Almost Famouser

Dumb Blonde Journalist: We come to you live from Toumba, where a team of Greek archaeologists from our own Aristotle University, here in Thessaloniki, are seeking the truth behind the dirt. As you can see--

Me: Excuse me! I'm ready!

DBJ: Oh, um, ok, yes?

Me (with a handful of completely unimportant finds): Well, as you see here, I have just uncovered some really important finds that are crucial to the excavation: some ceramics, some sea shells, and some bones. Really amazing.

DBJ: Ah, I see, why are they important?

Me: I found them from that street over there, and from these finds it's clear that ancient people were very hungry, and threw parties on the street.

DBJ: How do you know this?

Me: Well, look at this bone, for instance, it's an animal bone. Perhaps from a cat or a dog...

Merciful Katie: Or a goat.

Me: Ah yes, a goat! So they were eating this goat in the street, hence they threw a party.

DBJ: Where are you from?

Me: Hmmm, Turkey.

DBJ: And you speak Greek?? (turning to loudly laughing girls) Wait, is he serious?? Ok, where are you really from?

Me (with exaggerated American accent): America. I...am...from....the America.

DBJ: And what is your name?

Me: Ummmm.....Epamindondas!

DBJ: Ah, you are joking!

Exchange where I finally tell her my name, why I'm working here, and some boring stuff about my useless finds. She leaves to watch one of our guys from Afghanistan Dry-Sieve.

(Later on) DBJ: Jeremy! What kind of music do you like?

Me: Zembeikiko (a song). I listen only to this song over and over again all day. By the way, you should come to the White Tower at 8. We're meeting about the excavation*


Ok, so all of that sounds like my last post. The difference: it actually happened today, except in more awkward Greek, at the dig. And aired. Who says there is no good television these days? Watch ERT3 news if you're in Greece...

*We are meeting tonight to hang out and play guitar. But who knows the ends of this woman's gullibility?

Saturday Afternoon Conversation

We recently had the chance to sit down with archaeology's newest sensation. After a mere two weeks in the trenches, he has managed to uncover ancient secrets the likes of which have never before been revealed in recent history. We asked him to explain his stunning success.

1Guy: Many people were surprised by your decision to make the jump from history to archaeology. What caused the switch?

JBL: Honestly I think it was all the books. I'm convinced that their musty smell has some narcotic effect. It's pretty trippy. But I wouldn't say I've turned my back on history. Just the other day, I caught myself living in the past as if there were no tomorrow.

1Guy: You've found an impressive amount of objects in the past few weeks. What do you think separates you from your fellow diggers?

JBL: Well it certainly isn't luck, I'll tell you that much. I'm kind of a big deal, first of all. Secondly, it's all in how you present your findings. We all pull pottery out of the dirt, some seashells, a good amount of animal bones. But until now no one has thought to mimic ancient scripts on the objects, or rebuild the bones to form a new species of dinosaur. I mean, I'm friggin' CREATING science here. Who else does that?

1Guy: A day in the life of JBL. Describe.

JBL: Above all it involves complete sentences. I get up around 6, eat some breakfast, curse the sun, and get to the site around 7. By 7:30 I'm smacking away at the earth with my trusty pick and triangle. Besides digging, we have to dry-sieve the dirt to collect finds, do soil tests, collect wet-sieve samples, measure points, and, most importantly, stand around and do nothing when the trench supervisor isn't watching. It leaves little time for the kind of creativity I was telling you about, but obviously I manage.



1Guy: Recently your neighboring digger uncovered three human skelotons, including a child and a baby. Does this challenge your heretofore supremacy in the trench?

JBL: Honestly, I'm happy for the guy. It's about time someone else pulled their weight around the dig. Besides, he's Polish, so for alot of us, it put to rest some questions involving screwing in light bulbs.



1Guy: What has been the biggest challenge to your success so far?

JBL: I can think of two things: first, the ciment like soil I've had to dig recently. It makes sparks sometimes and saps the very depths of my soul's strength. Second, method. There's currently a movement right now--I'm sure it will come to nothing--questioning the value of my discoveries. It's pure crock, but what can you do? Some people can't but hate.

1Guy: You're kind of an idiot, aren't you?

JBL: At least I don't talk to myself...

Fish-scented Mousakas

Until I finally remember to take my camera to the dig, I'm gonna hold off on posting about it (fingers crossed on tomorrow). In the meantime, here is an article that is so Greek I almost exploded when I read it. Fascinating on so many levels...

by Kosmas Vidos (tr. from the Greek), 05/07/2009 in To Vima (newspaper)

The Philippino girls on the ground floor cook using tons of fish sauce, the smell of which rises to our floor, passes surreptitiously under the door and wakes me up from my afternoon nap, making me vomit. There is no more worse smelling thing than fish sauce, the residue from fish and shrimp that many Asians use instead of salt. Especially when you don’t eat fish. The other day (the Philippinos were again cooking) we found Aunt Julia half upset in front of the television. “The heat or the newsman?” I asked her. “This thing that those &%$@& throws in their food!” she answered, annoyed. What can you say to them? Don’t cook your food? “I can’t, my child. When we lived with your uncle in Werzenbrüngen in Bavaria, and I made egglplants with roasted garlic—he really liked it—our landlady cursed us because of the smell, and we called her a nazi. I don’t want the girls to say the same thing about me now.” “What was your job in Werzenbrüngen?” “Where to start…”

She didn’t tell me. Besides, the issue was how we would deal with the Philippino affront, which each afternoon transformed our house into the central fish market of Manila. “I put on an entire bottle of Madame Rochas in the morning and I smell like a fish again!” complained Mrs. Kouloubi-Kokota from the fourth floor. “What do you mean? Is Madame Rochas still on the shelves?” Aunt Julia asked, surprised. “Is this the issue or that we can’t leave our houses with these piranhas stationed on the ground floor?” “Eh, the poor things aren’t piranhas,” my aunt responded, whose anti-racism sometimes took over, “they’re working girls who came here looking for a better future.” “And meanwhile the only thing they have succeeded in doing is to transform our lives into hell. Piranhas, I tell you, my Julia, ready to torment us so and see us react to the poison with which they saturate the air we breathe! Karatzaferis spoke well in wanting all of them outside our borders…”

As the two (irreconcilable) friends tried to decide if Karatzaferis is far-right or a revolutionary model of a capitalist-communist with developed social sensibilities and insensibilities, but also if Mrs. Topaloglou, who rented the studio to the Philippinos, put in the complex two angels (with some displeasing habits) or two devils, they ended up at the same phenomena: the Albanians who sit at the corner below and drink beers all evening, leaving empty bottles on the sidewalk; the Romanian in the underground unit across the street who listens all the time to traditional songs from his country, compelling us to participate in his nostalgia. The black girl on the ground floor next door (she doesn’t have a country, she’s just “the black girl”) who insists on throwing her cleaning water on the street “because, my dear, in the shacks where she grew up, in the dust and droughts, she didn’t learn what a sewage system is!” as Mrs. Kouloubi-Kokota explained to Aunt Julia, while my aunt tried to persuade her that this all was “due to the rituals of the girl’s tribe. I saw it on the internet. They circumcise their boys and then throw water around to chase away evil spirits.” “You mean even now next door they are circumcising?” started Mrs. Kouloubi-Kokota. “Of course.” “Did you mean what you told her?" I asked when her visitor had gone away shocked. “Of course,” she answered, without persuading me at all.

What’s certain is that the multi-culturalism that our neighborhood has acquired the last few years has both its good side (e.g., the ethnic markets) and its bad side. But how good a disposition do the two sides show, we and the “foreigners,” to elide the differences between us and to meet at our similarities. Very little, I fear. In any case Aunt Julia does what she can. Two days ago, when I came home the two Philippinos came out hauling a skillet and pot. “I’m teaching them to cook nice Greek food to rescue us from the fish sauce. Today we had our first lesson: mousaka.” Several days later I met one of them on the street. “How are you?” “Went supermarket, to buy, making mousaga.” In the afternoon the odor of fish sauce again troubled our European noses. “In the end they didn’t prefer your recipe,” I commented, when the bell rang. They had brought her a bite of mousaka to try, to tell them if they had succeeded. “What did you put inside?” my aunt fiercely glared at them, ready to snap. “What you telled,” they looked at her confused. “Just that?” “Just that.” “And fish sauce?” I hastily added. “Fish sauce everything eat, very good health,” they sweetly looked at us. Aunt Julia had had enough. “They put fish in mousaka?” A bit. As the culture they brought with them ordains, which refuses to submit without a fight to the olive oil of Kalamata and the dried eggplants…

What just happened?

It's rare when a story tells itself, which is why I'm such a good poet. But last night...well, just have a look:

My new roommate, Nasia, comes home around 10 pm with her friend Katerina, informing me that they are helping with some Biennale art event at a restaurant. As she looks for something to change into, I learn that neither of them know exactly what they are supposed to do. All we know is that Nasia is a makeup artist, and Katerina will be her "canvas." Always ready to play spectator, I accept their invitation to come along.

An hour later, Nasia is ready to go. Five minutes later, she remembers that she needs something else and runs up to get it. Five minutes later, having returned, she remembers that she needs something else and runs up to get it. Finally, we leave.

We get to the restaurant and learn that Katerina is supposed to only wear a bra and underwear, which she is uncomfortable with. Things are chaotic and while everyone runs off to think of a compromise, she asks if I would be willing to do it instead, since she doesn't want to let Nasia down. I see no reason why not...but then they come back and convince her to do it if I go back to the apartment and get some more acceptable apparel. But Nasia overhears my agreement and decides that she will make us both into art.

On the cab ride back the apartment, my knowledge of Greek leads the driver to discourse at length on the Greek language, its difficulty, various dialects and cadences. He also threw in a piece of trivia about the Americans (and Brits) coming in and killing a bunch of people (not sure what the connection was). I said he was next if he didn't get me back to the restaurant faster (lies).



I get back with my delivery, and Nasia starts to work on Katerina first, leaving me in a state of boxers amidst the high society of northern Greece: beautiful people, drinking fancy cocktails and admiring art that they can then tell people they saw in an attempt to win prestige and glamour.



Then it was my turn. I should say that the theme was "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," so Nasia started by styling the lyrics to the song on our backs (and partially on my tummy), before then rolling more solid paint on Katerina's front. Perhaps she was intending to do the same to me, but then she had the idea of splashing paint on Katerina, and soon was splattering us both with the colors of the spectrum.




Don't worry, I caught up to Katerina pretty quickly. Then the owner came and Nasia started splatterring him as well (at his request: after she hit him with green, he demanded different colors, protesting that he wasn't a salad).



All in all, I'd say that my first modeling experience was pretty amazing, but maybe that's because I didn't get paid so it didn't feel like prostitution (one free drink doesn't count, since I paid 8 euros for the first one). Plus we got crepes afterwards, mmmmmm

Nuke It

Inversely proportional to wine, cheese, and war, my stories become less detailed, stripped of the vigor of the present—in a word, stale—the longer they sit untold. So I’m hoping that the microwaves of reverse chronology will help to refreshen this day-old donut.

Last night, I hit my head, crammed into a sleeper train compartment that “seats” 6, and woke up to a missing iPod. Crying foul in my head, I soon unearthed the missing instrument in anticipation of my coming excavatory activities. My reward: a lemon yoghurt, some breakfast tea, and an article on Greek fears (and even hopes) about the upcoming smoking ban. My lesson: second-hand smoking is not an idea in Greece, and so cannot be refuted or believed in.

Out of a children’s book, my laundry was eaten by a machine designed to break itself. After five days of trying to digest my unmentionables, the unwieldy beast spewed its prey forth at the behest of an Albanian sorcerer. It was unclear which was more compelling, his incantation or the “incense” that engulfed his persona (non gratis, post factum).

7: Number of Euros per hour a two-thirds band makes performing on the pedestrian walk of the Acropolis in the hours before sunset. 2.5: number of times said partial band played its set. 2: number of girls mesmerized by a certain male member of the band; also the number of times these girls contributed to the cause. 0: number of times we sang the words to “Oh Suzanna” correctly. 1: ranking of “Oh Suzanna” on the list of most popular songs we performed; also the number of cocaine addicts that danced to our music.

A reason to get facebook: because my pictures from Cappadocia, Slovakia (including my precocious nephews), and many other wonders of Turkey, are there and I’m not wasting time putting them up here.

A couple warnings about Cappadocia, however. First, if you are an “enemy” don’t visit the underground cities, because you will be killed, whether trapped in the narrow tunnels, falling into a hidden pit, or surprised from behind a rolling bolder door. Second, no, Star Wars was not filmed anywhere in the area. Third, don’t watch Borat within several months of going, unless you want to be obnoxious.