Almost two weeks ago, I boarded a train that I thought would take me to Budapest, and I thought would have beds available. Instead, I ended up curled up on a couchette in an empty train compartment at half past midnight, trying my best to fall asleep with my head on my backpack.
Sometime soon thereafter, another girl boarded the train and asked if she could share my compartment. It was dark and I couldn't see her well, but she seemed to be in her early to mid-twenties, with long dark hair and several enormous bags. She explained that she had spent the previous two and a half years studying in London, and was now returning to her home town in Bulgaria to do something, she wasn't sure what yet. I explained that I was in a similar situation, drifting around for a month before I return home for an uncertain future. We spent almost two hours in the relative dark, waiting for our passports to be stamped and examined by people on both sides of the border, talking about travel, London, and our mutual uncertainty. "I think," she said at one point, "the more you travel around, the less you know where you belong, you know what I mean?"
I know exactly what she meant. Those words have stuck with me for the past few weeks, rolling around in my brain as I traipsed around Europe. Maybe they don't seem terribly profound quoted on my blog, but from a stranger in a dark train in the middle of the night, they take on a sort of eerie quality of truth.
In the past five years, I have lived in a more diverse assortment of places than most people see in twenty. New York, Iowa, London, Greece. I don't think I'll ever get sick of seeing new places, but I am sick of saying goodbye to places I love. I'm not tired of going, but I am tired of leaving. I'm tired of missing places.
But that's too bad, and it's too late; wherever you are, there's always something to miss, and I'm about to find myself with a whole new life to long for and miss.
I can remember a lot of lasts in the past few years- last walks through Manhattan before leaving for a semester in Iowa, last blueberries in Maine before leaving for England, last bus trips down Piccadilly before leaving for the US, my last weekend in college with my last night at the Down Under Pub, my last jog in Riverside Park before leaving for Greece, my last dinner of Peruvian chicken before the plane took off. I look back on all these things, and I come to an inevitable conclusion; the last time you do something is just like all the times before, but way more depressing.
There's something awful about doing something and knowing you won't be doing it again anytime soon. I even remember turning in my last college term paper, a long treatise on James Joyce that had given me a decent number of headaches, waiting for the relaxation that inevitably comes with finishing a large task, and just feeling a strange bittersweet longing for all my late nights with piles of notes in front of the computer screen. I hate that feeling. I hate it so much that I'd almost rather not have the chance to say goodbye.
And so, with two days before lift-off, I'm not going to think about how this might be my last taverna meal, or my last ride on the 58 bus, or my last dip in the Aegean sea. I'm not going to walk down Tsimiski for the last time, or buy my last bottle of retsina, or take one last look at the white tower. Thinking about these things that way makes me feel like an inmate on death row. I'm just going for a walk in the city where I still live. I'm just enjoying myself and seeing my friends here. I'm just taking another flight on Tuesday, that's all.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
In Which I Have One Last Run-In With Bureacracy
I arrived at Thessaloniki's Makedonia Airport yesterday, exhausted and sweaty, and two hours late because Gatwick was a mess. Our flight was immediately herded into something that I will call a line, but only for the lack of a better word. (Oh wait! I found the better word! The better word is mob). We went through passport control, picked up our baggage, and headed off into the distance. It was nice to be back. It is nice to be back.
However, before I headed off into the distance, I decided to stop by the Olympic Airlines desk to ask a question about my cat's travel accomodation. (Yes, although I have not made a formal blog announcement about this, my cat is coming back to the states with me. Was there ever any doubt this would happen eventually? Was there ever a bigger pushover for cats than myself?)
I waited on line for ten minutes, explained my question to the lady behind the desk, and was referred to another window. That window referred me to another window, between puffs of cigarette smoke, and that window referred me back to the first. Well, they tried, anyway, but I protested. "I just need to know," I said "how big the carrier is allowed to be."
The lady looked at me like I was crazy. "You know," she said. "It should be small."
"Small?" I asked.
"Small," she answered. "Just bring a small case."
I walked away, pondering this. Pretty much every other airline in the world appears to have regulations specifying the size, shape, height, width, material, air holes, and writing on a container that holds a live animal. I believe Swiss Air checks that the bottom is waterproof. However, as I have been repeatedly reminded, the Greeks are not Swiss. Olympic says it should be "small." I decided that this lady maybe wasn't very well informed about the issue, and I decided to give Olympic a call. I was put on hold for ten minutes, and when I did get a chance to talk to someone, I got cut off as soon as I said γεια σασ.
I tried again, was put on hold, and was promptly cut off once again. I got on the bus, bought a new phone card, went to a new pay phone, called, and was cut off once again. It was then that I noticed that the Olympic Airlines number is actually 666-666, which makes it the sign of satan, doubled. I tried again later that evening and was told to call back this morning.
I called back this morning. Once again, the woman on the other end sounded baffled. "Size?" she asked. "You know, something...mikro."
Μικρο means 'small' in Greek. I sighed. I mean, personally, I think that the island of Folegandros is small, but I really don't think anyone would be happy if I showed up with it in my hand luggage.
"Like, something that will fit under the seat," she added.
"Are there specific dimensions for what fits under the seat?" I asked.
She paused. "Something mikro," she repeated. "Like, a handbag!"
This made me think of an acting teacher I had in high school, who used to randomly shout "A handbag in Victoria station!" That's a line from The Importance of Being Earnest. I believe one of the characters was abandoned at Victoria Station in a handbag when he was an infant. However, I do not plan to abandon my cat anywhere.
In the end, I thanked the woman, hung up, sighed, and decided I should maybe worry about something else for a change. The thing is, I don't really want to worry about the rather frightening fact that I am going home in four days, so cat carriers are a welcome alternate source of stress.
However, before I headed off into the distance, I decided to stop by the Olympic Airlines desk to ask a question about my cat's travel accomodation. (Yes, although I have not made a formal blog announcement about this, my cat is coming back to the states with me. Was there ever any doubt this would happen eventually? Was there ever a bigger pushover for cats than myself?)
I waited on line for ten minutes, explained my question to the lady behind the desk, and was referred to another window. That window referred me to another window, between puffs of cigarette smoke, and that window referred me back to the first. Well, they tried, anyway, but I protested. "I just need to know," I said "how big the carrier is allowed to be."
The lady looked at me like I was crazy. "You know," she said. "It should be small."
"Small?" I asked.
"Small," she answered. "Just bring a small case."
I walked away, pondering this. Pretty much every other airline in the world appears to have regulations specifying the size, shape, height, width, material, air holes, and writing on a container that holds a live animal. I believe Swiss Air checks that the bottom is waterproof. However, as I have been repeatedly reminded, the Greeks are not Swiss. Olympic says it should be "small." I decided that this lady maybe wasn't very well informed about the issue, and I decided to give Olympic a call. I was put on hold for ten minutes, and when I did get a chance to talk to someone, I got cut off as soon as I said γεια σασ.
I tried again, was put on hold, and was promptly cut off once again. I got on the bus, bought a new phone card, went to a new pay phone, called, and was cut off once again. It was then that I noticed that the Olympic Airlines number is actually 666-666, which makes it the sign of satan, doubled. I tried again later that evening and was told to call back this morning.
I called back this morning. Once again, the woman on the other end sounded baffled. "Size?" she asked. "You know, something...mikro."
Μικρο means 'small' in Greek. I sighed. I mean, personally, I think that the island of Folegandros is small, but I really don't think anyone would be happy if I showed up with it in my hand luggage.
"Like, something that will fit under the seat," she added.
"Are there specific dimensions for what fits under the seat?" I asked.
She paused. "Something mikro," she repeated. "Like, a handbag!"
This made me think of an acting teacher I had in high school, who used to randomly shout "A handbag in Victoria station!" That's a line from The Importance of Being Earnest. I believe one of the characters was abandoned at Victoria Station in a handbag when he was an infant. However, I do not plan to abandon my cat anywhere.
In the end, I thanked the woman, hung up, sighed, and decided I should maybe worry about something else for a change. The thing is, I don't really want to worry about the rather frightening fact that I am going home in four days, so cat carriers are a welcome alternate source of stress.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
There's No Place Like London
Things I had forgotten about Britain:
-The smell of English breakfast in the morning. Eggs and toast and fried tomatoes, oil and salt and butter. It's a bit overwhelming for someone who has accustomed herself to the Greek style of coffee and maybe some bread.
-When you get on the London Underground, there are signs telling you which lines are not in operation that day. They always say things like "We apologise for the inconvenience this may cause, but the Picadilly Line will not be in operation today between Green Park and South Kensington. Hopefully, services will be restored tomorrow. We wish you a pleasant day!" This is in contrast to New York, where you hear a loud fuzzy noise blast into the station, followed by a garbled, belligerent voice on the loudspeaker screeching out something like "ONE TRAIN NOT RUNNING GO TO NINETY SIXTH STREET". At least, I think that is what they are saying when they talk. I don't think anybody knows for sure.
-The sandwiches all have mayonaise on them. I think that deep down, in the depths of my soul, I have never particularly cared for mayonaise, but I tolerated it, because it's pretty easy to ignore. However, I've never liked it, and I never actually voluntarily put it on anything that I prepare, unless I am forced by a recipe. Thus, I am far from pleased when I walk into a sandwich shop to discover that everything has mayo on it. (Actually, I think my boyfriend has brought out the latent mayonaise hatred in me, because he really, really, hates mayonaise, and thus I feel justified in my own dislike for it. This does not mean, however, that I will ever start to like American football.)
-Everything costs more than you could ever possibly imagine that it could cost. The price of a Greek hotel room is enough to buy you a British sandwich. And it'll have mayonaise on it.
-Shakespeare's Globe is honestly my favorite place on earth. I saw A Comedy of Errors today- stood through the whole thing, because that's what the riffraff did in Shakespeare's day, and I am trying to stay on a riffraff budget. But my feet didn't hurt at all, and afterwards I went to the gift shop and purchased a myriad of unneccessary objects with Shakespeare quotes on them. (Example: Eraser with fake spots of blood that reads "Out, Damned Spot!")
-I arrived in Victoria Station at 1:30am, after a harrowing experience with Ryanair. I stepped out into the street, noticed the car was coming at me from the WRONG DIRECTION, yelped, and made a mad dash back to the pavement, bags flying. Now I know which way to look, but I still have to look in the non-British direction as well, just to make sure there's not some foreigner driving on the right. In Britain, the phrase "deer in the headlights" should be changed to "American in the headlights".
-I keep taking pictures of things like Big Ben. Why? I already have a large store of pictures of Big Ben from the last time I was in England. I do not look at them. I do not need more of them. Big Ben, like the Parthenon and the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower, has been photographed enough. The whole point of going to London is to see things like Big Ben, instead of just looking at pictures of them. But I still take the damn pictures.
-The smell of English breakfast in the morning. Eggs and toast and fried tomatoes, oil and salt and butter. It's a bit overwhelming for someone who has accustomed herself to the Greek style of coffee and maybe some bread.
-When you get on the London Underground, there are signs telling you which lines are not in operation that day. They always say things like "We apologise for the inconvenience this may cause, but the Picadilly Line will not be in operation today between Green Park and South Kensington. Hopefully, services will be restored tomorrow. We wish you a pleasant day!" This is in contrast to New York, where you hear a loud fuzzy noise blast into the station, followed by a garbled, belligerent voice on the loudspeaker screeching out something like "ONE TRAIN NOT RUNNING GO TO NINETY SIXTH STREET". At least, I think that is what they are saying when they talk. I don't think anybody knows for sure.
-The sandwiches all have mayonaise on them. I think that deep down, in the depths of my soul, I have never particularly cared for mayonaise, but I tolerated it, because it's pretty easy to ignore. However, I've never liked it, and I never actually voluntarily put it on anything that I prepare, unless I am forced by a recipe. Thus, I am far from pleased when I walk into a sandwich shop to discover that everything has mayo on it. (Actually, I think my boyfriend has brought out the latent mayonaise hatred in me, because he really, really, hates mayonaise, and thus I feel justified in my own dislike for it. This does not mean, however, that I will ever start to like American football.)
-Everything costs more than you could ever possibly imagine that it could cost. The price of a Greek hotel room is enough to buy you a British sandwich. And it'll have mayonaise on it.
-Shakespeare's Globe is honestly my favorite place on earth. I saw A Comedy of Errors today- stood through the whole thing, because that's what the riffraff did in Shakespeare's day, and I am trying to stay on a riffraff budget. But my feet didn't hurt at all, and afterwards I went to the gift shop and purchased a myriad of unneccessary objects with Shakespeare quotes on them. (Example: Eraser with fake spots of blood that reads "Out, Damned Spot!")
-I arrived in Victoria Station at 1:30am, after a harrowing experience with Ryanair. I stepped out into the street, noticed the car was coming at me from the WRONG DIRECTION, yelped, and made a mad dash back to the pavement, bags flying. Now I know which way to look, but I still have to look in the non-British direction as well, just to make sure there's not some foreigner driving on the right. In Britain, the phrase "deer in the headlights" should be changed to "American in the headlights".
-I keep taking pictures of things like Big Ben. Why? I already have a large store of pictures of Big Ben from the last time I was in England. I do not look at them. I do not need more of them. Big Ben, like the Parthenon and the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower, has been photographed enough. The whole point of going to London is to see things like Big Ben, instead of just looking at pictures of them. But I still take the damn pictures.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Important Advice for Life
If the train to Budapest leaves Thessaloniki at midnight and is scheduled to arrive in Budapest at 10am, that does NOT, I repeat, NOT mean that it is scheduled to arrive in Budapest on the following day. In fact, it will arrive in Sofia Bulgaria the next day, and you will end up sitting next to a mother with several small children who ask lots of questions (Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married? What do you do? Will you come to Blagoevgrad? You will stay with us!) and then you will end up on another train through northern Bulgaria that you cannot get off, not even to buy food or coffee or water or a phone card, and you'll spend four hours at the Romanian border filling out papers about bird flu, and your phone credit will die, and you can't phone home to tell your parents that you are alive or your friend in Budapest what's up. Finally, you will realize that you are scheduled to arrive in Budapest the following morning, that is, the trip is actually 34 hours and you are not even half done, and you'll abandon the entire endeavor in Bucharest, where a Japanese-Romanian translator will help you find a hotel and food, and you'll have no idea how much the money is worth, especially since things have recently changed so that some bills say 100,000 and some say 10 and it means the same thing. But there will be coffee and pastries for breakfast and oh thank god, a plane ticket to Prague.
Monday, July 10, 2006
In Which The Tentacles Have Their Revenge
I did, eventually, make it to Santorini, followed by Folegandros and Naxos, and the future is still yet to be determined. Island internet costs a lot, but I'll give you a few highlights anyway.
-On Santorini, I went to Red Beach, which is appropriately named. The sand, from volcanic rock, is indeed red, and stunning. I have been shaking crimson and black dust out of my clothes for days.
-On Folegandros I hiked for an hour over a cliff to get to a tiny, gorgeous cove where I was one of only ten people. The water was blue and green and clear, the sun was warm, and I had been paddling about for a good half hour, basking in the beauty of it all, when I stuck my hand into something that felt...odd. Sort of like swimming through grass, but grass with tiny needles. I came to the conclusion that I had been stung by a jellyfish, swore loudly (in English, of course), went madly splashing towards shore, glimpsed two more pinkish gelatinous creatures wobbling along, shrieked again, and repaired to my towel, where Lonely Planet informed me that "Greek jellyfish are not lethal, but they can cause pain." Well, the fact that they COULD be lethal had never even entered my mind. The fact that they can hurt, and can leave little red tentacle-shaped welts across one's arm was more obvious. Lonely Planet also recommended that you douse stings in vinegar, which made me contemplate rushing over to the nearest taverna, picking up the salad dressing, and pouring it over my arm.
-Every time I think I know the ferry schedule, someone informs me that I do not. The woman in Santorini definitely said there were ferries from Mykonos to Lesvos every Tuesday, but every travel agent in Naxos and one on Mykonos says I am wrong about that. The schedules all say that there are frequent ferries from Naxos to Mykonos, but the Naxos travel agents say I am wrong about that too. I'm damn mystified, and at this rate, I have no idea when I will be home. I'm not really complaining.
-On Santorini, I went to Red Beach, which is appropriately named. The sand, from volcanic rock, is indeed red, and stunning. I have been shaking crimson and black dust out of my clothes for days.
-On Folegandros I hiked for an hour over a cliff to get to a tiny, gorgeous cove where I was one of only ten people. The water was blue and green and clear, the sun was warm, and I had been paddling about for a good half hour, basking in the beauty of it all, when I stuck my hand into something that felt...odd. Sort of like swimming through grass, but grass with tiny needles. I came to the conclusion that I had been stung by a jellyfish, swore loudly (in English, of course), went madly splashing towards shore, glimpsed two more pinkish gelatinous creatures wobbling along, shrieked again, and repaired to my towel, where Lonely Planet informed me that "Greek jellyfish are not lethal, but they can cause pain." Well, the fact that they COULD be lethal had never even entered my mind. The fact that they can hurt, and can leave little red tentacle-shaped welts across one's arm was more obvious. Lonely Planet also recommended that you douse stings in vinegar, which made me contemplate rushing over to the nearest taverna, picking up the salad dressing, and pouring it over my arm.
-Every time I think I know the ferry schedule, someone informs me that I do not. The woman in Santorini definitely said there were ferries from Mykonos to Lesvos every Tuesday, but every travel agent in Naxos and one on Mykonos says I am wrong about that. The schedules all say that there are frequent ferries from Naxos to Mykonos, but the Naxos travel agents say I am wrong about that too. I'm damn mystified, and at this rate, I have no idea when I will be home. I'm not really complaining.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
In Which, Stranded, I Begin An International Trend
Well, I'm still in Irakleion. And I'm getting sort of grouchy.
Just the other day I was joking that perhaps I would move to a Greek Island and strand myself by the beach. I did not expect the gods to take me literally. But then strong winds took over this part of the Aegean, and all boats from Crete were cancelled for two days- with more strong winds predicted for tomorrow. I have been occupying myself with archaeology and The Odyssey. Yesterday afternoon I read about poor Odysseus, stranded on Calypso's* island, crying because he is so desperate to leave. I've never felt so much sympathy for the poor man, but it gives me some comfort to realize that being stuck here is, in some way, part of an ancient Greek tradition.
Today, being desperate to get to the beach at last (I have been on the road for over a week with only a few brief toe dips in the ocean) I took a bus eastward, to an area filled with resorts. I walked down to the beach...and found no beach. Instead, there were about three feet of sand with white-capped waves crashing upon them like, I don't know, the north atlantic or something. Huddled upon beach chairs were some Germans, some Brits, and a family of unknown Scandinavian descent. It was a bit chilly. I was disappointed, but somewhat encouraged by the green color of the surf- so I stuck my feet in. After five minutes of strolling through the waves up to my thighs, I was joined by a German man who actually jumped right on in and began paddling through the waves. Not wanting to be outdone by the Germans, I jumped in too, splashed for a few moments, and looked up to find that a British couple had followed suit. Next came another German man, and another man who could have been from anywhere; I didn't get a chance to try and listen in on his accent. Throughout this, the mysterious Scandinavians stood on the pier and took pictures of the water, and the Greeks stood in the taverna, probably thinking we were all completely insane, but at least they let us use their beach chairs for free.
Overall, it was not the best trip to the beach I have ever had- next time, I want more sun. However, I cannot help but feel that somewhere here is a lesson in international relations. I'm just not sure what it is.
*the nymph, not my cat.
Just the other day I was joking that perhaps I would move to a Greek Island and strand myself by the beach. I did not expect the gods to take me literally. But then strong winds took over this part of the Aegean, and all boats from Crete were cancelled for two days- with more strong winds predicted for tomorrow. I have been occupying myself with archaeology and The Odyssey. Yesterday afternoon I read about poor Odysseus, stranded on Calypso's* island, crying because he is so desperate to leave. I've never felt so much sympathy for the poor man, but it gives me some comfort to realize that being stuck here is, in some way, part of an ancient Greek tradition.
Today, being desperate to get to the beach at last (I have been on the road for over a week with only a few brief toe dips in the ocean) I took a bus eastward, to an area filled with resorts. I walked down to the beach...and found no beach. Instead, there were about three feet of sand with white-capped waves crashing upon them like, I don't know, the north atlantic or something. Huddled upon beach chairs were some Germans, some Brits, and a family of unknown Scandinavian descent. It was a bit chilly. I was disappointed, but somewhat encouraged by the green color of the surf- so I stuck my feet in. After five minutes of strolling through the waves up to my thighs, I was joined by a German man who actually jumped right on in and began paddling through the waves. Not wanting to be outdone by the Germans, I jumped in too, splashed for a few moments, and looked up to find that a British couple had followed suit. Next came another German man, and another man who could have been from anywhere; I didn't get a chance to try and listen in on his accent. Throughout this, the mysterious Scandinavians stood on the pier and took pictures of the water, and the Greeks stood in the taverna, probably thinking we were all completely insane, but at least they let us use their beach chairs for free.
Overall, it was not the best trip to the beach I have ever had- next time, I want more sun. However, I cannot help but feel that somewhere here is a lesson in international relations. I'm just not sure what it is.
*the nymph, not my cat.
Monday, July 03, 2006
In Which I Don't Know Anything
I am in Irakleio.
It took me two hours to find a hotel in this city because I did not have a map. I did not have a mapt because I left Lonely Planet on the bus yet again, and realized that although Lonely Planet identifies its customers as 'independant travellers', some of us are not independant enough as to function well without Lonely Planet. I left Lonely Planet on the bus because I was sore and tired from hiking Samaria gorge. I hiked Samaria gorge by myself because I overslept and missed the guided tour that I had already paid for the day before. Before that, I had to email Brad and ask him to do my last load of laundry for me because I didn't get it out of the machine in time before I left for Delphi. I've been meaning to write blog updates and write emails and apply for jobs, but I haven't done any of that. I am not wearing any rings and I do not know if I left them in Thessaloniki or at my hotel in Delphi. I'm going to Santorini tomorrow and I do not know where I will stay or when I will leave or where I will go after that. I don't know exactly when I'm returning stateside, or what I will do when I get there. I'm not sure if I will go to Croatia or to Prague. I really don't know anything. I'm sweaty, I smell awful, and I'm sore, exhausted and covered in mosquito bites.
Life is pretty good right now.
It took me two hours to find a hotel in this city because I did not have a map. I did not have a mapt because I left Lonely Planet on the bus yet again, and realized that although Lonely Planet identifies its customers as 'independant travellers', some of us are not independant enough as to function well without Lonely Planet. I left Lonely Planet on the bus because I was sore and tired from hiking Samaria gorge. I hiked Samaria gorge by myself because I overslept and missed the guided tour that I had already paid for the day before. Before that, I had to email Brad and ask him to do my last load of laundry for me because I didn't get it out of the machine in time before I left for Delphi. I've been meaning to write blog updates and write emails and apply for jobs, but I haven't done any of that. I am not wearing any rings and I do not know if I left them in Thessaloniki or at my hotel in Delphi. I'm going to Santorini tomorrow and I do not know where I will stay or when I will leave or where I will go after that. I don't know exactly when I'm returning stateside, or what I will do when I get there. I'm not sure if I will go to Croatia or to Prague. I really don't know anything. I'm sweaty, I smell awful, and I'm sore, exhausted and covered in mosquito bites.
Life is pretty good right now.
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