Greek Hospitality Part Dyo (2)

There is something about coming to Greece that feels like home to me. The three main draws are; the warm loving people, the grandparents (which essentially define Greek hospitality), and of course the church – whether I attend or not, I always feel at home surrounded by the old Byzantine.

My dad and I traveled together from Morocco, to Malta, to Thessaloniki Greece. We unite on our love and yearning for understanding of spirituality and the Orthodox Church, so we both arrived in a state of excitement and homeliness. 

To understand the preface to my second visit in Greece this year, we’ll travel back to the 1980s with our mustaches and mullets and take a peak into the life of my dad. Back in the 1980s, when, my dad was studying at Hellenic College, he became friends with his neighbor in the dormitory. The friend’s name was Billy Bakos. They were fast friends, and partners in crime for life. Billy served as my dad’s best man at my parents’ wedding, which, in Greek Orthodox tradition, makes him an honorary member of the family and grants the Greek title of Koumbaro between he and my family. It’s an important title for Greeks, like the importance of godparents in some cultures. Since that wedding, Mr. Bakos traveled to a place called The Holy Mountain, also called Agio Oros in Greek.  The Holy Mountain is an island peninsula in the region of Helkidiki, an hour and a half outside of the northern capital city of Thessaloniki in Greece. The island is home to 22 different Orthodox Christian monasteries where thousands of monks live, and where pilgrims come from all over the world. I have never been since women are not allowed on The Mountain for a few different reasons, which I understand and appreciate. I want my own island anyway. When Billy Bakos traveled to the Holy Mountain for the second time in his life, he moved there and became a novice for three or four years before being tonctured (blessed as) a monk.  From then on, we would all reverently call him Father Iakovos - he is even featured on a 60 Minutes documentary discussing the Holy Mountain, if you are interested in learning more.

http://www.cbsnews.com/news/mt-athos-a-visit-to-the-holy-mountain/

Fast forward: Father Iakovos has been a monk at the monastery of Simonopetra, on the Holy Mountain, since before I was born. Over the years he maintained a connection with my family and during the last couple of years the Greek Orthodox Metropolis of Boston had the blessing of hosting Fr. Iakovos for a whole year in an effort to start a monastery in New England. A whole community of children, and families came together loving him and welcoming him, and now I am one of thousands of his spiritual children in America. He really has touched so many lives, and I feel blessed to have any relationship to him. Since he left to return to the Holy Mountain, I have missed him a great deal, and have always found his presence to be grounding for me.

The monks of the Holy Mountain are under the obedience of their spiritual leader called the Abbot, or Yeronda in Greek – just the same as priests are under the obedience of their bishop. Monks, and nuns as well, must have the permission of the Abbot to travel - or to move somewhere else - and they may be denied permission according to where the Abbot sees their services needed. It was by the Grace of God that the Abbot at Simonopetra needed to send a priest to their church in Thessaloniki, and it just so happened that Fr. Iakovos was the man that he sent.

Now to the present: Several people greeted my dad and I when we arrived in Thessaloniki – Niko & Tina (a couple whom I met in 2006), Maria and Dimitri (friends of Father Iakovos), and, of course, our beloved Father Iakovos. They all took us out to dinner the way that Greek family members welcome their out-of-town relatives – a trapezi.

The three musketeers! Fr. Iakovos, my dad, and Niko (left to right)

The following couple of days Fr. Iakovos and Niko and Tina traveled with us to revisit the convent of Orymilia where I created strong connections during my first visit to Greece in 2006 The nuns made for us a lunch that was finer than any restaurant, and the heartfelt warmth and welcomnig made me feel right at home. My old friend, Sister Prosdoki, was able to visit with me for a brief period, holding my hand and catching up with one another. Just like the first time, I wished that our visit had lasted forever!

I also had the distinct honor of meeting His Eminence Metropolitan Barnabas of Neapoli and Stavropolio. My dad is friendly with Metropolitan Barnabas, and so we were able to have two short visits with him while we were in Greece. During the first visit, I couldn’t understand the conversation between my dad, Father Iakovos, and His Eminence Barnabas, because it was all in Greek. But, I felt all of the emotions in the room. I was so moved by the warmth, the way that His Eminence was teaching through his example, and the amount of love in the room, that I was moved to tears during most of the visit. Rather than made to feel embarrassed by my tears, my expression of emotion was communication enough for Hi Eminence and we instantly connected without words. Father Iakovos simply told His Eminence that I was moved by the loving kindness of his nature. During our second visit I was far better composed and was able to communicate my feelings about love and God with the help of some translation. When my dad and I made our final goodbye before flying to Turkey, Metropolitan Barnabas hugged and kissed me, and sent me tons of blessings.

Its an amazing thing, meeting people like Sister Prosdoki, Father Iakovos, Metropolitan Barnabas, or my friend Maria who I visited later in the week. Kind people simply emanate warmth. It can’t be described as anything other than love, goodness, the Holy Spirit. I can feel the spirit full in them, it overflows, and it washes over me so that I feel filled as well.

His Eminence Barnabas and me

After some guy-time with Father Iakovos, and my dad, the men headed off to the Holy Mountain and I was left alone in Thessaloniki for four days. I absolutely loved it! I had the fantastic opportunity to spend time with my buddy Maria who I met when I studied abroad in Spain two years ago, and I also became better acquainted with some Greek American boys who came from Hellenic College in Boston to study abroad in Thessaloniki.

Greek hospitality truly is a bottomless pit of abundance, and in that way it emulates the spirit of love.

I cannot even count the hours on hours of time spent sitting around with my friends, and their friends, drinking tsiporo (Greek moonshine), and laughing together. I learned a lot of Greek, and communication was never a problem, even with Maria’s friends who didn’t speak English. Every time I went out with Maria, or the Greek Americans from the University, everyone insisted on paying for me. Being the out-of-towner, Greek hospitality designates that my local friends have a responsibility to show me a good time, make me happy, and not let me spend a cent. Of course, I don’t take advantage of that by any means, but the Greeks are just the gift that keeps on giving.

I even had the honor of going outside of Thessaloniki to visit Maria’s grandparents in their village, and see the local dance group perform original Greek dances from the region. Yiayia even played along with me when I asked her to read my fortune in my cup after drinking Greek coffee. She and I agreed that we don’t take fortune telling from coffee cups too seriously, but it was interesting to learn from her. I felt like I was welcomed like a long lost relative. I could have lived there and hiked the nearby mountains for days if I had more time. If there is anything Greek, it’s impossible for me to feel out of place.

My time in Greece was perfectly timed, and I didn’t spend more than a half of a day doing anything touristic. I enjoyed parea (companionship) with friends, tons of food, heart-to-hearts, and beautiful people. There is nothing better than going where your people are. My people are definitely Greek. There have been a few other times on my journey where I have felt ‘among my people’ like in Munich, and all over Ireland. (Coincidentally, I am a small part German, and Irish.)

But, so far in my journey, no one does it quite likes the Greeks do. Yasas!

Norway in a Nutshell

Talk about beauty in the world.

On my 9 day journey throughout Norway I witnessed some of the most breathtaking scenery. Fjords, mountains surrounded by lakes and rivers, covered with sporadic snow patches from the previous winter, and houses all along them - scattered or in rows zigzagging all along the cliffs and hills. The mountains were like Croatia's rock cliffs, with less cliffs and more fully formed mountains. Or like Greece's mountains, but covered in beautiful forestry with no dessert-like surroundings. Or like the Atlas Mountains in Morocco, but again, the forestry winter-mountainous look rather than the desert-mountainous look. Even, at a distance, appearing in the backdrop as the Appalachian Trail through New Hampshire and Maine, or the White Mountains. Real breathtaking, untouched, natural beauty.

My first stop after leaving the paradise of Greece was Oslo, Norway. Furthermore, my first stop in Oslo, Norway was to the Huk (pronounced "hewk") nude beach on the Bygdøy ("big day") peninsula of the city. My first day was spent in the 60-70 degree weather, in the 50-60 degree water. It felt like swimming in the middle of Boston harbor on the last day of the summer swimming season. And it was. The days to follow would be brisk. A layer or two of jackets would only reduce the breeze to a cool shutter.

Despite my having rested thoroughly for the last 10 days in Greece (a time and place my mind is still fixated on), each day in Norway has been quite physical and quite tiring in its own way. In order to pace myself and self-care the way that my body is screaming I should, "Sleep you idiot! Do less! Do less, please!" - I tried my restless best to do less and less. So this week I did one, maybe two activities a day.

 When I arrived at Huk on the shore of the North Sea, i took one look around to see the few men and women there, in their 50s or 60s most likely, and stark naked. I thought, with all of these sagging butts around me, what do I have to lose? Without a second more, I dropped my things, dropped my trousers, and went straight to where I belonged - the sea. It wasn't so bad, the coldness of it I mean. I immediately had goosebumps all over my naked brown and white body. Mind you, I was the only person on the beach with extreme tan lines. I had never thought of appearing - so obviously - as a foreigner, simply because below my waist is currently the whitest full-moon any Norwegian has ever seen, particularly in contrast with my Grecian brown legs. 

When i got out of the water, it wasn't so terribly cold that i would have to dress right away. So I sat on the beach drawing the landscape in my sketchbook. I am no artist, but creativity is a coping mechanism - music, dance, art, writing, cooking - i crave it because it makes me feel at home. Its good to know how to be comfortable and make every place feel like home. Even better to do it. So i began to draw a childish interpretation of far off mountains - me in my bareness pretending to be Rembrandt or Da Vinci. Suddenly, the ugliest seagull I had ever seen made a wretched crow, and shit all over my drawing and on me and my things.

I couldn't tell if it was vomit or poo.

I trudged slowly and gently to the sea, as I noticed locals did - probably in order to not make too much jelly shake, if you know what I mean. I laughed while I washed off in the water among the seaweeds. Either I am really lucky - and this is a sign, as everyone says about bird shit landing on you - or, and this is most likely, Norwegian birds are harsh art critics and my Da Vinci attempt was just as shit as the actual shit that landed on it. Either way, I laughed at circumstance. Luckily I wasn't wearing clothes, or it would have been a bird shitty day all over the back of my shirt.

All in all, my broad daylight public nudity debut was quite the event. No regrets. No embarrassment. It may have been the most carefree I would ever feel while naked in public. Not that this is a regular occurrence. I wish it was. I may have found my calling as a nudist.

On the bus ride back from Huk I met a retired Norwegian professor. He interjected himself into my studies as I was reading and practicing Norwegian phrases silently under my breath. He sat next to me and heard me studying, and laughed at my pronunciation. He was quite helpful and taught me key phrases while we rode along.

On day one, I hadn't learned yet that speaking Norwegian was not necessary in Norway. Everyone not only spoke English, but spoke it well and with a clear accent - even though most people said "I speak a little bit." I learned that those responses were because they don't want to speak English. I earned respect from people simply by acknowledging that. I said, I have no choice but to speak English, please help me, I don't mean to disrespect the Norwegian language or culture - I said this indirectly by saying in Norwegian, rather than outright in English, "I don't speak Norwegian, do you speak English?" I feel it does make a difference, even if only a slight difference. It doesn't work because its some brilliant idea of mine either, it works because it evokes different responses in people, the warmth and welcomes, rather than the rush to get away. I have tried it both ways, and using the local language, - even a little bit - always gets the better response.

The following days I walked about a bit - along a river leading to the city center with waterfalls and thick brush, zigzagging through boroughs and universities on paths and back roads covered with runners, and bicyclists. Along Sogsvann, a lake at the  last stop of one of the city train lines, I lost myself on a hiking path in the woods, sat by a freshwater stream for a picnic and fell asleep on a dock in the middle of the vann (lake). It took me a while to find a dock that was not loud with playing children or the trudging of hundreds of feet on a dirt path. It was Sunday, and because nothing other than expensive restaurants is open on Sunday, everyone was out walking, biking, or running, at this lovely lake.

Everything I have done here has been slowly paced, and truly peaceful. I think I have felt drained because Norway puts a lot of stress on the wallet. Although the exchange is 7 Norwegian Kroner for every 1USD, everything is priced in the 100s. What would normally cost $20, costs 300-400 Kroner - the equivalent to $50-65. When I am paying 59 Kroner ($10) for a street vendor hot dog, that's when you know - this country ain't cheap. 

The universe must know and feel my concerns, because the people I have come across here have been hospitable and free-giving. In Greece, I was cared for by family or friends of family and they were always giving. Here in Norway, it has been tens of people, complete strangers who sometimes don't even know my name, giving me free food, more free food, free advice, free transport, free this, cheap that. It has been a real gift and - like every time so much fortune and hospitality comes my way - I find myself wondering what did I do to deserve this? But then, reasons don't matter do they? I just try to be grateful... maybe the bird shit really worked.

On one occasion, I made friends at a bar. I don't normally go out at night when I am traveling alone, nevertheless to a bar, but I wanted to make a point to try Norwegian beer and I did so when the sun was still out. After all, it was the last night of the weekend. During weekdays Norwegian law does not allow the selling of alcohol after 3pm. I went to an Irish pub, of course, and I ended up meeting some people, of course. After chatting a thrilling conversation with a jolly couple who laughed and smiled about everything (how fantastic! I found myself laughing and not knowing what I was laughing at) they left and I continued the conversation with the man next to me who had joined in. I found myself complaining to the man at the bar about the cost of food. I try hard not to complain when I am traveling, but this one thing irked me. I found myself thinking how rude! The nerve of the Norwegian government to really think they can charge this much for bare necessities is really just a cruel joke. Petroleum independent UNESCO World Heritage Site Assholes. The government, of course, not the people. One thing I've learned is that most people don't like their government. Maybe they like the school system, or they like the way taxes are, or they like a few things here and there - but disagreeing with some aspects of the way the government does things is not considered a direct insult to the culture. So I freely say, it irks me that the Norwegian government has the nerve to charge so much money for things.

One of the things I was so excited to come to Norway for, was to eat lots of seafood. Low and behold this self-sufficient seafood exporting country has some of the most expensive local fish I have ever seen. Too bad - I've been making cheese sandwiches for days. After complaining about cost of food to the man at the bar, he told me poignantly, "well, I'm actually quite wealthy working in the Petroleum business here, and there's this posh restaurant around the corner I would like to take you to, no pressure though." I thought for a moment. I was direct in return to his poignancy, telling him that I don't want to accept his offer and imply anything further. He was understanding, generous, and kind. "No pressure." He kept saying. Anyway, the restaurant was right next door on a busy street and not less than 4 hrs earlier someone I had met gave me the wise advice to never turn down an invitation for food. 

When we sat down to order, I took one look at the menu and my jaw dropped. He asked me what I wanted, and feeling slightly uncomfortable at choosing between such expensive things (and truthfully wanting all of it), I told him to choose for me. Well, he didn't really. Instead he said, "we'll have two of the 5 course meal you have here." Jaw dropped again. But cheerfully, of course. Even though he and the waitress spoke Norwegian, he insisted on speaking only English while I was around, and I felt grateful for his consideration.

Thanks to Arne, that was his name, I delighted my way through long and meaningful conversation - complete with impressions of Sean Connery, Clint Eastwood and even some singing, while we both childishly played at being "posh" for the night. And oh the seafood! Some of the most tantalizing seafood I have eaten. Octopus! Eal! Cod! Delicious stuff that was completely new to me just because of the unique Norwegian methods of preparation and the fresh flavor. At the end of dinner, and practically closing down the place, Arne was a perfect gentlemen by walking me to a taxi and paying the cost to send me on my way.

Such generosity, and friendship truly is touching. Even on bad days, or days when I don't give a damn. Countless people have been kind to me and generous. I try to pay homage to them in this blog by recognizing the beauty in their souls that is expressed through their generosity, but I really am only touching on the amount of people. Sometimes they pass quickly in and out of my life so that I can't learn their names, but I try. The generosity has been so touching that a few days after dinner with Arne, when  I befriended a cafe clerk who, upon parting, sent me on my way with all of the leftover pastries of the day - I cried as I walked out the door. A happy, grateful cry. In Norway I have hardly been able to afford food, which I had not anticipated. And this 20-something man just gave me enough pastries for 3 meals.

The luck of bird shit does not come short of the delivery of friends and food. Alas, disgusting seagulls - my deliverers it turns out!

The rest of my time in Norway was somewhat of a rush. While leaving the hostel in Oslo, I twisted my ankle with all of my backpack weight pulling me down harder than a normal fall. It would have just been a stagger for walking crooked. Now, my ankle is wrapped and due to that, and not being able to afford a tour, I have been quite limited to what my day has been full of.

Luckily, the pain didn't kick in until after my long day in Lillehammer, Norway. There I stayed with a sweet Norwegian girl named Helle. She was kind enough to take me in for two nights, and help me to get where I needed to be. Staying with Helle was like staying on an old friends couch, or a buddy that I see often and feel right at home with. 
The morning of my one and only full day in Lillehammer, Helle took me in her car to the bus station as a meeting point. Once I was left on my own, I learned quickly that to access any of the hikes I was interested in doing, I would need a car. "Buses don't go there" the information desk lady told me. It was unfortunate, but I was also relieved, because I started feeling like my body was tired again. My head was heavy. 

Instead of my original plan, I hiked from the bottom of Norway's largest lake, to the top of Lillehammer's 1994 Olympic ski jump. From far away the ski jump looked like a green slide made for a giant, or aliens, or God, and it was sitting with fields of hay at the foot of it that made it look like the slide went into a sandbox. On my walk up the road twisting and turning I started to hear the sound of water off in the woods behind the guardrail. Curious of course, I jumped the rail and started off into the woods. After only a few minutes of searching I came across waterfalls on waterfalls on waterfalls. Untouched! Although there was the occasional old tent stuck in the trees - of course locals must know about this - there was still the river and it was left as is, despite all of the surrounding development beyond the woods. There was no bike or walking path - no path at all. I climbed up the side of the waterfall. Testing my feet on the rocks so as not to slip. I slipped at a freshwater stream only two days earlier and was stuck in cold damp pants the rest of the day. We will not be fooled again Mother Nature!! When I reached the top of the waterfall I felt triumphant! I looked around, sat, and listened to the water. How soothing it is to listen to water rushing, falling, landing, and doing it all over again thousands of drops per second. I sat with my feet hanging over the edge and enjoyed the scenery until I couldn't sit anymore. Little did I know, my little nature hike would be followed by a 936 step hike to the top of the 1994 Olympic ski lift (its important in Lillehammer to always mention that it is the 1994 Olympic ski lift, not just a ski lift.) From there, after sitting and reading a book at the top while professional skiers practiced their jumps, I enjoyed a brisk run down the mountain and back to Norway's largest lake (also important to mention that it is Norway's largest lake, not just a lake.) I didn't learn until the pain kicked in later that I was running and hiking on a damaged ankle. 

At the end of the day, Helle picked me up and we had pizza and watched a movie. It really was like hanging out with my old buddy - and so relaxing because of it!

The next day I left early to journey from Lillehammer - Oslo - Bergen.

On the 5am train I slept.

On the 8am train, I slept some more. In fact I sprawled out on two seats and pretended like I was a sleeping giant.

I was awakened suddenly, when something in my mind said "get up! get up!" I sat up instantly, took a look around, and when I looked out the window there it was. Fjords upon fjords, and a glacier in the distance. I could see the snow caps on top of these colossal perfectly formed stone piles. Some of the patches of snow reflected the sun so brightly that I couldn't tell if they were lakes on the sides of mountains or leftover snow.

It was breathtaking. I tried to soak it all in, as I definitely wouldn't be able to afford a tour once I arrived in Bergen on the west coast of the country.

[My internal alarm must know when I want to be awake for something.
I learned later that immediately after my train had passed, there was a dynamite explosion on the tracks and all other trains for the day were detoured 2.5 hours on bus. It was at exactly the time I had awakened that the explosion occurred 2 hours away. Three rail construction workers died. No passengers or civilians were harmed, as trains were not passing through at the time. A terrible tragedy from a faulty dynamite. Thank God that it was an isolated incident, the deaths could have been far greater if a train were passing through. The death could have been mine, if my train were passing through. When I heard the news my heart pounded and my next breath was deep - I felt immense gratitude for it, followed by sadness for these men and their families.]

At 4pm I arrived in Bergen. I learned from the information center that, I was right, I definitely wouldn't be affording any tours. What would have been 50pounds in England, or 30Euros in Greece, was 1400 Kroners in Norway. It was unfortunate. I had gone to Bergen to do hikes, tours, see glaciers and fjords - with a bum ankle and an empty wallet I was limited to walking around the cobblestone fish market town. I was grateful that I took the 6 hour train to the town because that was the best tour I would have afforded, and free with my rail pass.
It was not so unfortunate to be forced to stay in Bergen. It is a beautiful town stacked in layers on the hills, and pouring into the sea where countless boats dock for fjord tours, and boat travel. The buildings are close together, different colors, and the year-round "fiskmarket" is held in tents in the city center for all to see... and smell.

After gaining hindsight, I realized that the universe was giving me a real gift. Sitting around and doing nothing in a beautiful seaside town in Norway! I had been exhausted, I had been worried, I had been in pain - and now all of that is gone because I have nothing more to do than to care for myself, sleep, do what I like on a slow-paced day. And also be reminded of the gift of life that I have, while some people lose theirs in tragic accidents. My diet has been restored by eating very little (due to affordability) and now, in the next week, when I am back to paying semi-regular prices in Sweden, Finland, Estonia, and Russia, I will not feel so stressed. I am finishing writing this entry from Stockholm Sweden, and already I have no stress, feel completely rested, and thanks to an ankle brace and taking it easy, I almost have no pain!

Norway really was a place to remind me of generosity, and humility. There had been times before when concern for money left me hungry, but never to the degree that I experienced these last 9 days. Even so, I had only a glimpse into that world. The world where people are always worried, always begging, starving. I noticed in many countries like Norway, Greece, Turkey (and a few other places) that beggars and gypsies are given money more frequently, rather than treated indifferently or looked down upon. People see them and know in their hearts I have a coin, and this woman will surely starve herself before her children. She could live with my coin and die without it. Maybe it's not that grandiose... but then again, maybe it is - and I have seen a great amount of generosity in the last month. In New York, it is common to see a mentally ill person in the street, or an addict begging for money - for that reason the approach to the homeless there is drastically different. People are often cautious or indifferent. I'd be more likely to call 911 for someone than give them money. I'd be more likely to give them food or talk to them than give them money. My mom - with her big heart that she inherited from her smiling loving parents - she goes by the rule of keeping Dunkin Donuts gift cards in the car for giving out. They are chains that only serve food and non-alcoholic beverages. The same with Subway. In Norway and Greece those aren't as big concerns. The concern is getting fed. Surviving. Even surviving to the point of being able to live a little.

Norway, in nutshell, is grandiose in its natural design, but humble, and generous in its people.

Add this to the "Revisit" list, underneath Morocco.

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!

Dublin, Ireland

From the moment I sat on the Aer Lingus flight from Boston to Dublin, my natural draw to people was on fire, and attracted kind people to me. On the plane I sat next to a woman, who I would classify as your typical suburban British woman. Ever see a Ricky Gervais show or movie? Well, she was the leading lady; witty, empathetic, comedic (the British sort) and of true grit. We talked about British shows we both liked, and how British humor is better than American humor because of its wit, and truth. I could tell right away that she was a warm person. She gave me advice for my UK travels, laughed with me about poppy cock, and was downright offended by the general idea that Americans have a food called "London broil." With every "t" pronounced, and a rising inflection, she said with her true Brit accent; "Its beef and gravy? And you named it after our capital city? Thas pure rubbish." We laughed a bit, and before parting she asked me if I had anyone in the UK to call in an emergency. I told her I had the U.S. Embassy. So she gave me her mobile number, and told me that it was in case I got arrested. I wondered for a second if, in the mostly silent 6 hour plane ride, that she deduced from my character that I may be a person who gets arrested. I assured her I wasn't that sort, and told her if I pass through Liverpool or Bermingham I would buzz her, and in return the next time she is in Boston on business I will treat her to a London broil and laugh at her mortified response to it - the rubbish.

Upon landing, I waited at the airport for a few hours until the bus system turned on at 6am. Waiting an hour or so to spend 6Euro on a bus instead of 30 on a taxi is just the beginning for me. We have to be choosey now.

My adventures begin in a city thriving in history and oppression. Parts of Dublin are like being back in Sol Madrid. Shops everywhere in the tourist areas so that it is almost like an outdoor mall. The cobblestone streets along the Temple Bar section is where all of the piss, and Guinness line the sidewalks during the day, and where live folk and rock music can be found at night. I wasn't able to check into the hostel to sleep until 3pm. So I locked up my bags, and from 6:30am until 3pm, I walked the city. It only took 3 or 4 hours to really see the whole of it. The section where I am staying is more rubbish than the tourist sections - not dangerous, but clearly somewhat trashier than the better kept parts of town - I didn't take to Dublin right away because of it. There are cigarette butts everywhere and it smells like the dry sweat of an Irish army. 

I never hesitated to tell anyone that I was from Boston. My plan for a lot of this trip was to say I am Canadian - I know I will need to in Central Europe because I have been discriminated against before for being American. I learned quickly that saying you're from Boston in Ireland gets you respect, because some people might even assume that you are Irish. They know that Boston is heavily Irish in history and they love it. Maybe thats why Boston is so resilient - Irish are certainly resilient. I learned a long time ago that foreigners know Boston better than New Hampshire, so i just don't bother with that unless they want to know more or we become friends.

After walking about I came and sat in the lobby of my hostel waiting for a walking tour to start. While I waited I met a kind Iranian family. I was drawn to them speaking Farsi on the couch next to mine. One was a young woman studying Middle Eastern conflicts for her PhD in Belfast, and the others were her aunt and uncle visiting from Norway. After much discussion on passions concerning the Middle East, good health, and the fascination of cultures - I was offered a place to stay in Belfast, and also in Oslo. I don't know that I will, but I was complimented by the generosity and smiles of this family. We continued to chat and exchanged emails before the tour started some time later.

On the walking tour we skipped around Dublin seeing some parks, memorials, the Irish Castle, and Trinity College where the library holds the book of Kells (the only Gaelic version of the Bible.) The castle looked like any Plaza Mayor you've seen or heard of, minus people, minus restaurants and stores, minus everything but blank walls and an empty square. Its deserted. The Brits built and the Brits left, so thats what you get. I learned that, while in Ireland, I should have a distaste for the Brits. They enslaved the Irish and sent them to the Caribbean, just as Americans enslaved Africans. I knew this already, but the way that our tour-guide, Rory, spoke about it brought light to the fact that when Americans typically think of slavery they think of black Africans. Ever heard of slavery and thought of a bunch of poor famished Irishmen? I suppose racism is engraved in us in that way. Imagine though, you are put on a boat not knowing where you're going and then you and the famished guy next to you end up working cotton fields in between beatings for the rest of your life. Although the separation of Ireland with Northern Ireland was meant to bring peace between the Brits and the Irish, it caused conflict within Irish traditions, tearing apart families to the point of them killing one another over disagreeing about right and wrong. Politics. Religion as well. Rory told us about how most Irish are against Israel in the conflict between Israel and Palestine. Not because of politics, he assured us, but because of murder and immorality - because Irish see themselves and their history in the anguish and suffering of others. In my own opinion Israel is comitting a genocide - after having slimly escaped their own in history it makes it ironically sad to me. I suppose history shows us that every powerful nation at least attempts genocide before peace. Gaza Strip is the most densely populated region in the world. Drop a bomb anywhere and its the end for many, whoever the many may be. Oppression is very powerful - I'm sure it has something to do with Israel's desperation to get rid of Hamas no matter the consequences of their inhumanity towards the civilians. I'm sure it has something to do with why Ireland has such a drinking culture. Everyone's gotta cope. Even now, the Irish feel strongly about their culture and what history has to do with modern Ireland.

For instance, Gaelic is a dying language with less than 15% of Irish speaking it. The correct way to say the Irish language is "Gail-gah" not Gaelic. Gail-gah or Irish. Essentially its because of the British banning of Irish culture during their rule that the language is dying. Irish who can speak Irish are the super Irish Irish. :-) Back then community meetings weren't allowed, which forced Catholic mass to operate underground for fear of punishment. It sounded communist almost, or an effort to genocide. Well, it was an effort to genocide. Funny how the world forgives and forgets the mistakes the most powerful nations have made - Britain, America, Germany, Norway, France, Spain, Russia, China, etc. The Vietnamese and Koreans have forgiven us and are kind people to us... But take the money from Europeans and start hostile takeovers of downtroden Middle Eastern countries during an oppressed time and that sort of shit puts you on most of the worlds' shit list. Places that are safe for Europeans to travel, like Cairo, or Saudi Arabia, are not safe for Americans according to the US 

State Department. Anyone here will tell you, its a lot more dangerous to travel as an American than someone else. Thats why its so important that I am passionate about understanding a people/culture. It sets me apart from the typical traveling American who ignorantly goes on a vacation just to drink and dance and eat away from home - plowing through anyone and everything, not asking questions, having the mentality of "who cares I'll never see them again." Well, you may never see them again, but you just helped solidify their opinion of Americans.

Rory passionately spoke as an Irish purist to us, and (clearly) it ignited my passions. Aside from his degree in history, it was apparent that he chose to lead free walking tours as a job so that he could share his passion and the "real" history of Ireland. The grit of it - the humanity.

Much like New York City, Boston, Paris, Munich, or any other major city you can think of - the real majesty of the country is in suburbia, outside of the city. Also, all of the best major cities have a lake, river, or ocean in/next to it (Paris, Budapest, Athens, Dublin, Boston, Miami, NYC, London, Beijing, Ho Chi Minh - and so on.) So I chose to cut my plans short in Dublin so that I will have one more day and night to experience what I want in the city. Then I willl leave Dublin and spend an overnight in Galway to hike the Cliffs of Moher and walk along the Atlantic Bergen. It will set me back by making my trip to Belfast longer, but I will see more and pay the same.

Rory told us on the tour that in the West are many Irish purists who work hard to preserve the language and culture. Even Irish who study 12 years of Gaelic in primary school are usually not fluent. Not to mention, listing "Irish" as one of your main languages, will not help you get a job anywhere. So the Irish westerners try to keep it up, to keep Gaelic from becoming a dead language. Just like any other culture, Rory said that people in the west tend to respect you more if you at least try to say some things in Gaelic. He taught us some phrases. All I remember is that "Slante" means cheers. I remember it because I heard it a lot at the bars.

I asked Rory if the cliche idea of Irishmen getting together, getting drunk, and singing Irish folk music was far from the truth. He told me to give him some beers and he would show me how true it is. Hah!

Foreshadowing of the night to follow - when I was walking to the pub later in the evening I saw a man in front of me peeing on the sidewalk. I have seen this a lot all over Europe. Except for this man wasn't pointing his peewee at the wall, he was aiming for the street and leaning against the wall. I thought, hey! You're doin it wrong! As he zipped his pants a woman walked past paying no mind and he said to her "oh fuck off!" which drew her attention. I liked her response when she said, "me fuck off? You fuck off!" And she kept on walking. I laughed to myself, lifted my skirt to my knees and took a large step over the stream and kept on going. That was my only negative experience of Irish people, even then I enjoyed it for a laugh.

Along the walking tour I became friendly with a lovely Sicilian woman. We talked about couchsurfing, and how she is going to meet her host after the tour. She invited me to a rock concert later in the evening as a couchsurfing event, to meet other hosts and surfers. I went.

An aside; couchsurfing (CS) is a website and community network of low budget travelers connecting and sharing their culture, language, and couch with others who want to do the same. Its a give and take, not immediately and not in any service, but overtime through community and gratitude. I will stay with you, and maybe we will be friends and maybe we wont, but when you have the time to travel and if you so happen to make it to my home town, I will do the same for you.

So now I'm at a pub for live music with these people who all met through the couchsurfing network. One thing I can say for certain, if you go to any Irish pub in the world, close your eyes and tell yourself you're in Ireland, and then open your eyes - believe it or not, you are in Ireland. Every Irish pub is the same, wooden panels, stools, the smell of beer everywhere, lots of beers on taps, samples of beers, green tapestries, and random framed whatevers all over the place with the occasional drinking slogan. Oh, and live music. In the group I met a few Italians, enjoyed speaking Spanish with a girl from outside of Madrid, there was a Nigerian man, and another man from San Diego. The band was American and played classic rock music - so I paid no mind to anyone else and did my hip-shaking foot stomping thing. Soon enough others were joining. It was a two piece sitdown band, like I had never heard before. One strumming all of the rock solos perfectly, and the other banging his head and singing better than any bar band I had ever witnessed. I felt right at home. The singer announced to the bar that he wanted the bartenders to bring him a Guinness. He got himself into a mess of trouble with that, because he was such a good singer that everyone in the bar was buying him Guinness. He had a stool of 4 pints sitting in front of him when he told everyone to fuck off with the Guinness. Literally, "fuck off with the Guinness already. Give me another and I'll fuckin kick you out. I'm serious" He drank two, gave another away to a handicapped man in a wheelchair, and then announced he was drunk. Fair enough, this was his second gig of the night, and first solo gig of the night. I know because we followed him barhopping from the two-piece band to the solo gig because he was amazing, and our group organizer knew him. After he told everyone he was drunk, the crowd roared with excitement. He then sang an Irish drinking song or two in between the Eagles and Thin Lizzy. An Irish song can be created, basically, by getting really drunk and depressed and singing your blues while clapping along. If you can mumble loudly with a drunken drawl, then you can get by during most drinking song choruses - da da die dah die dah die, la la lie, la la lie. Drinking is not my thing, but Irish pubs certainly are.

There is a music festival tonight in Merrion park next to Trinity college. I was invited again by the sweet Sicilian woman. I was also invited to pub crawl with a group of young people who met two years ago studying abroad in Germany. I might do both, one, or none. I would like to hear more local folk music, its fantastic. 

All in all, if it weren't for kind foreigners, or the Irish being generally friendly, fun, and passionate people, I might not have liked Dublin at all. So I'm ready to move on to where I not only love the people, but the environment. I think that will be Galway, and a suburban hike or two outside of Belfast next week.

Slante!