Thursday 14 December 2006

Nothing new in the Western Front

Every Monday morning I regret having a job.

The violent noise of the alarm clock demanding attention, my cold nose feeling the temperature of the world outside my douvet, the thought of another eight hours in front of the computer screen checking data somebody else collected... really do not give me reasons to be happy.

This Monday though was even worse. First thing I did was to check the news with the sole purpose to postpone checking this weeks data. And I realized that this Monday was one of the most sad Mondays I have ever experienced.

Pinochet died.

Many people were happy with his death. They went on the street celebrating that a person who caused so much pain to the people of his country finally died.
Many people were sad. People who believed in what he did. His supporters who thought that he build up a good future for his country.

I was sad. Not sad... furious. Yes... Why?

Because yet another bastard, another evil dictator who killed people's bodies souls and spirits had the priviledge to die peacefully in his bed without ever being judged and punished for what he did, for the pain he caused.

For he not only injured people. He injured ideas and people's hopes for a better future and freedom.

And here all faithfull people on earth would say that he will be punished by God.
But this is just a compensation for the weak, who cannot face the cruelty of our world.

I suppose after all there is not better job than being a dictator. And be good friends with the USA, come to that. Where can I send my CV?

Thursday 26 October 2006

Why mounteneering is out of this world

Climbing up walls and soon real rocks and mountains is my new thing. I have always admired these strong people who are able to control their body and physical strength and coming closer to nature. So now here I am, learning all about harnesses, climbing shoes, ropes and knots. My initial reason for starting this sport, if one could call it so, was to appreciate nature and travel to remote places I wouldn’t go otherwise. However before coming closer to caring Mother Nature I ended up confronting my suspicious human nature. Sweat fear and panic attacks. In order to climb any higher than three meters I have to tie myself on another person who is responsible for me not breaking my neck and dying a quick but unfortunate death. So what I really learn in mountaineering practice is not making knots and climbing up rocks but trust.
In this particular case trust means to feel comfortable hanging from a long rope controlled by a person who I have never seen before and in most cases I do not even know his name. For some reason all the others seem to feel very comfortable losing hands and feet from the wall and just hang like a pendulum choosing their next root up to the sealing. And by “others” I mean also the newcomers just like me, not only the ones who started climbing after leaving their mothers belly.
For some reason I feel I am the only one who has the normal reservations of our uncanny society that teach us not to trust anybody unless he is proven worthy of our trust and even then not to get too surprised if he/she sleeps with your long beloved partner or if he hijacks and airplane and crushes it on a New York skyscraper. So in a world full of potential man-eaters, terrorists and all shorts of shadowy human like creatures up to every kind of mischief I do not see how I can trust a random person holding the rope that gives him the power of life and death over me. So I sweat and tremble every time I feel that my own strength might not be enough to keep me up.
I just wonder how all these climbers all over the world trust so easily. Did they have a different kind of training in their childhood that did not include “do not talk to strangers” and “do not take sweets from people on the street”? Or am I just the weirdo that took this advice at face value and now has an adrenaline explosion covered in sweat every time I feel I might lose my grip on the climbing wall. And all that just because I am once again the control freak that hates depending on a rope whose end is in the hands of Mike. Or was his name Eric after all?

Monday 25 September 2006

Mal du Depart

The sickness of traveling. Or the passion for it.
This poem is written by a sailor and has been my companion through out my teenage years and has shaped my personal space in the back of my head, the one I always go back to when I get hurt. This place is full of escape feelings, full of sea, exploration and freedom. It is always there to remind me that if I do not follow my what I believe is right for me, if I do not listen to myself and just try to satisfy anyone else, no matter how dear this person is to me, in the end I will have to face the harshest judges of all. Myself.
For some reason when that happens I always feel like taking a long journey. Journeys involve travelling in real and imaginary space. One step in a new land is one step closer to the core of my being. The wilder the land the closer to my inner truth.
Imagine.. now I am dreaming of the scottish highlands. Who knows what truth I am going to find up there.
PS. For non greek speakers, scroll down. If you are full of unsatisfied passions and there is one small part of you that likes escaping you will benefit from it.

MAL DU DEPART

Θα μείνω πάντα ιδανικός κι ανάξιος εραστής
των μακρυσμένων ταξιδιών και των γαλάζιων πόντων,
και θα πεθάνω μια βραδιά, σαν όλες τις βραδιές,
χωρίς να σχίσω τη θολή γραμμή των οριζόντων.

Για το Μαδράς, τη Σιγγαπούρ, τ' Αλγέρι και το Σφαξ
θ' αναχωρούν σαν πάντοτε περήφανα τα πλοία,
κι εγώ, σκυφτός σ' ένα γραφείο με χάρτες ναυτικούς,
θα κάνω αθροίσεις σε χοντρά λογιστικά βιβλία.

Θα πάψω πια για μακρινά ταξίδια να μιλώ
οι φίλοι θα νομίζουνε πως τα' χω πια ξεχάσει,
κι η μάνα μου χαρούμενη θα λέει σ' όποιον ρωτά:
"Ήταν μια λόξα νεανική, μα τώρα έχει περάσει..."

Μα ο εαυτός μου μια βραδιά εμπρός μου θα υψωθεί
και λόγο, ως ένας δικαστής στυγνός, θα μου ζητήσει,
κι αυτό τ' ανάξιο χέρι μου που τρέμει θα οπλιστεί,
θα σημαδέψει κι άφοβα τον φταίχτη θα χτυπήσει.

Κι εγώ που τόσο πόθησα μια μέρα να ταφώ
σε κάποια θάλασσα βαθιά στις μακρινές Ινδίες,
θα 'χω ένα θάνατο κοινό και θλιβερό πολύ
και μια κηδεία σαν των πολλών ανθρώπων τις κηδείες.

And in English, not as beautiful unfortunatelly

Always the perfect, unworthy lover
of the endless voyage and azure ocean,
I shall die one evening, like any other,
without having crossed the dim horizon.

For Madras, Singapore, Algeria, Sfax,
the proud ships will still be setting sail,
but I shall bend over a chart-covered deskand
look in the ledger, and make out a bill.

I'll give up talking about long journeys,
My friends will think I've forgotten at last;
my mother will be delighted: she'll say
"A young man's fancy, but now it's passed."


But one night my soul will rise up before me,
and ask, like some grim executioner, "Why?"
This unworthy trembling hand will take arms
and fearlessly strike where the blame must lie.

And I, who longed to be buried one day
in some deep sea of the distant Indies
shall come to a dull and common death;
shall go to a grave like the graves of so many.

Tuesday 12 September 2006

Methodology and sex

Another painful meeting with my supervisor finished today after two hours of... pain in my back. That is what you get after going to the gym twice the day before in an effort to unload stress. So the result was more doubts about my theory, methodology, operationalisations, results, analysis... my intelectual abilities in a nutshell... But what the hell, that is part of being a PhD student, it is written in the contract.

So I got home, playing my part.. half in tears (because the only two passionate relationships of a Phd student I can think of are with the supervisor and the PhD Director!) but... this did not last long. Me being a little devil had pinned on the wall the following quote that just forced a strong laughter out of me... and reminded me that in the struggle for good methods I am not the only one who fails hundred times before I succeed. Maybe it is useful to the rest of the world too:

"Methodology is like sex. It is better demonstrated than discussed, though often better anticipated than experienced"

Wise man the guy who wrote it. Ed Leamer (1983) Let's take the con out of Econometrics, American Economic Review, 23, 1, 31-43.

Monday 7 August 2006

If you are wondering what love is...

"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth."

Wisdom from a five-year-old boy.

PhD sayings

When you get your BA you know a little bit about everything, when you get your PhD you know a lot about nothing.

Or as I would put it you know a lot about the fact you know nothing.

The first saying came from my collegue, a PhD in Pysics. Second one by Socrates... but I adjusted it to fit the PhD reality. Just keeping in mind that I share the office with a PhD in physics, a PhD in criminology, a PhD-in-waiting in American politics and a PhD-in-waiting in Sociology, one can only hope that someone will know what he is doing in this office. (I can't say I am convinced...)

Day by day, working so hard on it, I feel I am losing knowledge instead of gaining more, let alone creating some as a PhD is suppose to do.

First draft almost done and yet... no new knowledge for the world. What a tragedy.

Friday 21 July 2006

Race for Life

Last Sunday it was. 2500 women running jogging or walking the 5k that make the difference.

But what difference did it make to me?

When I started training for the run after the first five minutes I had to stop to catch my breath and... my legs that were leting me down. Three months later after the help and support of my "personal coach" Jane I could do the whole 5k non-stop in 30 minutes under extreme conditions (english summer heat!).

So I am proud of myself. It is not only the physical stamina I gained. I gained the belief that I can do things that I never thought possible, and more than that... to like them.

One more thing. I have to admit that up to now I did not believe in active forms of charity. I signed up more as a result of group pressure (come on girl... you know you can do it!). I did not try to raise any money apart from the sum I donated myself. It might be because of the charity culture of Greece, where asking for money for any organization is similar to asking for a cigarette from a stranger on the street. Rude if nothing else.

Now I am actually thinking to go for the 10k and do it for real! Raising money and feeling that I am helping for a good cause.

It took some running for my participation in civil society to kick in ;)

Monday 3 July 2006

Not being Olga

This entry is dedicated to al the critics of the internet that condemn it for isolating people, keeping them away from life, from meeting other people, from having deep emotions.

It just took one wrong email. A long wrong email, I have to admit. I read it and I became a part of the life of two people I never knew and I would have never known if it wasn't for the internet.

James, very intelligent and successful man, still in love with Olga. And Olga far away from him and the life they had together, already deciding to share her life with another man. It is a common story, has happen to almost everyone. Myself included.

Out of pure coincidence I received it and I became part of James' feelings. I knew what it was to be him for a moment. I thought I knew exactly how he felt, all the frustration, all the pain, all the anticipation. And then I remembered... Olga was my part, I have been somebody else's Olga and it is very possible that I still am.

And now that I know how it feels to be James, what should I do not to cause all the pain that an Olga can provoke? Up to now I thought that Olgas were the victims... but James opened my eyes…

But these questions, being so big and torturing, only led me to email James back and adding to his embracement to inform him I was not Olga....

Olgas not always know what they cause. Olgas sometimes leave to protect themselves and lose the bigger picture.

I am sorry James.

Monday 5 June 2006

The day Greece entered the West

Today is one of these days that people will remember with a bitter smile pinned on their faces. While having my morning coffee the Sunday newspapers brought me the news that Greece finally became a true country of the Western civilazation. There would have been nothing wrong with this of course had it been due to economic development, infrastructure, great cultural achivements, important inventions.

The day that Greece became a true member of the Western Civilazation is the day four teenagers, children really aged 11 to 14, were accused for the murder of their class mate.

Greek always felt shocked when such a murder was in the news. But it has always been somewhere far, somewhere where the greek family values and the religious faith were not dominating. Greeks felt safe that although they were enjoying all the good aspects of the "west" they did not suffer any of its consequenses. The reason for that as they thought was their balanced view of the world and the strong family bonds. The traditional greek values.

So as USA had Superman to save them from evil Greece had its values. But as superman never appeared to save any of the victims of teenage violence, Greek values have proven to be insufficient if not just fictionary. So now that Greeks don't feel safe anymore not even from their own children maybe they will start wondering why only the shiny cover of the greek values stayed with them and the essential core has left them long ago.

Saturday 6 May 2006

Greek Easter

Easter in every other country is considered to be a holiday for the most religious of Christians. All the rest of the people send their day relaxing and eating chocolate eggs, not successfully hidden by the easter bunny in the garden. In Greece though Easter is a whole different story. For most the 95% of the population that proclaims itself "Christian Orthodox", Easter is the only occation the enter a church (unless they have played the lottery and want the Allmighty on their side).

Of course for the vast majority church going is just one part of their entertainment during these holidays, which involves dressing up, eating delicious food, singing and dancing. The first three thigs are actually satisfied in the church in some proportion. City-greeks go to church wearing their Sunday clothing, or in some cases their Saturday-night-out-at-the-club clothing showing their respect to dead Jeasus and their fashion choices to their fellow believers. Country-side greeks prepare the lamb for sacrifice to contribute to the Sunday feast and celebration of the biggest holiday of the year.

And they all show up Saturday night in the church where come midnight they sing a hymn (more popular than any song around these days of the year) play the red egg game and then eat the loser egg before the priest finishes singing his part. Then ten minutes later they are all around the table at their cosy homes eating the poor lamb cooked in elaborate ways..

So much for religion in the country of philosophy.

Thursday 2 February 2006

MSN and the Bible

The other day while I was trying to put together this blog I came across something really interesting. Some of you know that I give this word ("interesting") many different meanings... in this case it means "I did not expect that someone would have actually thought of that"

And here is what happened. In my list of books I have noted down in this site I have added the world famous Party Policy Preferences... of the one and only Ian Budge (“Have you ever been to Southwold?”) which happens to be the BIBLE of Party Manifestos (you should not call your self a government student in Essex if you do not know this!). And of course on the description of the book I wanted to write exactly that... "The bible of Party Manifesto's"

Only MSN did not particularly like my choice. So when the information was up loaded the word bible was missing. I though that was strange, so I tried again. If you are wondering what happened... just have a look on my list. The word bible did not appear no matter how hard I tried.

Apart from the fact that this is a disgrace to Ian Budge and his mates as they really wrote the bible of party manifestos, I was astonished to realize that I am actually not allowed to express myself as I want in my own blog because Mr. Gates is a believer.

This incident raises two issues; one of course is connected to freedom of speech, the other is coming from a linguistic background. Is actually the word “bible” a property of the Christian religion?

The obvious answer that comes to my Christian mind is no. As a Christian myself, although far from being a zealot, I would not feel offended if someone used the word “bible” to describe a book that contains everything there is to know about a subject or a book that initiated a whole school of thought or trend on a subject. The actual word “bible” comes from the greek word “βιβλίο” (please refrain from any association with “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”) which means book. The Bible is THE book but I do not remember any church or religion having paied for the copy write of the word. Over the years this word has developed and is used in common language to describe important books as said above. So since it is not illegal, what is the motivation of Microsoft when it makes it impossible for one to write such a thing?

One can only assume that Microsoft has taken its leading role in the world’s software market far too seriously and tries to “educate” people putting hot pepper in their mouth when they use bad words. So, “In-God-We-Trust” Microsoft will show you the way to the light and will force you to heaven. Just blog it…

Tuesday 31 January 2006

My trip to the last (accesible) communist fortress


Here, in front of you, stands and ex-idealist, ex-romantic, ex-innocent and ex-I-want-to-change-the world person. I cannot possibly imply that my trip to Cuba is to blame for all these painful changes but it certainly has its share.

Cuba... la isla bonita... salsa, light, sea, smiling people, antique cars and revolutionary spirit. I packed my bags to go to this island not as a normal tourist. I always felt tourists were inferior creatures... nonono, definitely not as a tourist. I was a traveler. I was this super cool person going to Cuba to experience everything this island had to offer. I was just about to find out what made these people so superior of us all, suffering a blockade from the superpower but still being able to smile and dance at any chance.

And there I was... My first impressions of the island were not prime examples of this superiority I have to admit. I entered the bathroom at the airport after a 10 hour flight and apart from being asked for any kind of coins (since I did not have any Cuban money) by a random cleaning lady I was also asked for chocolate, candy or even clothes. Well I gave her politely a euro I had on me and backed away very very slowly trying not to wake up my fears.

Next thing I remember was the face of the immigration officer who put me in this cubical and looked and me trying to identify the American spy hidden inside me. Thank God I look innocent enough... After explaining my reasons for going to Cuba and apologizing several times for the fact that I was not rich enough to book a room in a big state run resort.

In the “casas particulares”, the Cuban version of bed and breakfast, I learned all the things that I now like about Cuba. The simple people who like to earn their living by providing good services and promoting the tourist industry of their country showed me that if you have strong will and sharp mind, no matter how difficult the economic situation is you can always make a decent living. Out of the lot I will keep in my mind two cases. The super grandma in Havana where me and Peter stayed for about a week in total is a person who in her 80’s is still full of life. She is the prime example of happiness of a non-political person in a highly politicized country. After all in Cuba even buying the daily bread is a political act. The second person is Angel in the sleepy town of Santa Clara. He owned a famous (to the readers of traveler’s bible, the lonely planet) bed and breakfast. He was the impersonation of good humor and good mood, always ready to lend a hand whenever the clients had trouble. Of course this was out of self-interest but for some reason it felt good…

I am afraid the list of good things ends here. From now on the only thing I could write about is the wickedness of people. In the charming streets of Havana where beautiful architecture met poverty and pollution to its extremes we were treated as tourists… which for the average Cuban basically means a wondering cow ready to be milked. We were offered taxi rides, city tours, meals (even when they saw us waking out of another restaurants), hotel rooms, cigars, sex, rum… everything. For some reason Peter was more popular among cigar sellers and me among musicians, playing just for me just for one peso. The fact that they were selling things/themselves is not as annoying as the frequency of their attempts. We could hardly take any ten steps without being asked to buy something. Of course most of the time their intension to sell was hidden… they seemed more interested to meet us and talk and then they revealed their real face. What irritated me the most was that they shamelessly treated us as people with low intelligence. Tourists to these Cubans is a separate race, that only looks like the humans but does not share any other characteristics with them.

I was sad to realize that the real comandante en jeffe in Cuba is not Fidel but the desire for money. I could imagine that this is what happens to every poor country after the tourist invasion. But I could never believe that my long admired Cuban people would go down the road of wickedness and disappoint me that much. On the streets I was often approached by young mothers asking me for my clothes, which was kind of ironic because the only clothes I had I was wearing them. As my luggage arrived only ten days later I was walking around in the same destroyed jeans and black t-shirt. Still these women gave me the evil look when I (putting my honest face on) told them that I did not have anything to offer. Even after showing them the holes on my jeans they still would not believe that I was telling the truth. You see I was a tourist… which equals a rich white bitch who has to give them nice stuff from the west…

Ah Fidel, what have you done to these people?

To spice things up, Cubans are very sensual people; a characteristic that I would admire very much had I not seen what I saw there. We saw numerous young beautiful women in the company of freakish 60-year-olds trying to hold a conversation in a universal language and to forget about what was coming after desert. According to the Danish guy I met on the airplane this is very common among “normal” girls… “Just like you” as he put it, and in case you are wondering, the price was only 10 dollars a night. So from his experiences I figured that there are three types of women in Cuba: a) the professionals of love, who look rougher and he would not touch, b) the “normal girls” who do it for money because they are too poor (sometimes their family makes them do it). The basic difference between group a and group b is that group b has a different profession. So a girl in group b can be a nurse or work in a shop or a teacher but in the night when she goes out in the club she will pick up a nice white tourist and earn their ten box. C) In this category he put all the girls who hook up with someone because they like him but they always expect a present in return. However this should not offend the male tourists. As I found out Cuban girls expect material payment for their services from their deeply loved boyfriend or husband.

All this disintegration in the Cuban society cannot only be blamed on the blockade. People of course are tired of struggling for survival and of making politics out of things we consider normal. Running water electricity and bread are still major issues of political debate among cubans. And although they would never admit it they got tired of their second father too...

My personal conclusion from this trip that in the end of the day I am glad I took it, is that Che is dead... very dead indeed but victory is still far far away.

Hasta la victoria siempre... el commandante amigo.