Be mobile and freeze your eggs

As an overall note for fellow nomadic academics I feel like reporting from a conference I recently attended. The hot potato topic was careers for young researchers. The first panel stressed the following points:

There are lots of grants out there for brilliant ideas, you just need to be aware of them.

The paradox: You need to demonstrate your ability to get grants for your research in order to get a tenured position in a university, BUT you need a position in a university to be eligible to apply for a grant (catch-22 situation… as a fellow researcher pointed out).

The advice: Be mobile! Spend the whole of your late twenties and thirties hopping from one country to the next wherever you find an available research job. A strategy that resembles seasonal agricultural workers, who follow the harvest map: oranges in Spain, strawberries in England, olives in Italy, grapes in France… and so on…

In the meantime we have to forget we are human. That we have families and social networks (more sophisticated name for friends and drinking buddies), partners and above all our favorite bakeries, coffee shops ect… From the outside our jobs look very glamorous (if someone has not looked at our paycheck that is), traveling around the world, researching stimulating ideas, meeting other brilliant (although often sort of autistic) people.

The tradeoff is that we never have one stable point of reference. We constantly need to build new social networks. Our best friends are normally in another country, if not spread around the globe and our family most of the times lives in a place without accessible universities. Our partner is having the same career path, which means (s)he is changing jobs and countries more often than a shirt, and we never (or rarely) are lucky enough to be on the same side of a river (or the Atlantic ocean come to that). Being on our productive age we need to focus on our career… but simultaneously being on the re-productive age too… we need to make some choices. The potential parents have about a thousand km or more between them, which does not constitute a healthy growing-up environment for any child.

So we are faced with a clear choice. Reject that post-doc position in the other side of the continent from your partner or freeze your eggs!

Smoking Ban in Greece: Three months on

Passing from completely compliant England on to nagging but obedient Italy, I had assumed that oxygen inside confined space was my natural right, especially since it is generally considered vital for survival. I had taken it for granted that I could happily breathe inside bars, coffee shops, public buildings and other protected spaces. For me, the small crowed outside each bar was a group of socializing smokers, and my flatmates standing on the balcony for a smoke without previous arrangement, only natural.
My trip to autumnal post-smoking ban Greece was about to shake my smoke-free world.
Some history first: Greece reluctantly adopted the smoke ban law on July 1sr of this year. Initially nobody took notice as the fun was outdoors and outdoors smoking was allowed.
As the cold creped in so did the numerous amendments and interpretations of what started its career as a total smoking ban.
So the total ban that I saw was far from being total…. With the following amendments:
1. Small bars (like very small) can choose to be for smokers or for non-smokers. So ALL small bars I know are for smokers, since this is the dominant trend.
2. Large bars and coffee shops can divide their area into smoking and non-smoking, and divide the two with a two meter high glass wall (which was a state of the art, hey, as you could literally step through it! … It did not exist! Anywhere!)
3. Big nightclubs, with the traditional bouzouki where in the old days the best clients broke some plates reaching maximum entertainment.
4. Universities, being a police-free zone, once upon a time to ensure freedom of speech, now ensure freedom of smoke of equally academics and students (we are all equal in smoking!). This includes lecture theatres and seminar rooms.

This covers bars and coffee shops. The restaurants I have not tried yet. Let’s hope that the government has been a bit more successful there.
The best result of the smoking ban was the new discourse on discrimination. Apparently smokers who are the majority of the adult population feel discriminated against… Their rights are suppressed not because the government cares about their health, but because some insurance companies have lobbied far too well and refuse to pay for the operations needed to cure (or slow down) the diseases caused by smoking alone. We pay all our lives, they say, damn straight they have to pay for the operations!

The irony....

Walking back to Florence

Some say this was the last summer day of the year. I’d say, we were lucky having it mid-October. Golden light, warmth, and off we went to the very north of the Chianti region, the village of Impruneta. Legend wants its famous terracotta stones to cover the roof of Santa Maria del Fiore, the Duomo of Florence. I doubt any of us noticed it. What we did notice was the St. Luca’s fair that spread all around the small village. The dominating feature was the smell of hog roast. Nobody could overcome that.

So even before starting our hike (which later proved to be just an afternoon walk, but that is a different story) we engaged in watching, smelling, tasting and finally just wolfing down this lovely pig that was roasted for the believers of St. Luca.

The hike was mainly rolling down a Tuscan hill, but with undeserved, spectacular views of the valley below. Our first target: La Certosa.

On the top of a hill (because monks always choose well, as spirituality and good views go hand in hand) we found the monastery of Galluzzo, named La certosa from the order of monks it serves. These carthusian monks, live in silence, and only train their unused voice cord once a week for a whole hour, gossiping with their fellow monks. The rest of the time they live in their small cells, the size of a one bedroom central London apartment, with food service. A plate of food appears once daily through a small window in their room, as a reward after a hard day of prayer. Being there with a bunch of economists, we debated about the waste of material and human resources in this spiritual business, concluding that, it would have been better if the monks wrote PhDs. (The priest blesses first his own beard, say the wise Greek folk)

The most impressive finding of this walk was the monk who gave us the tour of the certosa. Father Benedicto was very grumpy at the beginning of the tour, giving us “efficient” information (This painting, this year, by that painter, represents this, moving on… boom boom boom!). Slowly, he warmed up on us, especially to the ladies of a certain age in the front of our group, always complimenting him. In the end - what an audience we were - he did not want to let us go. Our tour, supposed to last an hour, was dangerously passing the one hour and a half threshold, and he was violating his weekly speech quota by thirty minutes! And on top of that, he was flirting with the ladies, whose age should inspire him to chant his funeral hymns. Maybe he could smell paradise close to them, who knows. Fatigued after our tour, he removed his hat, only to reveal a glorious head bump, benign tumour I was informed. But I could not help but thinking it was a horn being hatched in there…. A hybrid devil, identical to the one of Salman Rushdie’s imagination in the Satanic verses.


After these thoughts, and sure that the catholic church would had burned me in purifying fire, we continued our scroll to Florence. We arrived at piazzale Michelangelo exactly at the time the sun was setting. Florence below our feet and the sky in purples and pinks. All I could think about was my blisters… F**k the sunset. My feel are hurting!

Είπαν... (just a quote...)

Έφυγε για αλλού και αλλού.
Όπως κάθε παιδί που αφήνει τον τόπο του, μα όχι ο τόπος το παιδί.

Ζ.Ζ.
(She left for other places. Like every child that leaves her home town, but never does the home town leave the child.)

First days in Florence

Yes I know. I read something similar in the Guardian the other day, just before leaving England. I had all the good reasons to leave the country that I cannot claim as mine. Now ten days later, I still think I made the right choice.

But with what cost…

Leaving South England for beautiful Florence causes a lot of envy. My first day here I lived all the reasons causing that envy: beautiful weather, stunning architecture, bohemian life style, good food, staying out late.

That’s all for that. Then real life begins. So I got the job, I got the apartment. Now I have to build the life around them. Being used to England where everything is just a mouse click away, Italy is challenging. The internet speaks Italian here, and does not do things for you… it only tells you about them, if that.... Then the internet stops working… just because, and you, go figure…

I have my little habits. I want to cycle to work. Then I want to cycle to my gym and then I want to cycle back home. Florence simply does not let me do all of that. I have to pick.
My enemies? The incredible traffic, the famous Florentine hills, the stunning architecture (with equally stunning walls around the building resulting in tiny roads of 40 degrees incline, somehow mostly uphill, don’t ask why)
I feel defeated. No way to get to the gym I want… so I visited the local one to accept my fate. My very welcoming host was a huge pumped up guy clearly Italian who clearly had spent far too many hours under the solarium lamp. The inmates of the gym looked rather suspicious. My eyes were locked on this old woman with full make-up on, working on her inner thighs… I could not stop thinking about her potential profession… la Madame? [Ahem…brothels are illegal in Italy, no?]

So that one, rejected… even though I was assured that all the players of the Fiorentina train here (one more reason to put me off).
Maybe I expect too much wanting just to import my old habits into a new environment. Maybe I should just accept that my only sport for a while will be the chewing of the gorgeous Italian pasta I can get everywhere.
Until I find my way around this city, or until this city finds its way around me…

But in the meantime I miss England more than just the anticipated little bit. Not for anything else, but for its ability to accommodate.

The EU Health and Safety Regulations and the sheep

You go one lovely Sunday (or whatever other day your country tells you to), and you vote for them. Then they go to Brussels and discuss things. The newspapers do not write about them, because they are too technical, who wants to read them after all, we want to sell some copies anyway… The Brussels people ask doctors, lobbyists, all kinds or random people full of knowledge.

Then they make a bill. Then they vote for it. Then it passes.

And then I go to work, turn on my computer, and five minutes later a sheep appears on my screen. It tells me: Hey dude, you are working too much, time to do some hand exercises. I press cancel. Ten minutes later it appears again, this time proposing some neck stretches. In the meantime I have lost the idea I am working on. The poor idea is lost in the deep gaze of a stupid sheep. Black, for your information.

And so the story goes. Every ten minutes I get a set of stretches, if put together they would give me a full pilates course.

As if that was not enough, seven and a half hours later the sheep tells me: You worked enough, your time is up! Time to switch of your computer, the sheep wants you to fuck off!

Has anybody informed this damn sheep that I am an academic? We LIVE in front of the computer. We need an Ethernet cable to breath! This sheep works in an academic institution, someone at some point has to teach it some manners!

And so has the EU invaded my life. First in a good way (paying my salary and exempting me from taxes) and then… through the sheep.

Oh not again! Now it is time to stretch my legs.
Farewell!
Baaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..

Basqueball

My crash course in Basque culture started early Sunday morning (see: Greek definition of “early”). As church was the only other recreational alternative at that time of day we picked the first choice: Basque pelote, or basqueball to be Anglophone-friendly. We drove to a neighboring village hosting a most peculiar game, not only to my inexperienced eyes. Even the locals have difficulties understanding the full set of rules: Le rebot…. Or the cricket of pelote basque, as I was wisely warned. I started the hard way.

Being unable to understand the mystifying rules of the game holding the key to decode the English class system, I feared I would have the same fate with pelote basque. To me, basqueball only represented an instrument of reproducing and intensifying the basque identity, both in France and in Spain. To Basque people and my not-so-basque hosts, though, it is a great form of entertainment.

Le rebot: Simple it was not. Two teams playing against one another in the village’s “fronton” trying to defend their own ‘territory’ of variable size. Explaining the rules of this game is beyond my intellectual abilities, since I failed to understand them in full. One needs high levels of geeky-nes or at least geek-potential to be able to absorb all this information.
I will nonetheless highlight some points: The game has the structure and numbering system of tennis. In simple English, that means there is a net, over which the ball has to pass. Or… or through it in this case, as the net is actually made of human players trying to block all passing balls (while avoiding to be hit by it, as it hurts…). The position of this human net changes and is marked by two small basque flags.
For those who think that this is hard core nationalism, I remind you that flags in Denmark are used to indicate the “sales” in a shop. Not that nationalistic…

Oh and the count of points is sang in Basque. Quite an experience.

During the game, exactly at midday, after hearing the church bells the game stopped, the audience, players and referees had to pay their respects to Virgin Mary. Following the instruction “Angelus”, we sang the Ave Maria. And by “we” I mean “they”. I was just standing there respectfully, pretending I fitted in.

The game was a massacre of the green ream. The blue team were the kings! I am sure the colors represented some local towns but I was unable to pronounce them and thus I forgot.

Watching basque pelote is not as exciting as playing it as I found out that same day. We went to our local fronton, where I was taught hot to play two different kinds of pelote. I used the “pala” first, a wooden racket that hurts your feelings, as it simply does not want to be tamed. Result….? The ball goes all over the place or over the fronton, including the neighboring gardens/windows/cars.

An embarrassing hour later I tried the chistera and I fell in love. A long thin basket that attaches to your hand in the form of a glove. A “small glove” as it was called, le petit gant, even though it was at least one third of my height. Apparently there is a grant version of it ( I suspect, half my size.. and I am not small… for a greek). Using that basket-glove was easier than anticipated and much more fun to play.

Afterwards I had a clear feeling of achievement and was convinced I deserved my French three-course dinner that was to come. After all… how many Greeks have ever tried their luck playing basque pelote? Especially female Greeks, considering the sport is exclusively male territory. A raised eyebrow is least amount of criticism a woman gets if caught playing.

Putting my hand into the “petit gant” at once challenged both my gender and national identity. So many connotations for just one object, even handmade.

The rest of my days in the French side of the Basque country I watched, and became passionate with, two more forms of the sport (and it has many, as you have guessed), joko-garbi and cesta punta. The first for the atmosphere in the village fronton on Wednesday afternoons, where the elderly joke around, the younger relax after a days hard work and the kids try to catch the missed shots. The second for the technique, the beauty of the movement and the excitement in every gained point.

As I saw it, Basqueball is much more than a sport. It contains the philosophy of life of the Basque people. And watching it, is not only exciting because of the competitive element, but for the deeper understanding of the country in itself. To me, basqueball was an experience.

And I am hooked!

Weddings: Santorini

Weddings are like conferences. They are mainly clustered around the school holidays, when one does not have to teach. This one took place in April, perfect timing for me, just after my field work in Greece.

Being a “destination wedding” (just to use the Guardian’s middle class vocabulary) it was not easy to organize, especially when you live in the old Albion. The happy couple, living somewhere in the trendy side of Islington, London, had to pay an Asian looking wedding planner to make sure everything would run smooth on the “happiest day of their lives”. And as we know, smoothness is priceless; especially when you have a jolly English family flying in from South England and a traditional Greek family that likes to have the last say in everything.

Clash of civilizations nicely balanced at the edges of a volcano. I had a unique perspective of the wedding. I know the groom since neither of us could utter anything apart from “ta ta ta” or “gu gu gu” and since then we followed a similar path, spending in England the past seven years of our lives. He made a breakthrough bringing home an English bride, not following his father’s example to bring home only his PhD from abroad. Shock absorbed, preparations made, there we were…

The Greek surroundings were an interesting folklore tone for the English, who on their return to familiar greyness would spend ours talking about the great Greek weather, the beauty of the island and the amazing food. The choice of the island was no mistake. Santorini is the flagship of the Greek Armada put together by the ministry of Tourism. You think of Greece? You have a picture of Santorini in your head. Quite an experience.

For the Greeks, though, that was even more of an experience. Uncomfortable with the idea of civil ceremonies, the lack of holy blessings and familiar chanting, they focused even more on the stunning views and the traditional touches. I could even sense the pride in their eyes when gazing towards the “English side”: You see how great is our civilization? Give us back the Elgin marbles! (oooops!). The personalized touches of the ceremony included some Greek modern poetry samples and medieval wedding songs (I had to present one myself as member of the welcome-to-the-family-committee for the bride).

The wedding was elegant, timid, and simply beautiful. Everyone was happy. And the menu… full of local delicacies (and I have a soft spot for Santorini cusine). I spend my time shooting pictures and chatting to the hired photographer. Maybe also dancing a bit. Or more than a bit.

In the end, I can say, the two great nations, the English and the Greeks, felt a little bit closer. Even though the Elgin marbles are still an issue…

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.

Kennedy on the wall

She opened the door. Her size was half of what I remembered. Optical illusion I thought, possibly caused by her back making a perfect 90 degrees angle. She walked towards her couch in an unstable way reminding me of the first steps of a toddler. I was sad seeing her like that, and remembered the old days when I was running around in her living room playing. I always was impressed by the picture hanging on her wall and with my five years of age was amazed that the flag I recognized from my favourite show the “night rider” was in the middle of the picture frame. I never asked who these men were but I was sure that she was a cool aunt having that cool flag in her living room.

This time it was not the flag that amazed me but the images of the men. JFK and Bobby Kennedy separated by the statue of liberty. I listened to her story about the Greek civil war in her village involving a priest and a shepherd taking opposite sides in the war because of a woman. She was a practical person, toughened by the wars, never educated. She actually managed to go up to third grade before having to take care of the orphaned household and tend to the animals.

I had to look elsewhere to understand the origins of the picture on the wall. The two dead brothers seemed out of place in a Greek household in late 2008. Her late husband was not interested in politics either. Bringing up three children with only his two hands to work with did not leave him much time to ponder. Aparently the story of the Kennedies penetrated his shell of hard work and minding his own business… he was deeply moved by the assassination of someone different, who supported a more liberal society.

One day in a street market he found a Palestinian man selling hand made tapestries with the assassinated brothers. The Palestinian spoke of his country, and of the love his country had for JFK. The women of his family made these tapestries so he could make some money for them. Georgios found some hope in the existence of such politicians and as a true Greek was inspired by assassinated leaders.

Forty years later I was sitting opposite this tapestry wondering what its future would be. Grand children inheriting it most likely would not appreciate it for its aesthetic value, as it has none. As for its emotional value… it will be lost with its owners. Dead leaders of the 1960s have no place in a modern home.

Maybe that should be part of my inheritance. Next time I will ask for it.