Mpest phrents phoreber

You may have noticed that up to this point, most of my Greek adventures 2.0 have been solitary affairs. Well, all that changed a couple of weeks ago during Be-Nice-To-Your-Local-Anthropologist Day. Normally, like most people, when I see an anthropologist, I do one of two things: I either enact every stereotype I can imagine to "confirm" their theories, or I fill the void where their soul used to be with Nickolodeon Gak (I always keep some in my fridge). Anyways, because of the holiday, I found myself conversing with two such students, and they actually turned out to be tolerable. Even better, they never talked about archaeology or the classical world!

So I resolved to fulfill my community service obligation for the rest of the year and be their friends. Sure it can be tough sometimes. Toby speaks fluent Greek and never misses an opportunity to show it off. She's like a Latino reporter who says everthing but her name in American English, and then flourishes a peppery "accent" to remind you that she's bi-cultural. Tracey, on the other hand, likes to "water the plants" on her balcony just when you are down below waiting to be let in. So I always have to bring an umbrella even when it's sunny.

But being friends with an anthropologist has its upsides. For instance, they're always excited about doing something if you can convince them that its open-minded or hip. So I was able to celebrate Diwali Tuesday at probably the best Indian restaurant in Greece (it was so good I might even eat there if it was in the States, but only if it cost half as much). Unfortunately, Toby refused to knit me a sari, and Tracey kept quoting Bollywood movies to the waiter as a way of ordering (So, "Would you like something to drink, ma'am?" "Kuch kuch hota hai" (Something has happened) "Ummmm..."), but all in all it was a good time. I think the facial features in this picture encapsulate their personalities:
Naan Tracey Food Toby Empty Plate

But I think our adventures the next day best encapsulate the vibe of our three-man team. We were searching for halloween costumes for tonight, and decided to try "Chinatown" in Athens. Now, when you say Chinatown here, you have to specify, because the word refers to just one building to Greeks, but if you mean a neighborhood concentration of Chinese people, then it refers to a district in the city. We saw both. Anyways, when we would go into a shop owned by a Greek, Toby would take over and communicate with the owners (even tho both Tracey and I can get by). One time I tried to say something and she slapped me across the mouth. It was rough.
But when we went into a Chinese-owned shop, it was Tracey's turn to show her mettle, since she knows Mandarin (her project is on Chinese immigrants in Greece-I know, not quite as sexy as political mergers between obscure city-states during an obscure period, but give her a break).

The best was when Tracey turned to tell Toby (who the Chinese assume is also Chinese, though she's Korean) what they had said. They started laughing at the "irony," at which point I started laughing at why they were laughing. Then Tracey called me a monkey in Mandarin.

Anyways, the point is, our Halloween costumes and party are going to be awesome and you can't do anything about it, Dr. Claw!

An Anthropological Voice

It has been almost ten weeks now since I began observing the Hellenic tribe. Up to this point, the breakthrough's have been minimal, but I finally think I may have gained their acceptance. This past weekend, I managed to involve myself in one of their most sacred male rituals, oddly enough an adaptation of its American counterpart: the pickup basketball game.

One of the biggest differences between the two rituals is the complete unwillingness to ever play a full court game. This I attribute to the tribe's devotion their cigarette cult. Another contrast I discovered was that these Hellenes only know about half of our American rules. Apparently the missionaries who first reached this distant land were only partially successful in imparting civilization. So, such things as self-passes, NBA-style travelling, and garbage lay-ups are entirely permissible (ok, this last one happens in the states, too, I admit).

My participation got off to a decent enough start, that is until I drove to the basket and kicked the ball out to a teammate. My defender played me so closely that his head crashed into mine. Correction: his tooth crashed into my eyebrow. And so came about the return of the mavromati:


Although I refused to make a big deal about it, my defender, also an unofficial tribal leader of sorts, took the opportunity to emphasize my alterity. "Now he knows how we play here." I suppressed my urban instinct to "pummel his ass" and reminded myself that such things must be tolerated in the interests of science. We played on.

Not much else of interest happened til the activities were at an end. I, of course, let them win, not wanting to challenge the authority of the dominant males. However, the issue of my eye weighed greatly on the tribal elders, who insisted that I adapt the local remedy for bleeding: tobacco (again I refer the reader to the importance of the cigarette cult). The only problem was that the cut had essentially stopped bleeding already, so that when they opened up a cigarette and jammed some dried leaves into it, it reopened the wound.

Unflustered, I told myself that the inevitable scar would be an eternal monument, even a tribute to a very critical moment in the work I am pursuing here. Because God knows I'll never publish any of this rubbish.

Three Days and Wedding

For those of you who have never been to an Indian wedding, consider this your crash course. Despite the blurryness of this picture, I think you can get a sense of the elaborate costumes, customs, and cacophony that typify a ceremony steeped in millenia of tradition. And yes, normally the groom is not white.







Here my friend Romel nicely displays the interactive role that EVERY attendee has in an Indian wedding. During the charmingly garrulous prayers and offerings that are made, it is customary to try to shave your neck with a digital camera as a gesture of approval and piety.



As a sign of the musical harmony that the couple's lives will make together, each guest is served a paté of butter carved in the shape of harp (normally it's a sitar, you can't trust Americans to not assume that this is just the Indian way of pronouncing "star"). And yes, those are strings, not the initials WP for the William Penn Hotel. Seriously.







Daal. It's delicious. And at Indian weddings all the single men must compete to see who can eat the most. I totally won. Also, if anyone else at the wedding says it wasn't a competition, and that I pigged out and didn't let anyone else have any Daal, it's just cuz they're sore losers, ok?







And finally, handsome men:


Congrats Shay and Hema!

The Italian way to promote language learning

I've always wondered what it would be like to have a giant noodle crash down on me. Know I know it would be like mis-communicating with a cab driver.
I stared at this for at least five minutes before realizing I had to document its existence.

Minus Audrey Hepburn

Rome is like this one uncle I have. I genuinely like the guy, but I recognize that if he wasn't familiy, I'd probably end up punching him. In the same way, I really loved Rome. But if the city wasn't in my beloved Italy, I'd do to it whatever the equivalent is to throwing a left hook at a socio-political entity.

In short, everything Italian about Rome is brilliant: food, gelato, pasticerrie, great art, Italian donne, beautiful churches.

Everything Roman, on the other hand, would be inadmissible in any other country: people driving on pedestrian streets, buses filled to twice their capacity, a subway designed to avoid all populated areas, ancient Roman overload (perfectly incapsulated by my friend Emily's "reaction" to the Forum).

Especially bad are the tourists. I know, they're everywhere, but I feel like the real winners come to Rome (or the Acropolis, but that's another entry). Some highlights I overheard:

-Man wearing audiotour headphones (in really loud voice at the Galleria Borghese: "OH, THIS IS THE WRONG ROOM!"

-Woman to child who observed that there was alot of sculpture in the Vatican: "That's the point!" What's the point, you wench? So it's just about quantity? I'll seriously fight her for having no clue why she paid 14 Euros to get in my way of looking at works I've spent more than 2 minutes trying to understand.

-Of course the countless people who insist on talking in the Sistine chapel.

-Worse, the fools who try to take pictures in the Sistine chapel. Especially awesome was the Portuguese lady who pretended she couldn't understand the Italian for "no picture."

Plus the Tiber is gross.

But Rome has its good points, and I'd like to end with that.

First, it let Emily, as well as my friends Seth, Alexa, and Stephan study there so they could host me. That was really nice of it.

Second, Giacomo. Although not from Rome, Emily's boyfriend not only has an amazing name, but tirelessly tried to pronounce "Rosh Hashanah" for our entertainment. Italians can't pronounce H's, so he ended up over-aspirating every consonant except the one he was supposed to.

Third, Jewish pizza. Delicious, heavier than a brick, and lasts months.

Fourth, Italian men who do karate. 'Nuff said.

Finally, never take a snow globe to England, even if you're just flying through London. Apparently these are the most dangerous things on earth, requiring three tests at security. Or maybe it was just my half-week beard...