Be who you are meant to be

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!"

or

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

or

"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!

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!

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.

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.

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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

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.

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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

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.

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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.

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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

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...

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

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.

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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.

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.

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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.