Greek Hospitality in the Peloponnese

Previously, I had written an entry about my stay in Greece, including all of my cultural observations, and comparative analysis. It sounds so mechanical, and it was. As I was reading through it to check for errors, I began to loathe my writing and yearn for how I was able to eloquently convey myself in previous entries. I couldn’t figure out what I had done wrong, what was different, and I realized after reading my latest published entry that I was beginning to slack, to lose connection to what I was saying. I wondered, is it because I had been so off balance? Am I that easy to read that even my writing shifts so that it reflects my current state of being? After reading it through, I found a lack of emotion that is unlike myself. I had been feeling many things, and finally the lack of time to process and reflect had caught up to me, and I could no longer label what it was I was feeling let alone channel it appropriately into my writing. Now, after some reflection, and a significant amount of solar Vitamin D, I can say without a doubt that when I think about my time in Greece I feel nothing but love, the feeling of being so loved that I am filled with joy and gratitude. Writing this new entry feels as though I have a means of paying homage to the culture that I love, and that has loved me back.

I was welcomed here, not into one, but two Greek families. I was invited to stay in a neighboring vacant apartment of one family, and also stayed with a cherished friend of mine, and her family, for a shorter period. During this time, I have felt such love. The Greeks reminded me of what family means, or should mean. Or maybe there is no proper definition of that – but they reminded me of what I want my family to someday be, and how I want to rear that idea and manifest it into existence… some day. I found many similarities between Greeks and some Latin cultures; they welcome you, feed you, take care of you, they give you what you need, and they expect nothing – except maybe respect. [Also a commonality, I noticed, is pride in music and dance – the Greek Kalamatiano versus the Latin Merengue – Juan Luis Guiera versus Dimitris Mitropanos.] In the Greek culture, like some Latin cultures, people earn love, gratitude, and honor by doing these things to take care of each other, and they do it with humility. It’s the reason the elders are so honored – the yiayiathese (grandmothers), papouthes (grandfathers), the abuelos (grandparents) – they are all honored. Not because they are old, fragile, representing what once was, a living piece of history – rather - they are strong, supportive, and they are caregivers until they can’t be anymore. The grandparents are all of these things and the foundation for the entire umbrella of family that they have created. Here, the grandparents take care of you, they get you a job, help you get or stay on track so that you don’t wind up in jail or sick, they feed you, and if all else fails, and you don’t need any of those things, then you join alongside the grandparents and do the same for the next generation. Grandparents are the reason many Greeks survived and now thrive in the financial crisis that is still going on. Even in history, long before a financial crisis, when crises were of morality and not of economy. Grandparents made this culture. How it has taken its form now. I’m sure every war, and every threat to religion has had a hand in it as well, but the people will always seek to be a yiayia and papou, for their names to be passed down to their grandchildren and for those names to continue on. Your name is worthy to be someone elses, and that is a great honor.

In the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding there is a seen when all of the family members are being introduced to one another, and all of the cousins names are Anita, Diane, and Nick. It’s funny, but if that were a true story (and it very well could be, or already exists somewhere in some version of it for real people), then the reason everyone is Anita, Diane, and Nick, is because of the grandparent generation of those people. Those must have been the names of yiayia, papou, and the nouno/nouna (godparent.) The grandparents in Greece display dazzling examples of how to treat one another, how to make monogamy work, thrive, and last – a rarity I’d say. The men might help in the kitchen, and they might help raise the children, and the woman might work – these are the things that vary according to the tradition of a family, not necessarily of a culture. But the woman, she certainly feeds, and she does so in a manner that is challenging and time consuming – so that the outcome is as perfect as it can be and love is inside. The men keep the family together alongside the woman, they delegate what is best and teach the children whent to yield and when to be passionate. The men always offer to help the wife with the food or the house, even though she has declined consistently for years, she feels more love from him just because he wants to help her. The men cool the car in the hot weather, even if only a second before the woman gets in. They do errands that she asks with no questions or complaints. They both simply do all they can to make and keep each other happy and peaceful, whatever that might mean. It’s not the distinct definition that Greek-American families had always portrayed to me. It’s simpler, allowing for independence but creating such love that each person chooses to deny their independence – that having this partner and making each other happy will fill them with more joy than independence can give. Its really beautiful.  I find that some Greek-American families hold onto this too literally. They taint the purity of it by lumping this mutual love and caregiving into a category of being “old fashioned” and then abiding strictly by the idea of what “old fashioned” might mean. They end up translating literally from action into action, rather than moral & emotion into action. To the benefit of the Greek-Americans, they have a church community that helps them to hold onto their culture with ease rather than desperation. I don’t mean to confuse Greek culture with Greek Orthodox religion, they are certainly not the same, but they are deeply intertwined from history to everyday traditions. For in Greece, the culture is the vessel fueled by the church, and in America the church is the vessel to sustain the culture.

During my stay in Greece, I was invited by the Eliopoulos family (one of the gracious families who took me in) to come to their trapezi. A trapezi is a gathering in the horio (village) of all of the family members for when the out-of-town family members come home. It’s a welcoming feast. In this case, we were welcoming the couple I was staying with, Sophia and Vasili from America, and their cousins Maria and Panayiotis from Athens. I was the only non-relative at the event (an honor for me), and it took several long conversations about me, in Greek, for Vasili and Sophia to explain who I was (how you know her? She is relative from America?), and why I was there (tell me every detail of her travels so I can fake spit on her for good luck and feed her since she might starve otherwise.)

I met all of the relatives. Papou Vasili, cousin Vasili, the other cousin Vasili, Theo (uncle) Vasili, Yiayia Margarita, cousin Margo, Thea Maria, and the few Giorgos and Panayiotis in between. I would never forget anyones’ names – that’s for sure.

We ate food caught, killed, or picked from the farm that yiayia has in the yard. The entire quarter acre is her own organic manifestation. The completely self-sustaining 80 year-old woman that she is, made everything from scratch using the garden, and cooked it in her wooden stove outside. Now this was Greek. However, there was no lamb on a spit, which I was told was because there was only one lamb left in the yard. I laughed, thinking that they were being ironic. But when I looked over the fence where the chickens were, I saw that it was true, there was only one lamb left. Better to save that for Easter.

The gathering lasted for 5 hours, and only ended because at 1am, yiayia and papou could no longer sit with their eyes open. I can still see both of them sitting next to each other at the dinner table with their eyes closed, while everyone around them laughed and drank. I was offered to stay the night, which I declined politely in Greek. We did drink several bottles of tsiporo, but its not often that I will have my own space to rest my head while traveling, so I appreciated being able to come home to that. After I declined her offer, Yiayia laughed and said a slew of Greek that I didn’t understand, followed by the sound and motion of spitting on me for good luck (without actual spit), and hugged me goodbye. I am generally able to get the gist of a Greek conversation simply because the people are emphatically charismatic. With my limited Greek, I said, “thank you for everything, nice to meet you, go with God.” I’m like a machine searching within the 40 phrases I know to figure out what is appropriate to sparingly convey my message. A lot of my phrases have to do with God because I learned from attending church. Doxa to theo!

On the drive home from the trapezi, between my fluttering eye lids, I began to think of how powerful it has been for me to stay with my friend and her Korkoulis family, and this the Eliopoulos family. There is such meaning and strength in every gesture that has been made toward me. I stayed with my friend, but the Korkoulis family didn’t know me. I stayed with my brother’s godfather’s cousins – surely they hardly knew anything about me! I never in my life felt so comfortable, instantly, and with complete strangers. But then, that is love, and those are the Greeks. I feel such gratitude and admiration for the ease with which these people have loved me.

In the following days Theo Vasili took me on a tour of his farm. Here in Kalamata he has a farm of cactus fruit, lemon trees, almond trees, a few pomegranate, and mainly – of course – kalamata olives. We walked around the property, and he pointed out everything. It seems the entire town are his family, “this is my cousins house,” “this is my nephews land,” “this is my other cousins house.”

We picked fresh fruits, and nuts to eat. The almonds were soft from the sun, and covered in a fruity protective layer of skin around the shell. When I awed at the work to be done, simply to eat one almond, Vasili just laughed and said, "I don't know what they do with them, I just grow them." Finally at the end of the tour, he brought me to a special plot of land where there were half a dozen different kinds of trees together, baby trees, overshadowed by one large lemon tree. Vasili told me that every tree was for a member of his family; his grandchildren, and his nieces and nephews children. The lemon tree was planted when his eldest grandchild was born. I noticed his pride and excitement in telling me all of these things. I realized that these weren't only trees, these were his family. I was meeting a symbol of his family in the form of bountiful fruitweilding trees.

Not far from there, was the oldest olive tree on the farm, over 500 years old. It was thick as if many tree trunks joined together. Vasili proudly told me, that this olive tree was planted when his great great great (etc) grandfather became a father to the next generation. And so started the tradition, the honor, the pride in it. Theo Vasili was glowing with light in his cheeks as he proudly took me through all of his life's work. 

Greece offered me many adventures and lessons. For example, one thing I learned about the Greeks is that they are in awe and want to share every bit of their agriculture and culture with foreigners - with me. While here, I received a few suggestions for where to go to see interesting sights, and invitations to join others as well. And one thing I was told to do, was to go to the top of the mountain overlooking Kalamata beach where Vergas Castle is - there I would be able to go to restaurants, and shop around. A relaxing lunchtime activity, I thought. So, one day - a very hot day - I took a 5 euro taxi to the top of the mountain where the castle was. I learned, immediately after the taxi drove away, that there was nothing to do, no people, only a small brick castle with a closed restaurant inside. I was stranded at the top of a deserted mountain in the hot sun, and it wasn't long before the closed restaurant's attack dogs started chasing and barking at me. Vergas Castle was beautiful for approximately 3 minutes. Time to get the hell out of here.

I had food and water, and so I began to hike down the mountain following the road. I didn't panic, because I knew at worst I would be walking for hours in the hot sun and sparingly use the litre of water I had with me. Not to mention, I got away from those miniature sized guards. After 10 minutes of walking, however, it began to feel like the scolding torture of hell. I went through an internal debate. What will I do? Will I bare it? Can I bare it? What are my options here? Call a taxi? I have no money, and don't know where I am. - The debate only took a moment until I decided, in this country that I love where everyone is so friendly and we all have the same religion, it may be a safe place for me to ask for a ride. So, decision made - I continued walking. When a car finally passed, I held up my thumb. Dear God, please let this be an international symbol for 'take me to the beach.' I said to the man, "to bano? Kalamata?" He asked in English, "you want to go to Kalamata beach?" I felt a great sigh of relief, and got into the car where he assured me that his dogs were friendly. The man was friendly and kind. I told him about my love for the Greek culture and hospitality, and he told me that in Thessaloniki, where he was from, the people are even friendlier, and that hospitality isn't as common between Greeks, only between Greeks and visitors. I told the man that he was my savior for picking me up, he laughed, dropped me off where I wanted at the beach, and bid me good luck on my journey. Phew. Greeks really know how to make an adventure out of nothing.

All in all, I am feeling pretty good about my first real hitchhiking experience. Please don't tell my mom.

Now, my time here is over. And as the sun went down on my last night after 10 days in Greece, I laid on the beach. I don't want to leave. Let me feel the burn of the sun on my skin one last time. Let me stay and continually be filled with the love of these people. I feel so loved and at home here, what happens when I lose this feeling? Or I forget myself? Save me. Take care of me. Keep me! I can be Greek!

But then, I remember, I did this for myself just as much as anyone else did it for me. I asked for this experience, and the Greeks – with all of their love and pride – gave it to me openly, and made it easy for me to take. In fact, they insisted I take. No, as happy, quiet, and at peace as I am, its time for me to move on, to see in what ways I will be touched and moved and twisted and turned in the next place. I just want to remember this moment, and keep this gratitude.

Thank you Greece and Greeks, you helped me refill my cup!

How to Travel with a Travel Partner

It can be a real struggle to keep myself balanced while traveling, and a partner makes it all the more challenging. I want what I want, and I want it now. I'm all about making sacrifices for the heard, but continual sacrifice - like continual selfishness - do not make for a good travel partner. They just make for a grade-A bitch.

This is a challenge for anyone, and everyone: How to travel with a partner. No matter who that partner is, or how long you are traveling for. Certainly at first, when you are getting your bearings, and figuring out how you and your partner work together. And certainly by the end of your trip together, when you are ready to make-up, break-up, or keep-it-up, and both of you are also coping with returning back to where ever it is you came from. A lot of people underplay what these sorts of changes can mean for a person, and that coping with change can be emotional. I have been traveling for a month now. I have been to 6 different countries, only three of which have been unfamiliar to me.

My method has been to get my bearings the first day by walking around, then I feel settled and familiar by the second day, and by day three I am ready for a unique adventure or excursion. Day four is the same as day three and on day five I feel, not only comfortable, but completely relaxed. Its important to me to familiarize myself quickly so that I can feel relaxed sooner. I take my time to slow down after initially settling in, because of the rush of change. The exhaustion of travel is nothing. It is a rush though, like a wind sweeping into you and then, when you leave, all at once the wind takes your breath. It rushes in and rushes out, like a wave.

I waited in the airport for 6 hours after losing my luggage, and when it was over it felt like no time at all. The time I felt relied completely on the stress of losing my luggage - which I have back now. Time, waiting - its unimportant - we find ways to occupy ourselves. The exhaustion comes from the changing elements and the adaptation, not from the travel. Even when I haven't slept, I am alert, because I am traveling and - unless I'm in my bedroom - I usually have to be at least semi-alert and aware of my surroundings. It's for this reason that a travel partner can make things easier, by taking from you the burden of being solely responsible. If you didn't see or hear information you need, you have someone else who probably did. Then again, the shared responsibility is also what makes traveling with a partner more of a challenge. Sharing anything can be a challenge - whether its parts of yourself, your things, your knowledge - to give and take the right amount requires balance.

What would normally be a small daily hurdle for me to overcome, can become an emotional struggle for balance and stability when traveling. Now, do that with a partner, and also do it for yourself, and consider your environment - all at once. Thats the task. I have three (me, my travel partner, and the community I'm in) different ideals, emotions, struggles, traditions, coping mechanisms, and I have to figure out how to make allllll of that work. From what I've seen while traveling, a lot of folks don't even consider that there is a third party involved in all of their experiences. The environment. Particularly as traveling young people, the environment has to be considered and respected.

I am constantly in a position to choose, accept, or reject new experiences and ideas as my own. Everyone is. Whether you believe in God or not, there are certainly scientifically proven energies that are a part of us. Some people call it the holy spirit. In clinical terms we would call the energies simply emotion or transference, countertransference. Essentially, it is the connection - the cause and effect of your emotions and coping skills, with everyone elses' emotions and within the environment. All of that hostile, tranquil, pent-up, or solemn energy that hits you hard and infrequently in every day life - it hits you harder when traveling - sometimes suddenly, more frequently. Then here you are, dealing with your own hurdles, while someone else who you are suppose to care about and make decisions with is dealing with emotional challenges of their own. Not to mention, the people who don't deal with their crazy emotional challenges at all, let alone while on vacation, or directly, or in terms that are conceivable to communicate with and solve problems. Not to sound too cynical, but as self-aware as you say or think you are - you are 1,000 times not that self-aware - i tell myself that to stay humble but also because it is true. I try to remember, for when I'm feeling all high-and-mighty, to not point out the speck in my brother's eye when I have a plank in my own. I try to remember that traveling isn't  about judging or clumping people into a category, its about understanding and learning.

Traveling with partners has really showed me how single-minded I can be - or not single-minded, but boxed in. We can't help the amount of ignorance we have, its a matter of accepting new information to overcome ignorance. Many people reject what is new, because ignorance is blissful and happy. What you dont know literally does not hurt you because it does not effect the way you think or your perspective on the world. And knowledge - especially new knowledge, or knowledge about realities of peoples struggles or struggles in the world - can cause anger. So a lot of people choose ignorance. I believe new knowledge, my new knowledge, can sometimes scare me or anger me - but it eventually helps me to be more empathetic. Its for that reason that I try to be grateful for the struggle. Struggle makes me better in the long run.

I feel like its important to keep multiple perspectives and empathize. To do that and still do what you want. Fulfill your dreams. It has taken me even further outside of myself  by seeing the perspectives; my affects on the community, how people receive me, how dumb I might sound if I haven't educated myself on the area or the language. Your partner sees everything completely differently. They are creating the same painting, as a different artist and with a different technique.

People often travel to make something theirs. You would probably be traveling to make something yours - at least in terms of a certain memory or idea of what you want. Some notion of what you desire deep down is what makes your take on a life so unique. I definitely don't want exactly what you want. We might like a good amount of stuff together, but there has to be an opportunity for your experience to be only yours. My friends are my friends because we treat each other the way we want and need, not necessarily because we have the same philosophy on life.

Traveling with my brother these past three weeks has been a challenge, and it has been wonderful. We both like the notion of making memories together, and spreading out on our own for different experiences as well. It's good to have a home base when you travel. It seems only natural that when one travels with a partner, that person becomes the home base. Sometimes thats the only other person who sounds like you, looks like you, or wants to talk to you when you're traveling. It's a piece of where you came from, and where you are. Sometimes it's comforting - familiar, safe - and in some cases its a reminder of somewhere you never want to return to, or are always yearning for.

So there it is, balance is the answer to everything once again - and when traveling with a partner you will need it, for yourself, for your partnership, and for your environment.

I try to have a healthy balance of me, my partner, and then me and my partner together. Healthy meaning, it doesn't make you fatter, slower, more anxious, angrier, sadder, or any of that other stuff.  At least not constantly, or more than the normal fluctuation of every day life. Sometimes we feel negative feelings and don't realize its partly because of where we are or who we are with.

So far, I've learned to never be all about the other or I will drive myself crazy - maybe even erupt on someone or myself in the middle of my travels. On the other hand, having too much of me is sort of relative. In my life its all about me, 100% of the time. Everyone's life should be that way - after all it's your life and no one else's. Maybe, what makes a person strong in the community is that they are able to be 100% about their life  - but also 100% in other ways and for others. I can be 100% about myself as long as I consider and empathize with everyone else's vantage points, respecting them by being the least harmful I can in getting what I want - preferably not harmful at all. Sacrifice should only happen when in the absence of sacrifice someone else would hurt for it. I feel that too many people sacrifice and it ends up hurting them - Is that what sacrifice is meant to do to us? Maybe they're doing it wrong? I don't believe sacrifice should happen if it leaves you hurt in a way that you can't cope with. If you're always sacrificing for everyone, all the time, then all you are is a self-tormented, self-proclaimed martyr. No one likes a self-proclaimed condescending hero. That's no hero at all.

And we all want to be heros in our own lives.

All the heroes in my life are humble, wise, respectful, and empathetic. 

Maybe traveling with a travel partner - and doing it right so that no one is defined always by one thing or emotion - maybe that just means, making yourself your hero. Maybe thats what life is, making yourself into your hero - the one you always admired and strove to be. Be that person with those ideal characteristics, and only for yourself. I think if I do it right then other people will follow me, and they will you also - because when we are heroes for ourselves the secondary result is becoming a hero for others.  

Why I travel

Following all of the interactions I've had up to this point in my trip, having my brother by my side is bringing together all of my reasons for why I travel. I don't think I fully knew why I so desired to travel - other than I want to - until all of my recent experiences and interactions slowly, but surely, brought all to fruition.

It's hard to explain to someone who maybe hasn't traveled, or someone who maybe doesn't think of people like I do - someone who doesn't think beyond their sight, or beyond their ears. Perhaps it would be a challenge if you never left your home state, or maybe you focused on the designated "priorities" of life that culture has laid out for you. Maybe you never were told that you could look outside of your box - that it is completely possible to live in a whole new world and to create your own entirely unique traditions and lifestyle.

I was told that the best response for someone who asks why I travel is silence. If they need to ask why one travels, then perhaps they could not understand the answer. It feels the same as someone asking me; Why do you know what you know? Why did you ever want to know it at all? Couldn't you unknow it so that you can move about your life with simplicity? Why do you have to complicate things?

I know what I want, and I am doing it. To me, that is simplicity. To me, that is natural. So many people don't do, even when they know their hopes and dreams. Step 1 is knowing, step 2 is doing, step 3 is learning.

I think it has become clear that I travel, for one, because of people. I want to understand more than anyone I have ever known. I crave to sit down and listen for hours about the woes of history, the triumphs over oppression, the ever-present opinions of a person living and breathing their own culture and beliefs while surrounded by differences. I crave to end stereotypes about American travelers, although I find myself behaving ignorantly at times - half-hazardly paying attention to the effects my behavior has on the people around me. Maybe I will never see them again, but then, maybe they will shake their heads or hiss and go on telling all of their colleagues about the obnoxious American - the inconsiderate pricks that we are. That's not to say there are not other cultures that have poor travelers. Nor does it mean that all Americans are poor travelers. It does mean, that there are splendid travelers and there are poor travelers.

The splendid traveler is who I aspire to, and how I speak about travel. It's the empathetic person who is eager to meet locals and hear differing opinions without judgment. To know the culture - to know the language or be familiar with it. Its as simple as being able to tell the difference between Dutch, and Deutsch, Swiss and Swedish, Spanish and Italian, Malay and Indo, Korean and Japanese, Farsi and Arabic - an Australian accent versus an English accent versus a New Zealand Accent. To know that an American accent is an accent - not a baseline from which all accents have stemmed. The splendid traveler knows that she is out of place and tries not to disrupt the environment she is in, rather, join it - or at least show desire to, and respect for the members. The plain fact that I can say hello in every country I go to changes the response of the people I speak with - even when I can't continue the conversation in their language. I tried. And we then respect one another. I, already entering with respect for the culture, and I, often needing to prove my respect and earn theirs as an American traveler - a byproduct of respect and trying is to feel safe, I'll be it comfortable, with foreign concepts and people. Americans do have a reputation as travelers - a terrible reputation - and I entirely understand it as I find myself, at times, being tested by eager young travelers around me.

The splendid traveler does not complain. She smiles. She knows when not to make eye contact. She does not give distasteful opinions about the culture she is in, and certainly not to a local. She knows the difference between disliking a tradition, and disrespecting one. She understands social cues. She understands that traveling alone is better because she is solely responsible for her own interactions. A splendid traveler has never been anywhere without creating a friend, and she understands that a friend does not necessarily mean a companion. She loves even when she is not loved. She knows when to ask questions, and she does. She knows when to be silent, and she does. She is choosey about when to be a child, and when to be an adult. Choosey about when to be spontaneous and when to be planned. This girl, has done her research - she isn't going in blind and so she knows what questions not to ask, and what places not to go. She is safe by herself because she is smart about all of these things. She has skills, but she learns others' and observes silently. Her opinion and experience is only important to her while she is traveling - and so she seeks the opinion and experience of others. Everyone likes to talk about themselves - the splendid traveler knows, however, that although everyone likes to talk about themselves, not everyone likes to listen about others. Silence is wise.

When she leaves her travels, maybe she has seen sights, and maybe she has spent money to climb on top of a tower for a view - being a tourist does not make anyone a poor traveler. Being only a tourist does. When she leaves her travels, although she may have toured (as she should to know the culture) - she also experienced the culture, the people, the language, the food, the tradition, the nature. And therefore when she leaves, she is able to love completely her counterparts and when she loves them completely she can be understanding beyond measure. International respect is extraordinarily powerful in human interactions and relationships.

Never seeing someone again, is not what is important. Leaving a handprint on their heart, and theirs on yours, is what is. A gentle handprint from a warm embrace is just as memorable, as a red handprint from a forceful slap. Sometimes when we are quick to hug - to get the hug out of the way - we squeeze too hard and our hug becomes painful. We must hold on, gently as a mother would, and we must breathe life into the hug. The shock of a warm unexpected hug, or a slap, are the same. Both can bring you to tears with their power, both are beyond measure in your heart. You will remember this, and although the slap or the hug may not have existed for anyone other than you and the other, it is now your truth and theirs. You share it.

For one, was because of people. For two, is because of me. All of what I said, about being a splendid traveler, and leaving your mark on a person's soul - all of those things make a person observant, stronger, better for herself and for others.  And her soul becomes marked as well. It enlightens. It's true that travel enlightens. Never again will you be forced to be so aware, so keen to your surroundings, who you are, how you behave, and what you believe. You cannot lie to yourself about anything, because you are your only companion. I notice that so many of us lie to ourselves rather than looking at who we are, rather than accepting our truths so that we can be the best. We can be the best but only with all of our flaws. No inward lies that blind our growth - only beauty in flaws and gifts. Many of us don't realize we lie about ourselves - to ourselves. Sometimes I see the truth of others even when they don't and when they speak I hear their lies - but they believe the lies. They havent yet realized their truth. Truth is necessary for enlightenment, and yet we often choose to feel other things instead, not realizing that it is only a distraction from your truth. Shame is yours only. Guilt is yours only. Embarrassment is yours only. You feel them because you choose to, and when you are completely honest with yourself, and love you anyway, all of those other negative things go away and you become wise.

I suppose in that respect that when I travel for me I travel for truth. Truth is the key to all of the mysteries of life, ourselves, humanity, God - enlightenment is the door in which the key can be found, and gratitude is the manner in which we pass the threshold. I'm not wise enough to tell you what is over the threshold, however, I imagine it is a place where there is no need for questions and no need for answers.

And so I travel for truth. At least for now.

London, England is the Heart

Today is a day for interludes - a shorter more cynical entry awaits you. Our spirits will lift after we leave London and if you continue to read you will understand why.

London is such a simple, overpopulated, tourist attraction of a city, and therefore it requires an interlude. After less than two days I grew tired of this bustling city. I lack gratitude for the melting pot of cultures, the accessibility of the tube, and the overpopulated walks through S. Kensington Park, Hyde Park, and the S. Bank. Buckingham Palace, though a site to see, still but a disappointment since onlookers are no longer allowed to approach the guards to play the game of trying to make them break position. All I wanted to do was wave my hands quickly in front of his face to make him blink. To my disappointment we are separated by a gate, or a rope, or a street performer dressed as Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings saying, "You Shall Not Pass" as he bangs his staff. I played make-believe as I stood in front of the gate disappointed: maybe years of thousands of tourists waving in the guards faces has forced some of them into retirement with post-traumatic stress disorder. Now in their retired lives, no one can wave to them, swat flies around them, or come within a foot of their face without them reliving the trauma of tourism. Hah

 I would appreciate the culture of London, if it had one. Unfortunately fish and chips are much to be desired, along with English beers, and eye contact after 8pm. I would say to steer clear of all of the above. 

The English drink Pimms is quite popular and tasteful. Its a fruity cocktail with vermooth, juices, and fruit. The English Sangria - it's much sweeter (in compensation for their terrible tasting beers.) Of all English foods and beverages, thats all thats worth talking about. Imagine leaving Spain and the only thing you had to say was, well the sangria was pretty good.

I have walked this entire city, and I disappoint myself that I cannot seem to find anything that I have grown to love about it. I just think, at least they make fried eggs better than the Irish. I like to crack my yolks not crumble them. I have a tendency to crack a yolk sometimes. Ho!

Despite my cynicism, I hypocritically say that I could imagine myself living here. It is easy to live here. There are so many walks to be done, and outer cities to be seen. Scotland is but a skip away. Everything is accessible, as it is in New York City, except for maybe 24 hour accessibility. Perhaps I can imagine myself living here because I have lived there. A fantastic city to live in, a somewhat obnoxious city to tour.

But then again, I'm not touring am I?

 ... am I?

Its an insult to New York, however, to compare the two. The Londoners and Europeans like to think that London is the European New York City, with its mimicking shopping districts, broadway shows, even an M&M factory in the center of Leicester Square. London, however, is not nearly as exciting, not nearly as spontaneous and organized, and not nearly as proud.

I'm learning quickly my likes and dislikes - I do not like cities, unless there are numerous views and walks along rivers or parks with plenty of personal space. In New York it was always easy to avoid crowds and live, at times, as if I was not even in a city.

---- Now heres where I switch gears from cynical to passionate. You'll notice - although I didnt do it on purpose and am only inserting this as an afterthought to reflect on my own self - that my writing instantly becomes more engaging and thoughtful. As with life, cynicism poisons our senses and makes us dumb. Read on and watch me gradually become smarter and for beauty to unfold. ---- 

Although I see London in wicked contrast of NYC, sadly they are similar in that London too has its fair share of racism. After a long day of rest, my brother (who has joined me for the next few weeks), a new Latino friend named Andre, and I, went to the Soho area to see what the nightlife of London was like. While walking about on a hunt for bars that didn't require a cover charge, we stopped suddenly at a street corner stood and watched. In front of us, a police car blocked the crosswalk, and I noticed that suddenly the white male officer was yelling at a group of black twenty-somethings who had just crossed the road behind the car. "Hey! What did you say to me?! Did you just call me a dick?" And he jumped out of his car with a swiftness, grabbed one of the young black men by the shoulder and said "what did you say to me?" The young man said, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" He had an American accent. The officer spoke closely and loudly to the mans face, and the man respectfully denied any such behavior. The officer then handed the young man off to a female officer who gave them all tickets. I felt ashamed for not saying anything - but weighing out my own risk; I do not know if the young man actually did anything (though I doubted it), and I cannot afford to be arrested or ticketed in a foreign country. Although, if I were kicked out of England for any reason and never to return, I might not mind it terribly. For a moment I thought that because I had white skin, I could say something and not be arrested. Sometimes we aren't meant to know if we did the right or wrong thing. Sometimes life just plays its film and we watch and we watch and we watch until we learn and we do things differently during the next scene - when it's our time to act.

Having also walked by Arab restaurants with smashed glass windows - one does not give naïve excuses for these observations.

You'd think in a "melting pot" such as London, that racism would be less, not more. After that, my opinion of London solidified, and I reflected on my own judgment. I am my own best critic. I always have a critique. A good critic never says "flawless" and never says "hopeless." I am neither, yet I am both.

After that it was time to leave London. My brother and I have made the most out of our experience having walked over two hours a day - every day - throughout this city. We've seen monuments, recognized the differences in cultures - the tube not the subway, the lift not the elevator - our biggest challenge being to make sure to look the proper directions when crossing the street, and to not throw toilet paper into the toilet. We can both navigate without a map now, and we both decided that an interlude from London to Brighton Beach would bring us to the true English culture and away from the city that we were growing distasteful of.

We woke up early, packed, and headed to the train station. After areiving in Brighton & Hove we walked down to Brighton beach, and passed dozens of Kebab shops - i instantly thought Yes! An Arab community! Unfortunately the racism of the city was a challenge to escape, with one of the Kebab shops locked up and closed due to several rock holes in the windows. Ignoring coincidence would be naïve. 

My brother and I sat in silence; tanning, drinking, eating, and laying on the pebbles that made the beach ground. My brother chose to rest, and take pictures of me while I rented a paddleboard for the first time in my life, on the rough and rocky English Channel. I was not so successful in standing for long due to the high white trulls, however, I did get to do some yoga on my board in between push-ups and paddles. I made sure to make it as much of a challenge as possible.
The water was a diarrhea brown color, and not very welcoming. "Merky" would be a compliment. Despite my efforts to avoid it, I fell in at the very end of my hour rental. At the end of the day, around 4pm, the water color appeared to be a clear green and blue - and so the color changed with the tides. I wondered if on the opposite side of the Channel - in Normandy, France - they received England's shit colored water with the incoming tide.

The Brighton Pier was fantastic. Down the stairs from the street to the beach, we immediately came across a boardwalk lined with shops, restaurants, a hookah lounge, merry-go-rounds, carnival games, and bars. I tried a cockle (sea snail) and sang Molly Malone to myself as I did, with cockles and bottles alive alive-O! Of course my brother and I ended our afternoon at the hookah lounge. After saying only a brief word in Arabic to the Egyptian owner, Adam, we sat and talked about his hopes and dreams. He was one of those people who had a hand in everything - he was a chef, a financial officer, a marketer, a shop owner - and all successful within the year that he immigrated away from his family in Egypt. From Egypt to England. I had instant admiration and curiosity. I wondered about his experience of Egypt at present, and why, perhaps, he was not put-off when we said we were American. I purposefully did not ask about Egypt - I did not dig deeper as I normally do. My brother suggested to me later that Adam became more open to us only after I entered into the conversation speaking Arabic. I thought; of course, everyone gets excited about their people, especially when they are far away from home. Its one of those universal responses.

On the Pier were two arcades where adults can win money and children can shoot make-believe characters and drive make-believe cars. There were dozens of snack and candy shops - apparently Brighton is known for their cream fudge, and rock candy (in all shapes and sizes). "Rock candy" is simply what they call rock hard candy - ho! At the very end of the Pier were the most exciting carnival rides I have ever seen at a beach. Akin to Coney Island. There were two rollercoasters with loops and all, along with several other fly-in-the-air-while-ya-twist-and-spin rides. The English Coney Island.

The prices for everything were fair, the people were enjoyable, the sun was out, I exercised - I could have stayed at Brighton Beach for the next week. Unfortunately, we hadn't planned on going at all let alone staying a night, so our day ended when the sun went down.

 We learned through locals and firsthand experience that when the night falls upon Brighton the "trashy white bloaks" come out, getting drunk and fighting whoever looks at them, or doesnt look at them, or breathes near them. Just as we began to experience some this, we woefully returned to London.

Suffice to say, Brighton Beach saved my perspective of England, despite the local reckless drunkenness. It was a fantastic day journey - and my brother now loves my spontaneous travel ideas and will follow me into whatever darkness or light I lead him. It is amazing to have him by my side even just for a moment, to experience what I experience, to know what I know, and to understand how I think about the world. And vice versa.

If I ever come to England again, I will go around the coast - everywhere but London. The beauty lies within the eyes, not within the heart. The heart is an organ, after all, it doesn't have emotion - the eyes do. The eyes are the window to the soul of a country the same as of a person.

London is the heart of England.

Galway, Ireland & Northern Ireland

I made the small mistake of writing about Ireland while I was in Dublin, before finishing my experience of it! I don't plan to do that again. It's a terrible mistake for anyone to make generalizations based on an experience. I intend only to share my experiences from a firsthand opinion, not for my opinion or experience to be generalized and made into your opinion. Generalizations get in the way, they make us cynical.

So far, even at times when I become cynical and forget my purpose, God or the universe or whatever you call her, sends me something or someone to have the exact impact on my life so that I am put back on track. Sometimes it means I lose things, and sometimes it means I gain people - either way I try to remember to be grateful that I don't have to worry about being brought to a better state of thinking, because the world does it for me.

Galway and the Cliff's of Moher were rather different from Dublin and served as a thinking moment - of fears, of what bravery really means. People had told me I was brave for going on this "trip" (not a vacation, not a study or work abroad - a trip, a bump in the road of life to make sure my shocks are working properly.)
People told me I was brave and people also told me I was stupid. I don't really know what either means to me. I do know that I will always hope for those who think its stupid, I will never forget the feeling of being thought of as brave, and I will remember everyone who expressed either sentiment to me. We never forget the people who trip us, just like we never forget the people who help us stand back up.

So far, the Irish and the people I have met along the way, have all helped me stand up. The people in the west of Ireland were just as friendly and just as open as the ones I had met in Dublin. Theres something about simple kind gestures that reminds me of humanity. Of beauty.

Galway is the western seaport of Irish folk music, where nearby mountains, cliffs, and farmland are right out your window - it was a change of pace from Dublin. The simplicity of the Irish can be summed up in the names of the Galway streets; Market St, Shoppe St, Dock St, Center Square - you can probably guess where to find what, since the names are quite literal. There are no pub crawl streets that I know of... the pubs simply are. 

Galway and the Cliffs caused me to think a lot about how I travel, and what I enjoy. You really have to know yourself and work out all of your personal kinks in order to get going and find comfort in a consistently changing environment. I decided that, what I had always intended was to stay in cities and do day trips out to castles, and hikes.

Galway was a tiny coastal city, much like Portsmouth, NH, or Portland Maine. It is actually the third largest in all of Ireland, with a whopping population of 76,000. The make-up of the town was essentially cobblestone streets with street performers, lots of small shops, restaurants and pubs on the two main drags, then you have seen it all after an hour or less walkabout. I was there on a Sunday, which put me between a weeklong music festival and the beginning of the traditional horse races. There is always a festival in Galway. The city of festivals, I'll call it.

Other than the music, my favorite part of Ireland was that it was homey. Sometimes the greenery of it made me feel like I hadn't even left New England. Out on the hills and through the farms, it was like being in the countryside of New Hampshire, with all of the mountains and free range horses and cows. The perfect transition from home to travel.

I intend to keep pushing myself throughout my trip by going to unfamiliar and challenging places/experiences. For that reason, my first week abroad was in a place that both disappointed me because of its homeyness, and comforted me at the same time.

The Cliffs of Moher were my next personal challenge. Entering the welcome center I had two choices; I could go right and climb up well structured steps to a castle that sat on the cliff's edge - or - I could go left and hike the three or four cliffs where it appeared to be rather challenging. To the left it was far less structured, no stone steps, hardly any fence at all - that's what I chose. I love a good personal challenge. I believe challenge causes growth. I told myself, I am not doing some touristy bullshit just to take a picture. I am hiking. (Step 1 of working out my kinks - know what I like and honor myself by sticking to it.)

The Cliffs of Moher were probably one of the coolest parts of my Ireland adventure. Prior to entering the footpath lining the Cliff's edge was a memorial. A warning really. It went something like:

 "In memory of all the people who have lost their lives at the Cliffs of Moher."

It may as well have said:

 "Warning, people have died doing the stupid shit you are about to do - xoxo the Irish."

More signs said to stay inside the fences for safety. It was a hardy kicker when I realized the design of the fence from the cliffs to the path went like this from out to inland; 750ft drop, cliff's edge, FOOTPATH (and me on the footpath), fence. So if you imagine that, the fence was outside the footpath with no real protection from gravity taking you when you chose to peak over the ledge. Not to mention erosion. It was an Irish caution sign for dummies.

I am terrified of heights. Every time I stopped I had to sit down, otherwise my mind realized my location and sent transmittal signals to the rest of my body that said PANIC! Warning! Don't move or you die! Most of the hike I had to keep my head down in order to not feel a shutter in my heart, and the rest of the time my butt had to be on the ground to know I was safe where I was. I would stop, take a seat, take a picture, followed by a few deep breaths and mantras, then up and onward. Why would I come here? To see the visitor's center? No. I am here to see the Cliffs. No, no. I am here to experience the Cliffs. A friend I had met walked by and said in his Carribean  accent, "what ahh you afraid of? If you fall off dah Cliff, you float and you fly!" His name was Carter, and he had the biggest island smile you could think of. It was the sort of smile people make when they are born and raised in paradise. He had a great thrill about life. I asked him to talk me into continuing. The universe sent me support when I needed it in the form of a carefree Granadian. So we hiked together, me and Carter. I looked at my feet and listened to his stories that he told in his happy free-spirited way.

It was quite windy on top of the Cliffs. I watched seagulls playing in the wind. They would fly up to our eyelevel and then just float, soaring up and down with the wind under their wings like puppet seagulls being tugged up and down by a master. We threw rocks out to the ocean and they floated up above our heads and then whisked back at us. This was no joke. Before I knew it we had made it the entire hike, and it was time to turn back. Inspiration comes unexpectedly, like an uninvited guest you have the choice to be cynical about their presence, or welcome and love them. Carter was so positive and full of life, along the way it reminded me to keep a looseness about me. It's not about taking myself too seriously, it's about taking my life too seriously. The concept of death - it means nothing. I will live forever in my memories - now I just have to make ones that bring me warmth and solitude when I remember them. (A challenging concept to live by, I think.) Now that I wrote that, I can see how Carter really helped me.

We are fearless, young, and beautiful!

After the bus returned me from the Cliffs to Galway, I met a girl named Stephanie from LA. It was nice talking to someone from America, because I didn't have to speak slower than normal, or accidentally mimic an accent and then feel embarrassed by it. I wonder how many people have noticed my ever-changing accent, and thought that I was mocking them. People who are foreigners to me have said that Americans speak too quickly, and are hard to understand. So I always speak slower, and when I do that, people are more confused about where I am from and can no longer guess that I am American - however it also makes me more likely to pick up little odd linguistic dipthongs and slangs that give me an authentic sound. I never tried to do it, but when I spoke "American" for the first time in a week I felt relieved that I wasn't working so hard at speaking slowly and sufficiently with the cultural lingo.

The Northerners call Ireland "Southern Ireland." After traveling from Galway, back to Dublin and then to Belfast - I learned quickly that Northern Ireland is a far different country. The accents are more challenging to understand, rushed and mumbled - as if they are speaking Gaelic and don't even know it. They are also extremely British. I came from my walking tour in Dublin where I was taught the evil of the British as an empire - and now entered the streets of Belfast where British flags are painted everywhere and different slangs are used. Considering the history it seems to me that all of this British pride is propaganda to convince the people they want to be English. Its worked quite successfully. It appeared to be true based on the Northerners I spoke with. Scotland has an upcoming vote that may or may not separate them as an individual country from the UK. I thought, perhaps, if Scotland did that then Whales would be next, then eventually there would be one Ireland again. When I asked locals' opinions about my notion, they told me it will never happen. Too many people have died in making Ireland the way it is now. Northerners are proud to be British. For some reason that disappointed me. Why not be proud to be Irish?

My experience in the North was not as warm with locals as it had been in Ireland, there was a greater disconnect between people it seemed. The Guinness was still equally fantastic.

I stayed with a lovely Polish girl who had been living in N. Ireland for 3 years - she was warm amd generous to me. When I asked her about history, politics, and culture, she explained to me how easy it is for aliens and immigrants to come and get full welfare support from the government, and never contribute anything in return. In the states you have to be a citizen or resident to receive money from the government. My host, being a hard worker, spoke of racism against immigrants. Recently, a N. Ireland government representative had stated publicly that the reason no one was finding work was because the Polish immigrants were coming in and taking the jobs (that may be true due to better education, work ethic, and lower pay expectations, but why stir up racism?) My wonderful tiny host told me that since those remarks were made there had been riots and violence against Polish immigrants and it had been unsafe only a month before I arrived. Don't even get me started on the violence and hatred surrounding Protestant versus Catholic in the region - its real and ever-present. It seems that the few flaws of resilient people is foolhardiness and a hot temperament. I suppose that N. Ireland is a product of what happens when you crossbreed resilient people with the ones who made them resilient.

In Belfast I found a way to escape the propaganda and non-Irish Irish traditions. I took a bus into the suburbs and went for a hike at the Cavehill cliffs behind the Belfast Castle. The Cliffs here were a similar experience to the Cliffs of Moher, so I wont go into too much detail except for that I did it alone on a footpath, smelling flowers and frequently feeling the presence of my loved ones over my shoulder. They told me I was loved, and never to quit. Never quit when you know in your heart that it would be a forfeit, not a defeat. I climbed, I saw, I did it with love.

After Ireland I was meant to be in Scotland. Unfortunately plans were cancelled. So we just go with it :-) This morning I met a Morman missionary couple on a walkabout of S. Kensington Gardens during my first morning in London. Just as God had sent me Carter to make me brave, and Stephanie to make me heedful, so too the missionaries were sent to me to remind me of what I believe in. Empathy. I have never thought of anyone as evil. I have always seen those who behave in anger or hatred as victims of trauma, circumstance, their own minds, etc. Victims in a sense that, he/she may be a predator now, but something made them this way, and something can unmake them this way. I think the undoing is through love, and empathy. That's why I'm in social work. After hearing me give my shpeal about how all you need is love, the missionary asked, "what will your life be like in 5 years?" I can't answer that. "Okay two years?" Nope. "Tomorrow?" I don't know... I think right now I am trying to focus on where my feet are, then I can walk as if my feet are kissing the ground - Someone famous said that, not me. The missionary seemed to regard me as lost rather than found or finding. I don't believe I am either, I believe that I am like an Irish pub - I simply am.

Imagine though, that you could be so aware of yourself that you can recognize every breath, every step, every hand motion. And let every breath breathe love into the life around you, and let every step kiss the ground in gratitude, and let every motion create openness and trust - that your eyes are not only the window to your soul, but the souls of others as well through empathy.  I think that what Christians are really saying when they pray, let everything that breathes praise the Lord. I think I'd like to start with my breath and not to praise through praise but to praise through love.

I think I'm learning that travel can bring growth both in solitude and otherwise. I say this because, in between my solace, every single interaction has notably been specifically for me - designed to remind me of something I already knew, or learn something that will make me better. To challenge is to always grow. The challenge is to focus on where my feet are without being afraid to move, without needing to look where I stand. I tell myself, let go of your hold on life, read the signs and let the universe show you the way. The signs and messages are there, its no coincidence. Its meant for you, me, or them - we just have to accept it as ours and use it to grow. The universe is a tool.

Cheers