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.

My Big Fat Greek Year

I can resist no longer. I give in. I shall now take the time to debunk (or affirm) some Greek myths-- as presented in that Rita Wilson/Tom Hanks slice of genius: My Big Fat Greek Wedding. If you have not seen this movie, some of these references may be lost on you, and for that I apologize. That being said, crawl out from under your rock and watch this movie. Your abs with get a fine work-out, I promise you.

Myth #1) Modeling one's house in the likeness of the Parthenon- Now, I will admit that I have never seen anything as extreme as the home in the movie, but there are lots of "columns" supply stores (and not just downtown in the "touristy" section-- all over!) that also sell HUGE statues of ancient Greek gods and goddesses. And ya gotta assume that these stores wouldn't exist if there wasn't a market for these things, right? So, I have to infer that somewhere there are abodes decorated with straight up Ionic columns and a marble bust of Zeus... or seven.

Myth #2) Windex will cure all ailments- Several Greek people I met swear that this actually works, but I never saw anyone actually try it. What I believe the movie writers were spoofing on is that every single yiayia has her own personal home remedy for anything and everything and will insist that hers is the only way and the right way to fix the problem. The time comes to mind that a few of us were waiting for a ferry in Piraeus, and a friend was suffering from a spontaneous and mysterious eye ailment. The yiayia who ran the restaurant we were in did not even ask if her medical care was desired but immediately sprang into action and concocted something in the back and immediately plopped it onto my friend's face all the while swearing up and down that she would cure her. Honestly, her eye did look better after that.

Myth #3) "Whadda you mean he don't eat no meat?! That's ok; I make lamb."- This is just true. That's really all there is. The word for "vegetarian" in Greek directly translates to "lover of vegetables," and is always met with a great belly laugh from a waiter and then the force feeding of a meatball.

Myth #4) Every word... is a Greek word- In the film, etymology was Toula's father's favorite game. He loved showing people how every word can be traced back to its Greek origin in just a few simple steps. This is not only very true but so is the pastime. With good reason, the Greeks are very proud of their language and will regale you with the history and meaning behind a word at any chance they get. In fact, this made teaching English very interesting, indeed. You see, the "big words," the "SAT words," if you will, that we struggle to learn here in the States are generally-- you guessed it-- Greek words; it is the smaller, more common words that are usually hybrids of other languages or made up by the Anglo Saxons. My students, then, had no problem with words that I deemed advanced for seventh grade. I can't count the number of times I would catch myself saying something like, "This is pretty idiosyncratic of Poe... oh wait, do you guys know what that means?" only to be greeted in reply with peels of laughter and a, "Yes, Miss, of course! It's a Greek word."

Myth #5) Everyone is named Nick- This is also true. It is my very scientific calculation that there are approximately 5.5 Greek names in existence. Nick being one of them.

Myth #6) Bundt cake- This joke in the movie is not supported by my experience. Maybe there is a different word in Greek, but the cake itself would not confound anyone as much as it did in the movie. The mother in the movie has her mind absolutely BLOWN by the cake-with-the-hole-in-it, but this would never happen. First of all, I saw bundt cakes in many a bakery in Greece, so they definitely exist there. Also, these people in the movie were Greek-American and owned a diner. No way could they have avoided bundt cakes all those years.

Myth #7) Fear of technology- Yes. Just yes. There were no computers in the hospital I saw, there was only ONE computer for ALL of the teachers to share at our school, there was no WiFi, there was no fax machine or scanner or "craft making" machines at the school, either. The logical response is, maybe there just wasn't enough funding. Suffice it to say, this is not-- NOT-- the case. Perhaps this would be a fine explanation if we were on a remote island or in a less affluent part of town, but specific to the conditions I was faced with, I have no explanation other than the if it ain't broke, don't fix it mentality, which is rampant.

Myth #8) Yiayia- One of the more hilarious parts of the movie is the representation of the Greek family's yiayia, or grandmother. She is clad head to toe in black and is constantly muttering in Greek about hating the Turks. This is funny... because it is true.

Myth #9) Roasting an animal on the front lawn + ungodly abundance of food- Oh, this is just so spot on it's wonderful. Having a personal family animal-roaster is just part of the standard kitchen supplies. See something roasting outside, you know it's either Easter or a special occasion like a wedding or baptism. Or a Tuesday. Additionally, the abundance of food present at a feast or even just a dinner party truly is remarkable. The thought behind this is the same as in other Mediterranean cultures: the worst thing that could EVER happen would be for a guest to go hungry; the second worst thing that could ever happen would be for an unexpected guest to drop by only to find that there was nothing left to eat.

Myth #10) Tricking people into saying stupid things/bad/offensive words because who the hell speaks Greek- Oh, yes. Another pastime of the Greek people. One of the "warnings" they gave us when we started teaching was to NEVER parrot anything suggested by a student or ask them for a translation. If you wanted to know what a word meant, you asked another teacher or looked it up yourself. The kids would instantly ask you if you spoke Greek the second you walked into the room, and my response was always, "Yes, so don't try to trick me or say mean things to each other. I'll know." They got me a few times, though, regardless. Always gotta be on your A-game. In fact, one of my first introductions to the Greek language came from being tricked by my favorite Greek diner waiter back in NYC into yelling terribly offensive things loudly throughout the restaurant. Learned my lesson quickly after that not to mention learned Greek.

That will do for now. I could go all day. Grab a glass of ouzo and go watch the movie. I hope that after having read this it will even more rigorously tickle your funny bone.

A Lunch Table as Metaphor for the Problems of the Modern Greek Government

Jon Stewart recently had a hilarious little bit on The Daily Show about the turmoil that is currently taking place in Greece. He comically addressed the conflict between tradition and progressiveness, which is at the heart of a lot of the stalemates happening within the government. Modern Greek society has a fierce need to hold on to the traditions and ideals of the past-- and with good reason! The Ancient Greeks are a civilization worth revering and emulating and taking inspiration from. The problem is, not surprisingly, the difficulty in keeping to these traditions while simultaneously keeping up to speed in an ever changing and modern world. Since there is no real gray area right now, the "progressives" politically are closer to "anarchists" a lot of the time, and the "conservatives" are really only focused on "if it ain't broke don't fix it" with no room for change. I'm speaking generally, of course, but that is the crux of the problem. The result of this clash of interest is, well, chaos. No one is willing to budge and no single "side" alone can do anything without moderation from the other, so chaos it is.

Lunchtime at the HAEF summer camp proved to be the perfect example for understanding all of the problems with the Greek infrastructure (or lack there of).

The normal lunchtime policy at the elementary school where the camp takes place is very much rooted in manners and proper meal time behavior. The "rules" are posted on the cafeteria walls and include strict instructions like the requirement of asking to clear one's plate to the washing station. The tables themselves are set in clusters of circular tables (not the long, orange-stooled lunch tables I remember from my childhood) that are covered with white cloth tablecloths. The glasses and plates are made of glass. Each meal is homemade and freshly cooked, and there is only one choice for lunch-- an aspect of lunchtime that often resulted in hysteria ("But I HATE this!!!"). There are no lines, no trays, and no ladies with hair nets scooping mashed potatoes onto your plastic dish. We, the teachers, are required to serve each student and cater to their specific requests regarding their meal ("Tomatoes but no potatoes, please.").

That's the tradition part. The anarchy is the camp itself.

Camp is not school; it is a whole new monster. There are more kids and fewer staff members, and there is far more physical activity for the kids during the day making them even hungrier than normal and therefore more impatient to get down to eating. So, with that in place, let's keep this valued mealtime tradition while overstuffing the cafeteria with tiny students and having lots of hungry Sports Camp kids clawing at the doors to get in for their turn. And let's give everyone approximately 15 minutes to get all of this done!

And then, you get the chaos.

Because there was only me and 18 of them, and since I was required to serve each of them individually, lunchtime basically turned into a recurring nightmare of my waitress days from high school. These kids were starving but had to wait (because of the traditional rules) for me to get to them. They couldn't pour the water themselves because it came in glass pitchers and went into glass cups, which was simultaneously too heavy for them and also a recipe for broken glass disasters. By the time I would finish serving each of the munchkins, the first one I'd served would be done (those buggers eat so fast!), so that one would then be demanding permission to take their plate up. Perhaps I was supposed to keep them at table until other people started to finish, but I gotta tell you, I just didn't care after a point.

There was never enough food set out for each individual class, so it became a fight of the hunters and gatherers. I would find myself going from table to table begging other classes for their extras or stealing from the Sports Camp tables if necessary. I felt like a lioness determined to feed my young no matter what lengths I must go to in order to do so. There were also never enough chairs for my class to sit together, which meant I was also trying to steal chairs and work them into our table set-up, so that everyone had ample eating space; or it meant that some of them would run away to a different table, which I would often not notice until midway through the serving process. Since they were not to take their own food, they would just be sitting there at the other table staring into space waiting for someone (me) to come and serve them.

Sometimes the kids would get impatient (can't say I blame them) and would start grabbing for food before they were served (or after if they desired seconds), which would add to the chaos. Since rations were scarce, there was always a need to make sure everyone had the proper amount.

I think I may have eaten lunch a total of three times during the course of summer camp.

Anyway, I think you can see how lunchtime has come to represent the entirety of the Greek governmental issues for me. That values and traditions [of mealtime] are perfectly lovely to hang on to, but in the times of something new and exciting (in this case, summer camp) keeping to those traditions just results in chaos. Make the kids line up and hand them some plastic trays and sloppy joes. Or plastic trays and pastitsio-- that way we can still keep with traditional identity.

What's in a Name?

"George, George, and George! Get back over here RIGHT NOW!" Evelyn yelled as we tried to wrangle all of the campers together during our field trip to the zoo.

Now, Evelyn, one of the elementary school teachers, was being very stern and was pretty angry at the boys for running away, so I had to take care to stifle my laughter. That's a pretty funny thing to hear.

Names are a big deal over here in Greece. It's a very important part of your family history, and no name comes arbitrarily. You are either named after someone in your family, the patron saint of your village (every third baby boy or something like that on Corfu is named Spiro), or some important figure in Greek history. Let me tell you, taking roll my first few days of teaching was very difficult. I had to get used to having an Antigone or a Pericles or an Artemis in my class. One class had a Helen, an Achilles, a Hector, and a Paris. No kidding.

The way your surname ends also indicates where your family originated. I did not come close to learning all the nuances, but the Greek people certainly know it. There's no hiding your regional heritage around here.

Furthermore, there is a complicated system of surnames concerning the women. I won't try to explain too much or I'll mess up the details, but the long and the short of it is that a woman's last name changes ever so slightly so that it denotes that she is "owned" by her father. Daughters and sons, therefore, will have different last names though they share the same parents. When we asked why Greeks in America often do not adhere to this rule, we were told that this system is just simply too complicated for non-Greeks to understand, so the names get unified a lot outside of Greek communities. Just as well; these names are long and complicated enough already.

You are also identified in Greece by your father's first name. Since so many people have the exact same last name, formal documents need to show to which father you belong to avoid confusion. What's funny is that we foreigners have the same treatment even though there is no way that I am getting mixed up with anyone here. All the same, any documents I have received here that are even semi-official state that I am "Amanda belonging to James." Patriarchal society, indeed.

Because names stay in the family, sometimes a person will wind up falling in with unfortunate timing in a name's legacy and end up with literally a "double name." Our favorite employee in the library is named Manos Manos, and the infamous editress of our Greek text book is named Dimitra Dimitra.

Because names are such a big deal, the celebration of "Name Days" is even more important than one's birthday. A Name Day is a specific day of the year attributed to those who have the name of the saint or historical figure to which that day is dedicated. For example, all of the Christinas, Christianas, and Christophers are clearly named for Christ making their Name Day Christmas Day. Name Days are really fun around here because the tradition is that the person whose Name Day it is will bring in sweets for everyone at school, or if they are an older adult, they will take their friends out for dinner or drinks on them-- the complete opposite of how we celebrate birthdays in the States. I've never had more chocolate than on the "George" Name Day or the "Konstantinos" Name Day. Seriously epic sugar comas.

There are websites you can access to see when your name day is! If you don't know what the Greek equivalent of your name is, google "Greek version of John (or whatever)," and you'll get your answer. For example, my name is Amanda, which is a name rooted in Latin and meaning "loving." The Greek name for "loving" is Agapi, whose Name Day is September 17th. I'll bring you all some chocolate.

If there is just absolutely no Greek equivalent for your name, your Name Day is September 1st. There you go.

While we're speaking on names, I feel this is a good time to update the Cast and Crew as there have been many important characters added to this shebang. Here are a few more:

George- George was Whitney and Meredith's supervisor from the college counseling office. He is Greek-American and married a lovely Greek woman and stayed here. He totally adopted the Fellows and showed us endless hospitality. He took Whitney, James, and me to a tour of a microbrewery on Evia once and also had us all over for dinner and watching football games during Superbowl season to ease our American homesickness. He also had an amazing end of the year dinner for us over at his house the other night. He is absolutely hilarious and a really caring guy.

Angeliki- I've mentioned her more than once for sure before now, but I feel she deserves to be properly introduced. She is our Greek teacher from this year, and she is just wonderful. She is this tiny little sprite of a woman who was an excellent teacher and turned into a lovely friend. You may recall that she is the one who hosted Easter for Whitney and me, and she has had the Fellows over to her house more than once to cook us traditional food and take us swimming. She has a darling little daughter named Myrsini who now thinks of us Fellows as her older brothers and sisters from America.

Lillian- Lillian also works in the counseling office with Whitney and Meredith and has been very kind to the Fellows. She hosted a ladies dinner one night at her house and let us play with her cats and her piano. She is very smart and has always been willing to lend a hand.

Christiana, Angelos, and Stavros- What a group. Robyn met this crew midway through the year, and they have been delightful in showing us around. We've had several outings, house parties, and other adventures with them. They are not shy about yelling at us if we do anything not in accordance with the Greek way (Christiana almost tore my head off when I accidentally referred to "Constantinople" as "Istanbul." Never made that mistake again).

Matt Barrett- If you are ever coming to Greece for a day, a month, a year, or forever, you should access Matt Barrett's travel blog about Greece. It has been THE most helpful tool I have discovered all year. From amazing restaurants to step by step instructions on how to get to obscure islands to a perfect listing of all of the timetables of busses and trains, Matt has all the answers. A few of us actually met him one day when we were sandal shopping at the Poet Sandal Man store in Monastiraki. He happened to be there talking to his friend, the Sandal Man, and I walked up to him solemnly, shook his hand, and said, "Thank you for saving my life 1000 times this year in Athens." I meant it, too. He was a very nice guy to boot. Seriously thrilled to have met him.

Papadimitriou- Not sure what his first name is, but this is one of the kids that rode the bus with us during Summer Camp. He fell asleep every day on the ride home, and the bus attendant would SCREAM his name out in a shrill tone every time we would get to his stop. He would wake up at her call and his first words upon waking were always, "Pame stin thalassa!" ("Let's go to the sea!"). Papadimitriou, you had the right idea.

Now that you know about Name Days (and a few of the new names that have been important to my year), I expect you all to look up your Name Days and bring me candy to remind me of Greece. Thanks.

A dramatic tale involving Papas who does not, as it turns out, have a beard

Once regular classes are out for the summer, those on the fellowship are expected to work at the summer camp that the college sponsors. This has been bar none the most outrageous task handed to us over the course of this year. Honestly, it really comes down to volume-- the kiddos outnumber us at a ratio of about 9,465,721 : 1 and are accompanied by a very rigorous camp schedule. I believe I now qualify as both a sheepdog and a Dallas Cowboy's cheerleader thanks to this experience. The shift from teaching fifteen year olds to teaching six year olds was also shocking. Add an un-air-conditioned building in a Greek July, and your eyes should be bugging out of your head if you get the basic gist of this pandemonium. It should come as no surprise, then, that at the end of each day our bodies are droopy, our brows are sweaty, and our vocabulary is less than saintly.

One particularly hot day a little while back, Whitney and I were dragging our feet home contemplating running away to a beach and just staying there indefinitely, and we were certainly griping about the hardships of the day. Food, being scarce (did I mention the immense volume of growing children), was also a topic of conversation: we were very hungry. As we reached the gate to our block, Whitney declared she would continue on to the grocery store and did I need anything while she was there. I thanked her but said no, and made the turn to open the gate to our block. My all-absorbing desire to be inside with a glass of lemonade was abruptly reversed, however, when I spied an old man lying in our walkway surrounded by a pool of blood.

I screamed at a frequency that would kill a dog, and Whitney came running back toward me. The events to come were to prove to be the penultimate test of skills acquired from living in Greece.

Whitney and I rushed to help the man to sit up who was, thank God, fully conscious but definitely shaken and a little disoriented to say the least. He was a terribly old man and very darling with piercing blue eyes (very unusual for the Greeks) and very thin, wispy, white-gray hair. The man spoke exactly zero words of English, so we kicked all of our Greek knowledge into gear full-throttle and asked him what had happened. He told us that he had been in the apartment all day and had wanted to get out and go for a walk, but it was just too hot ("I just got too hot. Just too hot!") and he had collapsed from the heat just as he was returning home from his walk. Home? Ah ha! So this man lived here in our building. Whitney then suggested we just start buzzing anyone and everyone's doorbells to get someone who might know him to come out and help. I ran to the buzzer panel to do so, and Whitney stayed with the man holding him steady and telling him that it will be okay. He continues to bleed from the head.

Thanks to the robbery and the teenage cops, I now know the number for emergency, which if you are ever visiting Greece, is 100. I did not, however, know the specific emergency number for an ambulance (it's 166), but I assumed (how wrong I was...) that like when one dials 911 with any emergency, the operator will connect you to the correct emergency personnel. Not so here in Greece. So, it turns out I was once again dealing with the Greek police who hung up on me not once, not twice, but three times as I pleaded with them over the phone to send an ambulance; that there was an old man who was very hurt-- or to at least give me the number of an ambulance. Luckily, despite the fact that my faith in the police once again wavered, the yiayia who lives next door proved to be of much quicker response and heeded my frantic yelling into her intercom at the door. Still frustrated by the lack of aid from the emergency services, I ran back over to the man and asked if he wanted a hospital (I was willing to call again or try something else), but he was being a good stubborn, old man and insisted he was fine (did I mention he was bleeding from the head?). But no matter, yiayia runs downstairs and yells, "Mr. Stavros!" (ah ha! So, he does live here, and this is Stavros... wait. Stavros Papas? The building president? None other than.), and she then yells up to someone peeking over a nearby balcony to throw down water, antiseptic, and some gauze. Whitney, who does not much like the sight of blood, was being a brilliant trooper and continued to hug Mr. Papas's shoulder and offer words of reassurance.

Now, not being a doctor or anything, I don't know much about head injuries beyond the basics, but lacking any prospect of actual medical personnel, I was forced to summon my first aid knowledge as best I could manage... in Greek. I asked the man basic questions: What is your name? Where do you live? Here? Ok, what is your address? What city are we in? Sufficiently satisfied with his answers and deeming them to prove at least some level of lucidity, I then asked him to watch my finger as I watched his eyes to check for response time and recognition. His eyes were rather glazed over (from the heat and fear, no doubt), but he was able to follow, so my babysitting-playground-check-up (thanks, Red Cross courses) checked out, and we promptly began feeding him water and continuing to doctor the wound. The yiayia's judgment faltered a little when she insisted on trying to get Mr. Papas to stand up. The strain was still too much for him-- he was so weak from the fall and the heat-- and the effort of standing only made the wound on his head throb and re-open. I pleaded with the yiayia to leave him be for the moment; we needed to completely stop the bleeding or else it would just get worse again. We continued with the water and tried to engage in small talk to keep his mind active and to further check cognitive abilities.

After a time, he started to come around more. By this time, more neighbors had made their way outside and were offering their help and advice, as well. With the aid of many hands, we hoisted Papas to his feet and got him inside the nice air-conditioned lobby of our building. Someone fetched a wheelchair from a room, and two of the ladies who had run down to help eased him into the elevator and up to his top-floor apartment.

The residents thanked us profusely, and we stumbled exhaustedly into our own flat. In no time at all, we collapsed on the couch finally feeling all of the day's exhaustion. There was a long pause, and then Whitney slowly turned to me and simply said, "Mandee. This is our life."

And so it is, Whitney. And so it is.

We're not stupid; we just don't understand you.

Have you ever found yourself complaining about the idiotic [insert potentially offensive racial nick-name here] workers at your job? Or in your classes? Or who attend your book club? You do. It's okay. Because as a few Broadway bound puppets once taught me, "Everyone's a little bit racist." You're thinking-- Egads! Not me! But you're wrong. When someone doesn't understand you, the immediate instinct is, "Wow. What a moron." Perhaps it's because unconsciously we try to equate the words dumb (as in, mute) with dumb (as in, a bumbling fool). Well, let me urge you my friends to do your best to stop thinking of those not sharing in your Mother Tongue as dumb. Chances are that idiot you're talking to could perform brain surgery if the instructions were in his native language ("Brain Surgery for Dummies").

This stigma is one that has plagued my fellow Americans and me since the moment we arrived. I know this is shocking, Greece, but we're not stupid. We just have no idea what you're saying.

As part of this experience I have going here, we are required to take two courses at the college per semester. These courses are all conducted entirely in Greek. The idea? Immersion. We take an actual Greek language course that spans both semesters and then two other additional classes, one per semester. The idea is to take a "workshop" class of some sort so that there is a direct visual to linguistic relationship at hand. So, I enrolled first semester in a class termed "Trash Art." This turned out to essentially be "advanced arts and crafts" involving crap that you find on the street. I figured I would be able to follow along by watching my teacher and/or classmates craft something and follow along whilst trying to pick up vocabulary. This didn't work so well as "Trash Art" turned out to be more of a lecture class at times than a studio art class. True, there were projects, but the main problem is that I would never understand the instructions at the end of class concerning the activity to come. For example, one day I showed up to class and everyone had five or six huge sheets of plexiglass. Definitely didn't catch that one.

One miraculous day, though, my teacher came in with a huge roll of wire and several pairs of pliers. He started going to town shaping the wire into things like flowers or people. He then handed out cuts of the wire and the tools and the class started to shape things as well. Finally! Supplies at hand! So, I grab some of the wire and pliers and start making little people. Seriously, this isn't all that difficult, but you would have sworn I'd just made a perfect reproduction of the Mona Lisa. My teacher was beside himself. He stops the class from working to show them my wire men. He applauded me. All the while declaring, "Ah! The American! She is creative! She figured it out!" Yeah. Because I'm not actually a moron. I just can't contribute to the group discussion because I've been studying Greek for about an hour. But, sir, I did go to art school...

Second semester I elected to take a ballet class. I figured, ballet is in French and French is French even in Greece. A plie is a plie in English, and it's a plie in Greek because plie is French. Also, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this class would definitely involve concrete demonstrations, and this was at least something I had some previous knowledge of. Point is, I had high hopes that my lack of Greek fluency would not directly impact my ability to dance or my feared reputation as an imbecile. I was only kind of right.

See, what I failed to consider is that a ballet teacher is obligated to give the dancers notes and pointers to improve their technique. These, of course, came in Greek. My teacher, however, was very kind and would translate for me when I was confused so as to actually aid in my progress rather than allow me to fumble around in the darkness. The downside to this is that her English, like my Greek, was not perfect. Dance teachers are notoriously strict to begin with, but as Irana lacked the vocabulary to sugar-coat any notes she would give me, my pointers would often be things like, "Feet. Bad." Or my personal favorite, "Your legs, they are good. But this [non-committal sweeping motion around my torso/head] is uh... [stank face]."

As for my reputation as an ignoramus, it became very clear that it had followed me to ballet class the first day we worked on our pirouette technique. Now, I'm not enrolling at Julliard any time soon, but I can manage a pirouette. So, I did one. This time you would have sworn I was accepting my adoring public after dancing the lead in Giselle. That is, my teacher reacted the same as my Trash Art instructor: "You know how to do a pirouette?! Unbelievable! The American! You turn very well!" Yeah. I have no idea what "pointers" you gave before we began the exercise, but I did take classical dance for years and years and years.

The intentions of the fellowship are just-- immerse us in Greek classes so that we can expand our vocabulary. I'm not sure I learned any words from Trash Art, but my vocabulary thanks to ballet class now includes essential phrases like, "Stretch your arches!" or "Tuck your tailbones, ladies, you look like ducks!" or "Taller! Taller! Energy from your head and energy into the floor!" or "Front, side, back, side." or the dreaded "One more time!" or "Softly! Softly!" Softly in Greek is malakAH, which you may recall from the entry on potty-words is a mere accent mark away from being a naughty word. I spent half the semester thinking our ballet teacher was constantly calling us offensive names. I consider this alone to have been a valuable vocabulary lesson. Additionally, I can now count from five to eight backwards, forwards, upside down, and sideways.

So, if there are foreigners around you, embrace them and help them learn instead of just assuming they are stupider than dirt. I take solace in the fact that at least there's always Ikea-- guaranteed to make us all feel like idiots. On this, at least, we can all unite.

Feaster

Easter has always been a holiday of landmarks and excitement for me. I came down with chicken pox on Easter when I was three-- that set the bar. In college, I had a delightful tradition of visiting friends in the New York area to share in their Easter traditions and one very special Easter spent in Florence at the beautiful Duomo. I spent last Easter with my beautiful cousins and a friend of ours in North Carolina, and I forced them all to go on an epic Easter Egg Hunt at an unfair hour of the morning. This year was no exception to the Easter jubilee as it was my first Greek Orthodox Easter.

Easter here is a big deal. Like, a really. big. deal. More of a big deal than even in, dare I say, Italy. The whole country shuts down for two weeks, so don't try to get anything done during Easter season because you can't. Everyone is travelling back to their respective villages or vacation homes or simply resting and cooking. Our faculty actually got two weeks off, so we had a fantastic opportunity to travel in Europe and enjoy a spring break (oh, the perks of working in a school). Whitney and I traveled to Croatia and returned in the afternoon of Holy Saturday, which is the day before Easter Sunday. In the Greek Orthodox religion, all Easter services are at midnight on Saturday. That is the only option. Tired as we were from our travels, Whitney and I decided to check it out.

There is a church very close to our house called Agia Sofia, so we got ourselves down there around 11,45. The place was relatively empty, but at 11,58 it was like the bus had just arrived, and hundreds of people starting flooding in from every corner of the church's vicinity. It was much like a locust invasion in New Jersey.

The tradition for the opening of the midnight vigil is that everyone in attendance carry a candle. The result is stunning. Now, Whitney and I seem to have missed this memo. We were under the impression that the candles were only for the children as they are traditionally given to children by their godparents, but apparently everyone should participate in the "lambada." So, as if we didn't stick out enough already, betrayed by our scared-doe eyes and gaping mouths, our lack of candles further gave us away. We enjoyed the roles of peaceful spectators, though, and were welcomed.

As you can imagine, there was no way that the swarms I have mentioned were all fitting inside a tiny church, so everyone rallies in the "parking lot" of the church where there is an altar situated in the center. A covey of priests and clergymen gather at this altar and give blessings and such to start the Easter celebration. It should be noted that the entire service was done in the style of chanting iconic of the Greek Orthodox Religion. I'm fairly certain maybe a grand total of five words was spoken during the entire service. It is haunting and beautiful. An Easter opera.

After the opening and the candlelight procession, people started to, well, leave. The few, the proud, and the brave marched into the church with their candles, which I am certain was the most dangerous thing I have ever been apart of (skydiving was safer, yes). All that fire in a tiny church with tons of people? I'm actually stunned that my hair didn't catch on fire or that the whole place didn't burn down. An Easter miracle. Anyway, once inside the church, the priests began kind of doing their own thing. They were often behind closed doors chanting but would emerge from time to time to regale us with clouds of incense. That plus the five million candles made the whole thing a rather smokey situation. Afterward my eyes were redder than an NYU freshman's.

Slowly, more people began to leave. Soon the place was only filled with devoted grandmas and their grandchildren that they were clearly forcing to be there. Whitney and I left around one in the morning when our eyes could take it no longer, and I must say, we outlasted 98% of the original church-goers. My gentle observation, then, is that it is the opening/outdoor/candle part that is the most important to the culture. The activities inside the church are mostly spiritual preparations done by the clergy that the rest of the congregation is welcome to attend and meditate or, frankly, just socialize. I didn't understand, well, any of the proceedings, but the tone was both solemn and jubilant, which is how Easter should be, I suppose, so the message was received.

The next morning, Whitney and I boarded a bus for Porto Rafti, a gorgeous seaside town outside of Athens. This is where our Greek teacher, Angeliki, lives. We invited ourselves over to her house. We asked to be adopted as we had nowhere to go for Easter. She gladly welcomed us.

The feast we were greeted with at Angeliki's house defies description. There was, yes, an entire lamb roasting on a spit. The innards and the head were also served. I don't ordinarily eat lamb, as you have probably figured out by now, but any attempt to refuse this meal would have been a supreme insult, and also there just seemed to be no real option. Angeliki's father gave us each huge helpings and then stood there eagerly waiting for our verdict. Despite myself, I must say, it was delicious. Never again. But I'm glad I experienced the special Easter lamb.

But the feast did not stop there. Oh no. Cheeses, salads, tyropitas (cheese pies), stuffed mushrooms, lord, I can't even remember it all. It was just endless. In addition to being a lamb roasting expert, Angeliki's dad also makes his own wine. He had made four of them at this point and insisted we have ample servings of each so that we might determine our favorite. I gotta be honest, by about wine number three they all became equal to me.

There were turtles and cats and children and music and dancing and just general celebration and chaos. It was everything I could dream of in a Greek Easter. So, the tradition lives on for me with my landmark Easters. Xristos Avesti!

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"