Modern Nomad

Dom

2011-02-03T15:28:00.003Z

Most of the times it stands there, glorious and scary. Imposing on you whatever it is that it was build to impose.

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.

this thought is more comforting. Simply because its perfection and beauty does not, and never will, excuse the motivation for which it was build.

Not as a sacred prayer place, but as a symbol of power, to scare and impose.

The taxi driver

2011-01-04T10:33:00.001Z

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

Did I mention he was also smoking?

Tribute to the Beatle and his girl

2010-12-08T21:21:00.001Z

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.

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…).

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.

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).

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!

Lenon was killed on December 8th 1980. I was born on January 24th 1981.

I am their lost child.

The pre-teens phase

2010-11-28T20:19:00.003Z

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.

Let’s start with the disclaimer.

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.

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).

Moving on to my immature revolution (click the titles to go to the youtube video of each song)

I am collapsing.

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.
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).

We are room-mates in madness

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.

The street

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.

To be continued…

The songs of my adolescence

2010-11-23T21:56:00.004Z

There are very few things from one's adolescence that he can be proud of.
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.

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.

Obedience.

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.

The result? A hopeless romantic dreaming about a better society, heroic lovers and grand voyages.

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.

What do the numbers tell us

2010-11-15T08:38:00.003Z

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Fatherland

2010-05-20T21:57:00.002+01:00

A short story - My first attempt in fiction

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.
As the country joined the common European currency my father’s daughter embraced her European future.

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.
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.
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.

That is why it is called Fatherland.

(just before the) British Elections 2010

2010-05-06T17:08:00.000+01:00

Today 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?

That was what I expected.

But now, instead, I am counting dead bodies in Greece. Victims of the anger of a people that held their breath for too long.

Sorry Britain, I am sure you will survive even with a hung parliament. I have bigger fish to fry today.

What’s so great about England?

2010-03-07T16:13:00.001Z

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?
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?

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.

What do I miss?

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.

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.

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.

I miss the bookstores, that had books in a language I can understand, and that had logically designed sections.

I miss the bbc iplayer. My only contact to pop culture.

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.

But above all I miss Indian restaurants.

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.

Now, is time I give Italy a chance.

Ein Tisch ist ein Tisch

2010-02-11T21:41:00.000Z

I am in Florence. I walk alone in the cold.

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

For the brave among you, children’s (of all things!) story by the Swiss Peter Bichsel.
Ein Tisch ist ein Tisch

(Ask google to translate if your German does not help you)

Weddings: Chicago

2010-01-07T21:35:00.003Z

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.
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.

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.

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’.

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.

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.

This wedding taught me a lot:
If you believe in something and you work on it really hard, it can come true. (Quite handy for my low moments).
Even with a small budget you can create a truly memorable moment for the people close to you. (Also handy for my academic salary)
There must be at least six different kinds of cake. (If you know Jane that comes as no surprise)
I don’t hate Korean food. (Now that… nobody expected)

Be mobile and freeze your eggs

2009-11-11T15:04:00.001Z

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

2009-10-27T21:57:00.003Z

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

2009-10-14T23:00:00.006+01:00

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...)

2009-10-10T16:46:00.003+01:00

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

2009-09-11T08:00:00.001+01:00

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

2009-09-10T22:00:00.000+01:00

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

2009-08-14T21:46:00.003+01:00

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

2009-07-10T18:04:00.002+01:00

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

2009-04-29T17:04:00.002+01:00

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…

2009-03-17T22:59:00.005Z

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

2009-03-07T02:18:00.002Z

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

2009-02-09T21:04:00.004Z

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

2009-01-25T22:22:00.005Z

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

2009-01-21T19:57:00.002Z

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

2009-01-12T21:37:00.003Z

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

2009-01-08T23:14:00.005Z

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.

Nero burning Rome

2008-12-08T21:59:00.003Z

I spent the last two days greedily feeding on information from the homeland. I wonder if the self-exiled émigré has the right to comment on what is going on back home, or is he just the passive receiver of pictures of extreme violence with only permission to despair.

Thousand miles away, in a country that draws its national identity from the pride of being the place where democracy was born, these last two days democracy died a thousand deaths. A police officer was fed up with being called names and attacked with stones all the time by random youths. A mere boy was shot dead, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong moment. A country was in shock.

School children attacked local police stations with stones and oranges to protest for the killer state. “Come out and kill us we are only 15 years old!” People went on the street to demonstrate armed with their pride. But so did anarchists, armed with clubs, fire bombs, knives and anger. And the riot police attacked the wrong group.

The émigré is too far away to feel the real flow of events. The anger and despair remains the same. Friends from across Europe exchange their views: - I am proud people still protest in my country, at least we are still citizens – You know that shop I got your Christmas present last year... it’s burned – Did your father park the car in a safe place? – Someone should catch these anarchists there is nothing left standing… - the government is useless, the police is useless… How can we save this country? – Do you think we should go back and do our best or just stay here and be happy we are saved?

Questions scaring the hearts of émigrés. No conscience is clear, of those who stay or those who have left the sinking ship.

These anarchists, burning and robbing in the name of democracy found asylum in the grounds of universities. Greek universities are symbols of democracy and freedom of speech, a refuge to all those who want to express opposition. This freedom will no longer be abused as the universities for the first time since restoration of democracy allowed the police to go in. Democracy died one more time in a fake attempt to be saved.

And university buildings are burned; the statues of the muses are headless.

It is the right and duty of citizens to protest when an authority sworn to protect the people abuses its power. We all cry for the boy. But we also cry for the abuse of the protest itself. Police targeting peaceful crowd and letting groups spreading terror to keep on destroying people’s property and what is more, peoples faith in this state.

As if they were not hopeless enough. Abandoned in a difficult life with no hope of improvement.

Political parties keep playing their blame tennis, hoping that one of them will miss a shot.

Émigrés, just like everyone, are trying to make sense of all this. Are trying to find where the blame lies, and how if possible, to make this lost country a better place.

Do you have to burn Rome to the ground to build it again?

Dr. Health, the Greek

2008-11-25T22:25:00.003Z

Two old friends in central London….

Englishman One: Oh hello! How are you?

Englishman Two: Not too bad, yourself?

Englishman One: I am all right. Thanks.

…

[Uncomfortable silence]

…

Englishman One: Bad weather today…

Englishman Two: [good! Something to talk about!]

Yes indeed! The rain did not stop all day!

[10 minute rant about the weather]

Two old friends in central Athens…

Greek One: Oh hello! How are you?

Greek Two: I am fine thanks. Just this stomach ache is killing me!

Greek One: Oh really? Is it something you ate, or maybe stress?

Greek Two: Well, it started three days ago, I had eaten at my sisters, and you know how she cooks…

Greek One: Yes I remember last month I had dinner at hers… very spicy food. My stomach was hurting. Lots of acid and burping.

Greek Two: Yes me too. But you know now the acid stopped and I have this weird muscle pain every time I have a cigarette.

Greek One: Maybe it is ulcer?

Greek Two: You think?

Greek One: Or… now that I am thinking about it, your grandfather had cancer didn’t he? If I were you I would go have an endoscopy just to be sure you know…

Greek Two: Oh God, don’t say that! I am going to the doctor right away! Good to see you again!

Greek One: Yes you too, and let me know!

You now know why the Greek health system works unlike the NHS. Greeks are natural born doctors. Asking a simple “how are you” can lead the average Greek to providing a full medical history of himself and his immediate family. Discussing symptoms of illness is as common as “please” and “thank you” in the English everyday language. Trained for an early age to use medical jargon, combine symptoms, give a diagnosis and provide remedies for cure, Greeks find NHS inflexibility unbearable.

The whole nation has opinions about all kinds of ailments, a simple cold to cervical cancer. This combined with our natural mistrust to any type of authority (yes blame it to the Turks) does not allow a moments rest if you have to rely on the diagnosis of a single doctor. How can you trust the opinion of just one doctor, when you need at least three to create a simple majority? And if their opinions clash, the better!

The average Greek is very aware of the type of doctor needed, so he wants to go see the specialist right away. What’s with this go to your GP first and then get referred to whoever…. Nononono!

Being a doctor in Greece is almost like being a politician. You have to convince the electorate, hmmm yes sorry the patient, that your diagnosis is actually the right one, and yes please come again. And just like politicians, doctors have their constituency, their special friends and their supporters. Oh yes, and their secret funding… do not forget the secret funding (commonly known as the “little envelope”). So if you want to live happily ever after in Holy Greece, consult at least three doctors (state pays for that) and have your own doctor-friend to operate you. He wont ask for money, but if there is no “little envelope” be sure to have a grave-slot with nice view.

I hear you say that’s harsh, I hear you say its unfair. Well no. Having friends always pays off, being inquisitive always pays off, and having money… well that ALWAYS pays off. After all NHS is for free, but somehow you always end up buying your own medicine suggested by the Indian at the Boots counter.

Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. What about boys?

2008-09-21T23:22:00.000+01:00

J’s latest obsession is diamonds. The bigger the better. She dreams of the day her boyfriend will pop the question and offer her the precious stone, man made, as she does not want the smell of human exploitation on her ring. Her, being a practical person despite all the princess dreams, keeps buying him rugby shirts and nice food. It works for them both.

M. seems to have a serious problem. Her boyfriend has it all, and what he does not have he does not want either. She never knows what to buy him. So she just does what he can’t do. Organize.

E. likes feeding her boyfriends little obsessions. So, presents come in the form of computer games, books, bottles of wine and so on.

F. likes travelling. The best present for her is to share the excitement of exploration with her beloved. So he offers a trip to Rome as a present, while she boosts his vanity and natural beauty with excellent pieces of clothing.

There is a certain balance in these relationships.

Myself, I never care about the actual present. I am more touched by the fact that someone made the effort to think of something that I might want. Time and energy spend to buy the present are nothing comparing to the small glimpse I get of the persons perception of me, his affection, and his values.

I always blush. The perfect unworthy…

But I also blush when I know I made a good choice of present.

The best present I ever made to a special someone is a phone call. There is no material memory of it. Maybe he does not even remember after all those years. But I know at the time it made him happy and excited. After all the feelings of the moment are the most precious, as life is now and this now changes constantly.

K. was stuck in Italy. Myself being in Greece went to the concert of his favourite singer. He was all envious and unhappy. After the show I went backstage and after 2 hours of queuing I had my chance to get an autograph signed. But… I did not ask for that. To the singers surprise I just asked her to use my phone and call K. in Italy so he can have a 2 minute phone call with his favourite voice of all times.

The singer was impressed. K. was deliriously happy. And I was blushing.

Bad hair day

2008-09-15T22:10:00.001+01:00

My cousin keeps saying I am not a real person, but a cartoon. I wonder why she says that!

EPOP-ing

2008-09-14T22:14:00.001+01:00

The name hints towards light alcoholic drinks up to 5% and normally of a non-edible looking colour. If you chose that option your error term would hit the ceiling. (And if you did not understand this comment, give up reading this entry now.)

In a weekend full of numbers and various ways to operationalize concepts so abstract that could not be described with anything less a three volume edition of 200 different academic definitions. And yet, call me weird (cause of course this is what I am) I felt like a fish in its well known waters.

I mean think about it. An academic conference is the best type of holiday one can ever wish. It is in a new place, with all trivial matters left for skilled admin stuff, accommodation and food sorted, and endless amounts of coffee and good quality wine. The people there are more or less familiar to one another. But even if you end up in the wrong corner full of strangers at a coffee break there are endless options for conversation. This structured environment allows even those with the worse social skills to find common ground and engage into meaningful and fruitful conversation. It is a very inclusive event, bridging the gap among generations, genders and all kinds of other categorizations. There is only one thing that you can be discriminated against: Your inability to interpret statistics. And by statistics I do not mean percentages, means and standard deviations. I mean econometric models. If you cannot tell a story just by looking at numbers on the given table, then you are regarded with pity (Poor chap he needs work to do) or disrespect (What do you expect of qualitative analysis? Or - God forbid - theory??)

Each and every one of the delegates can come up with a theoretical model to explain even how many times tony Blair farts during an electoral campaign, and for sure at least a thousand different was to test this model. The Nomad is no different. She runs models for living. And not the models with breasts and long legs, but rather the ones with constant values and beta coefficients.

Socializing in such environment is very rewarding, you never get challenged in personal terms, the only criticism is on your numbers and the ability to make jokes is considered just as a positive extra. Any romance appearing in such conference has definitely a statistical connotation and inevitably a huge standard error. There is only so much stats one can take to his bedroom. Although my personal belief is that two theorists (aka philosophers in disguise) are truly a nightmarish combination, and the end of human breeding, come to that. I wonder though what is a better gene pool. A number cruncher or a theorist?

On my way back from the conference, I feel refreshed, motivated, completely ego-boosted and while the others around me in the train read their books, I explain their political behaviour running a brand new econometric model. If only they knew, ignorant lot…that while they are just being transferred from one place to the other a genius political scientist is using them as unwilling guinea pigs!

PS. The term genius used here has no empirical evidence. It is an opportunity for further research. (Someone switch off the EPOP mode on the Nomad please!)

It’s Queer up North!

2008-09-14T21:48:00.002+01:00

No, I am not playing with words, so I do not mean gay, although gay pride plays a big role in Manchester culture. I mean surprising, funny, astonishing, unexpected, and all that in a good way.

Gothic buildings stand in reconciliation next to super-modern glass’n’ wire constructs giving the palpable feeling of human continuity in the space. People walk through the architectural centuries without even noticing, which shows exactly the extent of success.

And in this parade of centuries art has a dominant position. Street art, music, fashion, sculptures. My surprise was too big to express when I realized that the crowds in the Manchester Art Gallery were no tourists, but students, mums with babies and normal working people in their lunch break checking out the newly installed exhibition. Not that all were interesting. I mean, I could not care less about the history of buttons (the ones on my clothes). But definitely they were an escape from the daily routine and the weekly visit to consumption temples.

In less than 24 hours in Manchester I already feel that had I to stay here for ever, I would have accepted my fate quite happily. In the 12th hour of my visit I even chose the area of my potential residence, my local bar, and my favourite coffee shop. What else does one need to live happily ever after?

Well, yes, I might have some problems with the accent. But then again, my first night at Essex I had to spend a night at Stansted airport just because I misunderstood a coach driver. Now I blame it to his Suffolk accent. Back then I was not even aware of the very existence of Suffolk. I bet the Northern accent would take me less than four years to decode.

The local ales look very promising too. Joseph Holt seems to be doing a way better job than Adnams oyster ale. Yeah I think this place has won me over.

I only see one fault: Curry.
In the whole length of the curry mile I have not found a single curry house that would resemble Alishan Tandoori in Colchester or Tiffin Club in Southampton. Someone has to tell these people that concentration of Indian restaurants in one street does not necessarily mean good quality. Look at Brick Lane. You can find the best and you can find the worse. It looks like Curry Mile found only the worse.

So for now on I vote Manchester. I will only make sure to cook my own curry.

Weddings: Crete

2008-09-02T21:11:00.005+01:00

August full moon stars in more Greek songs than Virgin Mary. Its bigger, brighter than any other full moon of the year… and its red. It’s the lover’s moon, and the moon that makes lonely souls more lonely.

What you have to do that night, is to swim in the moon’s path in the black sea. Ideally naked. Ideally not alone.
What did I do? I went to a wedding (yes another one…)!

The couple was not even aware of the magic moon they chose to light their wedding…. Caught in their mundane preparations they forgot all about it. As it seemed, for the best.

A wedding in Crete is not a simple business. It traditionally entails a pre-wedding, a celebration that starts the night before the wedding, with lots of meat and wine and tsikoudia. What is that? A drink for tough men only, of the Cretan kind. The rest of humans would blow fire after the second glass and forget even their mother’s name. Dancing, eating, drinking to the extreme is not the only expression of joy. At the peak of the feast the men, dressed in black, take out their illegal Kalashnikovs and shoot in the air (at least that is the idea). Reminders of such great feasts can be found in all the rural street signs, and occasionally on the papers and national news under the headline “Another tragedy at a Cretan wedding”. The survivors of the pre-wedding, or better those who can still stand on two feet after the banquet dance the bride to the church.

The real wedding thankfully was not like this. Apart from the rivers of tsikoudia we had to consume. It is regarded as very disrespectful to refuse the host’s offer… It’s bad enough that you are not indigenous.
First thing a Cretan man asks when they meet you is about your place of origin. If you are not Cretan you get the look of pity. In my misfortune I was lucky. Coming from Thessaloniki I received positive remarks: “Crete and Macedonia! We are brothers!” (We are talking Greek side of Macedonia here… put your swords back in the scabbards).
That is a long story, I should write another time dating back to the beginning of the 20th century. Not many Cretans, nor Macedonians remember it. But we just say so 'cause it feels nice.

The wedding included many of the generic Greek traditions (see previous post) but also some very Cretan touches. Six hundred kg of Lamb meat (the whole Cretan population of lambs went extinct that night), local wine made by the godfather of the nephew of the sister-in-law of the aunt of the bride’s father (did you follow that?), and worse of all… gamopilafo.

This is a dish. Wasn’t very popular among the guests, I have to say. It translates into “wedding rice”. Or worse “fucking rice” depending on your mood. The idea behind it is that it provides the guests with enough fat and calories to a)lubricate their stomachs b)not throw up all this alcohol c)have enough energy to keep dancing. But also to give the groom the energy to perform well at the first night (that is the purpose of the wedding after all! Legalise reproduction!)
Why is it living hell to eat? It is rice boiled in sheep fat. It is eaten a bit disguised under full fat (or greek style for the UK bread) yogurt and lemon juice. I let your imagination do the rest.

The delicious dinner was concluded with a lot of dancing. Three hours of traditional Cretan music and very well built Cretan men dancing in their black outfits was all the payback I needed. Cretan men are compared to cypress trees. So perfect and proud. Pleasure of the eye.

Who has time for full moons???

Shooting Goodness
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1HgjevcE6U

Dance
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNDFCOqPCj8&feature=related

Weddings: Thessaloniki

2008-08-30T20:50:00.002+01:00

End of August seems to be the new wedding season. On our way to the house of our friend, the bride-to-be we passed three “wedding cars”, those with the far too expensive flower decoration (Remind me to use a humble donkey to get to my own wedding, if it ever takes place).

Weddings as festivities score top marks on environmentally hostile celebration list. Lots of useless plastic and cloth decoration, just to make sure that the world is aware of the bride’s home location. Needless to mention that all the guests were frequent in that very house for the past 10 years the least, so no need for signposting…

In this celebration of modernity, some traditions were kept. The urban monster of modern Greek culture did not swallow them all.
The bride’s girlfriends helped her put on her wedding gown while singing (very badly) traditional wedding songs preparing the bride for the first wedding night… You know the stories about the snake that goes into the cave!
All the unmarried girlfriends got the chance to find out which one would be married first, by writing their name on the sole of the bride’s shoe. Whichever would get erased first is the lucky one. I refused to let luck dominate my life so I asked for my name to be on the upper part of the shoe meaning.. no contact to the floor. But knowing my friends reputation of dancing many nights away… I was sure that no names would be legible by dawn.

The rest of the wedding followed the bourgeois rituals of Thessaloniki’s middle class.

The ceremony took place on the church yard depriving the eager of all religious warmth. New dresses and designer shoes where on display without the annoying singing of the priest. I was the only one without my hair professionally done. That combined with its pink colour deprived me from much of the “desired” networking.

Ice cream sorbet was distributed to keep the guests cool while waiting for the necessary evil (the actual wedding ceremony) to finish. The nasty organisers included stone hard sweets in the rice that was thrown to the couple, that only by some miracle avoided concussion.

The reception was set in a magnificent garden with a swimming pool. One of those my academic salary will never be able to afford. But no worries. I won’t miss much… the food was not exactly memorable (thank God cause I would end up with nightmares).

Not being a banker was a real issue at this wedding. Since the couple both work in a bank all their guests were bankers. The first question after what’s your name, was not “what do you do?” but “Which branch are you in?”. My non-banking nature was a real bore to them and soon they lost interest in me turning to a fellow banker to discuss credit cards and loans.

Suddenly the bride decided to incorporate the Hollywood introduced tradition of throwing the bouquet (obviously not the original one, but the one specially made to waste on single friends). Stupid me went with the bunch.
And the bouquet fell with force on my head.

I was supposed to catch it, but it caught me instead… by surprise. I wonder what that is supposed to mean.
The jealous eyes of all the single girls were on me. How could I apologize?

So I went to hide behind my wine glass.

Finally a cute guy in purple shirt came to congratulate me. Who said weddings are not a nice place for fashionable acquaintances?

4000 years and 1600 miles in a day

2008-08-29T11:42:00.000+01:00

I left Southampton as a modern Titanic, all happy and full of hope, at 4.30pm on Sunday afternoon. Fair weather, no rain, no problems wearing my sandals (my only defence against the anticipated heat in the place of destination).

3am Stranded in Athens, I find myself unable to sustain warmth in my body. There is only one thing that is efficient in this country, and that is air-conditioning. The specific one in the El Vel (greek attempt to mock El Paso) airport can create arctic condition in central Greece mid August…

6.30am The Nomad has landed in a field disguised as Airport. Heraklion in magestic Crete. And from the fridge I end up in the oven. To make the most of the relatively cool temperature I head to Knossos in search of the Minotaur. I arrived there just on time for a spinach pie and a coffee, to feel like home again. Looking for a mythological beast without sleep requires at least a magic potion. Nescafe Frappe with ice (Greekness in all its Magnificence)

Knossos, the ancient Minoan capital was build to confuse. It did not contain Daedals’ labyrinth. It WAS the labyrinth. Thus I decided to hire a guide. Infallible Greek logic informed me that I needed to find another 13 people to share my enthusiasm and the fee for the guide. The lucky 13 never arrived and there was no recorded guide either.

So I ventured in the labyrinth alone searching for the Minotaur without even Ariadne’s clue to anchor me to reality.

The palace’s ruins were partially rebuild according to the imagination of the English archaeologist Arthur Evans who discovered them. Inevitably his imagination is part of the exhibition, mainly because he was wrong.
I sneaked in different groups of people to listen to the appointed tour guides contradict one another showing how archaeology is as bad as interpretation of literature.

Full of European firsts, Knossos is not incorrectly considered by the Myth the motherland of Europe. First staircase, first multi-storey buildings, first cooling and heating system (better than the El. Vel. Airport) first sewage, first amphitheatre and first road (which I walked on!).

Europe daughter of mighty king Minoa was seduced by Zeus in the shape of a white bull who kidnapped her, crossed the Aegean sea and brought Europe… to Europe.

American tourists dragged to the site from their luxurious cruising ship kept asking where they can see the Minotaur. Mythical beasts, half human half bull, are more interesting than boiling ruins in the heat.
Truth is I could not see the reason why the bull was so important and sacred in this civilization. Crete’s ecosystem cannot sustain herds of such big animals (which the current population consumes like there is no tomorrow… long live Mediterranean diet!). The bull appeared everywhere. But even the size of the amphitheatre did not allow much acrobatics on the back of a running bull either. Somehow the scalling did not make sense…

It might have been the lack of sleep or the massive change of temperature but by 10am I was hallucinating. Under pine and olive trees listening to the familiar “home” sound of cicadas jumping from stone to stone… For a moment I thought I saw the Minotaur. He was there, ignoring my presence with only one target. Devouring the place. Short attention spam, heat and boredom made him irritated. He did not even notice that he was transformed into a queue of tourists.

I had to escape to the familiar city buzz of modern Crete.

Berlin: Bleibtreu Cafe

2008-07-28T18:20:00.003+01:00

The change in my father's voice gave me all the proof I needed. It suddenly became 40 years younger, became jumpy and excited, as if these 40 years were a heavy coat, he just through of him to run out and show me.

Sunday morning is sacred for Berliners, not for any religious reasons, no not at all. It is their traditional breakfast meeting with friends. So there we were, proud son and daughter of two 1970s Berlin émigrés. Two poor young men who found in Berlin a safe place to study, but mainly to escape from politically troubled little Greece in the dictatorship years.
From stories I know that they used to meet in dark Cafes in Charlottenburg, spend as little money as possible and hunt for those few bits of painful but precious news from homeland. More often in Bleibtreu cafe. It even became a song by the famous musicians of the Greek émigré community. Stay faithful.

And so we did. 40 years on with our parents well back in Greece, established and retired, we retraced their steps. K. lead me to a stylish street that definitely lacked the dynamic character of the new east quarters of the city. Prezlauberg it was not. But he said: "You know, here was the field of action" It's here they met, lived, worked, fought their daily wars. Can you feel it?

Yes I could.

The area aged gracefully. It accepted the fact that it was no longer the “field of action” of modern émigrés’ kept the wisdom of its past and gained in style. Just like the old hippies who come to terms with reality, accepting that they lost the battle, that the world will never change… but at least they know they tried.

West Berlin was full of memories. Not mine. But somehow I could feel my blood moving faster, getting warmer. Maybe after all strong memories and big loves of one’s youth pass on to the offspring and in that way they achieve immortality. They live on.

Maybe this is how you stay faithful to yourself; to your youth and its companions.
Bleib treu

I should ask my father. He'll know.

Feet dialogues

2008-07-20T00:35:00.001+01:00

My feet hurt. They feel betrayed. You see, everyone, from ordinary people to creative important poets have celebrated the greatness of braking one’s routine and doing joyful active things that give meaning to life. So I did. But my feet did not feel the glorious touch of novelty and fun. My feet did not share that belief.

They long for their routine. The monotonous repetition of well-known steps, expected needs, and comfortable rest.
My feet think that whoever does not value routine is a fool. No.. I did not stress that enough. Not only a fool… a delusional fool. A hyperactive idiot in self-denial… after eating a huge amount of sugar.

So my feet say to each other at night. They keep talking about me especially when they can’t sleep after a strenuous day I have put them through just for the sake of new experiences or having fun. I am sure they hate me.

Routine and repetition. Keystone of feet-happiness.

The Nomad is so confused. The mind jumps out of the couch every time a new opportunity of exploration/seeing old friends/braking the weekly routine comes to play. But the body is reluctant to materialize that jump, to dress it with flesh and bones and teeth and whatever else should be included make a human being. And the feet, especially the feet, go on strike.

So the Nomad is in constant conflict of interest… within.

Stag versus Hen

2008-07-13T16:31:00.002+01:00

Leaving the big, dirty, stressful, noisy (blah blah blah) city, I am heading South.

The blond lady next to me does not have much to say. She stoically accepts being the centre of male and female attention in the train, just because she is made of inflatable plastic. Her name is Lisa. She is the involuntary companion of the groom-to-be sitting in front of me. She is the celebrity of the train. Everybody looks at her, wants to touch her or take a picture with her.

And her? Like a true celebrity is completely apathetic. Not that she has a choice…

The groom is covered in plastic too. In an attempt to give him graceful curves, he has a pair of generously sized boobs, round bottom and an afro wig to add some exotic tint to the curves’ effect. All is cheery, loud and smells of alcohol, the cheap kind… beer and some more beer.

Just at the point that the stag group’s excitement about the groom’s plastic tortures died down a hen group enters the train. And it all turns pink.

Now plastic Lisa has competition. The real "flesh and bone" Lisa (how unfortunate name coninsidence!), bride-to-be, surrounded by giggly teasing ladies. No plastic there. At least no visible plastic. And their alcohol is more sophisticated, bubbly wine (and approach to life I’d say) and gin and tonic. True Ladies.

Both parties are immediately interested in one another especially after realizing that they are both heading to the same beach town in the South of England.

I am in the middle of it all. I keep quiet but… inevitably my transparency does not last. I end up being something like a hostage and a referee silmutaneously.

And all this time I keep wondering. Is this really fun? Or am I just jealous I am not part of it? English pop culture intrigues me. But I never know if this is good or bad.

It’s all plastic… it’s fantastic?

My little farewells to London: Camden

2008-07-10T09:32:00.003+01:00

Camden will never be too far away. I just need to open my wardrobe or look through my selection of earrings. I suppose in a way I had Camden in me before I actually moved there.

It was love at first sight. I was 22, at my belated teenage rebel time and I found myself surrounded by pretentious Goths, lost in time hippies, colourful weirdoes. Back then that was paradise. Utopia in London.

Now it is simply the place where I could blend in and feel comfortable in any mood, any outfit, any face. Camden is not the intellectual place where I could conceptualize complex theories and construct abstract voting behaviour models. Thus, not the office. The home. Wannabe bohemian with a hint of commercial taint it is exactly the place where my gypsy heart could float happily, wearing a life vest. Exotic enough but in the familiar wrapping.

Oh and most importantly it is the only place where I can actually stand shopping. Preferably on Monday mornings, not to avoid people, but to have my home to myself!

Camden is the living room of the house. To go to the bedroom, where one relaxes and dreams I head north towards the Heath. My Sundays were full of it.

And home is not a place you leave from, it is a place you return to.

My little farewells to London: Bloomsbury

2008-06-29T10:03:00.002+01:00

We never really said goodbye. It was one of these casual relationships that you merely say “See you later” when you make your leave. Considering I lived in a dungeon office – chained to my desk, as JK, my boss, used to say – on the main square of Bloomsbury campus I have to say we kept it pretty unemotional.

It is a place that gives me a cool breeze and sharp thinking all year round. No matter the temperature outside, when I stand in Tavistock square I feel ready for the most rigorous academic thinking, the most sarcastic comment, the most cynical view of the world.

If it was a person, Lord Bloomsbury, would be a frisky aristocrat in his late 30s. With cool skin, and flawless white shirt; phlegmatic humour and sharp calculations. Lots of “indeed, my dear” and “lovely weather”. He would use the same condescending smile both to invite you for dinner and to shoot you in a dark alley (as long as he did not get blood on his shirt).

The buildings are flawless, the once private park squares still reflect the intellectual snobbery of their famous frequents, immaculate perfection that even the drunk students are not able to affect. They get swallowed by it.

The university buildings add to the feeling. Especially the big Senate Big Brother presence. But turn left and you are in front of SOAS. The only place in the area that managed to add its own colour. Curry smells, colourful ethnic clothes, colourful people, music… A spot of red wine on Lord Bloomsbury’s white shirt!

I like him. Not sure he likes me back. But you never know with these upper class fellows. We might meet again, who knows. But next time on more equal terms.

My little farewells to London: Soho

2008-06-25T22:35:00.002+01:00

Another meeting with friends is over. I should be heading home, but tonight I think I will take my time.

I am in Soho, the posh side. Expensive bars and well dressed people.

Just one street further north and the picture changes. Bars, restaurants, cafes, a catholic church hosting an order of capuchin monks, a van full of alcohol and a group of people drinking in the back of it, some dark gay bars, not the flashy main stream.

What I like in this ambience is the colourful collection of people that would not fit together if seen in any other place. Soho has an impressive dominating effect on visitors, even on the regulars. It makes you believe that there everything is possible. Any time of night or day you can see anything. Just pretend you were expecting it.

I give my best friend a call to share the experience.

Sitting in his comfy bed in his familiar suburban environment has the most mum-like reaction I would (or would not) expect. You are in Soho? Be careful! It’s late!

Calm down silly!! Who would harm ME, in my bright yellow dress? Says confident me.

(Do not seek the logic in this, there is none!)

I like the dirty side of Soho, the one that you have the slight feeling of fear in the back of your head but you know that every corner is full of excitement and new experiences. I keep heading north. There I see empty restaurants, tired waiters cleaning up, and some Italians complaining about their recent loss in Euro 2008… oh well… next time boys.

My little farewells to London: Southbank

2008-06-16T22:18:00.003+01:00

It is this time again for the Nomad to take her leave. It is like a wind blowing to the direction of “exit”. I know I have a little more time left just to kiss London goodbye.

Some places you conquer and some other places conquer you. London falls in the latter category. Too big and powerful, too many impressions. So, this time the Nomad leaves with slow careful steps not to awake Julius César inside her.

My first little farewell was to the Southbank where the old and new combine, where the planned and the unintended mix together. It is a normal indecisive day typical for London, when the sun and the clouds just cannot agree whose turn it is to rule the sky (and our moods come to that). The planned feature of the day is an eastern European festival. The unintended picture I took home with me is a black man forging his Caribbean dance to fit the gypsy rhythms. I walk on.

A woman in the sand performing her rituals to awake it; to give it a new form that will last only for as long the almighty tide allows it.

Few steps further I enter the wildlife world. I come face to face with tigers, pandas and other paper creatures in a not so successful exhibition. What is a cheetah doing next to the Thames anyway? Or is this part of the collection of impossible faces that constitute London?

This city fascinates me and frightens me as I still cannot grasp the over arching logic that rules it. I understand square things. And this city is round. There is only one place where its minimalist nature allows you to believe that you understand. The Tate. And from there I try to understand London again.

And this is the result:

And the name of obsession is....

2008-06-14T00:37:00.012+01:00

I am one of these weirdoes who never watch TV. If you ask me my main reasoning would be that I have better things to do than just watch this trash. I would most likely beautify my anti-TV speech with an assortment of mildly offensive words, even some one should not repeat in front of ones mum.

Whatever I say… this is a lie.

The REAL reason I do not watch TV is that I get obsessed with whatever I see. My brain absorbs the information, tries to analyse it and submerges to the blissful passivity of a flat-pack reality. The one that comes in a box.

It happened to me in several occasions. If I watch something again and again I start thinking in terms of it, judging the world (the real one, not the one in the box) using borrowed morals from my fake reality.

Obsession One: Sex and the City
Alter Ego: Miranda Hobbs (boys do not hate me now...!)

That was one of the harmless ones. It only made me more aware of the fact that relationships are not for ever and that I could actually break up with the boyfriend who I did not really like any more and that would not mean I would burn in hell. The problem only started when these oh-so-smart tests came out that assessed your personality using the four SATC girls as archetypes. When my male (and straight, come to that) best friend told me that he was 40% Carrie, that was the point I knew I had pushed it too far.

Obsession Two: Babylon 5
Alter Ego: Ambassador Delen (undecisive in terms of spiecies)
For months I preferred watching negotiations between alien and human forms of life instead of spending quality time with the poor boyfriend who made the fatal mistake of introducing me to Sci-Fi. Honestly that was not big loss, but that was not part of the obsession. Various races and lots of inter-galaxy tensions occupied my mind at a time that I should be writing up my PhD. By the end of the series I was wondering if as a Mimbari ambassador I would actually decide to become the first human-mimbari hybrid. Oh what a torture! Big choices for my small trivial existence!

Obsession Three: Heroes
Alter Ego: Peter Petrelli (I just want to be able to do it all but be a loser out of choice)
If you say that you do not secretly aspire to be Peter Petrelli you are a big fat liar. I was so intrigued by the series that after I finished watching the first season I went deeply underground and watched the second season on very illegal Chinese streaming website. It was like bad wine. You know it tastes like vinegar, you know it will give you the worse headache in the morning, you know than when you wake up you won’t remember a thing of what you did while you drunk it… but still you do it simply you need your doses. Some are heroin addicts. I was a hero addict.

I could name some more... including some greek ones: Firefly, Dio Ksenoi (Two strangers), Xfiles, even... (hold your breath) Nightrider....

So, an advice to whoever wants my attention: Do not switch on the TV while I am in the room. If you do that you lost me as my brain will enter a virtual world without escape (unless you pull the plug!). At least I do not dress up thinking that the people in the box can actually see me...

Frivolity

2008-06-02T21:34:00.005+01:00

My knowledge of Russian poetry is limited and traditionally destilled through Natalia's taste and traslation talent. But this one was specially chosen. So true, so me... so us!

Frivolity – you are such a sweet sin
My sweet companion and enemy of mine,
You injected music in my skin
You injected laughter in my eyes.

You taught me not to keep rings,
No matter whom this life weds me to;
At random start things from the ends
And finish before the beginnings are due.

Taught me to be like stem and to be like steel
In this life, where we can do so little.
How with chocolate sadness to heal,
And laugh in the faces of people.

By Marina Tsvetaeva, the romantic revolutionary for the self not the whole.

Thousand and one coffee cups of Istanbul

2008-04-16T22:12:00.002+01:00

My tired tourist legs are complaining, they want to be on a bed, not to hang off from a pink hard wooden chair, but I promised them it is worth it. I take the first sip of Turkish coffee just brought to me by young woman dressed in pink. Crap! It’s sweet. I like my coffee bitter, no sugar, but the lady gave me the one destined for my friend, who has a sweet tooth. I hope that will not have a consequence on the actual purpose of this coffee.

Obviously this is not an ordinary coffee hence I have to be outside my comfort zone when I drink it. We both suffer in our way while drinking it and hope that fortune telling “Turkish style” is worth the pain.

I look at the pink walls around me; they are supposed to give you the feeling of happiness and reassurance. After all that is why the women around me are here. The coffee cup is the clue to glimpsing ones future, you only need to drink the black liquid (that was not prepared according to taste in my and my friends case) and reveal the secrets of future.

My Western mentality expects to see the place full of uneducated lower class old ladies full of superstitions. There is a couple of that sort, is true. But the place is packed, all three floors of it. Sever fortune tellers are working hard to reduce weighting time to under an hour. So, who are all these women who wait holding their coffee cups upside-down?

I look around and I see almost no headscarves. Loose hair women of all ages, well dressed, and some quite sophisticated are discussing about what they expect the fortune teller to see in their coffee cups. Most of them wish that the coffee remains on the cup will reveal a man’s love, marriage, children. Mothers come with their daughters to ensure the boyfriend will marry the girl, friends come to support each other, big groups of friends come for a laugh but secretly hope for good news.

Turkey is not that different than the rest of the world. Definitely not much different than the rest of the EU. People always want to know their future, women always hope for a good man. The only difference with the EU is that western coffee stains less … which makes it difficult for the fortune teller to read the signs.

In the ladies-only coffee shop I feel I am faking it. I am not there because I want to know my fortune, but to look at the people who do.

Above the clouds

2008-04-03T22:41:00.002+01:00

I have entered digital age. I am blogging while sitting in the airplane looking at some white fluffy clouds. I have finished my presentation for the next conference and I am enjoying my flight (with my legs against the back of the person in front of me due to lack of flight space).

I gather I am the only technologically advanced person on the flight. Go me! I can be isolated from the rest of the passengers more successfully that before. My bliss lasts until the person in front decides to have a nap and put his sit in the resting position. Then I will either have to accept having the laptop digging into my vulnerable intestines or I will have to start communicating with the fellow passenger.

Disaster!

I always need a mental and physical buffer zone between me and other passengers, especially when the plane is on a flight to Greece. The demographics on the plane vary depending on the time period. Two weeks before Christmas and the end of June students are in season, just before Christmas young Greek professionals populate the plane and all the rest of the time it the average Greek tourist dominates with his presence not only the plane but also the airport. The first thing you notice at this unfortunate period (alas I am going through it now) is the level of noise. Greeks (yes okay and Italians) are much more noisy than other Europeans. Secondly, there are no queues; just a random mob trying to avoid any order. The most striking thing for airport stuff is that all passengers in a flight to Greece happen to have tickets for the seats that are called to board first. Magic I would say.

I can be accused of being against my own people. That would not be entirely wrong. But it would not be entirely correct either. Being away for so long I have developed a very romantic and ideal perception of Greeks and the country. And now wherever I go, wherever I see it Greece hurts me.

Here I admitted it, the great behavioralist and rational choice front line fighter has a romantic soft spot for the homeland.

You can shoot me now!

Hair: Lost in Translation

2008-02-27T18:41:00.003Z

I chose yet again to be a sacrifice for education, of course not for any kind of higher morality push, but merely due to the attractive £4.50 student friendly price of the haircut. Last time it worked fine I though... so happy jumpy smiley I walked down the road of vanity and reached the crazy school of hair care.

My experience there before made me believe that there is a whole science behind the way they cut your hair. I bet it is… But in every science there are different approaches one can take to reach the desired outcome. That’s assuming that the desired outcome is the same for everyone. For example, my desired outcome was to have descent hair, without white parts in it and no split ends. Plain desires you would think… I should put more art and colour in my life (or on my head) you would think… but would you tell me that? Well they did.

(His Excellency) The Hair Master described with vivid words and expressive movements his creative vision of my humble hair. I was convinced. What he proposed surely was out of the ordinary but still acceptable for little plain me. Yes yes I know. He should be a politician… but I did not tell him that. I think he would find life around the parliament lacking passionate hairstyles.

So H.E the Hair Master brought in his minions to perform the task. They are supposed to learn you see, my dear blog. That was the reason of my presence there after all. Help education in every shape or form, or so I keep telling myself… not the money! H.E. was German. His minions were from Japan and Italy. How Second World War of him! So in this Axis meeting he explained to the Japanese minion (who was way beyond retirement age where I come from… but then again the new pension’s law has not passed yet) all about his vision of my hair.

And here is the root of the problem. Execution. The Japanese minion could not speak English.. nor German! His Excellency could not communicate in Japanese, but he believed he could… as I was informed by the translator that H.E. the Hair Master in his attempt to say: “I like your work” he said “I want to sleep with a squid”.

Can you imagine the result of this on my head, my dear blog?

Simply lost in translation…

A traveller's life

2008-02-20T15:15:00.004Z

Just before enjoying the fruits of my efforts I feel the wind of restlessness coming my way again. I just wonder when it will touch me... I know it is close.

"a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties."

Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

Politics of Suicide

2008-01-29T00:15:00.002Z

Lately Goethe entered my life and provides a critique that makes reality hilarious.

The Sorrows of young Werther, Goethe’s first widely read novel, ended with the suicide of poor emotional Werther, and caused the suicide of at least 2,000 of its readers. Now that is what I call success.
Goethe, of course, was not very pleased (he was losing devoted readers) and neither were the authorities that had to collect all these bodies of successful Werther wannabes, and to try to reduce this Werther fever. That was Germany in the late 1700s.

A new Werther Fever outbreak has occurred in Greece of 2008. This time the suicides were unsuccessful. A wave of unsuccessful suicides, this time not inspired from a book on unfulfilled love but from a DVD on fulfilled passions. I rather not go into detail, especially because the corrupt politician starring in it is fat and naked.

The scandal involved sex, money, and little favours. The media focused like always to the one that sells the most.

These right wing government officials unsuccessfully tried to take their shame to a different world, since this one would not vote for them again despite the entertainment value of their unlawful deeds. Maybe they can go govern in one of the seven circles of hell. I am not saying they are evil and have to go to hell. It is just that heaven is a divine monarchy. Hell is much more democratic, pluralistic and has catch-all parties! Thus corrupt politicians stand a chance of winning the hellish elections.

However they failed to succeed. Or, since life is the highest of all commodities, they succeeded by failing.

The question remains though, since they were incompetent to even kill themselves effectively… what does this tell us about the effectiveness of the right-wing government that chooses such incompetent people for important positions?

Gordon Brown presents: McEdu

2008-01-28T14:26:00.001Z

Forget about the PhD... I will go do a Diploma in flipping burgers!

Life tailored education, that is what I need. A multinational corporation to give me values and skills for life.
Gordon Brown once again has shown his concern for his people. He finds the best solutions for every problem. He even creates more future problems so the next generation politicians do not lose their job because their position is made redundant.

Everybody needs education more or less in the same way everybody needs food. The quality and long term implications are not important. First fill yourself up with whatever you can get hold of and face the consequences later.

So here it comes, McEdu in several variations. McAs (A-levels) and McDiplo (Diplomas).

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/education/7209276.stm

Miss Haversham and the semantics explanation to spinsterhood

2008-01-27T21:12:00.001Z

My flatmate pointed out to me that the house is cursed.

The core of the curse lies in the power of words. Apparently the name of the road we live in has cast its weird magic on us. But the spirit of the road (assuming it has its own spirit) can’t spell. Not all road spirits are literate you see, and this one that is, got a really low mark in spelling. So instead of the curvy letter C that gives a certain femininity, and puts the seeds of great expectations being the letter starting Cupid, the road spirit spelled our address with H. Harsh lines implying the unimaginative emotionless stability of a building and one and only –though unwanted- connotation without great expectations. Miss Haversham.

Changing the C into an H makes the tenants into Miss Havershams and that is the reason of their love misfortunes.

Miss Haversham’s curse complicates relations to the opposite sex. We have not yet found out how exactly this happens or which of Miss Haversham’s attributes do we inherit as time goes by, but at least we know the root of evil.

And there are only two ways to solve it. We either move out of this road, or we teach the road spirit how to spell.

I have already bought a dictionary and a “Spelling for dummies” book. Never give up!! I have taught worse things in the past. You cannot convince me that teaching theories of voting behaviour to hormonal English 19-year olds is easier than teaching a road spirit how to spell!

London mornings

2008-01-16T13:29:00.001Z

Bike in the shop for service makes a great opportunity to use alternative methods of transport to get to work, which at morning rush hour can only be my own two legs. Busses, trains and the tube are just out of the question on a cold winter morning, because they are defined by the very combination of conditions that can guarantee nausea. Since me and my stomach have a very special relationship… I choose to listen to its voice of reason, so I walk to work.

And oh so many wonderful things I discover!

Kentish Town Road at 8am is full of people, but none of the shops are open. The area is full of young professionals who wait for the bus or walk purposefully. As I make my way south the amount of white people drops and more colourful skin tones catch your eye – and by that I do not mean any green skins! I have not reached Camden Town yet!

The more south I go the later it gets, so more shops are open and the streets get more populated. Hitting Euston station I stand in front of an urban revelation. The people here look like an updated model of the people in NW5. Better clothes, better hair styles, better shoes. And by better here I mean more expensive, more elaborate, closer to the fashion trends set by Vogue and other such magazines. The last phase of my journey is full of young university student faces, clearly unhappy that they had to be dragged out of bed to have a 9am lecture.

What struck me in this morning adventure was the fact that I did not see a single happy face. All, and I mean ALL, of the people that crossed my chosen path, had but this in common. People of all different races, colours, ages, financial backgrounds had the unhappy, indifferent face in common.

I was the only one sticking out. Not fitting.

And wondering what was that made them all unhappy. That it was a Monday? That is was so early? The fact that they had to work? The cold? The stupid silly rain? And are all these things enough to give every single person this expression?

Of course one could argue that the only other thing apart from unhappiness that these people had in common was that I crossed their path. So logically… that would make the perfect causal relationship. Oh... the effects I have on people. (nononono I should not be that paranoid)

Or is it London (and my infection is just in its incubation period)?

Refurbishment

2008-01-15T15:13:00.001Z

Even Billy Gates left Microsoft, so why would I stay?

Considering that whoever takes over will be even more focused on enhancing the monopoly than the charitable founder of the corporation then there is nothing left for me to do there. I can store my thoughts on a different bank.

So here we are. New storage, new name. Hopefully more regular payments.

Medieval Festival

2007-06-13T00:52:00.002+01:00

The best people to go with to such a festival are actually the ones who know a lot about Medieval fighting, swords and axes, bows and arrows... But they also apriciate medieval style clothes.

I think what I like the most was the demonstration of non-medieval birds of prey for medieval style hunting... For example they used some latin american hawks to demonstrate how medieval english men used to go hunting... Oh well one cannot have it all.

As the bird trainner said the name birds of prey should actually be "birds of Pray" because you hunt and then you pray that they will come back. The proof was that during the demonstration the medieval looking latin american hawk was attacked by non-medieval local seagulls and disappeared to run - or rather fly - for his life...

Truth or Dare

2007-06-06T23:53:00.001+01:00

Truth:
Greece has always been a nightmare for drivers. Fast driving, no respect for signs, double parking, driving the wrong direction on two way streets.
Apparently lately the government is really trying to change this. However there is a long established mentality in the heads of my fellow citizens that is making that extremely diffucult. A simple example, instead of obaying the law of drink-driving, the smart greek drivers drink and then the drive through the areas that they know the police never tests for "alco-tests". That might mean that they add an extra hour on the original journey time, just to feel free to have as much drink as they feel like. Now that is the essence of freedom!
Not long ago, a friend of mine was stopped by the traffic police at 2am on a Saturday night in a Thessaloniki main road for the traditional test. SHe was found clean. She only had drunk fizzy drinks. The officer in charge, instead of just letting her go, or thnking her and letting her go, he had a go at her.... Why shuch a young girl is not having fun on a Saturday night? It's wrong for her not to drink at all!!!!

Dare:
Obviously the approach of greek policemen has changed since then. They do not care about the citizens social life. On the contrary, they are trying to enforce the law even it means that they will disrrupt the citicents eating habbits. In this case the incident involved double-parking. The driver was just about to get coffee and breakfast but there was no parking space in sight. Hunger is not illigal yet by the greek traffic law. However, an out-of-duty policement (who says that in Greece people are lazy and do not work over time?) told the driver to forget about the cheese pies and the coffee and to take his car, as he was blocking the traffic. Of course the driver agreed, he only asked for some time to go and get his breakfast. He wasn't planning to stay there the whole day anyway.... There are so many nice things to do in Greece on a Sunday. The impatient policement judged that this man who prioritizes cheesepies and coffee before the well functioning of the traffic on that specific greek road was public danger... so he shot him.

Have you ever seen more dedicated policemen than the greek ones?

For reference:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/6720099.stm

So I believe that Greece has become a paradise for drivers. All the evil habbits of the past are now being erradicated... Only when you go beware. Do not buy cheese pies whenever you feel like it.

Try double parking in Greece... if you dare!

Being 25

2007-01-23T23:48:00.001Z

Just one more entry before I pass the threshold of 25.

It took me about three years to adjust to this age. First my mind was set on 22. Even when the years passed and I was 23 and 24.. when asked I was always 22. Then of course I had to count and the result always caught me by surprise.

The past year I was happy. I had finally reached the mental age of 25. I was happy with this significant number. And now I have to change it again. I am afraid I will refuse... it will take me some years to upgrade to the better model. So I suppose I have to worn you. In case you ask me how old I am and I still say 25 it is not because I am trying to lie... it is because I am stuck on this age.

I suppose the reason is that time now passes faster than when we were younger. The maturing proccess is slower than it used to be and thus we do not feel that a year has passed when it actually has. Now time counts in bigger chuncks. Important achivements and big changes.

Maybe the next step will be 28.. who knows.

But for one more day I can say I am 25 and be right. Just one more day.

Alexia = Ugly

2007-01-15T19:49:00.001Z

A Mathematic statement that appeared as a girl's nick name in MSN.

Point to keep in Mind No1: MSN is public.
Point to keep in Mind No2: Mathematic statements can be falsified.

Background Story: I do not know this girl. I have never met her and most likely I never will. This girl was interested in Alexia's boyfriend. But apparently the choice of the part tense is wrong.

Alternative History: If Alexia was Queen Alexia of the Big Glorious Empire, in Medival times this girl would be proclaimed a witch and would be burned alive to purify her soul.

Damn the enlightment and the modern times....

Leaving aside the backgroud stories and the evil reactions a mathematic statement such as this can be treated as a hypothesis and thus can be tested. So me being a behavioural political scientist (aka number cruncher) I will attempt to test this hypothesis against all the available evidence and finally accept or rejected.

Unfortunatelly the ethical reward of all these is non-existing as I am an advocate of freedom of speech... and against capital punishment. (How very hippie of me!)

Hypothesis: Alexia = Ugly

Evidence: Alexia's boyfriend is not blind
Discussion: Although that could be a good proof against the hypothesis then we have to find evidence to support that Charlie's (Alexia's boyfriend) taste is objectively good. That might be the case as he likes classical music, Lord of the Rings and great nana's good old cheese biscuits, which are a proof enough of good taste. But of course we might end up in the deadend that objectively good taste does not exist... So we better look for different evidence.

Evidence: When People meet her they do not look away disgusted but they smile instead
Discussion: Assuming that someone is extraordinarily ugly then people would try to avoid them This is not the case for Alexia. However that just might mean that she is not extreamely ugly but just ugly... or a little ugly. Unfortunatelly the degree of uglyness is not defined in the hypothesis.

Evidence: Laurence says Alexia does not have a big ass
Discussion: That would be of any help if only ugly people had big asses. Sorry Laurence... you are not helpful here.

Evidence: When Alexia was little the other kids at school teased her that she had a small nose
Discussion: That only proves that Alexia has a small nose. That can also be measured.

Just about here my imagination and creativity stopped. The hypothessis cannot be proven. Sorry, tough luck. It is this kind of mathematical statements that fall into the personal judgement category. Some people will agree and some people will get pissed off that it was even expressed.
Each one of you can have there own opinion on the statement. After all it is a free world.
The only question is.. how far should we go with that freedom. Should we be allowed to post every little opinion we have as offensive as it might be to a public place?

The only closing I could think for this entry is Voltaire's quote: I disagree with everything you say but I will defend with my own life your right to say it.

On the other hand.. witch burning was not all that bad.

PS. I urge all the reader to have an opinion on the hypothesis. Let's put it on a public vote! What more democratic than that :P

2+2007=27+007

2007-01-01T23:50:00.000Z

And finally after many many years I had a good new years eve with people I love singing silly songs!

I hope 2007 stays like that! Full of silly songs!

Yet another year that symbolises expansion, so for better or worse the EU "family" has grown bigger and fatter. Welcome to Bulgaria and Romania... and good luck to all of us.
As 2007 has brought us 2 making us 27, and we have a new 007 that fulfills our desteny and that of the numbers 0, 2 and 7.

Happy New Year to us all... and let the numbers rock on.

Nothing new in the Western Front

2006-12-14T05:45:00.001Z

Every Monday morning I regret having a job.

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

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

Pinochet died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why mounteneering is out of this world

2006-10-26T03:44:00.002+01:00

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

Mal du Depart

2006-09-25T23:35:00.002+01:00

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

MAL DU DEPART

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

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

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

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

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

And in English, not as beautiful unfortunatelly

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

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

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

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

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

Methodology and sex

2006-09-12T20:43:00.002+01:00

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

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

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

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

If you are wondering what love is...

2006-08-07T23:31:00.001+01:00

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

Wisdom from a five-year-old boy.

PhD sayings

2006-08-07T01:33:00.003+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

Race for Life

2006-07-21T04:30:00.001+01:00

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

But what difference did it make to me?

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

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

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

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

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

Not being Olga

2006-07-03T21:18:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am sorry James.

The day Greece entered the West

2006-06-05T06:06:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

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

Greek Easter

2006-05-06T23:23:00.001+01:00

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

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

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

So much for religion in the country of philosophy.

MSN and the Bible

2006-02-02T18:21:00.001Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My trip to the last (accesible) communist fortress

2006-01-31T19:42:00.002Z

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah Fidel, what have you done to these people?

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

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

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

Hasta la victoria siempre... el commandante amigo.