In Athens: Blog One

8/15/2008
4:15 a.m.
SEA-TAC airport

The moon was setting when I left my apartment for the airport. It was yellow and gauzy, wrapped in dark clouds. The city looked like one of those pop-up postcards, cut sharply against a muted sky.
Seattle was as sleepy as I was. The few places operating seemed almost embarrassed to be up so early, like children trying so hard to be quiet in the wee hours of Christmas morning.
I checked and rechecked my passport and wallet as if they would disappear on me. Panic seized me for a moment. I am going somewhere far away for a long time. Then I patted my bag down once again.

8/15/2008
9 a.m.
A plane to Philadelphia

Arla and I traced the path of my flight last night. Our fingers ran across time zones and borders, from Seattle to Philadelphia and then over the Atlantic Ocean to Greece. To cross the world in a few hours seems unnatural, and the thought unsettles me. When you can go so many places, disappear into so many cities after paying a sum, where is home? What is the word’s definition anymore?

It was only 150 years ago or so when human beings could only travel comfortably for maybe 20 miles. Africa was still the “dark continent” and to go to Europe was cosmopolitan. I don’t think our minds have quite caught up with our technology. Adjusting to foreign places is difficult, and can be traumatic for both the visitor and visited.
And yet globalization has brought the comforts of home to far-flung places, stunting Americans’ growth and domesticating our sense of adventure and the exhilarating terror of being a foreigner. With Pizza Huts in Mexico and Prada in Saudi Arabia, Americans’ comfort zones have expanded, and that sense of vulnerability that forces us to grow and connect to others as simple human beings is muted — drowning in the fruits of the globalized world.

8/16/2008
10 p.m.
The Norwegian Institute of Athens Guesthouse

The air is hot and still, and the city is buzzing. Voices bounce off the buildings around me. A motor scooter’s engine pops below. I am in Athens.

For someplace that, in my mind, had seemed so exotic, it is welcoming and cozy in the dark and solitude of the night. I am sitting on our rooftop terrace, writing by the lone operating flood lamp. My pen’s shadow reaches long across the page.

The moon looks like it was hole punched from the sky. There’s a portion missing though, a fuzzy oval. It’s a lunar eclipse.

We live a block from the Acropolis, none of which I can see, as the monuments are blocked by layers of balconies, patios and roof peaks. There’s someone out on a balcony across the way, watching television. If he or she looked across right now, into the pool of light here on this roof, they’d never guess I wasn’t Greek.

When I first arrived, the city didn’t feel as welcoming as it does now. It’s rough around the edges, urban and baked hard in the Mediterranean sun. The Greek language is completely foreign, and so are we. This gaggle of girls (and two guys) sticks out, with our confident strut and bold laughter. We also travel in a pack, blocking grocery store aisles in our befuddlement and bobbing in a protective circle in the warm, green sea, circling the wagons against a group of persistent, hairy men.

I still can’t quite pronounce yassous, or remember how to say thank you, but my muteness has forced me to understand miscommunication, as strange as that sounds. In Ireland there was no such language barrier. I gave myself away when I opened my mouth, as well as when I walked and gestured. Here, in Greece, I am a child. I feel meek and vulnerable, and my only saving grace is a genuine smile. But I do still struggle on with my badly pronounced hellos. My tongue trips and halts on the syllables. Earlier, we were getting on the tram to go to the beach. Two people in line behind us were speaking Spanish, bits and pieces of which I could understand. I was relieved.

I had expected Athens to be more overtly gritty, and for the dangers to be less subtle and cunning. Sarah got her wallet stolen today during the tram ride. Someone desperate or lazy (or both) lifted it during the 40-minute crush of sweaty bodies. The pickpocket made off with her Euros and dollars, credit cards and ID. And her bags were stuck at Heathrow Airport too.

During that tram ride there was an argument between an older woman and a dark-skinned man. It was in Greek, but the anger was as obvious as if it had been in English. After it had simmered down, another man started to speak. In mellow tones reminiscent of a California surfer dude (but with a heavy Greek accent), he intoned, “Don’t worry, be happy.”
The car laughed. It was a poignant reminder.

The guesthouse was dark and warm when I reentered from my quiet time on the roof. I pulled the heavy door closed and didn’t bother to turn on the lights. Judy tried to plug in her hairdryer into my adapter earlier and blew the wiring. Now our security alarm beeps intermittently and we have no light, though the outlets are working. No one has yet figured out how to get everything back to normal again.

During this, I took a shower in the dark. It was inky black in the bathroom, the only light bleeding through a lofty window. While rinsing my hair in the cold water, I realized that I could get used to anything. My home can be anywhere, because I carry it around with me, like a hermit crab. My sturdy conch shell is on the inside. It is a steadiness, a stillness, a sense that no matter what, everything will be okay. You could call it my essence, or my strength of will. I revolve around it, sometimes awkwardly and off-kilter and resistant to whatever adaptations need to be made. But it is always there, guiding me and centering me, and kicking my butt when it needs to. My home may change, members of my family pass on, but this essence remains. For this, I am grateful. Who knew a cold, dark shower away from home could bring me such an epiphany.