tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76470639079870514272024-02-02T05:49:24.049+00:00Modern NomadAcademics here and there or... Leading a gypsy lifeModern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-54153660166856378302011-02-03T15:28:00.003+00:002011-02-03T15:34:33.000+00:00Dom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZMyC1NRJPL6PDC5PonXjryPek3OjWXB3NXmfWpOp1qvlKYnfKAi9uZ8X7ybEL15DpOuL13jt3KatyNK5XHoxCjV3aWdk__4DyJEQ2EQk9hF_D5zyzNxDcoK-CPahL56Ho4qFhp29beU/s1600/LEGO_K%25C3%25B6lner_Dom_3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZMyC1NRJPL6PDC5PonXjryPek3OjWXB3NXmfWpOp1qvlKYnfKAi9uZ8X7ybEL15DpOuL13jt3KatyNK5XHoxCjV3aWdk__4DyJEQ2EQk9hF_D5zyzNxDcoK-CPahL56Ho4qFhp29beU/s320/LEGO_K%25C3%25B6lner_Dom_3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569486857762995458" /></a><br /><br /><br />Most of the times it stands there, glorious and scary. Imposing on you whatever it is that it was build to impose. <br /><br />But sometimes it seems out of place. Like a construction made from LEGO pieces. A thing out of a movie set, that after the shooting will be demolished and its LEGO pieces will be soon be part of something else. <br /><br />this thought is more comforting. Simply because its perfection and beauty does not, and never will, excuse the motivation for which it was build.<br /><br />Not as a sacred prayer place, but as a symbol of power, to scare and impose.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-86562956180089376542011-01-04T10:33:00.001+00:002011-01-04T10:36:43.968+00:00The taxi driver<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9C-tjI8-VzcSZn2JbYLNBXTMD1pAzfIHaeqEvEpVUQcQnApcJA2zhFv8KJ5a2LjhZ4qiFFGpjxkjeJ0fxvO95BqvaN0stYlGv0nr1wpqRSBzMHFh3RBwInCkCIhPlcB5DS24C5Jkfxlk/s1600/taxi-thessaloniki.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9C-tjI8-VzcSZn2JbYLNBXTMD1pAzfIHaeqEvEpVUQcQnApcJA2zhFv8KJ5a2LjhZ4qiFFGpjxkjeJ0fxvO95BqvaN0stYlGv0nr1wpqRSBzMHFh3RBwInCkCIhPlcB5DS24C5Jkfxlk/s320/taxi-thessaloniki.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558277747720590018" /></a><br /><br /><br />Even the most homogenous species produce an eccentric outlier. This person either dies out due to inability to adapt to the environment or he leads the new evolutionary leap of the species opening new horizons. <br /><br />I was sure I had an individual destined for the second option, rare though it is, sitting in the driver’s seat last Saturday night. Way past midnight - a time when all other means of public transport sleep in Thessaloniki - the lonely taxi driver was pulling long shifts. We, small group of not particularly regular night-wonderers, took a taxi to return home in the late hours. <br /><br />The late 1980s taxi showed clear difficulty to drive properly, but this is not to be considered a problem in Greece of crisis. The interior of the taxi though, resembled a living room (not mine… but that of a more high-Tec person’s). The driver had installed apart from the traditional GPS tom tom, also a portable DVD player on the controls console. On the flat screen we could see a popular show of the Greek television… live. The driver had connected the DVD player with an antenna to connect to proper television. <br /><br />His driving was a master performance of multitasking. Consulting his tom tom was driving while watching TV singing along to the songs performed at the show and watching pictures on his mobile phone and sending text messages. <br /><br />Most men, as they claim, are incapable of multitasking, to the extent that they cannot walk and talk at the same time. Thus this taxi driver is definitely the eccentric outlier that will bring the species forward. <br /><br />Now, I can feel this discontent about health and safety at work, regulations for safe driving and respect towards costumers. I thing my dear readers that you are missing the whole evolutionary point here. This man manages entertainment, safe driving and earning a living all at once. Can you beat that?<br /><br />We got home safely, it was Christmas time and Baby Jesus owed us a couple of presents, you see. Sadly I did not note down his registration number to report him as I should. I thought I will let evolution do the job, of either killing himself and a set of passengers or developing superhuman powers and bringing the species forward. <br /><br />Did I mention he was also smoking?Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-85818517037699112722010-12-08T21:21:00.001+00:002011-02-08T09:59:31.314+00:00Tribute to the Beatle and his girl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FNk7hfTUP8amPCreFgN7LVMusVggBrYaK2nJzrNEpTQ8vB1n0bX8dwnB-5tyRWowWkvejTtOS6QMArY1mvvk4anNhOR-PER8xKdvWakyxogzS-_BgdNeVnzLxrg_Or1ote1jd1LgMcc/s1600/MUmandDad.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FNk7hfTUP8amPCreFgN7LVMusVggBrYaK2nJzrNEpTQ8vB1n0bX8dwnB-5tyRWowWkvejTtOS6QMArY1mvvk4anNhOR-PER8xKdvWakyxogzS-_BgdNeVnzLxrg_Or1ote1jd1LgMcc/s320/MUmandDad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548424777603156178" /></a><br /><br /><br />In 1995 I went to Odessa. Being so young I had to be placed in the care of a family. I don’t know what you imagine about Ukraine in the mid 1990s but it was not at all like that. <br /><br />The father was a very Russian-looking Ukrainian (that is what my memory of a 14-year-old tells me), very tall and squared, with beard and red cheeks. Also, very proud of his vodka (and his capacity to drink endless amounts of it). His way of showing me his country was to offer me few glasses and give me some pickled vegetables. It worked. My Russian became fluent after that (don’t ask…).<br /><br />The mother was a nurse, a very useful mother of two. She was fit and sporty and was full of positive energy. Not at all motherly to my Greek eyes, where a mum should be at least size 18. Her way of introducing me to all things Ukrainian was to take me to the famous stairs of Odessa, and then to her hospital where I could see the state of the art equipment for ill children. Sadly, I was not interested, and mine and hers limited English did not help the communication.<br /><br />The oldest daughter was my age, very round faced and happy-jumpy. She was exited that she could communicate in a language other than her own (you know the feeling, after all, this gibberish they teach us at school called English are actually useful for communicated with other bipeds). The youngest daughter was drawing non-stop princes and princesses (communist did not affect children imagination after all). <br /><br />After a few glasses of vodka the father of the family was ready to make a statement. He looked at me very carefully and he said something in Russian which was later translated to me: I think I know why you look familiar to me! You look like John Lenon and Yoko Ono at the same time! Incredible!<br /><br />Lenon was killed on December 8th 1980. I was born on January 24th 1981. <br /><br />I am their lost child.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-40481524312047246202010-11-28T20:19:00.003+00:002010-11-28T20:27:15.996+00:00The pre-teens phase<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZ5ivpQxqQZ_A3fq7bJHpCDV0CwT1yDTZNFL1AYVKXVH-dRv-VBDBzb14jvdDFi4rJiWm6R3lyo-F5I8DAUmpvDQrA8pq4x7X3w2-VK7B4Y_Gh7d6aMGGwRg-RG6YX31QzhUGVkmAuKQ/s1600/revolutionkids.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZ5ivpQxqQZ_A3fq7bJHpCDV0CwT1yDTZNFL1AYVKXVH-dRv-VBDBzb14jvdDFi4rJiWm6R3lyo-F5I8DAUmpvDQrA8pq4x7X3w2-VK7B4Y_Gh7d6aMGGwRg-RG6YX31QzhUGVkmAuKQ/s320/revolutionkids.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544698896786850402" /></a><br /><br />It seems that blabbering about previous forms of existences, even on a blog, has its costs. These costs I will pay right now by providing my views and some examples of Greek music. <br /><br />Let’s start with the disclaimer. <br /><br />My choice of songs is by no means representative of any music stream. Neither is it a selection based on quality. The only thing that these songs have in common is that they compose the soundtrack of my early adolescence. Nothing more, nothing less. It is quite likely that many people of my generation (yes, of those born too late and doomed to easy freedom) will recognize the songs, but I doubt that many of them will get watery eyes.<br /><br />Using my dad’s old radio and a new portable tape-recorder after hours of careful waiting and excellent reflexes I managed to create few tapes of my favourite music. The secret was to recognize the song from the first few notes, then run to the recorder (where you already had an empty tape waiting) press “REC” and hope that your grandmother did not arrive that precise moment to ask you if you had eaten your eggs or if you wanted chocolate. (I have a very caring grandmother who knows nothing about music).<br /><br />Moving on to my immature revolution (click the titles to go to the youtube video of each song)<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOEAmkVDfPc&feature=related">I am collapsing. </a><br /><br /><br />This is the first song I will throw at you, my poor audience. You have to realize that the quality of music resonates the great moments of 1980s as they filtered through post-dictatorship Greece. This is essentially a love song, about a man who cannot understand his woman. She is a girl of her times doing all the things a 1980s girl does: turning feminist, wanting a free love relationship that includes experiences with all kinds of men, a communist, a Christian, a junkie.. The man implores her to decide what she wants. In the refrain he tells us he is collapsing, that he can’t keep on loving women and he asks Papandreou (Andreas, the prime minister of that time) to give him a ministerial position, to forget women.<br />The song is a happy jumpy one, perfect for a seven-year old who knows the names of all cabinet ministers (yes, that was me).<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AN582TebIYM&feature=related">We are room-mates in madness</a><br /><br />This was a poem that made it into a song. Like all poems it is hard to tell what it really is about. Adult me can try to decipher what eight-year old me left unquestioned. It discusses the role of rationality in political and social choices and the twisted use of the words victory and defeat. It makes references to historical events like: Burning of Troy, Hitler’s Nazism, Defeat of Hannibal, Oedipus and Salome. Very deep… but back then I used to listen to it and march around the coffee table with my mum’s wrap around me, pretending I was Hannibal even though I had no idea who he was until few years later.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S9j5lsPcIbg&feature=related">The street</a><br /><br /><br />Don’t play this loud. The Police will come and get us! Thus spoke my little cousin and that was enough to keep this song in my heart for ever. Written to describe the ways people treat freedom this song presents the story of a street. First freedom represented a crazy idea, a dream that only kids dared to imagine. Then life brought entertainment, football and fights, moving finally to economic wonders and consumerism… forgetting ideology and freedom. It is a song easily learned by kids. Later I had to sing this at school at the anniversary of 17th November, thus, my illusions that it was illegal disappeared, but I still feel I am doing something great for freedom when I sing it.<br /><br />To be continued…Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-58659375213800377752010-11-23T21:56:00.004+00:002010-11-23T22:20:04.203+00:00The songs of my adolescenceThere are very few things from one's adolescence that he can be proud of. <br />If I could burn all these pictures of me with long fluffy hair, sprayed to imitate my fashion idols of the early 1990s, the big red chicks and the tooth braces, I would. I would also erase the memories of my horrid clothes, reminding me that the 1980s culture arrived to Greece just half a decade too late, just to force me to look like Robocop with a pair of enormous shoulder pads. <br /><br />The worst of all are the feelings of inadequacy and false revolutionism that come with this. Maybe it was just the bad timing of me growing up in the aftermath of democratization, but I truly wanted to be part of something big. Go to the streets and shout ala May 1968 or November 1973. Sadly, no tanks came against me, and no gendarmerie tried to stop me. Instead, an overprotective mother told me to be back by 9pm "because I say so". And so I did.<br /><br />Obedience.<br /><br />I kept though a small space of revolution in the form of a small radio. There I could listen to songs that my cousin secretly had told me that were illegal and I should not play them loudly, because the police could come and arrest us. He had overheard our parents' discussion about the times of the dictatorship and in his childish mind this created some great confusions. That stuck with me. The "illegal" songs were constantly on the radio, as an alternative to the ever-growing pop music industry. I refused to become fashionable and I listened day-in day-out to my imaginary-illegal songs. <br /><br />The result? A hopeless romantic dreaming about a better society, heroic lovers and grand voyages. <br /><br />Now, having adopted a cynical view of life, these songs remind me who I am and are there for any emotional moment of my life. Illegal only in the sense that they come from a different time... But nobody dares saying "Oh you still listen to that??". It seems I have many accomplices in this story. Many hopeless romantics neo-cynics that never forget the songs of their adolescence.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-53166836696716047322010-11-15T08:38:00.003+00:002010-11-15T08:42:43.257+00:00What do the numbers tell us<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhewm_oEGgZPkSCZL7TWQHmBvbNR2qp-0EW6WbPYmMQCb3NT8wGn05zM6JaaJBRfJUd76Lb_S798f_RAYMw5PKEp-mMbn9k9vrfYq5S20SMt6n-6iuDnqne4ZN6v0cy6HN2YGIIRUJNE/s1600/kalpi_02_h_633_451.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRhewm_oEGgZPkSCZL7TWQHmBvbNR2qp-0EW6WbPYmMQCb3NT8wGn05zM6JaaJBRfJUd76Lb_S798f_RAYMw5PKEp-mMbn9k9vrfYq5S20SMt6n-6iuDnqne4ZN6v0cy6HN2YGIIRUJNE/s320/kalpi_02_h_633_451.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539693909099359394" /></a><br /><br />Today, I regained my full confidence to the Greek race. I had a good look at the election results and now I can tell you I am proud. In a totally crazy situation with a lot of sacrifice, a lot of fear and desperation the Greek voter gave a clear message to the political system as a whole. <br /><br />No camp should be allowed to celebrate. The turnout was the lowest since the birth of the Greek democracy. People felt that their vote would not make any difference so they simply did not bother. And ten percent of those who did bother showed their discontent and disagreement with the political scene by voting blank or purposefully destroying their ballot paper. I truly honor these people, who go to queue, spend part of their day just to send this clear message. <br /><br />And those who voted? The results showed the deep questioning that takes place in the heads, and the hearts if you want, of the voters. The old party candidates representing a much hated political establishment could not easily be defeated and the new ‘fresh’ voices supported but not generated by the same establishment (ok but different party) could not easily gain majority. The main fear was wether, having gained power, they would just join and re-enforce the establishment, throwing away their ‘alternative hat’. In the end positive thinking won but only by few hundreds of voter. <br /><br />PASOK, the governing party, did not lose, but has no reason to celebrate. Their candidates won in the two major cities but only because they did not come from within traditional party lines. New Democracy, the major opposition party, did not manage to capitalize on public discontent against the horrid government measures. They have no reason to celebrate either. The largest losers of these elections were these ecclesiastical voices that attempted to manipulate the electoral result. Church should not be a political actor in any democratic state, and this result was a slap in the face of militant bishops. And there cannot be a better result than that. <br /><br />Now, what remains is to see what the ‘fresh’ elected mayors will do with their power. Will they re-produce old habits and finally cause more political desperation leading voters to new dead-ends and finally increasing the percentage of blank votes, or will they actually engage in meaningful work? Time will show. In the meantime, I will be proud of the Greek voters and will secretly hope that eventually they will produce more engaged citizens.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-45728015272282851792010-05-20T21:57:00.002+01:002010-05-20T22:04:10.642+01:00FatherlandA short story - My first attempt in fiction<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtKP3kVQpqkoVGpMkW9mqsROVfmNRrnmPttlfPCJDgkOWycDdDWpM51KnvigBicGdNyTIN5Pka8z3igbj6yLMDnhEgCcu6ZhyFLXREuohJeV-0rzHEfIV18z67zxEwSQ3WzmkkONd2yw/s1600/26756_386980181860_670071860_4573833_2007010_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtKP3kVQpqkoVGpMkW9mqsROVfmNRrnmPttlfPCJDgkOWycDdDWpM51KnvigBicGdNyTIN5Pka8z3igbj6yLMDnhEgCcu6ZhyFLXREuohJeV-0rzHEfIV18z67zxEwSQ3WzmkkONd2yw/s320/26756_386980181860_670071860_4573833_2007010_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473460790150067474" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My father was born in 1938. It was a difficult birth, both for the mother and the country. The country was struggling to feed all these newcomers of 1922, who landed unwashed and unclothed seeking a new home and doubling the population. The country do the best it could to offer at least basic survival needs to all of them, but it did not guarantee them an easy life. The mother, being one of the unclothed, gave birth to one short-lived child after the other, she worked hard and made herself important in her small community. She was the midwife of the village. When the country was already deep into yet another dictatorship, comprehending slowly the local breed of fascism the mother gave birth to the eighth child, hoping that this time she would see the baby grow. <br /><br />My father took his first insecure steps when the Germans marched proudly across Europe. The country only bothered with the later. My father brought so much happiness to his family. The only boy who survived child mortality. As the country suffered, he learned to speak during the German occupation. The country and his belly were hungry, the country and his limbs where numb and cold. <br /><br />When liberation came he thought it was the beginning of the happy times. The whole country was out and about celebrating and cheering. But one day in the fields, he found his dad half dead. Sun-stroke and daily life struggle taxed him. He tried hard not to choose, but when he was forced to, he chose death and left them alone to struggle. A small loss among the many. The long and bitter civil war taxed many fathers, sons and daughters, pushing the country into darker times. My father was lost and scared, he was going through his own dark times. The fight could not last too long, like a bad illness it forced for a decision to be made. The country belonged to the West, the war finished, and my father went to school for the first time. Few years too late. Just like the country entered the post-war era few years too late. <br /><br />The country was a good student of the Western powers, did its homework and got rewards. My father was the brightest child at school. He was not left to herd the village sheep, he did his homework, he got rewards. The church, herding souls and politics, offered him a scholarship to herd his mind towards more education. The country slowly but steadily re-build itself, under the supervision of Western Powers and its very own Church. My father builds himself slowly but steadily, walking to the closest town with a high school, even in the snow storm without much of shoes, to get education under the supervision of the teacher and the bishop. The country begs its allies for money to build industry, my father begs his mother for two eggs to buy a notebook for calligraphy. <br /><br />Early sixties, the country wakes up to more social demands. My father demands higher education. The workers movements become stronger. The tobacco workers are a strong union and are supported by the pivotal agrarian party. My father is a tobacco worker child. They ask for more education, he gets their scholarship. The country feels too old and rigid to pass more socialist leaning legislation. My father feels too old to follow his dream and study medicine. He goes for the useful, economics. <br />The country experiences a huge wave of urbanization. My father moves to the city. Student demonstrations, money to education not to the monarchy! My father studies and shouts. The country balances financially. My father has a full belly. Just as the democratic left makes it into parliament my father graduates. He is now an economist. The country is still a democracy. Joy all around.<br /><br />The country cannot feed everybody. Many have already left to countries with grey skies and more jobs. They also have better universities. So my father, without speaking anything but Greek, heads to Germany. The country, without speaking anything but Greek, heads to a period of political turbulence. <br /><br />He struggles to learn the language, to earn money, to make friends. The country is put in plaster to get cured. The dictatorship starts. My father becomes a fashionable émigré of an abused country. He organizes awareness events, resistance speeches, and when the country experiences the worse oppression he becomes the chairman of the émigrés. As the tanks attack the Polytechnic, he is in divided Berlin protesting. He is on hunger strike. <br /><br />The country wins over its oppressors. My father gets his PhD. The leader returns, monarchy is abolished. My father returns home and reunites with his family. It is a period of great joy. Everybody wants to help to rebuild the country. The air is full of ideals, happiness and democracy; all the big words. The country builds its democracy. My father is determined to help the country and his roots: the refugees of 1922, the tobacco workers, his village. He finds a job, he becomes important. The country joins all the international organizations and eyes the European Communities. <br /><br />The big 1978 earthquake of his city shakes all the citizens. It also shakes his world. He meets his future wife, gets married. The country is experiencing a new era. The time for change has come. The moment is the elections of 1981, when the socialist government takes over for the first time ever. The whole country is in joyful frenzy. His daughter is born, the year of the change. Joyful frenzy in the family too. The country joined the European Communities. <br /><br />Glorious times for the average citizen start, as the socialist government can offer something to everyone. Glorious times for my father, as now was the time he could offer. The youthfulness of the country provoked hope and joy. My father’s ambitions grew bigger and so did his child. <br />At the end of the eighties politics became a difficult game to play. But my father had ambitions, and ideals and people to help. So he played along. With every change of government the public sector enlarged, making a bigger whole in the national debt. With every electoral campaign my father gave a new blow to the family budget, which looked similar to the national debt. As corruption creped in the government, lies and mistrust solidified the silence between my father and his wife. The financial scandals left many things better untold, for the country and my father. <br />As the country joined the common European currency my father’s daughter embraced her European future. <br /><br />The country was dancing in a European music, imposing itself to an illusion of prosperity with borrowed money. As the country covered with loans the public deficit, the citizens fed their consumer needs with credit cards. The country was promoting democratic ideals for public consumption and my father was fighting to give his dreams a last chance. Public finances got out of control. My father’s budget got out of control. Corruption dressed as democracy became the rule in the country. Corruption dressed as charity blinded my father. He gave too much, he could not afford it any more. <br />Now the country woke up to its bankrupt future. Those who believed in it revolt. Those who love it despair. Nothing can be the same any more. My father, just like his country, woke up to the same dead-end, frightening those who believed in him, despairing those who loved him. Austerity and insecurity faces both. <br />The country and my father always had a parallel life. The country and my father cause me always the same feelings. Pride, love, sadness, despair, fear, insecurity, pain.<br /><br />That is why it is called Fatherland.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-72888638211854497392010-05-06T17:08:00.000+01:002010-05-18T17:09:06.588+01:00(just before the) British Elections 2010Today I was expecting to count ballots, even from afar. To be excited about what may come. Will Britain finally embrace the European tradition of coalitions? Will they learn to work together or will they keep being the deeply divided society where social classes have their own separate vocabulary and they prepare their tea in different ways?<br /><br />That was what I expected.<br /><br />But now, instead, I am counting dead bodies in Greece. Victims of the anger of a people that held their breath for too long. <br /><br />Sorry Britain, I am sure you will survive even with a hung parliament. I have bigger fish to fry today.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-33103531712217277232010-03-07T16:13:00.001+00:002010-03-07T16:17:27.635+00:00What’s so great about England?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6kAN6bvhYaoOfZsG17AqFZPjtIE-0kfxpQB0VhhwZ6xhfsT6GiTdUqDiTFG4dzazMKU8r3ec6s68478npx80X0nlI9OdmtI5vkP2pyXJ3Dkizqk3HRns6-pmoEC2CvIAu0W3uL976aI/s1600-h/DSC09748.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6kAN6bvhYaoOfZsG17AqFZPjtIE-0kfxpQB0VhhwZ6xhfsT6GiTdUqDiTFG4dzazMKU8r3ec6s68478npx80X0nlI9OdmtI5vkP2pyXJ3Dkizqk3HRns6-pmoEC2CvIAu0W3uL976aI/s320/DSC09748.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445926660123058370" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Having taken enough physical mental and time distance from the island, I can say now officially, I miss it. Don’t start looking at me with those bit eyes full of surprise… or is it something else?<br />Wanting it or not (mostly not) England was my home for the best part of my adult years this far. It is there, where I learned how to interact with other adults on equal terms, deal with authorities and survive bureaucracy. So now, I have moved worlds choosing as my new planet a place without queuing traditions but with widely know good cuisine, a place that everybody acknowledges as a “great place to be”. So, how do I dare miss England?<br /><br />Okay, step back for a moment. I don’t miss everything about it. I don’t miss the teenage mums, the dirty streets on Sunday morning, the cold feeling in the gut until I get home Friday night after pub closing time, the train delays, the shops closing at five (or rather the world closing at five). Plenty of things I do not miss. <br /><br />What do I miss? <br /><br />First and foremost, I miss that in England, this great little country, everybody knows what to expect. There is a certain order, there is a certain routine, even in the most un-orderly of situations. You know that when you enter a restaurant you have to wait to be seated, while in a pub you have to go find the seat that suits you unassisted. You know that customer service people will greed you with a smile, will be full of thank yous and pleases and I beg your pardons, and they will even be sorry for your inconvenience. Well not really, but they will say so. It is part of the game. <br /><br />When you enter the country it upsets you, then you get used to it, when you leave you miss it. The world out there is a jungle without these unwritten rules.<br /><br />I also miss the pubs, the ones with good real ale, some nicely made burgers and interesting customers who can tell you stories from the old days. <br /><br />I miss the bookstores, that had books in a language I can understand, and that had logically designed sections.<br /><br />I miss the bbc iplayer. My only contact to pop culture. <br /><br />I miss the high street shops, where I knew where I could find the things I need, sparing me the time of wondering around for three hours in a tourist invaded city centre. <br /><br />But above all I miss Indian restaurants.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong… Italy is a great place, which I still need to explore to more detail. But England was the awkward place I was used to. And like with bad relationships, habit is the critical factor. <br /><br />Now, is time I give Italy a chance.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-7668986328749249412010-02-11T21:41:00.000+00:002010-02-11T21:43:11.261+00:00Ein Tisch ist ein TischI am in Florence. I walk alone in the cold. <br /><br />All this moving around has not changed my habit of talking to myself out loud while I am convinced (and most of the time I am convinced) that there is nobody around to hear me. The empty streets around Campo di Marte make sure that I wont be mistaken (?) for a crazy person. <br /><br />So, I talk to myself, or to imaginary others. Nothing wrong with this, do not try to make me feel that I am weird. Everybody does it. Yes, even you. But I am weird, I know it. Simply because I can define the language I use to talk to myself. Being me, I understand most of my languages. Mixing and matching them as I walk past traffic lights, supermarkets, and bus stops, makes perfect sense to me. I think though few others would feel the same. <br /><br />The problem starts when one leaves their country and changes the default language, the one of common reference. The second and most important level is when one starts developing concepts in the second default language that did not exist in the first. Now imagine one makes this move several times… <br /><br />I ended up in a situation where my default language is not the language of my country of origin, not the language of the country I live, not the language of my significant someone and not the language of the people I hang out with. <br /><br />I work, talk, dream, write, speak in English, but I buy bread in Italian, read French at breakfast, talk on the phone in Greek, have the occasional drink in German, and overhear conversations in Spanish. The rest of the languages I ignore in an attempt to keep my sanity. The result though remains the same. My head contains a language soup.<br /><br />My Chinese colleague, who has spent all her adult life in Germany, speaks perfect English, only with at least two German words in each sentence. My only problem with this, is that I do not notice… it makes perfect sense to me, which simply confirms my language soup hypothesis.<br /><br />I write my shopping list and I catch myself using four different languages. No sane person does this. In the end I will find myself using English words in German syntax with Italian verb endings and French accent: My own Esperanto that nobody shares.<br /><br />I remind myself of this old pensioner, who lonely and bored with his life, he created a language game. Calling the bed a “table”, the table a “chair”, the chair a “window” and so on… he isolated himself completely from society, not being able to communicate. Nobody understood why he wanted to sleep on the table, eat at the chair while sitting on the window. <br /><br />Okay, my case is not quite that bad. I still call the table a table, but communicating anything beyond that takes quite a bit of effort. Moving yet to another country might though have fatal consequencies on my ability to use this simple tool: language. Back to the time of the apes.<br /><br />Ich will von einem alten Mann erzählen, von einem Mann, der kein Wort mehr sagt, ein müdes Gesicht hat, zu müd zum Lächeln und zu müd, um böse zu sein.<br /><br />For the brave among you, children’s (of all things!) story by the Swiss Peter Bichsel. <br /><a href="http://www.yolanthe.de/stories/bichsel01.htm">Ein Tisch ist ein Tisch</a><br /><br />(Ask google to translate if your German does not help you)Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-68181791654658096692010-01-07T21:35:00.003+00:002010-01-07T21:40:19.164+00:00Weddings: Chicago<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKD3No3925b51HjEm1NQMJxYo76NItWIfBo3FEJUOdr6WM3lswCejs71ufKgf7ypJJyqGjnQzrxuAXwdtJV1No9Nb_Uu7gT0I61k5P990B9NWnz5R2drB2-xRJqV6voJbgkWB_abcs6s/s1600-h/Picture+642.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLKD3No3925b51HjEm1NQMJxYo76NItWIfBo3FEJUOdr6WM3lswCejs71ufKgf7ypJJyqGjnQzrxuAXwdtJV1No9Nb_Uu7gT0I61k5P990B9NWnz5R2drB2-xRJqV6voJbgkWB_abcs6s/s320/Picture+642.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424115965822429186" /></a><br /><br />I first noticed the cold, and then anything else. The second day of 2010 the temperature in Chicago reached minus Fahrenheit. You can imagine how bad it was in Celsius.<br />And here I was, in my green summer thin dress posing for pictures in a rainforest themed conservatorium. My only thought was: at least I am not outside in the snow. <br /><br />The day started for me at 5.45am, the alarm went off to wake the bride-to-be, who was sleeping next to me. So my duty started, taking pictures of her inability to wake up. The she rushed here and there. Hairdresser, make-up artist, bride’s maids, family paraded through my room in the early hours before 7am. Armed with coffee and bagels we all got pretty in our green dresses and saw Jane transforming from a rugby girl into a beautiful bride. <br /><br />To me this was the first wedding I attended that I actually cared about the couple. A true friend got married, and I ventured all the way to the other side of the Atlantic to witness it. Jane is the first of my Elmstead girls of the Essex gang to say ‘I do’.<br /><br />The ceremony took place in the back room of a Korean restaurant somewhere north of the river in Chicago. It was very emotional, touching everybody’s heart, as two young people from different continents got over the hurdles posed by geography and USA immigration agency and finally managed to be together. <br /><br />Jane, an American girl with strong Korean background and Lee an Englishman with Irish roots, finally found home in each other. And people from three continents came to celebrate. <br /><br />This wedding taught me a lot: <br />If you believe in something and you work on it really hard, it can come true. (Quite handy for my low moments). <br />Even with a small budget you can create a truly memorable moment for the people close to you. (Also handy for my academic salary)<br />There must be at least six different kinds of cake. (If you know Jane that comes as no surprise) <br />I don’t hate Korean food. (Now that… nobody expected)Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-31202235367013662902009-11-11T15:04:00.001+00:002009-11-11T21:41:22.201+00:00Be mobile and freeze your eggsAs 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:<br /><br />There are lots of grants out there for brilliant ideas, you just need to be aware of them.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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!Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-43284730999954022792009-10-27T21:57:00.003+00:002009-11-02T22:00:14.444+00:00Smoking Ban in Greece: Three months onPassing 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. <br />My trip to autumnal post-smoking ban Greece was about to shake my smoke-free world.<br />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. <br />As the cold creped in so did the numerous amendments and interpretations of what started its career as a total smoking ban. <br />So the total ban that I saw was far from being total…. With the following amendments:<br />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.<br />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!)<br />3. Big nightclubs, with the traditional bouzouki where in the old days the best clients broke some plates reaching maximum entertainment. <br />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. <br /><br />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. <br />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!<br /><br />The irony....Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-3064498314015207232009-10-14T23:00:00.006+01:002009-10-14T23:20:25.771+01:00Walking back to Florence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QtHrjCUXuUg6S4_WoqkrPqq56DQdCLdr73huWmDaSQw0Mp7UiZkO9ILEi3XV3ajzg0i05pUVRZGfTfPynhiY3giStuPWWYaNftH8VzNP4Udsi1a0VTalehH6jdTrXfyF-PJ9cncukBc/s1600-h/DSC02586.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4QtHrjCUXuUg6S4_WoqkrPqq56DQdCLdr73huWmDaSQw0Mp7UiZkO9ILEi3XV3ajzg0i05pUVRZGfTfPynhiY3giStuPWWYaNftH8VzNP4Udsi1a0VTalehH6jdTrXfyF-PJ9cncukBc/s320/DSC02586.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392580122658906162" /></a><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />The hike was mainly rolling down a Tuscan hill, but with undeserved, spectacular views of the valley below. Our first target: <a href="http://www.abbeys-of-tuscany.com/certosa_galluzzo.htm">La Certosa</a>. <br /><br />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 <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carthusian">carthusian</a> 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)<br /><br />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.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEDYukNdlbrqrOXAw4hmVz1wJLr3B-q0hlXEpHHsrIOfoAWNOemsqYSk5dHdncCh6pNWoTM5gd-T4nVwAjwSAfLA-Qn_jOZPAiuYfy_os2cey04d2pZMBvCe3eC1qHKsUD5Ra0VUWino/s1600-h/DSC02635.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaEDYukNdlbrqrOXAw4hmVz1wJLr3B-q0hlXEpHHsrIOfoAWNOemsqYSk5dHdncCh6pNWoTM5gd-T4nVwAjwSAfLA-Qn_jOZPAiuYfy_os2cey04d2pZMBvCe3eC1qHKsUD5Ra0VUWino/s320/DSC02635.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392580571155371570" /></a> <br /><br />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!Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-14756970152925834002009-10-10T16:46:00.003+01:002009-10-10T16:53:57.493+01:00Είπαν... (just a quote...)Έφυγε για αλλού και αλλού.<br />Όπως κάθε παιδί που αφήνει τον τόπο του, μα όχι ο τόπος το παιδί. <br /><br />Ζ.Ζ.<br />(She left for other places. Like every child that leaves her home town, but never does the home town leave the child.)Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-71445561987809574722009-09-11T08:00:00.001+01:002009-09-24T21:38:51.247+01:00First days in Florence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3_c-kXqjauzsTQre2C09PItFnfLTFqlCgtPqZRiEEqlypvMBOQlPT7plgXqBzdTF353IbswBP_VN3sz2Knw6szcya9EI9folHVvjP-NCtXYeRbKQOvOUEwNLCiKvT-0xWaJd7-KB6090/s1600-h/DSC02298.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3_c-kXqjauzsTQre2C09PItFnfLTFqlCgtPqZRiEEqlypvMBOQlPT7plgXqBzdTF353IbswBP_VN3sz2Knw6szcya9EI9folHVvjP-NCtXYeRbKQOvOUEwNLCiKvT-0xWaJd7-KB6090/s320/DSC02298.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385136175739075458" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />But with what cost…<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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…<br /><br />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. <br />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)<br /> 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?]<br /><br />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). <br />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. <br />Until I find my way around this city, or until this city finds its way around me…<br /><br />But in the meantime I miss England more than just the anticipated little bit. Not for anything else, but for its ability to accommodate.Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-36314332147193584932009-09-10T22:00:00.000+01:002009-09-11T07:58:41.914+01:00The EU Health and Safety Regulations and the sheepYou 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. <br /><br />Then they make a bill. Then they vote for it. Then it passes. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Oh not again! Now it is time to stretch my legs. <br />Farewell!<br />Baaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-71719851209269575462009-08-14T21:46:00.003+01:002009-08-14T21:51:11.576+01:00Basqueball<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVd2TrWTq2n0UIqdInSnCr3oWA91vwhgLaqqdT_nvN9o5Utfq7yYbg3QKaaJsR6xn8eggFwKhyphenhyphenuU5_xYtIPyYe6y45FBoza8xzzl-Mhyphenhyphen1UBMziGLwjILTHqTNGBqQHvqQ4geuK_61ZD9s/s1600-h/DSC01671.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVd2TrWTq2n0UIqdInSnCr3oWA91vwhgLaqqdT_nvN9o5Utfq7yYbg3QKaaJsR6xn8eggFwKhyphenhyphenuU5_xYtIPyYe6y45FBoza8xzzl-Mhyphenhyphen1UBMziGLwjILTHqTNGBqQHvqQ4geuK_61ZD9s/s320/DSC01671.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369924197943569730" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br />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. <br />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…<br /><br />Oh and the count of points is sang in Basque. Quite an experience.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />And I am hooked!Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-35706161770968522112009-07-10T18:04:00.002+01:002009-07-10T18:05:51.637+01:00Weddings: Santorini<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7hOnlXtiwIRhoyPwLVmauX9ecym1DnBC_GtN6aXgwD3XFktXO33J7893FtcxzhUYvwkotCmHpFNMTru8KBZADerBqEban4_rOffIJIBSrXP1bLIHF1QZP1WZXd58kkPXkm5ruzamwIew/s1600-h/DSC00520.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7hOnlXtiwIRhoyPwLVmauX9ecym1DnBC_GtN6aXgwD3XFktXO33J7893FtcxzhUYvwkotCmHpFNMTru8KBZADerBqEban4_rOffIJIBSrXP1bLIHF1QZP1WZXd58kkPXkm5ruzamwIew/s320/DSC00520.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356878720638517986" /></a><br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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…<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-81302142544869446742009-04-29T17:04:00.002+01:002009-05-26T13:57:00.928+01:00The hat of nationality change +1Monday morning 8.30am El. Venizelos airport, Athens<br /><br />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.<br />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: <br />1. A lottery ticket seller<br />2. An unfortunate lady begging for money<br />3. An unfortunate lady selling lighters<br />4. A lottery ticket seller (yes, a second one)<br />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). <br />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?<br />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]. <br />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!<br />9.45 I wonder how many spinach pies I have to eat to pass my time until my flight...<br />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!<br /><br />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).Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-66303974294073573462009-03-17T22:59:00.005+00:002009-06-26T15:34:31.713+01:00You 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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br />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?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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…<br /><br />Let's forget about tomorrow....<br />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.<br /><br />But for now, I have my cup of tea, and I have the sun. Who needs domani?Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-41086869693995929422009-03-07T02:18:00.002+00:002009-03-07T02:34:01.745+00:00Late night smoke<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilr_d9SknNqvxx_UcrXjZCdvwnYdUIPqLbLqMQSyXs0DBE5jGBVYDiqZJoxXUlR7Ze9JBkA05tNQO3nvhMJcdI7VdzoXIL83BUFG7P8YJ48SbFlBcxArvNl0t4jjrnBfh2jYBga3FLgqY/s1600-h/DSC08723.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilr_d9SknNqvxx_UcrXjZCdvwnYdUIPqLbLqMQSyXs0DBE5jGBVYDiqZJoxXUlR7Ze9JBkA05tNQO3nvhMJcdI7VdzoXIL83BUFG7P8YJ48SbFlBcxArvNl0t4jjrnBfh2jYBga3FLgqY/s320/DSC08723.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310268336773610546" /></a><br /><br />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. <br />Same with people. At first, I hardly know them and then the forces of our personalities mingle and brew their own results. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Fine. <br /><br />And those around your mirror image? How do they react to this not-that-obvious but you-feel-it-under-your-skin similarity?<br /><br />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. <br /><br />Go pick a different fight. Your own.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">These thoughts, at 2am. <br />Accompanied with Golden Virginia tobacco untouched for years. </span>Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-19430464792932288222009-02-09T21:04:00.004+00:002009-02-10T10:08:13.720+00:00Small home-comings: Switzerland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHv3Pi9xajKyclPRZK_K7sYdpsCJCgp-3b7RV-MQg5x4VsGvaftJw3MGwf-opTMLwjKyOEjsA6tHyLsbxEFFB1W8ubJ2BRa8de4DGSjw7sJ0h4n3VEm8rzqmtGA2-wDGJ7JK6V60cmJE/s1600-h/DSC02437.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHv3Pi9xajKyclPRZK_K7sYdpsCJCgp-3b7RV-MQg5x4VsGvaftJw3MGwf-opTMLwjKyOEjsA6tHyLsbxEFFB1W8ubJ2BRa8de4DGSjw7sJ0h4n3VEm8rzqmtGA2-wDGJ7JK6V60cmJE/s320/DSC02437.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300908075213911730" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Staring: Achilleas-Jessica, Erasmia-Andreas, Alexandros-Claudia, Alexia and the little Filippos</span><br /><br />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…<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!”<br /><br />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. <br /><br />How did I manage to turn this travel chronicle into a “Greece hurts me” entry…<br />Back to Switzerland…<br /><br />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, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ax3HmHUK3I&feature=related">click here for sample</a>) 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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioS60RkW_-jpVdY1vHOmknw3d5am1ZqaJ92YLddpZTYqCX1c7GtB_NvLZKXIQxmt7zzXws4iVoFiv0k5293BOurhYNpu5MekrdqnwWzGHmmoaFO9kLPDC3m3MgiC-7dXOuYbgAh3nSEAw/s1600-h/DSC09441.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioS60RkW_-jpVdY1vHOmknw3d5am1ZqaJ92YLddpZTYqCX1c7GtB_NvLZKXIQxmt7zzXws4iVoFiv0k5293BOurhYNpu5MekrdqnwWzGHmmoaFO9kLPDC3m3MgiC-7dXOuYbgAh3nSEAw/s320/DSC09441.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5300908907019738194" /></a>Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-5742646819570242132009-01-25T22:22:00.005+00:002009-01-26T10:51:52.305+00:00Birthday at HomeA 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?<br /><br />The nomad is a person that makes a home in every land, in every city. <br />"Where you live, there is your homeland" says the Greek wisdom, taken from refugees and immigrants of my family. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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…<br /><br />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!<br /><br />And for the first time I did not make a wish before blowing those candles. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_RzAj95AcF8qx9f5F8S7rX5UVjGAUo89corkcHuGxy0Tbefsic7R7icbLkELge27GLAU-ZVz62wPTbGT3nactutDH3U31hyKKFlsOTGV7NFjB7pI5Vk1oIaSmdxzAsQh5WzmUhJyUAQ/s1600-h/Alexia.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_RzAj95AcF8qx9f5F8S7rX5UVjGAUo89corkcHuGxy0Tbefsic7R7icbLkELge27GLAU-ZVz62wPTbGT3nactutDH3U31hyKKFlsOTGV7NFjB7pI5Vk1oIaSmdxzAsQh5WzmUhJyUAQ/s320/Alexia.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295360792952983938" /></a>Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7647063907987051427.post-63134964675831276442009-01-21T19:57:00.002+00:002009-01-21T20:05:58.093+00:00Borrowed ExcitementAs 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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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…<br /><br />And now he can kiss the bride…<br /><br />And so the real marriage starts. Let’s see…Modern Nomadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15360739118591003159noreply@blogger.com0