Mon Dieu! C'est un cheval!! Supercool, non?

I am not the foodie that my friends are. But I had to take a photo of the signature salad at this nearby cafe, Au Petit Fer a Cheval. The meal, the glass of chardonnay, and the after-dinner espresso was the end to a pretty great day, and dare I say a well deserved award after 5+ hours of walking. Over coffee, while watching the world go by, I knew I had a grin that wouldn't quit. There were three young women who sat next to me, and one kept looking over in my direction. "Does she know something? Does she see something I don't?" I thought she might be thinking. I think seeing someone who is sitting alone smiling is probably a rarity here.

I'll be the first to tell you that the whole week hasn't been like today. Aside from battling jet lag, I probably have been battling a few other things that I could not allow to come to the surface until now, until I was able to be far from loved ones, from responsibility, far from my own expectations as how I ought to behave. Other than a couple of long weekends here and there, this is my first trip traveling alone, and it's a learning experience. There are parts that I anticipated feeling, and there are parts I hadn't (though I had anticipated the unease). I have been taught that the only way out of something is to work through it. And so while I am here, I hope to surround myself with the inherent beauty of Paris, and perhaps channel some of the latent energy that some of its great thinkers and writers have left behind, to help fuel my journey.

Many things came together today to make it a splendid day. First is the 1.5L of water I had last night--never underestimate the power of staying hydrated. Second, the sun was out. Third, I visited the Musee d'Arts et Metiers. This museum is dedicated to how things work. It's divided into these exhibits, in this order: Scientific Instruments, Materials, Construction, Communication, Energy, Mechanics, and Transportation. I have an interest in how things work; I like to tinker. At one point in my life, I entertained becoming an engineer, and in wandering through the museum, I wondered what could have been if I had. I spent a disproportionately long amount of time in the first section. I was connected to it in a way that I rarely am in museums. In moving through the other exhibits, I realized what my connection to it was. The instruments on display were examples of man's first attempts at understanding the world and stars around him and to measure his place within it. Some of you may have heard me say that I am not sure why I was so compelled to come here, and after today's visit, where I literally had a moment of "oooooooooooooh" with myself, it is to find my place. Where do I fit in this world? What constitutes my world? What do I not see that might be out there? How can I see it? What aids are required, and can I create them? (As I write these questions, I can sense the return of the grin I had at dinner!)

After a brief interlude with a docent, I took off for Canal St. Martin. I reached it from the south end, chose the west side so I could admire the sunlight falling on the buildings to the east, and began my stroll northward. This is a working canal, but I only saw one boat move through it today. It was very peaceful. I stopped at a cafe--right at the dogleg of the canal--and wrote. People of all kinds walked by--families, businessmen, travelers toting luggage on wheels. There was one man, who had his mostly-white hair pulled back in a ponytail, his shaggy gray mustache covering his mouth, but not his stubble nor his deep brown eyes framed by his monstrous eyebrows. He was sporting a blue shirt, blue jeans, a blue jeans vest, and was holding...wait for it...a blue jeans jacket. This man was in stark contrast to the tall, slim, stylish, young black man I saw yesterday. He was well groomed, dressed in a black leather jacket with shoes and bag to match, while everything else was by Burberry, cap, scarf, and slacks in the signature plaid. There is just about everything inbetween, too. My preference leans toward the man who has a trimmed beard, longer hair and a strong chin. However, I am not sure if I'll find one who speaks in a register lower than mine.

The demographic I enjoy watching the most, however, is the timeless Parisian femme. The one who is north of 50, who does not put on makeup but rather "applies" it, who is properly coiffed, who wears a silk scarf, and whose style can only be described as classic. Younger women, though attractive in their own right, do not have this je ne sais quoi that only age can provide. In time though, they too will join the breed who, even standing at 5'2", can still look down on you. And does.

Voila... I am still in disbelief that I am here. It's a crazy feeling to be so anonymous in a city of 11,000,000 people (which slightly exceeds the population of all of Greece) trying, vying, and wanting to find my own little place within it. I shall continue to walk through this city, watching, wondering and of course grinning.

More to come...

Wherever You Go, There You Are

I cannot remember when I first heard this expression; since, I have had it said to me from time to time by close friends. Given my predilection for double-entrendres, it's no doubt that I smile each time I hear it. As I find myself so far away from home, it's no surprise that it comes to mind.

Today, I found myself wondering and wandering through the Right Bank. I have not yet been here for 48 hours. And because it took me less than 1/2 a day to travel 1/2 way around the world, I feel like my soul has been temporarily displaced from my body. It's not the physical shift that's the difficult adjustment, it's the metaphysical shift that gets me each time. I find myself going from rue to rue, standing idly, taking in as much of the commotion as I possibly can. I arrived at an intersection that I could not place, until I looked left. Through no design of my own making, I stumbled upon the Pompidou Centre. I smiled. I smiled because long ago in college, this was a monument I had studied in Architecture class. I smiled because now I have a kind of connection to it that I could never have dreamed then, to a person I hold so very dear.

Wherever you go, there you are.

When asked what I would do in Paris for such a long period of time, I was met with confused faces. "I don't know. I'll know when I get there." "French lessons?" some would counter. "Nope." "Cooking classes?" "No." "Do you know anyone there?" "Not really." "Why are you going again??"

The first time I uttered this idea--this *preposterous* idea--was to a client. Yes, I used to work. And yes, the day will come when I have to work again. (Life is somehow lived in-between.) The client, Susie, is nothing but a positive force. And when I told her I would be transitioning her case to another associate, she enthusiastically moved the conversation with "What are you going to do?" Out of my mouth fell the words: "I want to go to Paris."

My eyes darted side to side. Did someone just join us? Did Susie's lips move and I missed it? Did those words come out of this mouth?? Indeed they did. Susie's response? "Cool." She paused to smile, and then finished, "that's so cool." I was still stuck in the moment of what I had just said; Susie had clearly moved on. She went on to tell me how much fun I was going to have, how I should find time to write, and how happy she was for me.

I left Susie thankful for her reaction and her support in my decision. But I was stuck. What just happened? And to my amazement, this idea, this desire, this thing that just popped out from inside of me is something that has continued to bubble up inside me since the end of 2009. And even with the obstacles that have come my way, I made it. I'm here. I couldn't have known what obstacles I would face--those made by me, by habits I've developed that I wasn't even aware of, and those presented to me, testing me, making me reach and reaffirm, yes, this is something I desperately want to do, a gift I want to give myself, a good I ought to have. The lessons were necessary for me to be able to get *here.*

Wherever you go, there you are.

I'm watching, listening, smiling, and drinking as much in as I possibly can. Here I am. And this is where I plan to be. Though tomorrow morning, you can find me at the patisserie around the corner (no not that one, the other one).

Moments

There is this saying that my mom shared with me a long time ago, and it goes something like life is not comprised of the moments we breathe, but rather those that take our breath away. It’s been a while since I have returned, and as one would guess, my mind drifts back to it, fighting the reality that I am no longer there. What is below are some moments that have stayed with me. Some of these I wrote while I was still there, and some are descriptions of moments I am trying to recapture. As we close another year and embark on the holidays—a time traditionally set aside for family—I encourage you to relish the moments. Those moments that remind you you’re alive, those moments that remind you to be present, those moments that you’ll try to remember in the years to come. Raise your glass, squeeze a loved one, and give thanks for all that you have, because the moment will be gone before you know it.

I have had many such breath-taking moments here; moments that I do not want to forget. One was when I was with Ernesto in Viterbo. We were approaching the open air Saturday flea market. He was resistant to the idea of actually shopping at it. I urged him to reconsider. He wouldn’t let me enter until he was done explaining his rules about visiting such a market. I told him openly that I would not abide by them; that I found his “go down each aisle only once” mandate to be too Chinese. How could we possibly barter if we didn’t know the competition? He debated on whether taking me there was a good idea. But he knew he needed help decorating his “Soviet” apartment in his host mother’s house. So, the moment came. Sporting his aviator glasses, he filled his chest with confidence, put his hand on his orange shorts, and declared, “I am ‘in the market’!” I am ready to part with my money!” Off we went, and he did. And he even won me a Chinese discount!

I had another moment. I was talking to my cousin Vicky who has a daughter Danae. I met Dane two years ago when she was just months old. Before my arrival this time, Vicky was explaining to her that I had come from America, or “A-mer-ica!” as it’s often referenced, and I was coming to visit her. She explained that I had to travel via airplane, and the trip took hours and hours. She explained how far away I lived, and how much I wanted to see them, and how I would be there the following day. So Vicky concludes all of this with: “Eleni is coming here, tomorrow!” And Danae nonchalantly responds, “Again?”

I spent almost five hours with my uncle today. We met in Syntagma square. Though I was early, I found him waiting for me. He is 70, and was dressed in a dark blue shirt and tan, pressed, linen slacks. His name is George, and he’s my dad’s little brother. We walked the pedestrian stroll Ermou, and we stopped for coffee. It lasted over two hours. We talked. He cried. And so did I. Thankfully, he shared his handkerchief with me. We went for souvlakia, and we talked more. He told me he would let his handkerchief dry before his next use. We parted ways at the train station, and I kissed him on both cheeks. I told him I loved him, and he gave me that look. That look that says I am here for you if you need me. I kissed him again. And as I write this, I find that I need his handkerchief.

The moon is waxing. The last couple of nights, my mom and I have been staying up until the wee hours to watch it set. We overlook a main thoroughfare and just beyond it is the sea. As we sit and talk—constantly interrupting each other to point out cars we like—we watch the reflection of the moon in the water move. The moon looks like it’s half of a droplet, and with each passing moment, as it works its way closer to the horizon, it becomes just a little bigger and its color changes from a creamy white to a deep orange. When it’s finally gone, we know it’s time for bed.

The moon was full the other night. There was a cloud shaped like Nantucket that gently faded away as the moon continued to rise. The sky was not black, but a deep blue. The moon shone so brightly that I could see my shadow on the veranda.

I witnessed a baptism today. You know when someone has done this, because the family gives “matirika” to all the guests (the root of the word derives from to bear witness) that they pin to a lapel. My cousin got married in 2004, and has four children in the span of the last five years. As I had not seen him since then, I told him and his wife that “my eyes are full” with their children! It was in the tiniest church I have ever been in. The priest had the thickest hair I have seen, and it crossed my mind that the baby might actually grab his beard in protest (this has happened in our family before!). The baby girl cried so much that I could no longer bear it, and so I started to cry too. The baby’s grandpa walked passed me, and saw me. He put his hand on my cheek to console me.

When was the last time you held a 3.5 pound tomato?


My mom’s koumbara came to visit us. She didn’t have long to spend, so to buy us time, I offered to run her up to where she needed to meet her husband. She wanted to direct me so it would be easy for me to get back to a road I knew. We needed to make two left turns. Neither was, according to signage, “permitted.” Having gotten comfortable with Greek driving, I took the first—crossing 2 lanes of cars—but was a bit hesitant about the second—where there were four lanes. She found the solution. She assured me: “The sign says no left. We’re not going left. We’re making a U-turn. That’s ok, because there is no sign saying it is prohibited.” Really? A left is a no-no but U-turn is ok? Really?

I slipped on a sidewalk the last day I was there. There, some sidewalks are made of marble. And marble is an unforgiving surface, especially to the human head. I had a lump the size of an egg. I didn’t worry until I heard my mom utter the words “internal hemorrhage” on the phone. It wasn’t so much that I may have needed medical care in that moment; it was that my only option was medical care in Greece. (Remember my burn in ’04?)

Across the busy avenue from where we live is a park. I am amazed at how green it is. Traffic on weekends is horrible, because so many families come to visit, and so many cars simply park in the right-most lane. My cousins came “down” to visit. The brought Danae and Thodoris. Danae does not sit still, and sitting is all Thodoris wants to do. As Vicky chased her daughter, D tried to catch a few winks. I found myself holding Thodoris. I thought I was distracting him, but slowly…so slowly…his eyes…they just got…heavier…and heavier…and his head…his head finally….relented to gravity…and I found myself catching his pacifier. Though the position I found myself in made me sore within minutes, I did not risk moving, fearing that I might wake him. So I didn’t.

It’s a crazy feeling to be in a place that is JUST SO FAR AWAY and yet so incredibly familiar. I can’t imagine what this is like for my mother, who grew up in Kallithea. We spent a day walking around and shopping there. We found an old friend of Mimi’s for coffee; he told me how they used to build vespa-type scooters from scrap metal. And once he discovered my love of cars, he explained to me how to parallel park my car—by using an e-brake and picturing a 90-degree angle. Mom and I ducked into a lighting shop to check out, well, lighting. As she was finishing up, I stepped outside for “fresh” air. She came out of the building, and as she closed the door, she said, “ I know this place.” “You’ve been here before?” I asked, trying to think of what other lighting needs she had. “Yes. It was where I went to elementary school.”

Pepi makes things happen. Pepi takes care of us. Pepi is a giver. And Pepi has an awesome memory. Many times, Mom and I found ourselves at her house. And when there, she would insist on ordering in. And because she remembered what I liked, she always order kalamakia. “Kalamakia” are meat on sticks at their finest. In this case, the meat is pork, and extra lemon is always provided. She would always over-order (so we got to take the rest home, and they rival cold pizza as the breakfast of champions). There was always a Greek salad. And there was enough pita bread to pave a walkway. And we usually ran out of fried potatoes (Mom’s weakness).
But the best part? The best part was the conversation. The best part was the informality of it all. The best part was getting in each others' way in the small kitchen, as they rest of the house remained unoccupied. The best part was savoring the stories we shared while sliding the wooden skewers away from our faces, leaving juicy, lemony bites to savor as well. It was not knowing who was going to join us for this impromptu affair. And it was listening to Pepi’s mom, Thea Maria, at 90+, punctuate a thought, provide a location, or remind us of a long-passed relative. It was my mom’s and Pepi’s laughter, as they coaxed each other to tell me something else I should I hear about the other. It was trying to stay quiet while Pepi was on the phone, deflecting questions and saying that the noise was coming from the TV, as she tried to shush into silence, without breaking herself up. It was talking about the day. I miss that.

Mom and Pepi heading out for a "banio"! This is one of my favorite images of the whole trip.

Level Two: Hog Wild

My first cousin on my mom’s side is the second son of my mother’s brother, Mimi, and brother to the cousin I have already written about. His name is Antoni. I remember him when he was a teenager and younger. He lost his dad when he was 16 years old, and for whatever reason, the image of him in my mind has been stuck though I have seen him in the 12 years since our loss of Theo Mimi. Mimi was the car nut in the family. He loved them. He worked on them. He knew everything about them. He said, “If I could put wheels on my wife, I would love her all the more.” He bought a 1960 Mini Cooper that his widow and Antoni still have. It has more than 1,000,000 miles on it, because Mimi would take it apart and rebuild it. My love of cars sprouts from him and my love for him.

Mimi also rode bikes. Here they are called “michanakia” or “little engines.” My mom has told me a story from back then, when she visited Greece and rode on a bike with Mimi. He instructed her to put her purse between them and close her eyes. My mom remembers going so fast along Syggrou Avenue that she couldn’t open her eyes if she wanted to, and of course she wonders to this day how on earth Mimi could drive! But that was Mimi, and there was only one Mimi.

Today, there are many more cars and michanakia in Greece. And when you’re driving anywhere in Greece, but especially in well-populated areas, the michanakia are what can take you by surprise. Here, they go wherever they want. In traffic, they move between slow-moving cars. Without traffic, they do the same, just at higher speeds. At stoplights, they flood the crosswalks to be first in line. At left turn lanes, they bypass the waiting cars and head to the front of the line to make the turn first. Of course the benefit for having a michanaki is the ease of getting around and above all else finding a parking spot. My American eyes, however, can only see the disadvantages—the lack of safety standards, the absence of helmets—and the speeds at which they weave through traffic horrify me.

I saw Antoni this week. Now, I think I finally have an updated mental image of him. He stands at 6’2” and has filled out. Even though I remember him when he was 16 months old when I was a tiny 9-year-old myself, he nears 30, and his goatee is a reminder of how far we’ve both come since then. Antoni invited me out with some of his friends. They meet every Thursday night. Sometimes they gather on Sundays too. You see, this group that he is a part of rides bikes. In further redefining my image of him, Antoni owns a hog and is a member of the Harley-Davidson Club of Athens.

I’ve only ever ridden on a scooter. That was in Greece too, back in 2004 when Freddie and Jordan came to visit and we wanted an easy way to get around Mykonos. I never drove the scooters, but chose to ride with one of the boys at any one time. While on the island, we ponied up for helmets.

“Wear pants.” When Antoni called to tell me he was waiting down below, I arrived, purseless, in jeans and closed toe shoes. He rides a Harley, but not one of those huge ones with back supports; it’s a sporty one, with a black matte finish. And no room to house a second helmet. With my mother watching above from the veranda, I climbed on the bike, helmetless. I thought that the only way I could be making the choice that I was making was to be in the hands of Mimi’s only surviving son. He had my full trust—and my life—in his control. (Only upon my safe arrival home did my mother confide in me her thoughts as she watched us zip away.)

“Hold on to me, because there is nowhere else to hold on.” I didn’t know where we were headed. But because of where we live, we had to get on busy streets. I hugged Antoni and rested my head on his shoulder. Worried about losing my contacts, I did not open my eyes for a bit. When I finally did, I chose not to look at the speedometer, but it did make me wonder: what was I doing exactly?

“Lean with the bike.” We were headed to Piraeus, so we were traveling on one busy avenue to get to another. We weaved in between cars, and sped through them as they merged from two lanes into one. (I had the opportunity to drive in Corfu a couple of years ago, and I likened it to being in a video game with the one difference being that my life was literally at stake. I think I just reached Level Two of that video game.)

As we approached Piraeus, I squinted to have some idea of where we were. I could feel and hear the gears changing. Click! We’d pull away from cars or other bikes. My one open eye watched as we passed between buses and cars and whizzed pass shops. I saw the headlights of oncoming traffic Click! as we traveled along the median to bypass a line of cars. The reflection of streetlights became a dotted line I could follow in Antoni’s helmet. Reminding me of my cranial exposure, the wind cooled my face, and I could occasionally feel it at my back when we came too close to a bus. Click! Click!

I’ll tell you about the details of meeting the gang when I see you next (the 20 or so bikes of all sizes, Antoni taking me by each one to match the person I just met to the bike as well as to inform me of the differences in the bikes themselves, my experience with the three other women that were there, a bus knocking a bike over, the members of the gang who directed traffic between buses and cars along the “steno”). Antoni took me home—I can only imagine before going out again—and I thanked him for the experience. I told him that it was the first time I had ridden a michanaki, and he was delighted that it was done properly. On a Hog.

More to come...

Random Thought

I have a cousin who speaks Greek so fast that I think I am listening to Morse Code.

“Italy” is misspelled.

I am not at all sure where to begin with my trip to Italy. Explaining how it should be “Eataly” could be one starting point. However, I will tell you about this experience instead.

Many of you know my close friend Bernie. Bernie married Roo six years ago in Vernazza, Italy, have a daughter Ruby about 2-1/2 and little Mei, who is weeks old. Roo’s parents, Ruthie and Richard, spend a part of the summer in Tuscany each year, and this year, I was part of the lucky few who got to stay with them.

As my arrival time was a little unpredictable (is there any hope for a flight from Athens to Rome to run on time? This is why the world needs Germans or least the Swiss), they sent a cab driver who came to get me. He spoke no English and I no Italian, so the ride was quiet. But however quiet it was, it was as breathtaking. I was stunned with every turn we took (my amazement only interrupted by a moment of envy when I saw two women driving a 2010 Z4, top down). About ¾ way through the drive, the driver Anileo turned to me, head cocked downward, big brown eyes upward, and asked, “Bootifool?” And drawing on my extensive Italian, I said with great enthusiasm, “Si! Si! Molto!” He grinned broadly, nodding in agreement.

Just before sunset, I arrived at the house, waiting for the family to come. Bernie called to let me know they’d be late. They were coming from Montepulciano, where they had enjoyed a medieval wine-barrel rolling festival. Naturally. They arrived: Roo & Bernie, their daughters, Ruthie and Richard, and Roo’s brother Bo. We enjoyed sunset from the wall, and we had a light dinner. I enjoyed a great rest with the windows open, giving way to as much fresh air as I possibly could.

Breakfasts were spent under the tree at a long table, where good coffee and conversation never ran short. We made a quick one that morning, because we were off to the coast to see some more of the Rogers clan. A two hour drive included a pit stop in a tiny town for, what else?, espresso. We made our way through wine country. We arrived to find another Rogers brother, Ab, his wife, Sophie, and daughters Ella and Lula, who doted over their cousin Ruby. Cousin Ernesto and wife Arianna greeted us with broad smiles and hugs to match. Their 18-month old twins, Martino and Teo, were being minded by Roxie and Rocco (pardon me as I cannot remember the relation of these two!). We changed into our suits (big thanks to Ruthie here!) and off into the sea we went to cool off.

The swim and beachtime were followed by lunch. Ernesto and Arianna had prepared Linguine di Mare and Octopus. The table of 15 was set outside, or al fresco, under pine trees. The conversation was as spirited as one could imagine. I felt right at home, with multiple conversations happening at once, the wine pouring as freely as the intra-family ribbing. The conversation turned toward the “Toto,” a type of toilet that cleans one so well that no paper is necessary. I will spare you details of the conversation, only because this is a story better told in person. Suffice it to say that I really enjoyed myself, the family table conversation only enhanced by the family table wine.

We spent the next couple of days using the house as a base. Simply watching the sun play with the shadows across the countryside made me so content. Bernie described the countryside as “Playmobile: Tuscany” as we felt we should be able to reach out to move the bales of hay or the tractors along what looked to be a completely fake landscape.
Ruthie is the owner and chef of a famous restaurant in London, and so we ate very well. We talked about food being simply prepared, without lots of sauces or complicated flavors. We talked about being on stuck on an island, and discussing what would you take with you if you just had one food to take. Bernie added to the mix of asking “butter or oil?” We enjoyed eggplant, roasted tomatoes, fresh arugula, and porchetta. Oh and the porcini mushrooms! When more guests arrived, Ruthie greeted them with her famous fried zucchini flowers which is a hit with everyone, especially Ruby. Ruby is a fan of all things fresh, including the blackberries we were picking along our walk.

Good eating aside, I am reminded at how fortunate I am. First, I was visiting a friend I have had the good fortune to visit with in Zihuatanejo, Tuscany, and Rome—this year alone. She is a friend and confidante I have had for 25 years. As I told Ruthie, Richard and Bo in the car ride to the coast, I have had the benefit of Bernie’s good counsel for all of those years. She is a wonderful friend, and I am so very lucky to have her as a friend, and now her husband Roo too. And that I got to play with Ruby and hold Mei for as long as I did, well, I am reminded at how precious life is, and that no matter how much how may have materially, relationships are what make life worth living.

Link to full Italy photo album (including time with Ernesto in Viterbo!!) Some of the captions didn't come through (will have to fix...)

More to come...

Daily Life

I am back in Athens, and have started and stopped writing blog posts for numerous reasons. Daily life here does not mimic life in Seattle. And it's okay that it doesn't. At times I find things that do and do not make me miss Home. Last week, mom and I went to an outdoor cinema by foot and saw Inception. I was glad that it wasn't dubbed, but it did have Greek subtitles, so in addition to trying to follow the storyline, I was practicing Greek. The Cinema has tables and refreshments, so if you want to enjoy a kalamaki souvlaki with a beer, you may. The photo above was taken from our veranda yesterday morning. Please note the single orange cone to alert speeding traffic that workers are near.

Mom and I took a weekend trip with close friends to Agoriani, a small village up in Mt Parnassos. In addition to taking in the sights and local fare, conversation included differences between the States and Greece. We brought up safety as one, and how much the American is concerned for his fellow man's safety and security, whereas the Greek, well hey, if you weren't looking while driving and you fall over the side of the road, it's your fault. (Did I mention that we drove up a mountain to about 850 meters vertical height?)

I spent the day today going to the post office and to the grocery store. I love going to the grocery store here. It's a little insane. There is an entire section devoted to "Wheat Rusks" which are actually pretty good. Also there is a deli counter for Cheese, and a separate one for Feta, as there about as many varieties at each. Food is relatively inexpensive here (a red onion was .11 euros, a kilo of the finest Kalamata olives at 5 euro, fresh bread at .90 euros a loaf from a bakery, and juice at 2.50 euro). Those of you who have visited here will appreciate today's purchase of 7 cans of beer, with a FREE GIFT of an eighth can. The supermarket even delivered it all within an hour, so I didn't have to haul it home for my 15-minute walk on the heat. I feel like a local!

Speaking of the heat it's been perfect at about 85 degrees F. On our weekend getaway, we got a taste of the village--rain and fog and temps hovering between 55-60--but it was absolutely dynamite. There is something about heading up to the Mountain, putting on heavier clothes, warming yourself with good wine and better conversation, and enjoying the different environment that offers.

Breakfast there was hortopita, think cheese pie but replace the cheese with fresh local greens. The pita was handmade and we ate it with our morning coffee. Although our traveling companion, Kostantinos, prefers bread. I surprised myself in my enjoyment of this dish at that hour! We made a brief side trip to Kaloskopi, the village where my grandads and dad were raised. My dad's little brother is there during the summer with his wife, so we stopped in to see them though all too briefly. That village only has about 20 year round residents, so it's a dying village. The village where we stayed has about 350, and it's becoming more of a tourist site. We met some locals, one a driven young lady named Effie, who is in real estate among other things. She's the glue that holds a town together. She took us to see a hotel that was opened a few years ago by a Greek-Italian (got passion?) lady named Teresa. Teresa fundamentally is an artist. She has put together a beautiful hotel that includes only 4 rooms, all of which are different, but also a wonderful bar/common space, where the ceiling in unnaturally high, the menu is written on the window, and all of the details are hers (she made the clock for example, and the water basins that serve as sinks in some areas are carved from wood by her hand). It is AWESOME to see young women drive commerce wherever you are, and it was really fun for me to see how energized my mom got by seeing them. She sang their praises and gave them blessings. I think the differences she sees in her generation and mine spur her to encourage anyone to make a better life for themselves, but especially to the young women she meets.

I hate to cut this short, because I HAVE SO MUCH MORE TO TELL YOU! But I think some should be left for the trip home, no? I have to get going because (1) strikes going on today will make it harder for me to get around the city, (2) ouzo awaits in Thissio with my cousins and (3) I am pretty much done with the couple in the corner who have been making out since I arrived here. Though the window washer doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he just lit a cigarette.

Link to full album for weekend trip.

More to come!