The In-Between; A Journey Home

Traveling to a new place, especially when one is used to traveling, creates a diverse array of emotions. There is sadness when taking that initial step towards leaving - but not remorse or regret. There is excitement for going to a new place - perhaps not new to knowledge but new to routine - and the anticipation of change is usually a good one. However, there is also nerves when entering into something completely new. There are plenty of soon to be answered questions, but that leaves this period of simultaneously unknowing and seeking. I am a child on her last day of high school - prepped for freedom, yet attached to tradition.

I am in the in-between.

The takeoff is the easiest moment. I have time to prep, organize, rest, meditate, or be mindless. I can test the waters of my new place by taking in the surroundings of who else is on their way there. What languages do they speak? How does it sound to me? I can sleep and forget about leaving, coming or going.

I am in mourning, and I am excitedly en route. The time for mourning is brief and sharp, a pang in the heart during the ascent.  What sadness it is to go. What torture endings are, on loop, unclear where it begins again or truly completes its cycle. Every time it is as if I am saying goodbye for infinity. This debt of emotion will keep up until a landing is nearly insight, until the chime of arrival makes itself known. Until a fellow passenger wants to distractedly become my friend. Until then I'm in-between. In between melancholia and thrilled anticipation.

I never stop living as if it is an adventure. This is the enthusiasm of a traveler. As much as goodbyes can make me cry, or day dream about all that was, they never hinder my spirit for adventure.

No single moment deters us from the path we travel down. No single moment can take away the thrilling nature of living. We don't choose the road less traveled by, we choose the wild, where there is no road. We trudge through crunching leaves, up steep rock faces, around glaciers, and through the jungle - each step making our own fortune. An obstacle is not an obstacle if one enjoys climbing it. Sadness is not melancholia if one can have gratitude for the lighter moments. 

The beauty of goodbyes, the in-between, and new beginnings, is in all of the emotion and reflection. I am excited, enthusiastic, thrilled, solemn, thoughtful, heartbroken, renewed, observant, enlightened, and in love with the journey. 

Here I am completing my first long-term travel abroad. I've been to Europe, all over Asia, Australia, and New Zealand. I did it in 16 months. I made hundreds of friends, stayed in hundreds of places, and I did most of it on my own. 

And still the in-between journey is a strange grieving thrilling sensation. It often occurs to me as the airplane taxis the runway, or as I am waiting for the line to subside during the plane boarding. I am leaving behind those moments in that land and time. The moments and emotions become my memory, they become my story, and for the time being, it belongs to only me. It's thrilling to have my precious little secret. It's daunting to want tirelessly to stand on a rooftop and shout to all the world what all these incredible moments have been like for me - to share my story in hopes of enlightening, empathizing, connecting my travel world with all of my other worlds.

Like a first love, I want to announce this infinite rollercoaster romance with the universe, and in that desire to share I fill myself with gratitude for the moments. With that gratitude, the in-between quickly becomes a soothing place, a warm hug that wraps up in me and holds tightly until love is pouring out of my every cell. Its a laugh at the struggles, a kiss to the joys, a smile at the nonsense, and a wink to the woes. Its loving the adventure, and the journey, where ever it may go. The in-between becomes my meditation, my path to the next adventure, my guide to the next enlightening struggle, and my ticket through the portal of time within my internal world. I am so grateful for each adventure, and for every in-between becoming such a gift to the spirit. Its precisely why I planned to take 6 weeks to travel home, and see friends I've met while traveling, rather than return in one fell swoop.

So here's to my heartwrenching mournful 'goodbye', my enthusiastically grateful 'so long', and my anxiously excited 'hello.'

Here's to the next adventure, and making it through the in-between.

I'm coming home.

"I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel." - Rosalia de Castro

The Traveling Social Worker

I'm sure that travelers can recognize the sentiment, that maybe after some time, it feels as though you put your life on hold at home. It's not a bad feeling, or a good feeling, simply a parallel feeling that there are two lives being lived, and one can easily be paused while the other continues. You have a travel life and a home life. The world carries on. Your family and friends' lives proceed. Maybe you wonder if you being there ever made a difference. Certainly it did, however the thought can creep up on you. Maybe there is nothing you miss, and this disconnect concerns you, or, better yet, thrills you. Maybe you become jaded from a life away from home, constantly having to reaquaint yourself with surroundings - always introducing yourself, having the same conversation over and over. Maybe all of this causes you to miss home, or maybe the fact that you don't miss home at all makes it feel as though it isn't your home anymore. Time no longer exists, only the day to day - money, and basic necessities. You had an education you might not be using, things you did and were passionate about before that don't matter anymore or that you don't have access to. With new knowledge comes new passions, and new passions can make a whole new persona.

When I originally left on this trip more than ten months ago, I justified my abandon by saying that traveling will enhance my career as a social worker. It will give me insight to all kinds of ways of life - cultures, ethnicities, and beliefs that exist around the world. The mere ability to say a couple of words in someone else's language can strongly enhance rapport when empathizing with clients of all diversities. I said to myself, I will volunteer in other countries to help me get by, and that will support the building of my resume during my extended absence.

After receiving my masters degree in social work, I had a few months to put my affairs in order before deciding to leave for a prolonged period of travel. A period that, in time, became more and more drawn-out. So far I am four months beyond my personally advertised return date. By the time I actually do return, my originally planned trip will have more than doubled in length. Spontaneity is a beautiful gift, considering that concrete travel plans are as real as a "worse case scenario." Everyone can imagine how it will go, but no one sees it come to pass the way they envisioned. Definitive travel plans on extended journies never follow through, and only seem to prevent incredible opportunity. I learned this a long time ago, and for the most part, threw limits, expectations, and deadlines out the window.

As freeing as it has been, lately I have felt as though I put my entire career on hold to travel the world. I can't help but recognize that, at times, my experiences are more for personal gain than they are for educational knowledge that will 'enhance my career.' Since most service opportunities on this side of the world require the volunteer to pay for participation, the idea of building my resume abroad became distant and virtually unrealistic. Sixteen months of "unemployed traveler" may not be the best way to sell myself to the next employer. Certainly not with the argument that such a long absence may have caused me to become out of practice.

All of these thoughts about my absence, and abandon, had been rushing in as a full year of travel rapidly approaches me.

The other day, a symbolic gift was sent my way that would later bring me towards feelings of fulfillment and purpose. I received in an email a post-test survey concerning my graduate degree specialization in integrated primary and behavioral healthcare. As I completed the questionnaire I found that most of the examining questions went as follows: On a level of 1 to 5, rate how confident you are in working with clients of different cultural backgrounds (1 being not confident, and 5 being extremely confident). Topics included; communication using nonverbal behaviors, racial identity, language barriers, educational background and interests, gender role and responsibility, role of elders and children, recognizing your own personal values and beliefs and preventing or resolving their intrusion into practice, comfort when entering a culturally different world, similarities and differences between cultural groups, clients refusal of treatment based on beliefs, need for cultural care preservation/maintenance, cultural sensitivity, dealing with racism and prejudice of clients while maintaining a non-bias practice, religious conflicts, values, etc. etc. etc.

About halfway through I began to laugh out loud at my previous concerns over 'enhancing my career.'

Maybe I am no longer in a therapeutic group setting - teaching mentally ill women how to appropriately cope with feelings of anger while living in a homeless shelter. Maybe I am not doing one-on-one private in-home therapy with hospice clients. Maybe I am no longer doing in-home structural family therapy with troubled youth and their parents in the struggling heart of Brooklyn. What I am doing is communicating on a daily basis with people from around the world, learning about religious and cultural practices, coping with my own discomfort in rural and suburban underdeveloped settings to the point where there is no discomfort, understanding the basis of my values and how they differ from the people around me, learning about wars and racism between ethnicities I didn't even know existed, using different languages, seeing firsthand the daily practices of different cultures, understanding traditions and ways of life, experiencing fundamentally complex and corrupt governmental effects on citizens, living in other peoples' homes, practicing different religions, teaching about love through my own openness, etc. etc. etc.

After taking the post-test, I realized, I haven't left a life on pause somewhere. There is no "home" to go back to or life I left behind. There is no extended "absence." I have never been more present. I am home, everywhere I go. I feel it is a gift to be able to say that even after traveling to 43 different countries in my life, and counting. I can find comfort in anything or anyone, in myself, and at any location. Life before travel, is simply that. It's not continuing on its own - there is still a life being lived. This concept of living a paradoxical double life doesn't exist. People at home will go about their lives, as travelers go about theirs. We will grow in our way, and they will grow in theirs. At the end of the day, I have captured more in a moment than I could possibly have dreamed of in a lifetime. No matter which way we spin it, it is for personal gain - the kind of gain that will make us better practitioners, friends, lovers, and empathizers. The kind of personal gain that benefits everyone wey meet. Every backpacker must be a social worker to an extent. Every traveler must have this knowledge that enhances any career or relationship they have. It requires an openness, a tolerance, a patience, a self-awareness, and an overall understanding of one's personal role in humanity.

I used to think that when I decide to call it quits with long-term travel, or put it on hold until further notice, that is when I will settle down and begin my professional career.

The truth is, I am settled, and I am practicing social work every day. The important thing for all travelers to remember, is what this survey reminded me. Although we may not be working or volunteering, or even interacting with locals every day - we are spreading wealth and knowledge around the world. In return for satisfying the basic human need to participate in humanity, travelers gain an immeasurable growth and goodness that can only effect positive change within and without themselves now and forever. I dare others to be their own genies, grant their own wishes. As travelers do when they choose to travel, I encourage you to also follow your dreams. It only makes us better at being.

The Tourist Hustle

Lets talk about being a tourist. My experience, having now reached country #32 in my world journey, has given me an opportunity to fully see the tourist hustle in all of its poor and fortunate qualities. Today I’m hoping to share with you a little bit about what I’ve learned.

For some reason, just because I am a tourist, people tend to assume that I am Bill Gates rich. It’s apparent that I have enough money to get to my location, but I don’t see that as a humane reason for exploiting me for every cent I possibly have.

Setting aside all of the judgments I receive as a tourist every day, being a tourist in and of itself – especially on a budget – can be wild! Traveling is constant chaos, planning, thinking, adapting, etc. I have to know the map, and I remember it almost by heart sometimes because my brain now sees map memorizing as a survival skill. Thus my memory has improved. I have to know what’s in my bank account – roughly. I have to know what’s in my pocket. Do I have x y and z? Where are my things? Have I booked the flight, checked the bus schedule, figured out where the bus stop is, found out the address of where I’m staying, where will I sleep next, will I be getting back at night, is the vibe safe, does my door lock, will the hostel do last minute booking, is there really 24/7 hot showers, 24 hour cancellation policy, how do I get to these ten thousand places I’m recommended to go to, what are some cultural laws here, how do I say hello, goodbye, thank you, and enough – and on and on and on. Not all the same questions every day. Of course, I always become familiar with a new place after a day or two, and I always figure out when, how, and what exactly needs to be done. Sometimes when I “figure it out” its really me, just stumbling upon an adventure, reminder, or good fortune.

Asking the right questions, as a tourist, is very important. Sometimes, the person I’m asking doesn’t understand me. Sometimes they lie to me unbeknownst or on purpose. Sometimes my American phrases make no sense in a different culture. Sometimes my direct question is answered – but a lot of the time, all of the helpful information surrounding the answer is omitted. It would be overly dutiful to divulge every bit of information that could be helpful from a local or experienced stranger to me. Then I have to be more specific, asking a thousand questions and getting all of my answers. My thousands of questions are usually directed towards someone who is doing their job by answering them. What time do we get up? What is included? Why does it cost this much? Where do we go? What should we wear? What do the locals do? What is culturally appropriate? Why is the plan like this?

When it comes to bargaining (which is common in many African and Asian countries) I pull out all of the stops. Most of the items sold using bargaining are from China, mass-produced and poor quality. I have to know my product, so that the salesperson can’t trick me. I know how to tell if its real leather, real wool, cotton, silk, made in China or locally – I know all of the tricks. I didn’t always know all of the tricks. I’ve met honest salespeople, who taught me, or I remember something arbitrarily said in my vicinity and recall it as currently useful, or I do a little research. Sometimes strangers are the most helpful tools and sometimes they are deceptive.

I cannot recall how many times I have been lied to on this trip. Even with directions, I might ask 4 different locals the same question and receive 4 different answers. I never go with my first answer. I must have research or several unrelated opinions to support the answers that I receive.

People who are selling, or have any possibility to gain from tourist money, are usually people that I am hesitant to trust. On more than one occasion I have called out salespeople for lying to me. I say, this isn’t made here, and I explain why, and then I ask why their price is higher for a less genuine quality item. I have no shame. They are the ones trying to trick me, and I am the one with the money to spend. Sometimes, I say it loudly and they don’t like me deterring other people from their store so they tell me to go to another shop instead. I gladly leave to spend my money somewhere else. How a person responds to me can sometimes tell me if I should be giving them my money or not. Especially in poor countries, if I give me business and my money somewhere I want it to be with good genuine people. I don’t know them right away, but I know if I feel lied to or if I feel connected and happy with someone.

Basically, any time I am asked to pay over $20 for something– I have to ask questions. Where is my money going? If all of these shops and hotels are the same, then I am not going to the one where the person working there is creepy, or rude.

It’s the same at hotels and hostels. Whenever someone books something on my behalf, there is some kind of commission taken – so I need to compare costs with other companies or, book it on my own (if its even possible). It’s nice when people, places, or companies make decent sounding offers for tours or adventures – but I never take my first offer. Not unless I’ve already seen what else is out there. Some countries set up their tourist systems so that I have to book through a company. Then the prices get cut throat. I could spend more than $50 extra just because I didn’t ask around. That’s 2 – 5 nights in a hostel. I like places with no commission.

Trust no one, when it comes to money, especially as a tourist in a foreign country.

Even the ATMs, I always remember to check for cameras and cover up my card when I insert it, or block my pin number when I type it in. On more than one occasion I have seen illegally placed cameras just above the screen of the ATM, and commonly there are cameras in the room or stall where it is kept.

The tourist hustle is that of exploitation. Everyone wants a piece of the money-cake. Have money will travel, therefore people who travel have money. Maybe not everyone has a ton, but they have enough to get where they are. So the recommendations tourists receive from locals, restaurants, hostels, or hotels have to do with promotion, advertisement, tips, tax, and whose hand is in what pile of cash. Nice hotels typically recommend fancy restaurants, or just higher class restaurants where the toilets are clean, there are white tablecloths and the manager always takes care of you - too expensive for me. Tour guides send me anywhere that might make them money, unless they genuinely want me to experience the culture (that depends on the type of people I meet and at what point in our relationship they start giving me advice). Often, people who freely throw advice about where to go and what to do, are either overeager tourists who think that their good opinion will probably be universal, or locals who are trying to send me somewhere that will make them or their family money. Sometimes, at least while I’m traveling, when I throw in my two-cents without being asked, it is simply because I want someone to talk to. People who only give advice when it’s asked, sometimes after chatting for a little, those are the ones who usually have genuine quality opinions and experiences to share with me, and aren’t doing it in their own self-interest.

Finding a unique local experience can be difficult. In fact, sometimes I know where I am in a city simply because I followed the tourist-looking-whiter-people. It was often fairly obvious where the tourists were. Even without any visible differences between the locals and tourists, its easy to find the hotspot locations – the prices are higher, the amount of people is denser, and there is someone on the side of the road selling souvenirs (sometimes in a near-harassing manner). Sometimes, if I am lost, I can just follow the increasing prices to get to my tourist location – when I was in Helsinki, that is how I stumbled along the fish market. The cafés along the crowded main street I was walking along (lost and bored) continually charged 3, then 5, then 8 euros for a coffee. Smells like I’m approaching my tourist destination.

The recommendations I always received from hostels were often a thousand times better than any hotels. While youth backpacking, I have met people of all ages and backgrounds. Usually the recommendations are for - where to get a free something, a cheap but awesome meal, and good local beer. Then I’ve relied on all of my random interactions along the way to show me what to do next. I usually don’t know what I will do in a place until I get there. The locals know the best, and the cheapest ways to do things. Other tourists do too. Usually the tourists who are leaving have the most interesting feedback to consider. Consider, not follow. Listening is important, and I usually listen to what people recommend to do or not, but everyone has different preferences, so consideration is the most I can do. Sometimes if something sounds amazing, and I know nothing about it, I do it anyway – going in blind. Sometimes if something sounds terrible, I look it up first, and then I do it anyway after determining my own opinion. Only a few times has my last-minute spontaneous planning not worked out, mainly because something I wanted to do was a “touristy” thing, and I needed more than a days notice to book it, or sign up. I missed out on the original “Last Supper” by Michaelangelo, I didn’t do a tour of glaciers or fjords in Norway, and I never hiked up the Eiffel Tower. But, I have a lot more, memories of what I did do than what I didn’t. Instead of seeing the “Last Supper” I saw all of the art museums in Milan. Instead of a tour of Norway, I took a 6 hour train ride across the country seeing fjords and glaciers. Instead of hiking the Eiffel Tower, I partied underneath it, and walked the entire city of Paris. God always seems to have a better plan for me than I do. Often, missing the touristy adventure means going on an alternative adventure for me.

Tourism truly is a hustle. The broker I am, and cheaper I am living, the more genuine help and less hustle I deal with. Staying somewhere nice - or revealing in any way that I have some money in my pocket - usually means I have to deal with some exploitative bullshit.

Here's my little anecdote to illustrate how complicated something simple can be, just because of tourism.

When I was in Kathmandu Nepal, I was looking for a wool scarf to give as a gift. I had already bought one with the same make, style, and genuine quality wool in Pokhara, Nepal where it was 1,500 Rupees. In Kathmandu, I finally stumbled across a salesman who offered the exact scarf I was looking for. He told me 3,200 Rupees (of course this is the start of the bargain, so I know that is what I will not pay). I counter the offer with 1,000 Rupees. I know this is far too low, since the salesman I had bought from in Pokhara paid 1,400 and sold it to me for 1,500. When I offered 1,000 Rupees the shopkeeper laughed at me and said he can’t sell it to me for that price. I expected that response. When Nepali salesmen say they can’t sell it at that price, they mean it, and they look genuinely sad when they say it. I told him, look I have this exact thing at home, and I bought it in Pokhara for 1,500. I’ll give you that, and we can be done. He didn’t believe me, because bargaining is a lying game and he hasn't learned yet that I am a genuine person and on a budget. I said, really, I’m telling you the truth. What are you buying your scarves for?? 1,500 is a good price, a fair price. He tells me honestly, and I believe him, that there is no way he could buy that scarf for that much money and therefore sell it to me for less. Unlike some shop owners, he persisted in explaining it to me rather than taking the scarf out of my hands dismissively. I persist, how much did you pay for these (the scarves) then? Because you know, and now I’m sitting and looking him in the eye so he knows I’m just having a genuine casual conversation with him, I say if another salesman can sell this same thing to me for less then your price, then I think you’re paying your distributor too much. He bought his for 1,800. I knew I wanted the scarf and it was hard to come by, so I said to the guy, listen, I know you want to sell this, and you know I want to buy it, so lets come to an agreement where you give me a price that is fair and not ridiculous, and I give you a price where you can make a little profit. This type of patience and honesty is necessary in human connections, particularly with someone who is in the position to constantly rip-off tourists and exploit them. Those people may or may not have an interest in knowing the tourist, but if they can see a little humanity instead of a giant dollar sign on my forehead, then I feel like the interaction is far more enjoyable. I entered into a great conversation with the salesman about business sales, and distributors that charge less. After I told him it would be better if he had a fixed price, and sold based on the concept that he is making X amount of profit on every item, with no bargaining, then he would increase sales and not annoy tourists. It was a revelation to him that tourists don’t like to bargain. When he expressed that to me, I vented a little bit. No, I don’t like to bargain! Every time I bargain I feel someone trying to rip me off, cheat me, or lie to me, and all I want is a damn scarf. It’s not a good feeling to be always cheated or lied to. He laughed, but I think he also understood my sincerity. I imagine these people get just as sick of being scammed as the next person. The man thanked me for my advice and said something about our destiny's colliding so that his business would improve. I thanked him for the scarf that I bought for 2,000. ($20 is pretty good for a hand embroidered wool scarf I’d say.)

Anyway, that’s the tourist hustle as I have experienced it in Europe, Africa, Central America, and now Asia. It’s not avoidable. Coping with the feeling of always being lied or cheated (as a tourist) can be exhausting and can cause negativity or impatience when encountering new locals or businesses. Even when I know someone is overcharging (and I am well aware they are trying to exploit me and fellow-travelers) I always remember to have patience and kindness towards them. Sometimes its just the culture that makes things that way. Sometimes its just a poor country, and people are just doing whatever they can to survive. Usually, its easy to tell within the first few minutes of a conversation whether someone is cheating me or not, whether they are genuine or not. However, I sometimes find it difficult to understand whether people are genuine when I am encountering them within my first few days in a new place, with a new language – before I’ve fully grasped the tradition and way of life in the new place. But I’ve learned to cope with the feelings of being lied to or cheated. By having the kind of empathy that helps me to understand why one might want to exploit me, talk to me naggingly, or over-charge me, I can learn how to love them anyway and detach myself from any offense. I have made the tourist hustle bearable, and I am comfortable navigating the exploitative environment by:

1)   Knowing my facts and my research so that I am concrete in my opinion and understanding of how things work and cost wherever I am.

2)   Swallowing my pride and having patience to a degree that I am comfortable with.

3)   Being honest and empathetic.

4)   Loving people no matter what, and always making sure to part on good terms. Burning bridges and people creates a bad karma that I don’t want. 

5)   Trusting myself and standing my ground.

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!