I had my first art class with various people from the expat community here.

The lovely lady who organizes the Saturday walks (one of which I went on last Saturday), also happens to be an amazing artist. She has a lovely studio across the way from her house in Harakopio.

Thinking that I should probably force myself to have contact with people, whether I want to or not, I signed up for this four week "mixed media" course with utter trepidation.

When it comes to actually letting creativity flow through my finger tips, I tend to freeze up and create a soggy pile of miserableness.

I arrived to find everyone already assembled in the white washed studio with high wood-beamed ceilings and bits of art work pinned everywhere. I pulled out my painting shirt (which happens to have Michael Buble's face plastered on the front of it - I was definitely judged accordingly), and listened attentively to our instructions.

We would be working with, I learned, acrylics, wax, vaseline, scrapers, paint brushes, and bits of newsprint. With a brief outline of various creative paths it would be possible to go down, we were set loose at our workstations.

There were too many options, and not enough directions, so I started to hyperventilate.

Finally, I slapped a few of my favorite colors on my paper, scraped them around with the edge of an old credit card, and stared at it in disbelief.

It looked bloody awful.

I sank into a a vague depression, and poked around with a few more pieces of paper.

And then.

We went on to the second stage "resisting" - using wax and vaseline and acrylic washes. I tinkered with the wax, and played with the vaseline, and in a fit of adventurousness, added a dark gray wash. I started to scrape it back, and then suddenly....

my work was transformed.

Peeking out of the grey was a glory of crimson, and indigo, shot through with copper and bursts of yellow. I know that sounds crazy, but somehow it works, and it works well.

At that point, I started to have fun. When the morning ended, about two hours later, I was splashed up to my elbows with paint, and I was so, completely relaxed that all I wanted to do was lie in the garden for a nap.

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Over our coffee break (Gill's husband made us glorious coffee and brought out plates of cookies), I met my newest hero. She is an Israeli/Irish/Brit, who. seven years ago, moved with her husband and three children to Greece.

They were so sick of the rat-race in London, that they gave it up - threw it all to the wind. They sold their house and bought a plot of land in Greece. Her kids wander through the olive groves and play all day - "I think it is really good for them" - and they attend the local school, and at this point know Greek better than English. They spend their summers in England and Israel with family.

As she said "We spend almost no money, because there is nothing to buy, and we live off the land. What is important is that we continuously get to know ourselves, and what it means to really live, and live well."

Wow. People talk about doing something like that, but who ever actually has the courage to follow through?

Watermelons

2011-10-11T11:13:00.002-06:00

There is something amazingly special about watermelons.

Or maybe it's just me.

Half a watermelon each, our own pot of peppermint tea, and a movie from the list of the worst movies of all time (ever seen Suburban Girl? No, I didn't think so. Its only redeeming quality: Alec Baldwin. Be still my heart), has always been a go to Friday night activity for when Amy and I (hi Amy!) were too tired to do anything else.

By the end of the movie, we would have vastly huge watermelon babies, and would start pee-ing incredible amounts: every 15 minutes all.night.long.

But there is also that vibrant pink-ness, the juicy sweetness, the reminders of sticky summers past, sitting in the sun, contemplating another run through the sprinkler...

In short, today was a crap day, and a watermelon saved me from jumping off a cliff into the Ionian Sea.

I am not sure exactly what went wrong, but I guess I woke up on the proverbial wrong side of the bed and felt both vaguely suicidal and intensely murderous until after lunch, when I decided to walk my blues away and go get a Frappe at Cafe Art.

Only, it was grey outside; grey and damp and chilly. I had to put on a sweatshirt and pants for the first time in six weeks, it was so cold. Instead of raising my mood, I lowered it by venturing out into the murky weather.

I stomped through mud and splashed through puddles and contemplated just giving up and sitting by the side of the road in a mud heap and bawling until some Greek farmer took notice.

My ever-present pride saved me from that one.

The Frappe didn't help, and neither did cooking up life stories for the various villagers who ambled past. So, I went to the grocery store to buy some sponges and some more bread. I didn't really need either, but when I am depressed I shop.

The grocery store was the only thing open at 3:00pm in Harakopio.

When in Calgary, and in a terrible mood, I can be found either at a) Safeway, contemplating the glistening and wonderfully organized rows of produce or b) The Gap, gazing on the perfectly organized piles of jeans.

Something about both those places never fails to sooth my wounded soul.

Side note: Did you know that Gap has a unique smell that is in every Gap that I have ever been in? From Calgary to Rome; Florence to Florida; Kansas City to San Diego, D.C. to Las Vegas; Banff to Paris: every single one of them has the exact same clean, crisp smell. Sort of like a gay man's super sanitized idea of freshly washed clothing hung outside to dry in bright sunlight. It's wonderful.

But, back to watermelons.

As I was stuffing my sponges and bread into my bag, and dreading the damp walk home, the owner of the grocery store came up to me, and plopped a water melon right beside me. She pointed to herself, then to the melon, then to me.

She gave me a baby watermelon as a gift, just because.

And suddenly my day was the right side up again.

Well, until just now.

In a grand attempt to avoid some work that needs doing, I watched an adoption video that I came across. It has left me as I am now: A soggy mess with mascara running down my cheeks. Good thing my next door neighbor moved out last week. I don't know how I would have explained my hysterical sobbing and blackened face:

"There was this little black baby, and he was in Haiti, and he got the nicest parents, and he is so cute, but it is so hard for him to adjust, and can you imagine doing that? I want to do that. I want my own little black baby."

*Blank stare.*

Ahem.

Anyhoo....my watermelon is sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting to be sliced open to reveal it's radiant coral brilliance. It promises to make everything right.

It's always the small things.

Books, books, books.

2011-10-10T06:37:00.002-06:00

I have been able to do a fair amount of reading since I got here. As a book lover, but also as someone who the past few years has made a point of so rigorously scheduling her time, so that even twenty minutes in a day without an allotted purpose needed to be filled with some sort of purposeful activity (reading, for some reason didn't really count...), this has been amazingly wonderful.

I was flipping through titles on my Kindle this morning, looking for something to read, when I realized that I have read about 17 books since I first got here - that's about one every 2-ish days. Not bad, right?

In the interest of sharing this wealth of books, I'll share a few titles. But you must share some back.

I am currently reading historian David McCullough's The Greater Journey. I only started it this morning, and according to Kindle, I am only 10 percent of the way through. However, I have to say that it is incredibly readable, and very enjoyable. It is the story of various people - writers, artists, doctors - who, between 1830 and 1900, set off from the "New World" and into the old - Paris - to gain the inspiration for their work, which they felt lacking in their too new country of America. Elizabeth Blackwell, James Fenimore Cooper, Nathanial Hawthorne, Mark Twain and many more make appearances through their diary entries and letters home.

Last night, as the skies opened and rain poured down, and thunder shook my cottage, I finished Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, by Laura Hillenbrand. It tales the crazy tale of Louie Zamperini - Olympic runner turned war hero - who spent almost 50 days on a raft, beating away sharks, before he was captured by the Japanese and tortured on POW camps. What made me weep at various times during the book, was the tremendous hope and courage and generosity of not only Louie, but all the men he was surrounded with. They were savagely beaten and demoralized by Japanese soldiers who had been taught to see them as nothing more than animals. And yet, when the war ended, and care packages were dropped over the POW camps for all the military men waiting to be taken home, these unbelievable men distributed food items and clothing to the guards - the same ones who had beaten and starved them, and done everything possible to break their spirits - because they knew these brutal men had families who were just as hungry and cold as they were.

At another point, before the care packages had been delivered, and only a lone B-29 had made circles over the camp, messaging signals that the war was over and help was on the way, the pilot dropped a single chocolate bar and a pack of cigarettes. There were 700 POWS in the camp - all of whom had been subsisting - some for four years - on seaweed soup and the occasional dead dog. Did this break out a riot?

Commander John Fitzgerald, who was the highest ranking officer in the camp, and therefore in charge of the care and welfare of all the men, just as he would have been outside the camp, took the chocolate bar, and cut it into 700 slivers. Each man got a sliver of chocolate the size of an ant. Then he divided the 700 into 19 groups, and gave a cigarette to each group. Each man got a puff.

At this point, sitting in my bed, wrapped in blankets, I was sobbing. Be prepared to be disturbed though - there are many mind numbingly terrible tales of how the Japanese treated their prisoners. This book not only tells of the heights of human courage and virtue, but the absolute depths of depravity which human beings can reach.

Seabiscuit also by Laura Hillenbrand was a book I had heard so much about, but assumed I wouldn't like. It is beautifully written, and so exciting that I had to stop reading it before bed because it left me, heart racing, completely unable to sleep.

Lourdes, by Robert Hugh Benson, tells of a skeptic's journey to that place of miracles, and how his heart was changed. Very beautifully written.

Also well written, with simple yet almost poetic prose, and FABULOUS recipes to boot, is Mirielle Guiliano's French Women Don't get Fat. Again, a book that I had seen all over the place but shrugged off - an intelligent, funny presentation of the French way of life. It will make you want to take off for Paris, pronto.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. Wonderful characters, a driving plot line, and rich detail. I will let the title pique your curiosity, and drive you to read more about it yourself.

And, for now, that is all you get.

What have you got to show me?

Not again....

2011-10-09T03:32:00.003-06:00

I will say one thing for Greek men: they are remarkably persistent.

On Thursday, after spending the morning writing letters and drinking coffee, I walked over to the grocery store to pick up some more yogurt. I could write an ode to it just about now. It is so. good.

I was almost there when Mr. Moped passed me, this time in a car. He slowed for a minute when he saw me, and I sent an earnest prayer to the Buddha that Mr. Moped would just continue on his way. My entreaties to God haven't been doing me any good; I think he is just vastly amused at my discomfort.

Instead of stopping completely, he swung his car around, passed me again and roared off back down the street, and into what I presume is his driveway.

I knew Buddha would listen better. I peacefully embarked on my shopping.

Twenty minutes later, rushing to get back before the sky opened up, I heard the now all too familiar sound of a moped put-putting along.

Damn Buddha; you're just as bad as God is.

He pulled up, and as is his custom, offered the back of his moped in all its glory. I just shook my head. He burrowed his face in his hands and moaned in what seemed to be utter agony. He looked up to see if his outpouring of grief had made any difference.

I just shook my head again.

He resumed his remarkably bad acting, and I tried to suppress the bubbles of laughter pushing upward, while trying to look suitably sympathetic to his terrible plight.

Finally, he took off, and as the sound of his moped faded into the distance, I collapsed in laughter.

I honestly find this behavior mildly refreshing compared to the lilly-livered approach of 95 percent of North American males:

"So yeah....are you free sometime this week, because I might be free - I dunno - I would have to check, but if I am free and you are free, maybe we should meet up for coffee. I mean, if you like coffee... I guess I like it, but if you don't, then, like, let's maybe do something else. OH! You do like coffee, well so do I, it's pretty good stuff. So yeah, let's do something, maybe, at some point. I mean, if you want you can bring along that friend you always hang out with, I will probably bring someone along too. I mean, unless you want to spend time alone together - but HAH - I am not saying that you do, but, like, if you did, then maybe it would be nice to be alone. Although I don't want it to be weird so maybe not? I dunno, what do you think?"

*Pause for breath*

"Anyway, it would be cool to meet up. So, just send me a message and let me know where and when, and we can go from there."

At which point, one is left vastly confused. Does he want to be friends? Does he want to go out on a date? Is he using me to get to meet my friend so he can ask her out? He mentioned bringing his friend - was that a weird way of telling me he is gay? Does he like coffee? Why is he leaving the planning up to me, since he is the one who broached the subject?

Is figuring out the answer to any these questions worth my time and energy?

Absolutely, most assuredly.... not.

Stop drinking the estrogen filled water, boys. It's making you weird.

Koroni....and Pictures

2011-10-05T11:14:00.002-06:00

I walked into Koroni today - quite successfully I might add. I didn't get lost, and made it there in an hour and fifteen minutes, when everyone assured me it would take at least an hour and a half.

It is a beautiful walk, or quite possibly I should call it a hike. A hike of death. It led me up hills and down hills and around the edge of cliffs and down narrow paths.

But it was worth it, because Koroni is spectacular. The first thing I did was hit up Flisvos - a taverna specializing in fish. I sat outside, right next to the water, and watched boats go by, and read my P.D. James until my lunch came. I wanted to try the moussaka, but since I was at a place specializing in fish....

So I asked for the daily catch. It came. It was a whole fish. Not skinned, not deboned, not anything. I think it is a testament to how hungry I was, that I didn't ask him to take it away. Quite possibly, at any other time, I would have gone that route.

But today, with the sea breeze and the chatter of the lunching germans next to me, I courageously ate my fish, and deboned it in such a way as to make even Julia Child proud. The fish was spectacular. No joke.

And then, I just wandered. I got some new clothes pins for when I dry my laundry, because I have broken all the ones that were here, and I found a health food store (oh GLORY!) and got some exorbitantly priced Hazlenut milk, hoping it would be somewhat like the almond milk I am desperately missing. It's not, but it is...interesting.

AS I made my way past the main square, I heard my name yelled. My first thought was a completely panicked "I hope there is no one here who knows me, I am NOT prepared for surprise visitors." I looked up, very hesitantly, and waving at me in the most friendly fashion ever, was the farmer who lives near me. Last Sunday he passed me on my back from Harokopio, and insisted on giving me a ride. I didn't speak his language, and he didn't speak mine, but we got along just fine. He seems like a fabulously nice person. Always cheerful, always smiling.

I was going to take the bus back from Koroni into Harokopio, but I didn't want to wait for it. So, even though it looked like a thunder storm was imminent, I headed back from whence I had come.

By the time I stumbled into my cottage, I was exhausted beyond belief, and I have been lying on my couch ever since, only getting up to make more tea and get more food. It's amazing how these outdoor hilly walks make me eat like a ravening beast, and drink till I have to pee about ever 10 minutes.

Check out the photo stream to your right. I added a bunch of pictures, and even captioned some of them. Enjoy!

Cleaning

2011-10-04T07:42:00.003-06:00

This morning I went into Koroni with my landlord his partner/girlfriend/wife (not quite sure about the status) - they have been together 11 years, and this is the second go around for each of them, so I believe that they are steering clear of the whole marriage thing. That is, at least, what I have gathered without directly asking.

They asked me to go out for coffee with them because they wanted to get to know me better, as well as show me the best places to eat, drink, buy bread, and lounge in Koroni. I had only been onto Koroni once before today, and I am certainly going back, probably tomorrow. It is about a half hour bus ride away, through bouganvilla drenched side roads. I am hooked.

It is the loveliest Greek town - white washed buildings with red doors, and blue doors, and yellow doors and orange doors, covering the hillsides, going all the way down to the water. It has cobble stoned streets, stone steps leading up the hillside, and is really like something from a storybook.

----------------------------------------------------------

After getting back from coffee at about 2:00, I knew I had to confront what I have been dreading since my second week here: cleaning.

I don't mind organizing - I love it. But cleaning - actually sweeping and mopping and scrubbing toilets and dusting are a huge struggle for me. I have been known to pay a sister or two an exorbitant fee to do cleaning for me.

I know you would never suspect it, but I am really, really squeamish. The detritus of living never ceases to disgust me, even if it is solely my own. I knew I had to do something though, because the bathroom was looking a little sketchy, and the floor was kind of shameful. I am a fairly tidy, clean person, and I have done random cursory cleanings -- but after four weeks of living here, it was time for something official.

So - I popped some gum into my mouth (the minty freshness counteracts the waves of grossed -out inspired nausea), and put on some Eminem (the best kind of distraction from a distasteful task), and got to work.

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About twenty minutes in, I started to wonder if I could hire one of the old ladies in the village to do my cleaning for me. I was having such a hard time not throwing up all over the floor, that if I hadn't known that there was no possible way that I could be pregnant, I would have thought I was.

I thought only a pregnant woman could suffer from nausea that severe, over something so inconsequential.

Because, truly - I was only sweeping up my own hair, and my own dead skin cells, and occasionally beating a spider to death with my broom; I was swallowing every 2.5 seconds to try and quell the rising bile.

When I was finally done - after cleaning out the shower probably better than anyone has in the last year (Believe me: I have been wearing flip flops in there, and shaving my legs in the sink in order to spend as little time as possible in its vicinity. It has taken me this long to psych myself up to clean it.) - and on my way to wash my hands for about 20 minutes, I passed a mirror and yelped in horror.

My face was a grayish white, and drenched with sweat. I looked like I had been to hell and back, and would never recover from the experience. As I stood by the sink and dumped half a bottle of dish soap on my hands and arms, my hands were shaking so much I could barely manage to turn on the tap.

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I just have to realize that I am a delicate rose bud, there is nothing I can do about it. As a consequence, I really have to find someone who can find me a maternal, grandmotherly cleaning woman. I can't go through this again.

I just can't.

Alternatively: Jane, how would you like to visit Greece?!

Be proud, my parents, for raising such a delicate specimen of womanhood.

The Canadian Woman Who Goes to Church

2011-10-02T13:29:00.005-06:00

I have officially arrived in Greece - at least, in the assessment of the locals.

The Greek people, it seems, are sort of like their landscape: forbidding, rugged, harsh...

This past week there was a notable shift, though. The various people that, for the past month, I have seen on a thrice weekly basis (at least), instead of staring right through me or giving me a death glare, started to smile, and say kalimera, or yassas.

Then, yesterday, I dragged myself to Church, and had the privilege of being smiled upon by about 75 percent of the ladies who, last week, shot daggers through my heart with their beady eyes.

So, feeling rather pleased with the welcoming vibes I was getting, I settled down to a coffee, at which point things got even better.

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I was suddenly pounded on my shoulder by a huge hand and I looked up to see a beaming face.

"You are the Canadian woman who goes to church every Sunday, eh?!"

I nodded my assent, although I wondered how he knew I was Canadian, and how he knew where I spent my Sunday mornings. I had never seen his face in Agios Georgious.

"My friend over there, he tells me all about you." He pointed across the square to the usher who always makes sure I get some blessed bread at the end of Divine Liturgy (he is officially nice person number one, by the way).

I have never talked to the usher, except to exchange a "good morning!" and "your health!" I felt a slightly sinking feeling of bewilderment.

"Where you from? Ottawa? Montreal? Toronto?"

"I am from the West - Alberta. Calgary."

He shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in classically Greek gesture that can mean any number of things. This time it meant: "I don't really know what you are speaking of, and I don't really care because it means nothing to me, and why should it?"

"So, you like Church, eh?"

Well, that's a loaded question. It depends on the day.

I just nodded enthusiastically.

Again, he shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. This time it meant: "I don't understand this behavior of yours, and I would never choose to do it, but if you like it, whatever, but you are wasting your time."

"So, I used to live in Halifax! I learn English there, and cook in a restaurant. Thirty -five years ago, now."

I could see he had a lot more to say, so I just smiled and nodded. He told me about how his son is now in Halifax and keeps complaining about how cold it is, he told me I was paying three times more rent than I should be, and then he started to grill me.

"Your family is here?"

I shook my head.

"You alone?"

I nodded yes.

"Is good, I guess. You like it here? Is beautiful, yes?"

I was going to explain how much I like it here, when he hit me with another one: "You married?"

This question always makes me laugh nervously.

a) I am pretty sure I was still playing dress up just a while back. What kind of weirdo thinks a kid who plays dress-up is ready for marriage?

(And then I realize that 15 years (ok, maybe 10....hmm...maybe 5) does not really qualify for "a while back." And then I remember that about half my friends are already married. And then I have to grudgingly admit that I really am not a kid anymore. Begone, dress up bin. Begone tea parties. Begone dreams of being a princess thank you very much Kate Middleton. In fact, when my own mother was my very own age now, she had already birthed 2 children. Cue.... hyperventilation.)

b) Why are you asking? What loser is going to be thrown at my head now?

I laughed nervously and shook my head.

"Hah! So Mary isn't married." He patted his ample belly. "So, you like this coffee shop?"

"I do. I also really like Cafe Art."

"Hah!! So you are not loyal to one place - you hop around, eh?" He laughed uproariously, and slapped my shoulder again.

I got the strange feeling he wasn't really talking about coffee shops.

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Noticing some clouds blowing in, and not wanting to be caught in a storm, I made a move for my grocery bags, and he jumped in surprise. "You go?"

I explained about the rain.

"So. You like pasta?"

I'm not the biggest fan, but I nodded assent, to be polite.

He started to walk down the street with me.

"You come, just a moment."

I followed him into a little bakery. Before I knew it, he had sat me down in a chair, and placed in front of me the most monstrous piece of cake I had ever seen. He meant "pastry," not "pasta," and all I could do was smile weakly.

"Eat. EAT. Is delicious."

I took a bite. I felt a diabetic coma coming on.

"You like orange juice?" He motioned to his Fanta.

Dear God, please no. Not a can of sugar.

"I am fine with water. Goes better with the cake."

"Good, eh?"

I nodded, and forced in another bite.

I am a loyal chocolate girl. The darker, the better. This slab of white sponge cake with mounds of white cream and piles of maraschino cherries was well on its way to killing me.

"You want another one to take home?"

Dear God and all the saints in heaven, and the Buddha for safe measure. Please. No.

I shook my head.

"Why?? You is SKINNY."

Right. In the world where I wear Chanel suits, carry Birkin Bags, and teeter around in Laboutin shoes.

I forced in a third bite and downed the rest of my water.

"You go soon, before the rain? You full? You not eat enough!! No matter. I get them to pack this up." He toddled off, and I looked longingly at my bag of ripe tomatoes. They are all the sweetness I need in life. They are my sun, my moon, my stars....

Jimmy - his name, by the way - interrupted my reverie and came back bearing a large box. "I get him to put another one in for you. You have some today and tomorrow."

Wonderful. Food for the homeless cat who has adopted me.

I thanked him profusely, gathered my bags, and walked with him out the door. We parted ways - I went up the street, and he went down. He yelled back to me that he would see me next Sunday.

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I was about a block away from the bakery, when a motorcycle ground to a halt next to me. It was the guy who had been sitting next to me and Jimmy. He had laughed every time I looked up. Perhaps he could sense my desperation.

He stopped, and started speaking in rapid fire Greek and making a multitude of hand motions.

I just shrugged.

"Cell phone?"

Oh, he needs to borrow my cell phone. Fine. Whatever.

He grabbed it from me, punched in some numbers, then pulled his own ringing cell phone out of his pocket.

I stared at him, bewildered. He handed my phone back.

He gave me an appraising look - "I call you" - and then zoomed off.

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They need more girls in this village, man.

Shoes and a Mobster

2011-10-02T07:29:00.004-06:00

After purchasing my laptop yesterday, I was able to devote my brain power to more important things.

Like the fact that I was in the middle of a shopping district with some pretty amazing stores.

I walked into Nine West, and almost fainted at the sight of these. The picture does not quite capture their full splendor, but I definitely stood holding them in my hands for an extended period of time, with the sales lady nodding complete understanding of my effusive, incoherent exclamations of enthusiasm.

source

I didn't buy them. Although, it was tempting. Once I start whipping out that credit card, it's hard to stop.

BUT. I couldn't quite fathom fitting yet another pair of shoes into my luggage when I pack up. I brought six pairs of shoes with me. It was a monumental struggle to whittle my choices down. I have had the opportunity to wear exactly one.

Abandoning my newest shoe love, I settled down at an outdoor cafe. I had been fighting bouts of nausea all day, and so got a diet Coke: my go - to remedy for when I am on the point of spewing my food everywhere. Do not judge.

As I sat and enjoyed the sun and the breeze and the delicious taste of aspartame, an older man wearing a fedora sat down at the table next to mine. I nodded hello, he nodded back, and I went back to my Coke.

When I got up to leave, the old gentleman said something, and as I have been doing for the past month, I ruefully admitted my inability to understand.

"English! Sit down, sit down!"

And so I did.

"Are you British, perhaps?"

I admitted the blandness of being from Canada.

He raised his eyebrows,"Interesting. I am from Boston."

His English - almost accentless - could not hide the flavor of another language layering into it, and I wanted to ask if he was actually Greek; his accent did not seem to tend that way. The conversation quickly moved onto various other things, and I did not get the chance to inquire.

Finally, I told him I really had to start on my way, and he told me that as he was in Greece for a month I should come into Kalamata again and meet him for dinner. As he wrote down his hotel information I asked him what he was in Kalamata for. I had already established that he had no family here.

He paused for a moment. "I have a few matters...a few matters of business to take care of."

My head snapped up from rummaging through my purse. The tone of his voice was so ominous. As he continued writing in his slip of paper, I examined him more carefully. A heavy gold watch. A ring on each hand, big and heavy enough to knock a man's skull in. That fedora.

At wharp speed I reached my conclusion. He is a mobster. Overseeing some kind of hit.

Having been (interiorly), up to that point, somewhat ambivalent about traveling into Kalamata again, even to have dinner with another English speaker, I was suddenly vastly enthralled with the idea.

He handed me his card. "I am at the Biltmore Hotel - this is their number. Just ask for Charles."

No last name? I was so right.

Computer Woes and Triumphs

2011-10-01T10:46:00.002-06:00

On Thursday, just as I was about to meet 14 kids online to discuss their writing assignments with them, my laptop staged a dramatic coup. The battery had been slowly wearing out over the past six months, but I didn't do anything about it because I just figured I would always keep it plugged in.

Good plan, right?

But no: about a week ago, the laptop's cord started periodically registering as not being plugged in, when in fact it was. Couple that with a battery not holding its charge....

Anyway.

Figuring that the computer would fix itself if I just ignored the cord problem, because computers are known to spontaneously heal themselves, I continued plugging away with my laptop, fiddling with the chord when it needed fiddling with, and optimistically assuming that everything would be ok.

Which brings me to Thursday, and the laptop's dramatic refusal to keep living.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I sat in front of my completely dead laptop. It would not turn on because the battery had no charge left; on top of that the power cord was not delivering any juice. For about 20 minutes I sat there staring at it, completely blown away by the fact that the dumb ass thing would not bow down to my mighty will and just START DAMN IT.

I can not emphasize enough how surreal I found it, that the computer's will would not bow down to mine.

Finally, I had to admit defeat and, after batting around a few ideas, marched myself down to my landlord's house and told him my predicament. He told me I needed to take my butt into Kalamata, go to Kotsovolos the computer store, and that they would be able to provide me with a new cord.

He drew me a map of how to get to the store from the bus station, his wife told me the place I had to go for lunch, and I ended up back at my cottage, staring at a map, hyperventilating.

I can't read maps. I can barely find Italy on the globe.

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Which ends up with me getting off the bus in Kalamata, an hour and a half after leaving Harakopio, staring at a scrap of paper with a few lines and completely illegible handwriting scrawled in various places.

I headed in what I assumed was the right direction and said a prayer. About an hour later (the shop is about a 15 minute walk from the bus station), with the assistance of a nice girl I befriended who walked me to Kotsovolos, I snagged a vaguely English speaking clerk and showed him the cord that needed replacing.

He didn't have what I needed, and so drew me another squiggly map and sent me to another store.

I got lost.

But, instead, found yet ANOTHER computer store, which had the cord I needed, but revealed that there was also something wrong with the pluggy in part where the cord goes in, which meant that the laptop was probably overheating before it killed the cord. Which meant that I did not just need a cord.

Right....so that's why it burned my lap the other day, and has been making noises like a cow in labor.

It was probably fixable, they told me. I just had to bring my laptop back mid-week, and then collect it about 4 or 5 days after that. Or maybe more. They would let me know.

There were two things wrong that scenario: a) I needed a workable laptop, Monday by 3:00 pm at the latest, and b) that meant I had to treck back into Kalamata twice in one week.

Hell to the NO.

I stress ate my way through a piece of spanokopita, at the lovely place my landlady suggested to me, while I decided what to do.

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Tending to think of all electronics as complicated, unfathomable beasts with highly intelligent minds of their own, I have always succeeded in shoving off the decision of "what to buy?" on someone I deemed worthy of understanding the mind of the beast.

Hi, Tom.

In that moment, covered in crumbs from my spanokopita, if I had had Tom's phone number on me, I would have called him. At 2am his time. And I probably would not even have felt bad about it.

But, as I brushed the crumbs from my lap, I knew I was ready to purchase my fourth laptop in eight years (Yes, that is one laptop every two years. Like clockwork.), with no one's help but my own.

And so I did. And here I am. And I even remembered to install AVG.

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The End

(But wait until I tell you about my Gangster!)

Athens

2011-09-28T05:33:00.007-06:00

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

2011-09-26T02:46:00.005-06:00

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.

----------------------------------------------------

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.

----------------------------------------------------

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.

-------------------------------------------------

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

2011-09-26T02:45:00.001-06:00

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

2011-09-23T06:23:00.000-06:00

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

2011-09-22T05:33:00.002-06:00

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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

2011-09-21T06:36:00.000-06:00

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.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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

2011-09-19T06:00:00.001-06:00

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

2011-09-17T03:09:00.000-06:00

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.

2011-09-16T03:31:00.001-06:00

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.

--------------------------------------------------

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.

---------------------------------------------------

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

Happy Animals and Zucchini

2011-09-15T04:24:00.000-06:00

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

2011-09-14T02:31:00.000-06:00

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.
----------------------------------------------
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.
---------------------------------------------

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.

-----------------------------------------------------

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

2011-09-13T08:02:00.001-06:00

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.

--------------------------------------------------------------

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.

---------------------------------------------------------

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.

2011-09-12T02:56:00.001-06:00

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.
-------------------------------------------------------------

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!"

--------------------------------------------------------------

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?

2011-09-11T09:35:00.000-06:00

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

2011-09-10T04:20:00.000-06:00

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!

2011-09-09T03:03:00.001-06:00

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.