Blood of the Mediterranean: Things I Have in Common with an Orange

A teacher that I work with here looked at me one day and said in an exasperated tone, "There is just no way that you have no Mediterranean blood." When I told her that a large chunk of my heritage is rooted in Italy, she responded by saying, "Ah HA! That explains it!" What it explains, exactly, remains unknown. Perhaps my love of cheese and tomatoes or my affinity for speaking with wild gyrations of hand movements. But when she asked what region of Italy my family originated in, and I answered, "Sicily," her response was then, "Oh, so you're Greek." This conversation took place before I had ever visited Sicily, but having now taken a trip to the homeland, I can say that I now understand what she meant by that.

There can be no doubt that Greece and Italy share many customs and cultures just by sheer virtue of geography. The southern islands and regions of Italy have more in common with Greece than I really understood at first. The Sicilian dialect even contains a slew of ancient Greek vocabulary, and the traditions and mores are often almost identical. Some of these cultural similarities include but are not limited to erratic drivers, gregarious conversation and expression, and the total incomprehension of the concept of being full after a meal. You didn't finish it means you didn't like it. I have offended and endless string of kind old ladies of the Mediterranean by simply being unable to finish the plate in front of me due to excess. So, to all of you kind old ladies out there who have ever cooked for me, I assure you, it was delicious and I meant no harm.

My mother, being the link to Italy in my family, is locally famous for carrying this trait. My friend, Kelli, once described her as "aggressively hospitable," and I think that phrase alone can embody all of the Mediterranean mamas and grandmamas. I have lost count of how many meals in my life have involved the struggle of, "Mom, really, I don't want anymore," and ending with a new heap of food somehow appearing on my plate accompanied by a, "Here, just take a little bit more." But as Justin Timberlake and the Hindus have taught us, what goes around comes around.

My parents came to visit me recently over here in Greece, and it was simply wonderful. We had a really fantastic time, and it's really excellent to know that my parents now have an idea of what a day-in-the-life is like for me as of late. While they were here, we took a long weekend and went to Sicily. This was a really special trip for our family as we got to explore first hand the places that my mother had been hearing about her whole life. We took an inexpressively beautiful trip to Regalbuto, my grandmother's and ancestors' home village. While we were there, we discovered that almost all of our family members have streets named after them in the village. To say that this made me sense a connection to my family and its history would be a gross understatement, but I hardly know what else to say.

We made our way to the village by way of hired car, driven by one Salvo, who became our tour guide and best friend. He was infinitely helpful in getting us around the country and helping us figure out where to go or where to look for clues to further our knowledge of our family's history. By the end of that memorable day in Regalbuto, we were not yet ready to say good bye to Salvo, so we asked of him one more favor: to show us to an authentic and delicious Sicilian restaurant.

Authentic, indeed. Salvo performed the ordering exclusively and provided our table with antipasti of various fishes and octopi. These fruits of the sea appeared rather undead to me, so when I asked cautiously if the fish was cooked, Salvo simply replied, "It's kind of cooked." Ah, well, when in Rome... er... Catania... Really, we were good sports. We tried everything and tried to eat as much as possible to prove that it was tasty, which, in all honesty, it was. That didn't mean we desired quite the volume of it that was present, but a nibble or two was definitely a fine activity. Well, Salvo brought it all home for us, though, my refilling my mother's plate with tentacles of octopus whenever her plate showed a sliver of vacancy. Though Mom protested, Salvo simply would shovel away with that serving spoon and say, "No, no, you need a little bit more!" Dad and I couldn't help but yell, "KARMA!"

The idea behind this aggressive hospitality is quite simple. The host or hostess simply wants to make you feel welcome, loved, and like you are the most important person who has ever sat down to dinner with them. In truth, it is a desire to keep people healthy and happy and simply AT the dinner table-- any Italian or Greek family knows that it is around the dinner table that all the fun really takes place. So, mangia, everybody! Alla famiglia!

4n6

One of my jobs around here has been to function as the Junior Forensics Coordinator. I suppose because of my background in theatre, they thought I would have knowledge of debate. They were wrong. Well, I've learned a lot this year, and I must admit it's been a blast. In addition to my debating duties, I was charged with several students to coach for the duet acting and oral interpretation events for the forensics club (ah, now something I understand). The senior debaters had a tournament a few weeks ago as their grand finale (where they swept the competition, might I add), but my little guys had their last hurrah this past weekend.

Every spring, Athens College holds what is called the 'Panagyiri,' which is this immense fundraising event that lasts for three days on campus. It's a sort of festival to show off whatever the kids have been working on all year as well as being chock full of games, food, prizes, raffles, etc. I must say it was pretty cool. Definitely the kind of thing that I would have devoured as a high schooler.

There were lots of shows, dancing, etc., and all my little Junior Forensics kids got to show off what they'd been learning and practicing! I was very excited.

My duet acting and oral interpretation students were fantastic. They didn't win overall, but they all said that they simply had the best time doing it and were reeling on a performance high for the entire day. I thought they were outstanding, and they clearly enjoyed themselves, so there's not much more a coach could really ask for.

The big story of the day, however, was little Christina.

Christina is a student I've been working with since the fall. I function as the "speech teacher" for her English section. That is, the teacher calls me in once every couple of weeks to assign a new speech topic to the kids. We spend a class period or two working on speaking techniques and refining the content of the speeches, and then they present them to me in the following days. I must say, I have been blow away by these kids. They were good to begin with, and their improvements have been remarkable. It was during the very first speech assignment that I noticed Christina's obvious talent. The girl had a strong voice, perfect English (her dad is from Boston), and insightful and intelligent things to say. But she looked as if she might cry, throw-up, run away (or any combination of these), or simply die during the entire duration of her speech. They say that for some people public speaking instills more fear than a venomous snake, and this seemed to be true for Christina.

After that first class, I held her back for a few minutes to talk to her. I told her that her speech was amazing and that she had a lovely talent and that for what it's worth she shouldn't be nervous or so hard on herself (easier said than done, to be sure). She acknowledged this by saying how much she loves English and how she thinks it is so much fun to speak and how she has so much that she wants to say, and she wants to say it in English; but she just gets too scared. I suggested she come to forensics. She could get practice speaking in a low-pressure environment, and then maybe that would help her gain confidence in her abilities. To my great surprise, she actually came! And consistently. She was at almost every meeting... but she would never participate. She would help diligently during prep time and research and practice, but when the time actually came to start the mock debate, she would immediately retreat and just sit and watch.

Her dad started coming to practices and got involved as a debate coach and judge, as well. Christina would sometimes get frustrated when her dad would try to give her notes and things, but she clearly felt a little more empowered with him around. She started to open up more, one step at a time.

After all was said and done, Christina functioned as the Opposition Whip in the debate tournament at the Panagyri. Since we debate using British Parliamentary style, the OW is the final speaker for the team and is the "artistic" debating position. It requires a summary and then flourish. It's a difficult job and definitely a position that not every debater can fill. Having previously been afraid even to say her name in front of an audience, Christina was now voluntarily assuming this dramatic position. And may I just say, she nailed it. Totally killed it. And I'm not alone in my judgement. Little Christina was awarded the title of Best Overall Speaker for the Panagyri Tournament. She was beside herself. Her parents were beaming! I couldn't have been prouder. It was delightful to see her growth and the way she found something inside her to set all of her potential into motion. Bravo!

Forensics has been, at times, a tiring addition to my job, but I am very grateful to have done it. The nature of my job here is sort of like a guest speaker on a never ending lecture circuit. We get called from class to class at whim and asked to explain things, give presentations, administer tests, teach specific units, and practically tap dance while juggling, but it is all very sporadic. There are some kids and classes that I see more than others and therefore have stronger relationships with, but for the most part it's difficult to get to know the kids as much as I would like. But by being a forensics coach, I have been able to really get to know these kids, and that is something that I will treasure forever. They've all been fantastic, and I couldn't be happier to have worked with them this year.

They gave me a t-shirt at the tournament. It says, "Debate is life," which, if you know me, you know that it is relatively hilarious that I now own a shirt that says, "Debate is life." I shrink at confrontation and have never engaged in a formal debate in my life (save for class activities in the 8th grade or something). The kids also tried to convince me to stay at Athens College and continue on as their coach, which was touching and adorable. Two of the duet acting girls who were so sure they would come in last place (They won.) were begging me to be their coach for next year since they didn't work with one this year. I told them that I had to get back to the States, if for nothing else than the fact that my visa would expire eventually, and I did not want the Greek police deporting me or hauling me to prison or whatever it is they do here. To this, one of the girls, Antigoni, dryly replied, "Miss. Trust me. No one would ever notice. I think you are overestimating our government."

That may be true, Antigoni. That may be true. But I'd prefer to keep my distance from the teenage cops from now on.

"Hey, there's sand in my ouzo!"

"Wow, it seems she missed the boat." "I was going to register, but I appear to have missed the boat." "Oh dear, we really missed the boat on that one." This phrase-- it means a missed opportunity; letting a golden chance pass you by; being figuratively stranded. But for some of the fellows and myself this weekend, missing the boat was the best thing we could have done.

It was early. Very early. Sun just cutting the sky early. And Robyn, Whitney, James, Greg, and yours truly were sitting on the curb at the bus stop waiting for a bus to Lavrio, the "other port" near Athens. Our objective was to take a weekend hiking trip on Tzia (aka Kea, but I prefer Tzia because it is far more fun to say. It sounds like a violent sneeze or the war whoop of an attacking ninja), a nearby island. We were sitting on said curb because we were waiting for a bus whose marquee would herald a termination point of "Lavrio," but none had shown themselves to us. After over a solid hour of waiting, we finally received information that we needed to take a different bus-- the company that works the Lavrio busses was on strike that day. We climbed aboard the substitute bus, but by the time we got to Lavrio, it was too late. In short, we had missed the boat. Quite literally.

Since Tzia is not a very heavily trafficked island, the next ferry wasn't until 5,30 that afternoon, and it was currently a little after 9 am as we stood there. We debated for a while as to what we should do. Do we bail and go home? Do we take the 5,30 ferry? Do we try to rebook our hotel for another weekend? In the end, we decided that since we had reservations and all of Sunday for hiking that we may as well hang out in Lavrio and wait for the next ferry. But, as I'm sure you have all done the math by now, we had a lot of time to kill in Lavrio. And if you've ever been there, you know that it is a small, sleepy little harbor town, but there we were.

We decided to begin our time killing adventure by having a leisurely breakfast and coffee and play some card games to go along with it. This we did in a little harbor-side cafe that had delicious food and cold, iced coffee, which was good since it was surprisingly hot. Our venture had taken us a little farther south in Greece, and apparently this made all the difference in the world. We were shucking coats and scarves almost instantly. After we had enjoyed ourselves thoroughly at breakfast, we decided to take our card playing closer to the water. May as well enjoy the sunshine and the sea while we were there, right? So, we asked our server if there was any sort of beach we could camp out on for a while, and we were directed to one around the corner but warned that the beaches were not that big or exciting; Lavrio is mainly a port town.

Our server was right. The beach was very tiny, but it was gorgeous. The water was clear and turquoise and inviting. The sun was heating up the sand nicely, and we made a make-shift beach scene out of sweatshirts and hand towels and shorts and sports bras. We attempted to go into the sea, but even though the sun was hot, the water was anything but. Wading up to our knees was as far as any of us dared to go, and we would scamper back to the hot sand as soon as our legs went numb, which only took a minute or two. But we were content to watch the sea and nap and read and play rock throwing beach games, etc. for a good long while. A day at the beach was an unexpected but delightful turn of events. And then all of a sudden the day went from pleasant to amazing.

You see, we were not the only inhabitants of this beach. There was a group of happy-go-lucky pensioners set up nearby. Some of them were lounging under umbrellas, and a few crazies of the group were actually swimming in the frigid waters. One of the men returned to shore and walked over to our group. As we are so clearly American, he addressed us in English and asked what on Earth we were doing in Lavrio. We explained our missed boat situation and that we were trying to take a weekend hiking trip as a little escape from Athens, where we were all currently living in order to teach at Athens College. Wouldn't you know it, the man turned out to be an alum of Athens College and was also an active member of the Board of Directors. We chatted, then, with him for a good long while, and he regaled us with hilarious stories about his adventures of swimming with the Great White sharks and other fine tales befitting an old Greek man. He also explained to us that the group we were sharing the beach with were actually part of the winter swimmers league, which explained their nonchalance with the water's coldness. To them, this was warm water. Apparently, they come down to this beach to gather and swim every day. What a life.

As we observed the winter swimmers, we noticed that one man was swimming with a big yellow tub held above his head. When he brought himself back to the beach, we saw him take an octopus out of the tub. He had just caught it! He promptly began bashing the octo against a rock and then just smacking the crap out of the thing over and over. This, I have learned, is how you kill and tenderize an octopus to prepare it for cooking. We were riveted. Pretty soon after the destruction of the octopus, an old man walks over to our group carrying a stone that had little battered and fried fishes on it, and he offered them to us. In broken English he explained that the fish had been caught mere hours ago, and this would surely be the freshest fish we had ever had. He was not wrong. This simple little fish was one of the best things I've ever tasted.

Moments later, another man approaches our group carrying another stone. On this one is a sliced up tentacle of the very octopus that we just saw get caught, smashed, and prepared. It had been grilled and marinated, and this only topped the fish in deliciousness. Never would I have thought I would have enjoyed octopus so much, but it was so tasty and fresh that it surpassed anything I have ever eaten before.

And it didn't stop there! A different man then brought us a plate of flavorful beans and vegetables, and then another man brought us a soft, sesame-d loaf of bread, and then we were given potatoes, and then we were brought cups filled with sweet, rose wine. Each dish was more unique and exciting than the one before it. We were beside ourselves. We had a fantastic little picnic on the beach, and before we knew it, we were being waved over to the group itself. We thanked everyone profusely, and they brought us crates to sit on, and then the party began.

There was singing and clapping and dancing and jokes-- some in Greek and some in English-- and stories and more singing, and then there was ouzo. And then more ouzo. Which led to more dancing and more jokes. It was pure, unadulterated joy and fun. Kosta, the fisherman of the group, had a little more ouzo than everyone else and took the lead on every song and dance that was brought up. He kept trying to turn over the chair of a woman named Maria in order to get her up and dancing with him. He would walk over to Robyn, Whitney, and me, and check on our ouzo cups, and if they were empty, he would grab the cup, smash it, yell, "KAPUT!" and then hand us a new cup and more ouzo. If our cups were not empty, he would take off his shoe and whack our feet in disdain and urgency. He was quite the character. If little tidbits from the beach had somehow wandered into the cup of ouzo, that was also grounds for a "KAPUT!" and cup smashing. No need to keep sand in your ouzo-- there was plenty.

They loved having us there. In fact, they all but demanded we return in a few weeks to do it all again. We were promised fresh fish (unless Kosta has a bad fishing day in which case they promised us grilled meat) and more songs and stories. Needless to say, we are planning a trip back to Lavrio to do just that.

We spent the whole day on the beach with the winter swimmers. As it turns out, killing time in Lavrio was no problem at all. We met vivacious, fascinating people, had a a day of sea and sun, and partook in some of the best food I have ever eaten in my life. Thank goodness we missed the boat.

Turkish Delight on a Moonlit Night

It's been a busy time for adventures, and one of these was an excursion to Istanbul (or as the Greeks prefer it to be called: Constantinople), Turkey. Whitney, Claire, and I took this little journey on a very cold, windy,and rainy weekend, but we made the very best of your time there and had a fantastic weekend getaway. Truly, Istanbul is one of the most beautiful cities I've seen, and there is so much to do, see, and eat (my main priority, let's not kid ourselves) there. Definitely add it to your list, travelers.

Since it was ridiculously cold and wintry-mix-y outside, we used the weather as an excuse for some downtime for tea drinking and Turkish Delight-ing, a

nd since the Turks are famed for producing excellent apple tea, we were not hesitant to make this stop. Our post-lunch tea time brought us to a brightly colored building en route to the Egyptian Spice Market. It was a ridiculously charming place that was the cafe portion of a hotel. The food was out of this world, and the apple tea did not disappoint.

Our waiter was very friendly and helpful when we asked for map consultation. Since the place was not very crowded, he chatted with us for a long time, and during the course of one of these chats, he informed us that his hotel included a fine arts museum and that we should definitely check it out before we headed on our merry way. Frankly, we weren't in too much of a museum mood, so we politely said we would think about it all the meanwhile actively avoiding further conversation of it. Our efforts did nothing. This man must have brought up the fine arts museum another four times during our tea. He was insisting that it was really wonderful and that we should see it. We continued to resist.

Eventually, we needed to move on (so much to see!), so we paid our bill, thanked the hotel man, and declared that we were leaving. Insistent as ever, h

e and another gentleman stop us in our tracks, and says, "This is my nephew. He will show you around the fine arts museum." And with that, we were escorted up a stairwell. Apparently there was really no option here.

We passed through a very nice garden terrace, and then the nephew guided us into the fine arts museum. Which was one giant room. Filled with pillows. And old clothes. And shoes. And baby toys. And two girls doing math homework. And an old man nestled in on a pile of colorful cushions. The "fine arts museum" could not have been anything other than this man's attic. Everyone in the room seemed really confused to have us the

re. The man on the pillows said, "Why do you want to see a sick, old, Turkish man?" We awkwardly tried to explain that we didn't but we are happy to meet him and how is he feeling... There was nothing to see, really, so we kind of took a turn around the room while oohing and aahing to humor the nephew since we were apparently supposed to be really interested in whatever was going on th

ere.

We mused about the "museum" for a good long time. We have gone over the situation over and over again, and we cannot figure out why this man wanted us to see his attic and with so much urgency. No conclusion has yet been reached. We took a picture of the self-proclaimed sick, old Turkish man (who, by the way, got his socks changed by his nursemaid while we were in there) since he se

emed to be the main attraction. Some things are just better off remaining unexplained.

Left: The "Fine Arts Museum"

Right: "sick, old, Turkish man"

Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?!

Greek is a really beautiful language. They did it first, they did it right, and they captured a lot of beauty in the world with their words. For example, the Greek word for painter is "zographos," which directly translates to "writer of life." I think that's rather delightful.

But then the cat brushes against the canvas and the painter yells, "Skatta!" The root of scat-- it means shit. Even bad words were once Greek words. Makes sense-- a civilization that invents geometry would almost have to invent some curses to go along with it.

Here are some of my favorite Greek potty-words/insults:

1) fito- I learned this one from the kids. Apparently "fito" is somewhere around "nerd" for us. It is someone who, quote: "Studies all the time and never does anything fun."

2) malaka- This is the clear favorite among the locals. You will hear this word thrown around constantly here. It is most closely related to "the f word" in English and is likewise used as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb, whatever. It can be said mean-spiritedly or also in a joking way. The kids throw it around in a casual, friendly tone all the time. If someone were to translate The Boondock Saints into Greek, the transcript would closely resemble a walk down the halls at Athens College.

3) bazo- The meaning of this one is a little unclear. I think it's something like "total loser" because one of my students told me that "someone who wears ugly clothes and is stupid is bazo."

4) oufo- I must admit, this one is my favorite. The word oufo is a phonetic translation of U.F.O. (as in unidentified flying object presumably from outer space). The meaning, thus, is something like "weirdo."

5) terras- This one is easy to remember because the word is the root of "terror" or "terrible." This word means monster, but the kids will use it as more of a casual insult instead of the way English speakers would think of monster as a severe, grave comment.

6) an incorrect order of zucchini- One of my favorite dishes here in Greece is fried zucchini balls. They are delicious and called kolokithiokeftedes. Be careful, though. The first part, kolo, is one word for ass; and the last part, keftedes, means balls. So, take care when requesting this delicious appetizer, or you could very easily be asking for an order of ass and balls. Which will most assuredly not end well for anybody.

You can thank me for this later. Since very few people in the world speak Greek, there is a little inside joke the people have of playing tricks on non-speakers to make them say bad words without knowing. For the moment, at least, you can dodge any bullets that may involve those words listed above. You're welcome.

Ale! Ale Ale Ale! Ohhhh!

Is your vuvuzela in tune? Good.

This weekend was our first time attending a football game in Athens! We went to the Panathinaikos game at the O.A.K.A. stadium (which is a really cool venue because it got all snazzy for the Olympics in 2004, but if you say the name too fast you start to sound like Fozzie Bear-- oaka oaka oaka!). Now, people warned us that the fans at these things are out of control crazy, but having been to several Mets games, I wasn't that worried.

These yahoos make Mets fans look like they are attending High Tea.

This was not an important game. Panathinaikos was playing a team that none of us could tell you the name of because it was that unimportant. Their uniforms, however, were black and yellow, so we called them the "Bumble Bee Team" (No, this was not AEK). I'm fairly certain that not one person in the stadium that night was a BBT fan. In fact, there were barely any Panathinaikos fans in attendance. Why? As I mentioned, this was a pointless game. Additionally, this was the coldest day Athens has seen in a really, really long time. It wasn't just "cold for Greece;" it was cold for anywhere. Of course, this is the day we choose an outdoor activity.

The true blue fans were not turned away by the frigid temperatures, though. Right behind the goal sat the crazy people in a huge mass of green. They waved flags and sang or chanted for the entire game with literally no stops. They switched out huge banners and draped them over the stands. It didn't end with songs and signs, however. There were also fireworks, bombs, and paper airplanes.

Would this fly in the States? I'm not even going to answer that. But here, it was just another day at the O.A.K.A. These fans were hurling red fireworks, orange-dust bombs, and yes, even paper airplanes-- fashioned from the game programs-- directly onto the field. At times the field would get so smokey from the pyrotechnics that I wasn't sure how the players could even see where they were going! Also, the sounds that were produced from these fireworks was much like that of war. We would scream, duck and cover every time, thus giving away our foreignness. Let me remind you again that this was not an important game. I cannot even imagine the riotous atmosphere of a game that was of any real import.

Up until this weekend my only European football experience had been Fiorentina (Forza Viola!), which was also on a violently cold day, incidentally, but anyway my vocabulary instinct for this sport is Italian. I would try to stifle this and very quickly learned the key phrases one could get away with at an Athenian football match: 1) "ELA!" (COME ON!); 2) "OHIOHIOHIOHIOHIOHIOHIOHI!" (NONONONONONONO); 3) "EINA MALAKA!" (What a bleeeeep). In this way, we attempted to blend.

Fortunately, we won 2-0, so the crazy people with the bombs were content as we all made our way back into the frozen tundra of Greece.

Po Po Shut Us DOOWwwnn...

Where I come from, "Po Po" is slang for "the police." Around here "po po" has a different slang meaning, which I'll get into a little later, but to begin, we'll start with the Po Po.

When we first arrived in Greece, Chris issued a warning about the police: "Here the police are not exactly regarded as respectfully as they are in the States. They are more like thugs." Little did I know how true this would eventually ring.

Let me explain. The police ride around on scooters, two at a time, which is, frankly, just hard to take very seriously. Two dudes spooning on a scooter does not exactly command much authority. The Po Po seems to know this, so they try to intimidate by flashing their blue lights continuously. No emergency is needed and no urgency is required. They travel in groups of 9,000 and like to play with their "God" radios (you know, the kind where they can yell to the public via their vehicles). They'll tell jokes to each other across the highway. I even heard one singing once.

They can often be found standing on street corners with their arms crossed while yelling, whistling at and ogling any pretty girl that walks by (always in huge groups). Whenever the time comes for them to actually write a ticket, it apparently requires the entire platoon of them. One to write the ticket, one to guard the speeding driver, one to glower over the shoulder of the one doing the writing, and about 15 to stand around with their arms crossed in order to continue the ogling of the young women. Don't want to get behind on the day's quota of ogling just because one guy decided that justice needed to be done.

Don't bother asking them for directions. They will not answer. You're better off asking a kind old man who owns a store.

Around Thanksgiving time, my apartment was broken into. I had a small safe in my room that they had been cracked open, and the money inside was all stolen. Whitney was out of town when I came home to discover this, so I was all alone and a little flustered to say the least. Not knowing what to do or who to call (obviously the number for the police is not 911 here, and I didn't know what it actually was, but now I do. For any of you visiting Greece, the number for the police is 100.), so I called Alina, my only hope for some sort of liaison. She called the cops for me and told me that she would be on her way to help shortly. To my chagrin, the police arrived before Alina did.

There were two of them in my doorway. One spoke some English, one spoke none. They could not have been over 17 years old. They had no equipment, tools, paperwork or uniforms. They wore jeans and hooded sweatshirts. So, when I opened the door, and they said, "We are the police," you can understand why my internal response was, "Like hell you are." Luckily the voice that actually came out of me simply demanded some ID, which was produced but looked like a driver's license at best-- more like a fake ID that some college kid paid 80 bucks for-- that said POLICE in huge letters at the top. No shiny badge. I was skeptical to say the least.

They stepped inside the foyer and asked what happened. Without moving, they looked left, right, and left again as if they were about to cross the street with a small child, and declared that everything looked fine, so what was the big deal. Incredulous, I said, "Well, the problem isn't in the foyer..." and then I showed them the broken safe. They said something to the effect of, "That's too bad" and then gaped at me. I decided this was absurd and unnerving, so I sent them outside until Alina got there. With her help translating the rest of the "investigation" (never was there such an overstatement) went better, but she, too, was shocked to see two kids wearing sweatshirts doing the policing.

Apparently these two really had no purpose whatsoever because they told us that they were not authorized to write any sort of police report-- that we must go down to the station another day and do that ourselves. Bureaucracy at its finest. So, this is what we did. The man who wrote up my official report was wearing blue sweatpants and a Paul Frank t-shirt where the monkey's head was printed in the likeness of Satan. Half of the report session was spent with him asking me about my favorite music and showing me pictures of New York City on his iPhone, but I guess I can't complain too much because he got it done in the end, and it served its purpose well.

Which brings me to "po po." This is a Greek phrase that I'm not sure I can really define. It's something like, "oh no" that can be used in an endless slew of contexts. It can mean "I don't give a..." if said with a little bit of an attitude; it can mean "aww crap" (e.g., "It's raining! Po po!"); it can mean "look at that!" (e.g., "Check out those shoes! Po po!"); it can indicate overwhelm (e.g., "Po po! This shirt is expensive!" or "Po po! This dish is far larger than I expected!); or general disdain or disappointment (here it usually comes in a string: "Po po po po po po po po po po.").

So, dear police, perhaps you should try giving directions sometimes or carrying a notepad when you go to investigate a robbery. Maybe then I wouldn't start this story with a "po po" whenever I relay it. Po po, Po Po.