The hat of nationality change +1

Monday morning 8.30am El. Venizelos airport, Athens

My last five hours of the fieldwork-easterholidays-weddinginSantorini month in Greece have to be spent in the transit of the Athens airport. The local internationalism of airports always intrigues me. As the same safety and consumption standards have to be kept everywhere, you get the same familiar feeling of airport-land. It matters not where you are, you still see the same signs, smell the same perfumes, eat the same food. I was even surprised to find traditional english train-station food in the main "food village" area of the airport.
For those nomads like myself, true citizens of no other country but airport lounges, differences between airports are small.. but striking. Sipping my coffee, eating my spinach pie I observe my co-airport-time-wasters being approached by:
1. A lottery ticket seller
2. An unfortunate lady begging for money
3. An unfortunate lady selling lighters
4. A lottery ticket seller (yes, a second one)
Typical, I tell myself. Having coffee in any square in Greece one would be approached by 5.2 people per hour asking for money. So.. the only thing that is missing is the small gypsy child playing (really really badly) some sort of musical instrument and a disable persopn that is normally too upsetting to look at (hence the 0.2).
By the time the second unfortunate lady appeared it was clear to me. Nobody approached me. I checked if I was invisible. Negative. Did I look poor? Negative. I had my (infamous duck-hunting) hat on and I was scribbling on a bit of paper.... Maybe, just maybe, I looked to foreign to be asked?
An hour ago, while trying on some face cream (of the type my academic salary will never be able to provide) I noticed... the shop assistants talked to me in english when I had the hat on, but in greek when I did not. Does my silly duck-hunting hat actually have magical powers? [Oh just now another lottery ticket seller passed me by. It must be the hat again].
The power of hats was never more clear to me. I praise now the wise english saying "Putting a different hat on". Never underestimate the wisdom of a people with an enormous ability not to adapt to new environments but to transform these environments to fit its own needs, a different hat in each case of course!
9.45 I wonder how many spinach pies I have to eat to pass my time until my flight...
10.51 Why does my computer not eat spinach pies too? Plugs seem to be nowhere in sight. Aspiring laptop users are strongly encouraged to do shopping instead!

PS. The title is inspired by DnD, for geeks of the bad kind. Wearing it in the head slot gives you a nationality change bonus of +1 (hmmmm.... My case is serious).

You know it is Spring in England when…

Spring on this island always causes a certain amount of fascination (to me), and the emergence of various feelings (to the indigenous). But why fascination with Spring?

Well, first of all, it exists. Coming from a country where temperature cheats, it naughtily jumps from 7 to 28 degrees Celsius, catching even the weather forecast service (or rather them foremost) in surprise, Spring is definitely not a phenomenon one is used to. It requires a certain amount of observation. You know, to recognize the symptoms, if not to find a cure.

First thing I noticed this morning, was the clock telling me something different to what my body knew. 6.55am, and I was wide awake. The only reason I can possibly be looking at this combination of numbers on a clock is easyjet’s inhuman flight times. But today my body was not obeying reason (Stay in bed, you fool!). Shower, breakfast, my regular Italian exercise of the day, all set by 7.40. Spring speeds you up too, it seems.

8am and already at work, it gave me extra time to finish some papers ect… Foolish thoughts, that disappeared the more I looked out of the window. By 16.00 I had had it. Apparently, Spring makes you impatient too. So, empiricism in hand, I ventured to the outdoors to investigate spring effects on other people.

The sun is a weird stimulant that makes English people believe that a) no matter the temperature, it is time to relief yourself of excess clothing, to allow maximal exposure to sun b) it is appropriate to do so just anywhere.
Of course to my curious and ever-hungry eye that would be a good thing, if only all the people around me had a decent six-pack or at least a close approximation instead of these rather generous prosperity curves. Oh well, who said it is a perfect world?

Sitting in the sun like hundreds of others, on the grass in the park, I realize this is a thing I would never voluntarily do in Greece. I appreciate the English, for they make a celebration of every patch of sun they spot in the sky. That, my dear blog, is an art I wish I could master. You know, live for now, because the sun is out NOW.

Somehow the amount of couples strolling around has increased. This I also blame to the Spring’s intoxicating influence. People, who in the winter rarely left their bed for the one or rather the other reason, now they proudly want to demonstrate their ability to find a partner who can hold their (un-gloved) hand on a spring day. Alas, for the rest of us, unworthy singles, who stubbornly failed to “capture” a suitable partner many springs now. I take a good look around to locate one, just for as long this sunshine lasts, you know, just to partake to the fun. Nothing in sight. It seems, I won’t be lucky this spring either. Spring is mating season but my behavioural patterns show that I failed everything I learned in school, about bees and flowers. Even observing the ducks every year, taught me absolutely nothing.

Never mind that. Exercising my newly acquired English trait, I sip my tea and live for now. As Sinatra, the famous bard, plainly put it: Let’s live for now, and anyhow, who needs domani…

Let's forget about tomorrow....
Tomorrow will be again another day at work, most likely sunless and gloomy, despite the optimistic BBC weather predictions, I will face an even bigger pile of “stuff to do”, have the same problems, same reasons to be unhappy, same dreams.

But for now, I have my cup of tea, and I have the sun. Who needs domani?

Late night smoke

Walking on the same pavement stones day by day, things become familiar. My foot gets used to touching them. Their shape keeps the memory of the daily contact. I shape them, they shape me.
Same with people. At first, I hardly know them and then the forces of our personalities mingle and brew their own results.

Uniqueness is one of the greatest self-indulging myths a human being can cling on to. There are only so many different combinations of the same elements that make us human. Inevitably you will meet someone that happened to follow the same patterns. And what happens then? Your mirror image recognizes its own kin. It either celebrates the similarity, or fiercely chooses blindness and obscures the ghost of a different self.

Fine.

And those around your mirror image? How do they react to this not-that-obvious but you-feel-it-under-your-skin similarity?

Many of the battles we fight, and we think we win so easily, a mirror image has fought for us before. These fights have no gains. No city is to be conquered.

Go pick a different fight. Your own.

These thoughts, at 2am.
Accompanied with Golden Virginia tobacco untouched for years.

Small home-comings: Switzerland

Staring: Achilleas-Jessica, Erasmia-Andreas, Alexandros-Claudia, Alexia and the little Filippos

Strange as it sounds you can find home in places you have never visited before. The cold surroundings and fairy-tale architecture of German-speaking Switzerland definitely do not warn you of such a possibility. The expectations do not exceed the stereotypes: Challenging ski slopes, breathtaking mountain views, cheese fondue (of course you get punished if you lose your piece of bread!) and the gentle aroma of cow waste all over the countryside. As expected… none of these living stereotypes matches my memories of home. Not to mention the Zurich extravagance and stylistic explosion based on insurance industry money. Far from my salary-forced academic modesty…

Chocolate-biscuit house, like those I used to marvel at my school’s German Christmas market, this is how I would best describe the Switzerland I saw. Nonetheless, what took place in that biscuit house, is a whole different story. Oh yes… once again one of those Wherever-I-look-Greece-hurts-me-stories. But also one of friendship and of family-you-choose and of dreams and happiness. I met with my best school friends and their respective (German) partners, all –by coincidence - hunting their future in Switzerland. Doctors, architects, business consultants, you know… “real people”, unlike academics in the fish bowl.

Knowing them from the age of 12, aware of all their faults of character and all that they are capable of, even if recent life details are missing… it is always interesting to glimpse in their homes just to see which IKEA series they have picked. Just to check your knowledge on their tastes. Friendship trivia.

Shared anger: “Greece is collapsing”, shared fears: “My parents are getting older”, shared hopes: “Better job prospects”, shared plans: “Let’s all move to Berlin!”

The curious thing this bunch of self-exiled Greeks has in common is their unconventional education in a German school located in Greece, giving them a good glimpse into a very different culture to their own. I still have not decided if this was a gift or a torture. As the other shared characteristic of the bunch is the constant theme of their conversations: their love for Greece, their pride for what Greece should be, and above all their pain and anger for what Greece has become.

How did I manage to turn this travel chronicle into a “Greece hurts me” entry…
Back to Switzerland…

All of us able users of Hochdeutch with small variations in dialects, possibly except only the “Schwabe”, had a good laugh at Schwitzer-Dutsh (Swiss-German, click here for sample) but were deeply concerned that our friend’s toddle growing up there started showing signs of thicker “ch” and suspicious use of Swiss words. We put all our efforts to convert him back to orthodox German. We were more frightened of the possibility of Swiss accent than by the fact that the kid would not utter a word in Greek. Priorities…

Saying goodbye to Switzerland was easy. Fairy-tale places are beautiful but do not capture my bohemian soul. Saying goodbye to my friends was interesting. Every time we meet in a different scene, so we paint our visit with different colours, but the essence remains always the same. All of us strive for the creation of a new imaginary homeland, we need these meetings to populate it.

Birthday at Home

A week ago I compiled the list of guests… not one, not two, but fifteen people, whose existence I was not aware of a year ago, when I was pilling up my misery in faceless London. Fifteen wonderful people that make Southampton into a home for me. I know it is not for long, but does it matter?

The nomad is a person that makes a home in every land, in every city.
"Where you live, there is your homeland" says the Greek wisdom, taken from refugees and immigrants of my family.

When I arrived in Southampton I was convinced my new home would be like putting up a tent. Safe enough to spend the night, but you know you will be leaving soon. The emotional credit crunch I was going through indicated I would not go seek for friendships. The ones I had were powerful enough to keep me going, despite the distance. However, without looking, I found.

Almost half-way of my stay in this harbour I know that leaving for my next stop will be painful. All these farewells, you know…

My 28th was sober. It had a certain air of adulthood and awareness, and for those reasons it was full of enjoyment and confidence. Okay… and cake!

And for the first time I did not make a wish before blowing those candles.

Borrowed Excitement

As a Greek I am brought up to mistrust all things American, to believe that nothing good can ever come out US involvement in world affairs. All these “God bless America” and “In God we trust” were for my Greek ear, trained to cynicism, just words used to put an ideological cover to all the world’s exploitation to ensure US interests.

The average Greek pities the average American for their naivity. The American believes these big words about democracy, respect to institutions, founding fathers, while the US government is full of lies, corruption and exploitation. “They are easy people to govern!” This “easy” is a derogatory term, sheep following evil shepherds. Unlike the crafty Greek, who can find one problem for every solution proposed by their government. Cynicism is not just reserved for attitudes towards USA, but for political life as a whole. Greek politics is stripped of all ideals these days. It is stripped of any expectation of hope.

Yet Obama, like a new JFK, has inspired hope not only to his own nation. He has managed to touch the cynical Greek soul. Suddenly USA is not only the evil superpower manipulating the world without inhibitions, but a benign force working towards a greater good for the whole world. And that only through the spark of one politician. Of course, the Greek, deeply distrusting America, believes that Obama will not live long enough to put his words into action. “They will send him to see the daisies up-side-down. Let’s see if he is around until August”. See, he is too good to be American. He is probably Greek… I am telling you.

To me, Obama has not restored America’s reputation. At least not yet. He has given me a reason to believe that politics is not (or should not be) just the pursue of power, but an idealistic pursue for a better world. An attempt to make the place you call homeland a better place than what it was when you first came. All the things he represents, and all that he is, make me believe that this world actually is slowly becoming a better place. All the things he advocates, his political positions, inspire me to work for this better world.

Obama’s inauguration is yet another component of this not quite palpable idea of American national identity, not based on blood ties, religion, ancient history or any other “traditional” bond. This “dream come true” gave America a new symbol that made the two million people gathered in DC that cold day, cheer and cry and feel part of one big family.

It felt almost like a wedding. The relatives occupying the high table, a few tears of happiness, crowds cheering, lots of festivities. Touching the Lincoln bible he said his “I do”, millions of wedding guests (Americans and not so Americans) applauded…

And now he can kiss the bride…

And so the real marriage starts. Let’s see…

Bus science

I never liked the location of my dentist’s practice. He is a relative though, checks my teeth for free you see, that gives me enough incentive to bare the bumpy bus ride once every six months. Lost in my happy thoughts that I avoided yet another filling I slowly regained contact to my bus environment, only to overhear a lady’s sociological comments.

Oh how happy she was to meet that old man next to her by coincidence. Like good old friends they caught up with each other’s lives, and so did I as a matter of fact. His son was a student at the University in a city near by. Her son, all grown up now and oh so independent had a good job and his own apartment. “He is independent now, he does not want to live with us”. Fair enough I think. Greek men finally emancipated themselves…

The conversation moves on to more trivial topics… “Where are you heading now?” “Oh yes, I am on my way to my son’s flat, I need to cook for him. I normally do it at home and bring him the fresh food every day, but today I also need to do some ironing”. Wooooaaahh! Hang on a minute! The dream of male emancipation disappears like a bubble, with a loud plafffff! I can almost picture him, talking to his mum in this deep bored voice “What.. lentil soup again? You are going to kill me woman…”.

Ah… this boy is definitely a catch… sad I never met him.

I thought I would stay shocked for the rest of my twenty minute ride. But then comedy started. The woman moved on to sociological analysis of the bad habits of Greek youth.

“This new generation does not appreciate anything. The expect everything to be brought to them, they do not say thank you, they are lazy, they want to be spoon fed” And the man was the second violin: “Yes you are right, where is this country going.”

Okay… I just could not hold it back. I tried hard to disguise my laughter into a very bad cough. I do not know if I convinced them, but luckily I had arrived to my destination. Walking home I was thinking…

what is the reason for the lack of independence of Greek offspring, even after they reach the age of 30?
Overwhelming maternal love maybe?

And what is the reason of that then?
Lack of social activities for people above 50?

And what is the reason for that??

Oh, how I love blaming everything to the government! They should have produced a sort of “five a day” rule to distract the parents and stop child (emotional) suffocation and subsequent (household chores) disability.