Retrospect

Having been back home now for nearly five months, I have had time to reflect upon the last year and a half and take a good look at everything that I experienced. The conclusion I have reached is this: I’m not sure any of it really happened. Truly, the whole thing feels like one giant blur of a dream. I say this not only for idiomatic effect but to be taken rather literally. As in a dream, I find that many of the year’s proceedings transitioned with how-did-we-get-here mystique and that each turn questioned my conception of reality with new faces and often an incomprehensible series of events. To quote one of my favorite heroines, Dorothy Gale: “I remember some of it wasn’t very nice, but most of it was beautiful.” I would argue that the best part of Dorothy’s story is that we are left wondering if maybe—just maybe—Oz was real and her black and white world is actually the dream. As I’ve come to see, betimes the “real world” is more like our dreams than those we conjure up for ourselves. I submit that the difference flirts with fine line, but the endgame for me is that I capped my through-line that you may recall from the beginning of this written account: art for art’s sake; fun for fun’s sake; and polishing and stretching the lens through which I now view the world of my young adult life. The journey is never over, but goodness was this an incredible stepping stone along the way.

Which brings me to my final assessment of life in Athens. Throughout my travels and after my return, people would regularly ask me what I thought of Athens or how I liked living there. This question was invariably accompanied by a facial expression akin to that of when one is getting a splinter removed or has overheard some painfully awkward remark. If you’ve been to Athens, you know why. Let’s not drizzle honey on this one—Athens is kinda ugly. It’s not romantic like Paris or grand like Rome or glamorous like Vienna, and it’s not quaint like Amsterdam. If you want those places, go to those places. Do not expect Athens to be Rome; it’s not. But if you know what you want from Athens, it will reward you handsomely.

The best way I can describe the city of Athens is through what I have come to refer to as “The Mangy Dog Metaphor.” Pretend for a moment that you are a young child, let’s say around 7 or 8 years old, and it is your birthday. Your mom tells you that she will take you to the local Humane Society, and that you can pick out any dog you want. Anything! Big, small, young, or old—it’s up to you. Happy Birthday! So, you go to the shelter, and there are countless dogs, and you hardly know where to begin making your choice. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, however, you smile and point to the mangiest dog in the place. You know the one—a scraggly coat the color of a burnt piece of cornbread, probably missing an eye and maybe even a leg; has a big scarring bite taken out of its left ear from some previous tussle with a bigger, more ferocious mutt. “That one, Mommy,” you say. Shocked and frankly a bit scared, your mother says, “Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly, I said you can pick any dog you want! Any one! Did you notice this obedient looking Golden Retriever or this pristine looking Yorkie puppy?” You smile at Mom—she is being very generous, after all—but reply, “Oh, I heard you,” and looking the mangy dog in his one remaining eye you add, “but we’re going to have adventures.”

I’m glad I’ve vacationed in Paris; I’m blessed to have frequented Rome; but I’m lucky to have lived in Athens because I wouldn’t trade my adventures there for anything.