Death

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.

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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."

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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...

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.

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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.

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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.

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I can't focus.

This is really ridiculous.

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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

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.

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.

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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.

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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

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.

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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.

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!

or

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

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

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

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

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

or

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

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

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

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

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.

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....

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

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

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.

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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

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

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

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.

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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!)