The cure for any 16 month drought
That's right, I'm back...in Greece, in travel-mode, in mischief, and in the mood to write about it every once in a while in this silly forum.
To catch you up, I convinced the government to fund 9 months of research for my dissertation, and to do 6 months of it in Euros. That means for about half a year, I'm worth more than you. Unless your British, in which case, go clean your teeth.
My days, as last year, place me at the same American School, but this time I don't live there, but in a humble apartment about a mile and half a way. This would normally take fifteen minutes to walk, but because my life is in peril everytime I cross a street, and because there is no word for "grid plan" in Greek, it takes over 30.
Ok, enough background for now. I don't know enough about the new students to do depictions. Another time, perhaps. But I CAN tell you about my trip to Santorini, though without pictures, because I didn't feel like being mistake-free and left my digital at home.
You may have seen images of Santorini, either in calenders or on Giada de Laurentiis' show where she pretends to talk about food but really just poses in front of the camera so people will write in and tell her how pretty she is. Anyways, these images are entirely false, like anyone who disagrees with Dwight K. Schrute. They of course glorify the island by focusing on a particular angle that probably involves dangling from some half-rotted olive tree on the roof of some local innkeeper. But worse, they can never capture the panorama, and it is the full 180, or sometimes 360, that you get when gazing at the top of the cliffs that is too incredible for words.
Ok, enough bobloblaw. I'm gonna skip straight to a story, since most of the time I flew solo, and by "flew solo" I mean I slogged up and down the hilly terrain on a bike for someone half my size. My last night there, while trying to watch the US Open at a bar, I struck up a conversation with two Brazilians (of Japanese descent, go easy boys) and a Canadian. The Canadian was, of course, annoying, so once I sent him packing, I let the other two introduce me to their friends, who included a more "stereotypical" female (now you can get excited) and some loud Aussies and Kiwis. This was another moment where I rued not knowing Portuguese, and I ended up hearing criminal English all night. Luckily, these kids were funny as hell, so I wasn't too disgruntled. The bonus moment came when one of the girls started dancing by herself and some random, of swarthy complexion and dark hair, started leering at her. I tried to embarrass him by making fun of him, but since he didn't react I figured he was Albanian or something. So I asked him where he was from in Greek (most Albanians in Greece know Greek). He looks at me and goes "Huh?" So I tried again in English, "Where are you from?" "I'm fockin' Irish!" he declared and hastened away. Later, when I left the bar, he gave me the finger.
Now I'd like to examine the Irish pedigree of this supposed leprechaun man. I'm not talking about looks, cuz I don't need every Irishmen to be Ginger McGingerson. I get that they're a diverse looking bunch. But when I insult you at a bar, and mistake you for another non-Englishing speaking nationality, and all you do is give me the finger, and even that an hour later, by golly you're like no Irishmen I've ever met. Cuz I'm pretty sure a real Irish bloke would knocked me out at least four times that night. Once when I was trying to embarrass him, once when I spoke Greek (because at that point such gibberish would have pissed him off), once when it was clear I had mistaken him for something else, and one more time just because. So yeah, buddy, you need to check your family tree.
To catch you up, I convinced the government to fund 9 months of research for my dissertation, and to do 6 months of it in Euros. That means for about half a year, I'm worth more than you. Unless your British, in which case, go clean your teeth.
My days, as last year, place me at the same American School, but this time I don't live there, but in a humble apartment about a mile and half a way. This would normally take fifteen minutes to walk, but because my life is in peril everytime I cross a street, and because there is no word for "grid plan" in Greek, it takes over 30.
Ok, enough background for now. I don't know enough about the new students to do depictions. Another time, perhaps. But I CAN tell you about my trip to Santorini, though without pictures, because I didn't feel like being mistake-free and left my digital at home.
You may have seen images of Santorini, either in calenders or on Giada de Laurentiis' show where she pretends to talk about food but really just poses in front of the camera so people will write in and tell her how pretty she is. Anyways, these images are entirely false, like anyone who disagrees with Dwight K. Schrute. They of course glorify the island by focusing on a particular angle that probably involves dangling from some half-rotted olive tree on the roof of some local innkeeper. But worse, they can never capture the panorama, and it is the full 180, or sometimes 360, that you get when gazing at the top of the cliffs that is too incredible for words.
Ok, enough bobloblaw. I'm gonna skip straight to a story, since most of the time I flew solo, and by "flew solo" I mean I slogged up and down the hilly terrain on a bike for someone half my size. My last night there, while trying to watch the US Open at a bar, I struck up a conversation with two Brazilians (of Japanese descent, go easy boys) and a Canadian. The Canadian was, of course, annoying, so once I sent him packing, I let the other two introduce me to their friends, who included a more "stereotypical" female (now you can get excited) and some loud Aussies and Kiwis. This was another moment where I rued not knowing Portuguese, and I ended up hearing criminal English all night. Luckily, these kids were funny as hell, so I wasn't too disgruntled. The bonus moment came when one of the girls started dancing by herself and some random, of swarthy complexion and dark hair, started leering at her. I tried to embarrass him by making fun of him, but since he didn't react I figured he was Albanian or something. So I asked him where he was from in Greek (most Albanians in Greece know Greek). He looks at me and goes "Huh?" So I tried again in English, "Where are you from?" "I'm fockin' Irish!" he declared and hastened away. Later, when I left the bar, he gave me the finger.
Now I'd like to examine the Irish pedigree of this supposed leprechaun man. I'm not talking about looks, cuz I don't need every Irishmen to be Ginger McGingerson. I get that they're a diverse looking bunch. But when I insult you at a bar, and mistake you for another non-Englishing speaking nationality, and all you do is give me the finger, and even that an hour later, by golly you're like no Irishmen I've ever met. Cuz I'm pretty sure a real Irish bloke would knocked me out at least four times that night. Once when I was trying to embarrass him, once when I spoke Greek (because at that point such gibberish would have pissed him off), once when it was clear I had mistaken him for something else, and one more time just because. So yeah, buddy, you need to check your family tree.
posted by Jeremy LaBuff at 6:42 AM
2 Comments:
I am absolutely delighted that you are are finding boring moments to type about your adventures in Greece. Yay!
Oh, thank GOD for the return of the blog. Now I can enjoy "depictions" of current ASCSA students without actually having to be there myself. It's like my life's dream, when you think about it.
Two things: if you had told the Irishman you knew Bloody Stephen, he probably would have left you alone.
And also, Giada looks like a human lollipop.
Carry on! And say hello to the Loring Ladies on our behalf. Try not to miss us too much now that you're back in Athens. And have a gyro for me, too.
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