Making up for lost Chronos
Ok, so I lied. Most of what I'm about to say did not take place in Athens. But the aura of the place haunts me wherever I go. "Where are you from?" people in every town ask me. I want to jut my chest out proudly and affirm "America, by golly!" But I know that no sooner will such inspired words leave my lips than a limb-rending frenzy will ensue, masked by the shouts of "Opa!" and "ela re!" that dominate any show of energy in this country. So I am forced to admit that I am living in Athens, as if I could ever feel a tenth of the affection there as I do upon entering one of the six (formerly seven) Eckerd stores that protect the bastion of culture that is Monroeville.
But this isn't a tale about Athens. We are here to explain the lacuna in my photographical record. As few of you know, the program I am using to fund my lust for travel requires that I embark on a series of ten-day trips to various regions in Greece, during which I must give one site report and listen to countless others, in addition to viewing numerous ancient ruins, monuments, and artifacts. The first of these trips left on September 15th, full of promise. We drove north to the foothills of Mt. Olympus, ignorant that the magic that had once led the Greeks to believe that the gods resided on top of the mountain now resided in our bus driver. This would soon become all too apparent, but we were too busy being serious scholars to notice what now structures the foundations of my personal metaphysics.
After a couple days near Olympus, we headed to Thessaloniki, which soon became my favorite Greek city. Lacking the narrow sidewalks and senseless street plans of Athens, and with a much more diverse and effusive cuisine than the capital, this city quickly won me over. A quick visit to Ataturk's house revealed a facet of history with which I was completely unfamiliar. When the bus pulled away two days later, I vowed to intend to return the city for at least several months.
Not much exciting happened for several days, except the discovery of Tsoss's neckbone difficulties. These become especially prominent due to the windiness of Greek roads. Remind me to show you how this works at some point.
Skip ahead to last night. I went out to eat with Katie and Marcie, classic BFFs. We found this quaint place with live traditional music, and sat down. A great time was foreshadowed by the game of "musical bread baskets" that the waiters kept playing. We would have one basket, then two, then one, then two, and finally one again. Then we noticed that all the wines, including the house wine, were exorbitantly priced, so we asked the waiter (who was pro 2 baskets of bread) what the deal was, and he informed us that on Saturday's 25 euros was a base price for each customer at every restaurant in the area, and then gently whisked us out of the place. I appreciated both his honesty and perceptiveness. Lesson: don't eat out in Psiri on Saturday. Ever.
Ok, back to the first trip. In Olympiada we had a hotel on the beach, and a lifetime supply of cute cats to feed. In fact, this apparently is a requirement for all outdoor tavernes. If you want to eat outside, be prepared to fall in love with a cat or seven who want to be your temporary friend. Unless you don't like cats, in which case your annoyment will only be rivaled by my laughter as you are ushered into Martha Stewart's domain in the hereafter. In fact, one of the resident cats at the dorm here just gave birth to five kittens. My favorite is Lynxy, so named after the tufts on his ears, who has a predilection for sitting in a cinder block so he can look cuter than his/her siblings.
Right, so I'm supposed to be talking about the first trip. [Re-inserts artificial narrative voice]. Gone was the initial excitement of discovery and novelty. As we trudged up to the bus for what seemed like the thousandth time, I suddenly remembered that we were boarding a ferry to the island of Thasos. But that shot in my arm was as short-lived as my capacity to conjure up similes. The cause? As I was leaning over the edge of the boat to take another stunning shot of the approaching island, I behaved as if my notebook was not wedged in the crotch of my arm. Well, it was, and I was left devastated by the fact that I had littered in the virgin waters of the Aegean...and surrendered the identification of the 150-200 pictures I had thus far taken on the trip. Yet fate has a strange sense of humor, one that I will always appreciate.
The next evening, after a solid day of reports and trekking about, Seth, Nick and I decided to chill on the dock and have a drink. They got beers, I a half liter of retsina, which has a considerably larger alcohol content than beer, but is actually cheaper. The buzz was amazingly wonderful, but subsequently, what most likely happened is that I left my camera where we were sitting. Not realizing this until after a satisfying shower, I scoured my room, the dock, and then my memory. Nothing resulted, and the police were only helpful in insisting that I speak English.
You might think that this misadventure would prevent me from riding the wave of frivolity commenced by the retsina. May it never be! After a short bout of wrath, I was ready to wine it up at dinner with the boys, Katie, and Sannan. We walked without purpose, guided, as it were, by a benevolent force to an unimpressive taverna called Grigoris. A 3/5-toothed (sources conflict) old man greeted us with an advertisement we couldn't refuse. Instead of menu items, he simply referred to kotopoulo (chicken), and bragged that the tzatziki and melatzanosalata were prepared with his very hands. In case we weren't yet convinced, he proffered free mavro krasi, which we assume meant red wine, though it really means black wine. I knew we were in for an unforgettable evening, and led the way to the table, my lost camera abandoned in the mists of responsibility kept at bay by the warmth of Grigoris' kitchen.
I won't bore you with our revelry, but the crowning achievements of Grigoris' hospitality were the free pens he gave us, with his name on them, and the following: in order to facilitate splitting up the bill, we had asked for smaller change. Not having this, his son proceeded to get on a bicycle and get the change we had asked for. We had only just finished laughing (but not feeling bad) when he returned. Those who have been to Greece will know just how extraordinary such an errand was.
I will conclude this post with an (I think) impressive revelation. On the 7th or 8th day of the trip, we finally succeeded in finding a place to play soccer. That's right, after America's dismal performance in the World Cup, I've decided to take advantage of my surroundings and give our nation's team a kick in the rear. After some tentative sessions on half of a tennis court back in Athens, I was ready to show my skills on the small town of Maroneia's official pitch (and by pitch I mean gravel). As we warmed up from our hotel, the town came out to see who had doubled their population unannounced. My play was modest, except for a wicked one-timer that would have solved the US's problems against Italy. Since then, I have continued to hone my skills, and plan on challenging Ronaldihno to a one on one for the right to endorse Lays potato chips by spring. Stay tuned.
But this isn't a tale about Athens. We are here to explain the lacuna in my photographical record. As few of you know, the program I am using to fund my lust for travel requires that I embark on a series of ten-day trips to various regions in Greece, during which I must give one site report and listen to countless others, in addition to viewing numerous ancient ruins, monuments, and artifacts. The first of these trips left on September 15th, full of promise. We drove north to the foothills of Mt. Olympus, ignorant that the magic that had once led the Greeks to believe that the gods resided on top of the mountain now resided in our bus driver. This would soon become all too apparent, but we were too busy being serious scholars to notice what now structures the foundations of my personal metaphysics.
After a couple days near Olympus, we headed to Thessaloniki, which soon became my favorite Greek city. Lacking the narrow sidewalks and senseless street plans of Athens, and with a much more diverse and effusive cuisine than the capital, this city quickly won me over. A quick visit to Ataturk's house revealed a facet of history with which I was completely unfamiliar. When the bus pulled away two days later, I vowed to intend to return the city for at least several months.
Not much exciting happened for several days, except the discovery of Tsoss's neckbone difficulties. These become especially prominent due to the windiness of Greek roads. Remind me to show you how this works at some point.
Skip ahead to last night. I went out to eat with Katie and Marcie, classic BFFs. We found this quaint place with live traditional music, and sat down. A great time was foreshadowed by the game of "musical bread baskets" that the waiters kept playing. We would have one basket, then two, then one, then two, and finally one again. Then we noticed that all the wines, including the house wine, were exorbitantly priced, so we asked the waiter (who was pro 2 baskets of bread) what the deal was, and he informed us that on Saturday's 25 euros was a base price for each customer at every restaurant in the area, and then gently whisked us out of the place. I appreciated both his honesty and perceptiveness. Lesson: don't eat out in Psiri on Saturday. Ever.
Ok, back to the first trip. In Olympiada we had a hotel on the beach, and a lifetime supply of cute cats to feed. In fact, this apparently is a requirement for all outdoor tavernes. If you want to eat outside, be prepared to fall in love with a cat or seven who want to be your temporary friend. Unless you don't like cats, in which case your annoyment will only be rivaled by my laughter as you are ushered into Martha Stewart's domain in the hereafter. In fact, one of the resident cats at the dorm here just gave birth to five kittens. My favorite is Lynxy, so named after the tufts on his ears, who has a predilection for sitting in a cinder block so he can look cuter than his/her siblings.
Right, so I'm supposed to be talking about the first trip. [Re-inserts artificial narrative voice]. Gone was the initial excitement of discovery and novelty. As we trudged up to the bus for what seemed like the thousandth time, I suddenly remembered that we were boarding a ferry to the island of Thasos. But that shot in my arm was as short-lived as my capacity to conjure up similes. The cause? As I was leaning over the edge of the boat to take another stunning shot of the approaching island, I behaved as if my notebook was not wedged in the crotch of my arm. Well, it was, and I was left devastated by the fact that I had littered in the virgin waters of the Aegean...and surrendered the identification of the 150-200 pictures I had thus far taken on the trip. Yet fate has a strange sense of humor, one that I will always appreciate.
The next evening, after a solid day of reports and trekking about, Seth, Nick and I decided to chill on the dock and have a drink. They got beers, I a half liter of retsina, which has a considerably larger alcohol content than beer, but is actually cheaper. The buzz was amazingly wonderful, but subsequently, what most likely happened is that I left my camera where we were sitting. Not realizing this until after a satisfying shower, I scoured my room, the dock, and then my memory. Nothing resulted, and the police were only helpful in insisting that I speak English.
You might think that this misadventure would prevent me from riding the wave of frivolity commenced by the retsina. May it never be! After a short bout of wrath, I was ready to wine it up at dinner with the boys, Katie, and Sannan. We walked without purpose, guided, as it were, by a benevolent force to an unimpressive taverna called Grigoris. A 3/5-toothed (sources conflict) old man greeted us with an advertisement we couldn't refuse. Instead of menu items, he simply referred to kotopoulo (chicken), and bragged that the tzatziki and melatzanosalata were prepared with his very hands. In case we weren't yet convinced, he proffered free mavro krasi, which we assume meant red wine, though it really means black wine. I knew we were in for an unforgettable evening, and led the way to the table, my lost camera abandoned in the mists of responsibility kept at bay by the warmth of Grigoris' kitchen.
I won't bore you with our revelry, but the crowning achievements of Grigoris' hospitality were the free pens he gave us, with his name on them, and the following: in order to facilitate splitting up the bill, we had asked for smaller change. Not having this, his son proceeded to get on a bicycle and get the change we had asked for. We had only just finished laughing (but not feeling bad) when he returned. Those who have been to Greece will know just how extraordinary such an errand was.
I will conclude this post with an (I think) impressive revelation. On the 7th or 8th day of the trip, we finally succeeded in finding a place to play soccer. That's right, after America's dismal performance in the World Cup, I've decided to take advantage of my surroundings and give our nation's team a kick in the rear. After some tentative sessions on half of a tennis court back in Athens, I was ready to show my skills on the small town of Maroneia's official pitch (and by pitch I mean gravel). As we warmed up from our hotel, the town came out to see who had doubled their population unannounced. My play was modest, except for a wicked one-timer that would have solved the US's problems against Italy. Since then, I have continued to hone my skills, and plan on challenging Ronaldihno to a one on one for the right to endorse Lays potato chips by spring. Stay tuned.
posted by Jeremy LaBuff at 5:24 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home