In Which I Wonder (Like The Cast of Rent) How Do You Measure A Year

I know I've been rather absent from the blog world lately, but I haven't disappeared, really, it's just been a messy few weeks. However, I will continue to write, even though I suppose I can't really call myself Emily Z in Greece anymore. I'm thinking I ought to come up with a new name. Actually, I have been thinking about coming up with a new name ever since I picked the old one in a rush. I figure I ought to be able to come up with something more creative, you know, one of those catchy cute little names that people design for their internet selves. Or should I create a whole new blog? I don't know. I don't think I will, not yet. In any case, I'll be blogging somewhere, about something.
One year ago to the day I was frantically packing my bags and thinking that a whole year sounded like a really long time. Now it's been a whole year and it does seem like a whole year, but I still don't quite believe it. I don't know if I should say that I'm in culture shock, because I'm no longer saying 'Signomi' to strangers on the subway or dipping my fork into communal plates on the table. (This is acceptable in Greece, but when you do it in the US, people glare at you, particularly when they are your sister.)
I don't know the exact definition of culture shock, but I will say this: Greece is on my mind all the time. Images of Thessaloniki pop into my mind at random, like a slide show of all the pictures I never took. Greek sentences automatically form themselves in my brain, incorrect but everpresent, just in case I need them. The bottom of the movie screen seems deserted without Greek subtitles. Real iced coffee, made with real coffee grounds and no frappe mixer, tastes weird as hell. I don't understand why any restaurant would actually stop serving dinner at 9pm, and why on earth anyone would voluntarily consume American cheese. (But you know, I've always been a snob about that, so it's nothing new.) I go about my life in New York, as I always did, but I'm haunted, ever-so-slightly, by the ghost of another place. Sometimes it's sad, sometimes, bittersweet, sometimes funny, sometimes I'm just overwhelmingly glad to be home, and sometimes I'd do anything to get the hell out of here and back on a plane to Thessaloniki.
A few specific observations? They have new ten dollar bills here. I went to the deli across the street one day and pulled out a ten to pay for my sandwich. It was a strange reddish hue and I gave it a look of such confusion that the man behind the counter announced, teasing, "That's play money! You can't pay with that!" It took me a few moments to realize he was kidding, at which point I started to feel like a real idiot and turned the color of the money.
And pomegranates! While I was off in Greece discovering pomegranates and feeling adventurous and exotic, all of America was discovering pomegranates right at home. There aren't many actual pomegranates around, of course, but there is pomegranate tea, pomegranate juice, pomegranate ice cream, baked goods with pomegranate essence, and pomegranate cocktails. I don't know what brought this all about, but I have mixed feelings. I'm delighted to see my new favorite fruit everywhere, but I'm sad to realize that my love for juicy red seeds is no longer a unique phenomenon from abroad, but rather one more person jumping on the bandwagon. I'll have to resign myself to being hip instead of exotic.
So anyway, here I am, 365 days after my initial departure (but only 364 days past my arrival), reminiscing, functioning but still in some state of shock, thinking about home and how glad I am to be here and how much I want to leave. It's easier than I thought it would be, and maybe easier than I wanted it to be. But I'm here, that's all.

In Which I Mingle Sweets and Bittersweets

 

We were returning from a family trip to a Thai restaurant in Queens when I saw the cafe that this box came from. I couldn't resist the urge to get out of the car. It seems that baklava in the states comes in much bigger pieces than the Greek stuff, but it's pretty good. There were a variety of other honey soaked pastries available, as well. However, the truly exciting part was hearing Greek spoken ("Οριστε, κυριε", said the woman behind the counter, and the customer said "Ευχαριστω!") and hearing Greek music, if only for the brief moment it took for my baklava to be wrapped. I'm trying not to get nostalgic and depressed. I'm not goin to look at my pictures of the beach for a while, that's for sure- I don't know what that would do to my mental health. But someday I will try to post some of them, and post a more complete recounting of my travels through Europe. 

There's No Place Like Home

After ten days, I figured I should let you all know that I am alive, I did make it across the Atlantic, and everything's fine. I have not updated because my body is having a little bit of trouble adjusting itself back into American life (I keep falling asleep. I thought it was jet lag, then it turned into a fever, and now it's just a persistent exhaustion, maybe a mourning cry for the afternoon nap.)
Actually, my brain is having a little bit of trouble too. In other words, I sort of don't believe I'm gone and not returning soon, and I really don't believe that I need to figure out what I'm doing next.
But my cat did make it through customs, small carrying case and all, and the customs lady just said "Awwwww!" That's it. No questions about bird flu. No cursory glances to make sure she didn't appear to be carrying some other contagious disease. My cats at home, of course, did not say "awwwwwww." They (well, one of them, Chloe, the Queen Bee cat of the household) hissed a lot, and now Calypso is hissing like crazy at her. It's not that different than dealing with middle schoolers, really.
It's sort of a shock to have people speaking English to me all the time. And the subway is expensive. I will certainly have more observations on my re-Americanization soon, but for now, that's it.