A Myth Come True

Back to Athens.

Sunday dawned bright and warm, the promise of an 80-degree day under perfectly blue skies. Our hostel, located in an area of Athens called Monastiraki (which might be my new favorite word) was only a street away from the entrance to the Acropolis. And, fortunately for us, the Acropolis workers were striking for higher pay, so there was no one to collect the entrance fee and we got in for free. (Why they started striking now, after 20 months of unpaid work, is beyond me.)

As we ascended the stone path to the City of the Gods, we had to tread carefully; the marble steps were slippery from centuries of feet scuffing, marching, and dragging their way to the top. The view from the hill was incredible. Staying true to its architectural history, almost all of Athens is composed of white buildings, mostly marble; they spread out cleanly and invitingly before us, like a lace cloth on a grand dining room table. Stone, sky, and sea in the distance made a beautiful feast for the eyes, bright and cheerful. It's no wonder the Greek flag is blue and white; the country wears its natural colors proudly.

At the top of the Acropolis is the famous parthenon, a many-columned and perfectly symmetrical temple whose image has become an almost cliche representation of Greece. To be honest, I wasn't expecting to be very impressed by this ruined giant, but once again, Athens exceeded my expectations. The stone of the temple, a perfect creamy white that entranced me; the perfect symmetry of the columns left me awe-struck. I learned later that the reason for the Acropolis' half-destruction was a Venetian bomber in the 1600s. Until that point, the temple had been almost perfectly preserved for almost 2000 years, and still would be today but for a primitive gunpowder explosive. Despite this destruction, the part that remains is beautiful in its detailed construction, as are the other statues on the hill: the Shrine to Nike Athena, with its goddess statue-columns, the epic outdoor Theatre of Dionysus, and the mammoth Temple of Zeus. The mixture of excellent craftmanship, mild Greek weather, and reverence for art has kept these masterpieces amazingly intact.

The next day we took a two-hour bus ride to the coast to see the Temple of Poseidon, another marvel of columns, this time overlooking the glittering Aegean from a sheer cliff. (The temple really wasn't that far from Athens, but the questionable efficiency of the Greek bus system, combined with winding roads up the hills, made for another adventurous, if not comfortable, journey.) According to legend, King Aegeas watched for the return of his son Theseus' ship from this very cliff. He was looking desperately for a ship with white sails, the signal that would indicate his son's victory and safe return. While Theseus was indeed successful in his battle with the Minotaur, in his celebratory state he forgot to put up the white sails on his ship. Aegeas, seeing black sails approaching in the distance, thought all was lost and threw himself off the cliff in despair.

A dramatic story, but given the scenery, anything seemed possible. My bare arms rejoiced in the hot sunlight and the refreshing ocean breeze, summer remnants that I did not expect to see again before next June. We just sat on the cliff and drank in the view. Unfortunately, photographs just cannot do justice to the scene; the stark definition between land and sea, the vivid colors, the scents and sounds are lost in the transmission. Only words can come close to recreating it, and even those fall short. Suffice it to say that it was stunning. Even better was the secluded inlet next to the cliff, where we dove into the water (yes, in underwear) and let the coolness cleanse the dust and sweat away.

Exhausted, hungry, and soaked, we boarded the bus for the trip home, which I semi-dozed through, having those surreal half-dreams where you can't separate the day's real events and the ones your brain tries to make you believe. Ships and waves and salt, sky and dust and legends. A whim adventure with excellent results. I think I'm too anxious to be a free spirit, but on that day I felt like dropping everything and running barefoot over the hills in the most cliche act imaginable. Now, on a rainy and cold Sunday in London, it almost seems like it never happened. But even if Aegeas never jumped into the sea, I did, and it was beautiful.

Please forgive this brief intermission

11:20 on a Friday night. I am sitting on the couch in my flat, watching the headlights of the cars on the street five stories below. I am wearing an orange sweatshirt and blue polka-dotted pajama shorts. I am listening to Joni Mitchell. Next door there is some kind of pre-Halloween dorm party going on, just loud enough for the sounds of laughter and animated conversation to be comforting (to a college student, anyway).

"I've looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose, but still somehow it's life's illusions..."


Sing it, Joni. I guess I'm feeling a little reflective. My parents were here this week and I just said goodbye to them before they leave early tomorrow morning. There's nothing quite so comforting to the weary mind as family. Mom and Dad, I miss you already.

I miss all of you. It's so strange, the semester is already half over, and I'll be home before I know it. I can't decide how I feel about this. Mixed. I love London, but today I just got fed up with the crowded Tube and the terrible coffee and the expensive groceries and cigarette smoke; most of all, with the sense that even the simplest task is a matter of survival, of walking and carrying and getting jostled into oblivion. I get so disoriented sometimes; I can't believe I'm here. But all of you, my friends and family, remind me of who I am and of what I'm doing.

And with that, sentimentality interlude over. Don't worry, I'll try to get back to descriptive adventure narrative, I don't want to scare you off with all this faux-thoughtfulness. I didn't mean to turn this into a personal journal. But that's the thing about new experiences- no matter how hard you try you can't simply describe them objectively. Whether you like it or not, your thoughts will shine through; your mind will shape and be shaped. That's what I'm learning. (But don't worry, the next installment about Greece will not devolve into a sonnet or something... I'm not quite that far gone.)

Until next time, then. Sleep sounds glorious right now. Goodnight!

Athens: A Symposium.

We are about to delve into the world of whirlwind European vacations, full of hostels, overstuffed backpacks, and early morning trains. Deep breath. Here we go.

I arrived in Athens on Friday afternoon with two other girls. The rest of our ridiculously large group of 9 was to arrive later that day, which meant I was largely responsible for navigating from the airport to the hostel. This transit turned out to be the most violent bus ride in recent memory, and the driver would periodically yell angry things back at the passengers for no reason. At least, I think he was angry. I don't speak Greek, but tone of voice speaks for itself.

By the time we reached the center of town an hour later, we were bedraggled, motion sick, and exhausted from a day of traveling. And I have to be honest, Athens did not make the best first impression. Graffiti plagues the city, stray dogs wander the streets, and corner vendors try to hawk knock-off Louis Vuitton at every possible opportunity. We wandered the street our hostel was supped to be on, looking for number 14, until we finally found it tucked next to a side alley. Oy vey. Exposed concrete, dangling wires, dingy lighting, strains of loud Greek conversations floating through the air. Ohhh no, this could be a very long trip. We walked up several flights, Athenians peering curiously out of their open doorways at us, until we decided something must be wrong. Back outside in the late afternoon sun, we discovered the main offices of he hostel were next door to the building we had entered, and immediately my uneasiness eased up. (I recognize the extreme awkwardness of that sentence but I am going to keep it there out of defiance. I did something similar recently on a paper that I had to turn in for a class I don't like very much... went over the word count but basically told the prof to deal with it. Ooooh. Rebel. Born revolutionary right here. Move over, Che.)

ANYway. The hostel HQ was actually really nice... free computers, rooftop bar overlooking the Acropolis, and an exemplary breakfast. It turned out we actually were staying in the rather janky building next door, but the room itself was perfectly nice. Our group of 9 stayed in a 10-person dorm-style room, so we had a space to ourselves. Once everyone arrived and the spartan linoleum floors and metal bunks were coated with a layer of girls' clothing, it felt much cozier.

As I lay down to sleep that first night, I felt oddly comfortable, more so than I ever would have expected in a strange place after a hectic day. The bunk beds and the room full of girls reminded me of Interlochen, and the mattress was soft and lovely. I felt comfy, safe. Even as my brain softly buzzed with exhaustion, I marveled at how, given the right circumstances, one can feel at home anywhere in the world. It's not a location, home, but a mindset. And at that moment, I felt as delightfully sleepy and warm as I used to as a child in my bed in the corner room facing Dobie Road in Okemos, Michigan, on a snowy night, after my mom had tucked me in.

Look how much I've grown, and look how much I've stayed the same.

The prodigal daughter returns

I'm finally home from my fall break adventures, and boy, do I have a lot to tell you. Expect installments on Athens, Rome, Venice, and Cinque Terre soon. (And I promise to actually do them this time, unlike my still-MIA Munich entry... Whoops...)

Mom and Dad are here and it almost feels like coming home again. But not quite. After all this traveling I am thinking of my house and Midwestern autumns and nice wide roads with a little more wistfulness than usual. For now, though, London is my home base and it's good to be back. I'm a little disheveled and considerably poorer (there's a story there) than when I left, but I'm here and I've been blessed with some pretty cool experiences. All in good time. Right now, a nap is in order...

Of Pirates and Dictionaries.

Walking, walking, walking up Fleet Street, my new favorite place. Think Sweeney Todd, lawyers, tiered churches, winding alleys. I walk into a side alley leading to something called the "Inner Temple," one of the four Inns of Court that function like Bar Societies in the US. And suddenly, it's 200 years ago. The maze of narrow paths twist between buildings with signs proclaiming their occupants in curling black brushstrokes: Mr Bailey, Mr Winslow, and Miss Carton, Barristers. There are small gated gardens and wrought iron fences in this mini-city within a city. There are even elegant horse-drawn carriages parallel-parked on the side of the road. But wait, even if the lawyers retain the historical integrity of their offices, there's no way they take horse-drawn carriages to work...

And then I see a sign propped against a nearby wall: "Caution: Filming in Progress. Please Be Quiet." Eagerly, I turn the corner, following a trail of signs until the street opens up into a square that looks like a market scene out of the 1700s. There are rough wooden tables covered in vegetables, whole quails hanging from racks, and oak barrels stacked under canvas tents. I find a man with an official-looking ID badge and ask what they are filming. The next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, he replies. I look around quickly, half expecting Johnny Depp to sneak up and surprise me (it's been known to happen! http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1649580/20101008/story.jhtml  )

Sadly, Mr Depp did not arrive, as the elaborate set is only meant to appear in about 3 minutes of film, with stunt doubles standing in for the stars. Oh well, it was still a highly amusing diversion on a walk filled with surprises. I love how you can just walk around London and find something new at each turn. Or something old, I suppose, as most of the treasures are historically significant. Before the Pirates adventure, I followed a series of signs that led me through a knot of tiny alleys to a small building labeled only as "Dr Johnson's House." It turns out to be the home of Ben Johnson, author of the first dictionary, a great writer and fascinating figure in the history of London, preserved to retain its 17th-century character.

"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." So said Ben Johnson, so proclaims the sign outside his house, and so I learn each day as I revisit my favorite places and find new ones to delight me. I miss all of you terribly, and I wish you could be here with me because there truly is something that each one of you would love.

Wales: A History

This is belated (from the weekend of Sept 24, to be exact). My apologies. Stay tuned for the sequel-- Munich: An Introduction. 

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Cardiff, Wales. Home of Roald Dahl, dragon flags, a castle, the British Cheese Festival, shopping arcades, Brains brewery, windy afternoons, and bilingual signs, among other things. And, last weekend, me.

On a whim, three friends and I took the early train on Friday to Cardiff, a two-hour ride to the west coast of the island. When we stepped off, not much had changed, and yet at the same time, a lot had. The town was smaller, homier than London, not as glamorous but a little more comforting in its resemblance to something rather familiar... very familiar indeed. For some reason, I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was in the Midwest of Britain. Perhaps I've just been missing home a bit, but the people wearing shorts in 50 degree weather, the dairy, and the accents of the friendly residents all made me think of Michigan. This is not a place where people wear stilettos to work, it's a place where you can wear a pink raincoat (which I did) and not feel out of place. There were also a lot more children than any place I've been so far, and I eavesdropped on a grandmother telling her adorable granddaughter the story of Billy Goat Gruff. If you've never heard a Welsh woman telling a Mother Goose story, get on it, stat. I wanted to record her so I could listen to her marvelous voice in my spare time.

We also happened to stumble across the British Cheese Festival at Cardiff Castle (in the words of the advertisements on the street, "Cheese and a castle... what's not to love?"). I kept thinking of my brother as a five year-old, getting smoked cheddar cheese from the Dairy Store when every normal kid got ice cream. Mini-Pat would have loved Cardiff. So much delicious cheese and bread and wine and a bad live band and sunshine and a castle that reminded you of Monty Python.

One tourist shop had a big banner out front that proudly described Wales as "The Happy Country." I think that does sum up the whole place pretty well. When you have cows and dragons and pubs called "The Goat Major," it's hard not to smile a bit as you walk down the street, even if you don't have those sleek black boots they wear in London.