I am not a Pollyanna

So I was musing yesterday about the capacity of being increasingly aware of good things in the world when an intention is set as a background mindset to expect things to be so. And I fretted momentarily over whether thinking that way meant that I was an unrealistic rose-colored-glasses kind of person. As if it were to say that if you simply wake up and say "today I'm going to be in a happy place" then all of a sudden, everything turns all peachey-keen.

That's not what I mean. I'm not saying a person can pull themselves up from the depths of serious depression and be all sunshine and rainbows in one moment of choice. I know how hard it can be when a toxic thought pattern gets stuck in the monkey mind and weeks of trying to set a good intention for the day feels nothing short of fucking ridiculous.

All the same, I can't help but think that it helps, be it ever so little. If nothing else, it helps to have the awareness that whatever the mental block or toxicity, that it is not the only thing possible to have in one's mind about whatever it that's causing so much distress. That there is room, however slim it appears, to process things differently. And, hopefully, with persistence and patience, one can wedge that opening of possibility just a little bit wider, and gain some equilibrium.

Furthermore in what seems like an odd statement of fact to my mind, I think that things that are tragic and difficult to process are rightly - I don't know what the right word is; the ones that percolate up sound weird somehow - experienced in full? In other words, not turned away from through denial or pharmaceuticals. I think difficulty and suffering have a kind of authenticism value. In learning how to work through them and process them, we enrich ourselves, becoming more aware and sensitive and empathetic. There's no shame to experiencing a difficult thing. But at the same time, I don't think we should give ourselves permission, either, to wallow in it indefinitely, but learn to grow from it. For whatever those two cents are worth!

At bottom: I'm just putting out the suggestion that we go out without the default interpretation being to expect failure and negativity, then our souls or whatever aren't pierced by it quite so often. And maybe, if we give ourselves the opportunity to be receptive to what's positive, we might get to shine just a little bit more from that. If we can adjust that ratio just a little, isn't that a better than not?

Things to go "WTF?!" about

So, among the list of things to do on my errandey day yesterday was acquiring a rubber stamp of graphic merit appropriate to the task of marking all the delicious guests who pay their $5 cover when coming visit Mark Morford et al. at this swinging party tonight (you get $5 off the price of the book in compensation!). I was hoping for a "666" or at least a deviant-looking monkey.

But alas, I was repeatedly dunked into the realm of craftie chotchkies, and everything was all about "you're the cream in my coffee" and cute hearts and rubber duckies. It didn't take long for me to starting thinking, "oh dear, this is not going to end well."

Thanks to the sharp eye of Michelle (The Other Michelle), we made it work, but a moment that sticks out rather vividly in my memory was this one stamp I found that said - in sweet, curley writing - Sorry I've been cranky.

It wasn't even very big, so I'm not sure what got me to stop and read it, but I did. I picked it up and held it in my hand. Had a mental image of someone who would use it, holding it all inked up and ready to apply to...what? a card envelope? a letter? a present? a card the person constructed from homemade paper all hand-caligraphied? I turned to The Other Michelle and asked her, "can you think of >any< reason that you would buy a stamp like this?" She read it and got this charmingly confused look on her face, and was, like, "uhhhhh....no."

I put it back on the shelf thinking, "that is pretty weird." Then, not 2 steps later, I came across a place where there were 4 or 5 more, just like it.

And that got me to thinking about the practical purpose of having a stamp. Well, maybe there is more than one practical purpose, but the one that settled in my brain is that a stamp is an efficient way of putting something down that spares you from writing it over, and over, and over again. So, in my imagination at least, the person buying the "Sorry I've been cranky" stamp is someone for whom this need to apologize is not infrequent. How many times does he or she (probably, she) have to use it? Every day? Every week? Every month? To how many people does she need to apologize?

So there I was, surrounded by all that cuteness, and imagining the chronically crabby person finding sanctuary because here, among all the rubber duckies and flowers, is a stamp designed specifically for her ill-tempered heart. It was a peculiar combination of images; it was all wrong, somehow, but there it was. And they didn't even have a single deviant monkey. Where's the justice?

In other news, G alerted me this morning to this item in the Chronicle whose headline took a few seconds to sink in but then had me laughing for several minutes straight: "Couple tried to sell baby outside Walmart" - for $25.

Just think about that for a second. Where does your imagination go?

Good things

There's so much good stuff coming up, I'm about to purely burst open from it.

Got my plane tickets for Melbourne, finally, this week, and even managed to make it work on frequent flyer (flier?) miles, yay!

Why Melbourne, you ask? Because in a bizarre but most excellent coordination of planets and stars (and maybe, just a little bit of talent), I actually managed to get a proposal accepted for a philosophy and martial arts workshop at the University of Melbourne. I've wanted to visit Australia all my adult life. I've dreamt of being in Australia often, and vividly. Every time I meet/hang with an Australian, I have a fabulous time that often - but not always, for I Have Learned - involves getting entirely too inebriated.

So when I saw an announcement in my inbox - what was it, Kris, 2 months ago? - about this event, and Kris, my good friend and martial arts teacher, agreeably went along with putting a proposal together for it, off we went. And it worked. So off I go, for what I expect to be an altogether terrific little adventure. If you happen to be able to work out the day/time zone differences, and have a few moments just before lunch on Tuesday July 13 (Melbourne time) to send off a positive vibe that I don't get so excited that my heart sticks in my throat and I forget how to talk during my presentation, I'd sure appreciate it.

And Melbourne - not a place I'd given much thought to before, but everyone I've mentioned it to has high praise for the city, so I'm really looking forward to seeing what it's all about. In my imaginations, I've been limited to picturing me either in Sydney or in the outback with the kangaroos and sheep and priests who look like a young Richard Chamberlain. But it'll be Melbourne instead, and a lovely friend in Julianne's yoga class who works in travel told me yesterday she has good tips to share with me for Melbourne, and in advance I'm already just so thankful to the universe and the wonderful people in it who've made this event possible.

Good thing the second: an upcoming altogether awesome party tomorrow night! I know I've posted an announcement to this event already, so I hope you'll indulge my tooting the horn one more time to say: come on out to Mark Morford's book launch party at Project One in San Francisco, 6:00-10:00! Come find me there - I'll be the 1940s-era candy-cigar-cigarette salesgirl carting around a tray full of The Daring Spectacle for folks to buy. No, wait, sorry - that was crossover from my imaginary world. But I will be the hand-stamping monkey, so come and say hi! Cool tunes, cool folks, drinks. And, as I see the FB announcement's been updated to include the new addition, I'll also point out: lube. Guess how much is in the giant jar, and win a free book! I put it that way intentionally, so okay, get the idea out of your head now that you'll need to be guessing in terms of fluid ounces; they're individual packs (and thank you, Good Vibrations, for the donation) so you just have to guess the number (and no, I don't know what it is). As an extra bonus, when the award is done, you can feel free to take some home with you. It's all about the love. You know you want it.

Concerning old scars

We've all got them, haven't we? Often they come with a story. Like one on G's leg where he sliced himself open with a box cutter when we were working on the house in Hilo one summer, on the brink of an evening that we had dinner plans with some friends. Since he adamantly refused to lose the night sitting around in ER, we bandaged him up, stopped at a drugstore on the way to this other couple's house and bought some needle and thread, and I sewed him up, all pioneer-style, over a couple glasses of champagne. It's more difficult to run a needle through human skin than you might think. And his regular doctor, whom he saw later, was appalled, yet I'm proud to say she admitted that I had done a decent enough job. I should put that on my resume. Sklz: I haz them.

But some relics of old injuries aren't immediately visible. I mean, I'm imagining here things like mental scarring from childhood trauma, which might manifest itself eventually in peculiar behavior.

I think I'm carrying around a version of old scarring from an injury years and years and years ago when I was t-boned in a car accident that fractured my pelvis. Broken pelvis. Can't cast it up. That was one dreary winter! Lots of laying around, learning things like how to cross-stitch so I wouldn't lose my mind, taking a side-trip into unintended dehydration, and, after I came back to life, hobbling around with crutches very, very, VERY carefully on the wet and slippery sidewalks of campus when I returned to college. That healing process seemed to take forever, and it can still set my teeth on edge to think back to times when I'd take a misstep and could feel deep down inside the disturbing sensation of raw bone edges shifting just ever so slightly. Eggghhhhh! !!eleventy!!!!!

I think my body still thinks it needs to protect my pelvis. It's not something I've paid much mind in the everyday walking/sitting/standing scheme of things. But it is something that's occurred to me this year as I've put more intention into having yoga as part of my life, where there are all these delicious hip-opening asanas that I'd just love to breathe and melt down into, and I envision all the terrific energy there just waiting to be tapped even though I'm not quite sure I believe in that stuff but I like to think about it anyway.

this would be so nice!
But I get a fraction of the way, and get stuck. So I talk kindly, in my inside-my-head voice, to the body and tell it that it's okay to soften up and go there. And I can laugh about it, as I crack Julianne up when she tries to adjust me in warrior 2 ("no, you're still moving your torso: move your >hip
Sigh. But I know that's not the right attitude, and that kind of thinking would probably just make matters worse. And who knows, maybe I am making incremental progress, and I need to take this as a lesson in patience. But I'd like to just put it out there to the universe, and ask for it, if it would be so kind, to help send this awareness to my body. Dear hips: I promise I'm not going to hurt you. I think you're trying to do me a favor, but really, now, it's time to just let that go, please, and let yourselves have a little fun.

"Write what you know"

It's a bit of advice I remember from a creative writing class I took one semester, back in the Days of South Carolina when I probably used it, or tried to use it at least, as a vehicle to transport my mindspace out of my physical/social location.

I'll never forget the context in which the advice was offered. One of the students shared a piece of work wherein the main character was stoned beyond belief on an insane admixture of drugs: something like smoking a ounce of pot and then taking 3 hits of acid and then some X, and finishing it off with an 8-ball and a shot of heroin. Maybe there was even a fifth of tequila involved. Hell, why not? The listeners with experience of at least some those substances sat there, incredulous. After a moment of dead silence, the teacher kindly said that the author had made a brave attempt, but a good rule for writing is to write what you know.

That's always stuck with me somehow. It sounds right in line with my whole overall attitude of striving to be as authentic as possible. But I have to admit, that thought in my head feels like a brick. A big, heavy brick with a note tied to it that says "don't go there." Hmmmm.

And I remember a comment I've seen on facebook lately somewhere, where a person said (in response to the suggestion of writing what one knows), that if we all did, we wouldn't have among other things good fiction. I think that's absolutely right. I'm not much on doing fictioney writing - maybe because I don't give myself much of a chance - but as I imagine it anyway, I visualize an author having points in the text that connect up with something he or she knows. A character's motivation, elements of a setting, a relationship. But these points are like springboards that the writer touches down upon before launching up into creative space. I visualize it as a kind of verbal, bouncey, floatey dance. That sounds kinda fun, actually.

But as I sit here, mulling with my coffee and my morning attempt to unlock my fingers, I wonder what it really means to write what one knows.

On one hand, I think the only thing I really know is my own point of view (although there are of course thoughtful scholars out there who would sound caution about believing we know even that, but I'm not buying it). But god, doesn't that get boring after a while? And I think about this bloggedey-note space that I'd like to use as a creative area, and I'd like it to be something more than a glorified diary. Or journal. Or whatever they call those things these days.

I think maybe that what the "rule" Write What You Know can be best taken to mean, is to write believably. Oh, great, that's much more transparent!

Try again: what does THAT mean? Well, at a first approximation I'd guess it means that where possible, to do your research. What is the emotional IQ of an 8-year-old girl? What were the living conditions for the average 20-something man in early 20th-century Barcelona?

That sounds like the easy part, though. Because presumably a person doesn't want to write a bit of fiction as though constructing an encyclopedia entry. At least, I don't think I would. I think it also means having something of a rich sense of possibilities, a good sense of where elements that maybe start off quite real can be readily pushed and bent so that the reader would trustingly and joyfully go with, and get that "suspension of disbelief" thing going on and follow along down the rabbit hole or through the looking glass or on the Hogwarts Express.

That good sense of possibilities sounds like the hard part. Where does such a sense come from? Are you born with it? Does is come from practice? Both? Beats me. All I know, is that I'll have to stew on that for a while, because now my brain hurts.

Concerning giant monstrosities

Multiple postings I've seen floating around in the aether about the statue of Jesus that got flamed (and two big thumbs-up to mother nature for that one) remind me of another towering monstrosity I've seen in my past.

It was way back in my Days in South Carolina (a pretty horrible experience by any measure). I remember I was driving up some highway, don't remember which one anymore. And I think it had something to do with the lighting, and the line of sight I had from my car to the water tower, and also the direction of my approach.

And I remember as I saw this object looming over the tree tops, thinking: "good lord, is that a giant ... ass?" and then "what on earth is that THING? it's either a very small penis, or a rather large clit." I know that sounds vulgar, but I'm telling you, that water tower was not pretty. Who on earth constructs a ginormous water tower that looks like that? How on earth did they get away with it in the puritanical south?

Well, that thinking all happened - at highway speed - in the space of a second. For as I passed the water tower by, I could see as I craned by head around to look again, that it was in fact a giant peach. A giant peach that at the right angle of approach - that could have been altered every so slightly in its construction but I guess no one noticed - looked like a GIANT ASS. Or maybe the powers that were did notice, and had something of a sense of humor. It's hard to say.

I was scrolling online looking for just the right picture of it yesterday, and didn't find one that really captured that experience I had in the car that morning. I did read as I poked around that the tower has been repainted from its original flesh color to more closely resemble a peach. And that a big leaf has been added to it, to further increase the perception that it is supposed to token a piece of fruit and not a part of human anatomy(?). I guess that's a good thing.

Things I did not do in Greece

I didn't go into any grocery stores! I quite enjoy going into other countries' grocery stores. They convey interesting information. Are they mammoth? Weensey little corner shops? How are they organized? What do they contain, prioritize? It's interesting how doing something on autopilot on home soil suddenly is brought to the forefront of consciousness as I navigate a new exotic terrain in search of ordinary products.

I was thinking idly the other day about grocery shopping in Finland. Just a random moment. Here's a few of the things that stand out in my memory about it.

They sell their potatoes, dirt included, in these big bins. Left to my own devices, I don't know that I'd have ever found them - the potato section looks like nothing but big, dark containers of dirt. But you get a big sifter scoop, dip it in, shake off the excess dirt, and voila - potatoes. Bag 'em up and there you go.

For produce generally, you also need to weigh and price out whatever you buy. They don't do it at the register. The first time I tried that in Helsinki, I felt like a complete idiot. The machine's display was all in Finnish - which I don't know and probably will never learn.

Couldn't get the damned thing to print me out a price tag, and I got 3 of them seemingly jammed in error-mode (hard to tell - again, Finnish! But pushing more buttons wasn't doing anything). Then I finally stood behind a lady who was weighing out her bananas or whatever, watched what she did, and then mimed her when it was my turn. I think it worked, but I wasn't sure; I got a tag with numbers on it - hopefully it was the right price and I didn't end up paying 10 euros for a few bananas (again: Finnish!).

The next summer, I think they had replaced the machines with nice friendly versions with pictures of the produce on the touch-pad so that illiterates like me could put the item on the scale, push the button that showed (say) a banana, and get the price tag. That was a little humbling, somehow.

They sell their fresh herbs in wee little pots. I mean, when you buy the herbs, you're buying them live; you could probably take them home and replant them and grow your own if you wanted. I thought that looked really smart. And: arugula = rocket. Took me a while to figure that out.

Crackers. Finns love crackers. I'm not talking the wimpy saltine or ritz variety. These are hearty, rye-based, serious foods. Sometimes they come in shapes as big as a wheel. For all I can tell, they all taste the same. But there must be subtle differences, because there are entire aisles devoted to crackers of assorted brands and sizes and shapes.

And bread. I'm not a big on eating bread, but I do enjoy all the other aesthetics - the shapes, the colors, and especially the smells. The bakery section is large and gorgeous.

Cheese is also popular. The sections of it we find in the stores in the U.S. look wimpy compared to the gigantic slabs of it they have in the dairy section in Finland. Also: be careful about buying what looks like yogurt. They also have a thing called fil in Finland that's pretty common, and though it's kind of like yogurt, it's not the same and it might yick you out. The yogurt often comes in containers that look like they'd hold milk; the yogurt is more liquidey there.

Lots of pre-marinated meat and it is usually quite tastey.

Lots of sauna accoutrement in the health and beauty section. Lots of products containing tar - tar soap, tar shampoo, tar-scented oil that you can add to the water to splash on the heater in the sauna. Sounds weird, I'm sure, and to hold a bar of tar soap up to your nose and inhale - well, I won't lie. It stinks. Yet, strange but true, the scent that gets left after you use it and rinse it off is much like sandalwood.

Be either quick on your feet and have good environmental awareness, or don't mind the little old lady who elbows you out of her way as she's reaching for the whatever. And they don't say anything that sounds like "excuse me" when they do. They have a different way of navigating personal space there.

Bring a coin so that you can get a shopping cart. They're lined up with a kind of locking mechanism that released when a coin (25 cents?) is inserted. You get it back when you return the cart. I thought that looked VERY smart!

Bring your own bags. This is a trend that's gaining ground in the U.S. - at least in our western portion of it. Because they charge for the bags you use at the store. So if you don't have your own, you pull out however many you think you'll need at the register, add them to the pile of everything you're buying. The lady rings you up for them, and then you proceed to the end of the conveyor belt and bag our own groceries. Everyone bags their own groceries.

I remember the first time I went to a store and found out about the bag thing in Scandinavia. It was liquor store, where we were stocking up on wine (which they don't sell in grocery stores, and which is frequently packaged in boxes. Also, for American beer they carried only the worst varieties - why?). We went with the bottles, and I was doing, unreflectively, what I see happen all the time here as I was bagging it up - putting the different bottles in their own bags so that they wouldn't clang together excessively, and the guy at the register looked at me like I was crazy. Afterward, G laughed, and said "you know, I just had to pay for all those bags, don't you?" Of course I didn't, but at least it explained the crazy look.

Men's underwear technology

Just love reading Jon Carroll's column (http://www.sfgate.com/columnists/carroll/), and thought I'd put out a few words about part of what he discusses this morning: men's underwear.

For the gentleman who's not content to wallow about in pair of boxers, the lines he discusses just might be for you. One in particular stood out to me - Equmen. Not only are their products designed to assist men achieve a pleasing shape (that would probably sound entirely too femmey), Equmen uses SCIENCE and TECHNOLOGY to deliver to its wearers increased HEALTH and ENERGY.

In their own words from their website (www.equmen.com):
* * * * * * * * *
Discover the ultimate in comfort and fit with EQUMEN PRECISION UNDERWEAR. Engineered compression fabrics and ergonomic design optimise health and well-being, street to sport. With HELIX-MAPPING TECHNOLOGY:
• Precision-Fit Pouch: Double-ventilated pouch provides ultra-comfortable support.
• Streamlines & Defines: Body-defining, second skin fit. Added stretch enhances shape retention.
• Controls Temperature: Targeted mesh, moisture-wicking fabric and anti-microbial properties ensure all-day comfort.
* * * * * * * * *
"Added stretch enhances shape retention"? Is that even meaningful? Leaving the whole can of worms about what's involved with "shape retention" to the side, to my ear, "added stretch" does not cohere with retaining shape, but with the opposite instead.

"Anti-microbial properties ensure all-day comfort." ?. I. ..... I. .... I admit it: I don't know what to say. But here comes the shitstorm from my brain all the same. Microbial properties in men's underwear typically leads to discomfort? Is that why they scratch themselves so much? Is this product description implying that all the men I know are all calmly going about their days with microbes running amuck in their junk due to unhygienic underwear?

And another product: the undershirt, again in their own words:
* * * * * * * * *
Be at your best with the EQUMEN CORE PRECISION UNDERSHIRT.

Engineered compression fabrics and ergonomic design optimise health and well-being, street to sport. HELIX-MAPPING TECHNOLOGY builds in physiotherapy techniques to:
• Improve Posture: Gently pull the shoulders back to enable optimal alignment. Proper postural alignment is known to facilitate oxygen-flow for enhanced energy.
• Help Reduce Back Pain: By correcting posture and supporting the core, allows the muscles to exert less effort in supporting the weight of the body, thereby relieving pain in the back.
• Visibly Streamline: Second skin fit and targeted compression visibly slims for a more tailored look.
• Control Temperature: Targeted mesh, moisture-wicking fabric and anti-microbial properties ensure you stay dry and comfortable all-day.
• Enhance Circulation: Helps to support healthy blood flow, oxygen and nutrient delivery.
• Support Muscle Recovery: Assists recovery through direct compression and improved muscle oxygenation.
* * * * * * * * *
Improved oxygenation, enhanced energy. And again with the anti-microbes. I guess if your partner isn't wearing these products, you'd better hose him down with a can of Lysol before you get close and personal next time!

The Greek Trek: Santorini & Mykonos (final installment)

Yes, another note about Greece: but even if you read no further, I hope that this message gets taken away if nothing else does: (1) if you haven’t before, go to the Greek islands; (2) give yourself ample time to do an urban detox, and keep your plans open-ended so you don’t feel you’re operating under a deadline, and (3) go with friends, and perhaps even friends of theirs, and enjoy the opportunity to widen and deepen your relationships.

I’m really going to make this the last bit I write about Greece, as I fear anyone who’s kind enough to put their eyes to my words might be getting weary of hearing about it. The other island we spent a fair bit of time on was Santorini. We didn’t know how long we were going to stay, so we reserved a room for just 2 nights in case we fancied ferrying off someplace else. But it ended up we stayed there almost all the rest of our trip, and I think we all wished we could have stayed longer (and lucky Reeve got to actually make that wish come true by scoring an apartment on the cheap for a month! - but I’ve discussed that good fortune elsewhere).

Since Jake, G and I had, through Bernie’s help, made our hotel reservations in advance, we were able to steer calmly through the crowd of people at the dock hawking their lodgings as we exited the ferry from Amorgos. But we did take up the offer from a car rental place to get our own ride (25 euros/day) instead of relying on shuttle buses or our feet, as we had been doing previously. After Bernie and Elizabeth were taxied away by “grandpa” to their apartment, we all loaded into the rental car along with Reeve – who hadn’t made any lodging arrangements at all, but was playing it by ear – drove up the ribboney-windey road from the port over to Kamari, to the Hotel Poseidon and the esteemable Elena who set us all up.

The Poseidon was on the humble side – a room with a bed and just enough room to stow our bags – but it was totally all good. Everything was neat and clean, and, I mean, we were right there on the beach for a little more than 30 euros a night - no problems! And with both the car and the hotel, the same kind of accommodating attitude we had experienced on Amorgos was present here. Think you want the car/room for 2 days, but you’re not sure? No problem – just call and we’ll make it work. No reservations at all? No problem, we can make it work.

The beachfront strip where the Poseidon was located was about, what, a half-mile long? And it was wall-to-wall restaurants, hotels, bars, and convenience stores. I admit at first I thought – especially after the small-village quietness of Amorgos – that this place would feel touristey-over-the-top. But maybe because we were there before the big swell of tourist season, it didn’t turn out to feel that way at all, at least not in Kamari, and at least not for me (but I don’t think I’m alone in having had that sensation). Our first night we ate at the restaurant associated with the Poseidon – the waiter told us about the grilled fresh fish special of the day and said he could show us the fish they’d cook and I said “sure, why not?” And out he came with a platterful of big-assed fish that made us all go “ooOOOOoo!” and so we ordered four servings of that. And something else, I don’t remember what. And the waiter recommended us to get several carafes of wine, since it would take a while for the fish to cook. And they were good. The wine, and the fish. It was all awesome. In fact, everywhere we ate – in a small village, on the strip, in the bigger town of Fira – the food was consistently top-notch. Their special version of fried cheese. Stuffed squid. Grilled fish. Souvlaki. I had one happy tummy in Santorini.

Santorini is part of what’s left of an old volcano which is, actually, still active (you can take a ferry out to where there are hot springs near the center of the crater). And we toured around the island to see Fira (which was beautiful, but all the blingey touristey shops started making my skin itch after a while), and Oia (also beautiful, and the official destination place where people go to watch the sunset. I did hear somewhere, though, that of course anywhere on the western side of the island is a good place to see the sunset, but what makes it special to go to Oia, is that so many people show up there for it.). Visited some wineries.

But best of all, really, was the laid-backness of the time spent with good company. Reeve set up an unofficial office space in the Oxygen bar just down the strip from our hotel, which also sort of became the destination place in the later hours as well – our home away from home, away from home. Comfy couches, pretty cool music. So although we didn’t make plans on sticking together like glue, it was effortless to find one another in case you wanted to have a drink and a causal chat. If we weren’t on a day trip somewhere, then we’d be at the hotel or by the hotel’s pool, and if not that, then at the Oxygen bar. And in short time, the folks working there got to know your preferences. “Ah, it’s you lot – large Alphas all around, right?” And then of course was the very lovely dinner prepared for us all by Bernie and Elizabeth, on the evening of the fabulous sunset and an enthusiastic bout of mosquito-killing.

I know I posted status updates about doing yoga on the beach, so skip this and the next paragraph if yoga bores you because I just want to give a few more words about how cool that was. The shops and tourists along the strip don’t seem to wake up until 9 at the earliest, so if you’re up with the sun (as I tend to be), then going out and feeling like you have the whole area to yourself, all quiet and calm, is inspiring. Well, there was one place open: Hook’s bar, the owner of which (and his small dog) I think I’d surprise when I’d walk in at 6:30 in desperate search for a cup of coffee. I don’t know what exactly it was he served me – I’d ask for filter coffee, but it tasted like a cross between greek coffee and espresso – but it hit the spot. And then, by our hotel, there was a wooden walkway that went from the strip out toward the water. Which was good for furling the old mat upon (yes, I was geeky enough to pack my yoga mat with me on the trip), because the beach is rocky, not sandy, with a serious slope. And to be there, right alongside the sea, and feel the breath move itself in phase with the waves, and it being so quiet that you could hear the rocks on the shoreline softly rattling together like a kind of percussion instrument when a wave moved out – it was sublime.

Another joyous moment was when Bernie had agreed to do a little morning yoga with me and I managed to wake up a little on the late side (probably enabled by staying out a little on the late side the night before). By the time I was up and at ‘em, the beachfront was already in motion with delivery mopeds and folks out for their morning jog or their morning bask in the sunshine. So after I drove over to Bernie’s I suggested that since his place was in such a quieter area, whether we might try and find a suitable space along the water where he was. We walked to the shore and found a concrete dock that went out into the water, a great place to set up mat. For whatever reason, as we were doing our thing, I was keeping my eyes closed for the most part, maybe to tune into the breath, and the sounds of the water; I dunno: it just felt right. But there was one moment when I opened my eyes, and looked out to the water that was undulating and sparkling and had the most curious sensation that what was moving was us, through the water, rather than the water moving around us. You know, kind of like how it can feel when you’re watching snow fall, and you can get the sensation that you’re moving up rather than the snow’s moving down. That was very interesting.

All in all, the time on Santorini was blissful, and I’m so grateful to have friends whose company was a large part of why that time was so special. Jake, Bernie, Elizabeth, and Reeve: you all rock.

Okay, this is getting a little long, but I know I don’t have much to say about Mykonos, and to be complete I’ll put in a few words: serious tourist destination of the Carnival cruiseline monstrosity sort. To be fair, we were there less than 24 hours, but I think it’s not unfair to suggest that if you go, get off the ferry at Mykonos-town and get yourself elsewhere. The town is curious, a true maze of sidewalk-sized “streets” most of which have no name (it seemed to take forever to find our wee little rooming house), full of people, mopeds, and even the occasional car (the laws of physics somehow must not hold there). But, I mean, where other places have true tiled streets, Mykonos-town often has something down for streetwork and then wide, white painted strips that mimic where the mortar would be if there were tiles. You know? It just sort of exuded a sense of artificiality. And then, I think because so many of the visitors are just passing through for a day, there feels to be a real break in connection with the locals. Maybe because of the nature of the visitors, price points for drinks and food was up over what we had been having on Amorgos and Santorini. Mykonos-town also has a reputation for being a “party” place, and while not everyone on the streets was 20 years old, there are an awful lot of pectoral young men in surfer shorts and girls with salon-streaked straightened hair, gigantic sunglasses and giganter handbags, bored expressions and the kind of nonchalant tan that speaks of having the leisure to lay in the sun in such a way as to get all parts of the body exposed evenly. Just not my kind of place.

And then it was back to Athens! Back to the grit and the graffiti. G used some of his hotel points to score us a room at a Hilton, and walking into the lobby took my breath away – it was so huge! Or maybe it wasn’t so huge, but after several days of holing up in wee little hotels, it sure felt weird. As did the long walk to the room, and the room itself having space for 4 people in the bathroom (where before there would be barely room for one), and there was even a couch in the sleeping space, in addition to a bed. Crazy – it was all so BIG! But whereas before, your portion for a huge dinner and several drinks cost you 25 euros, we were in a place where a single glass of wine cost 9. And the food, though plentiful, was not nearly as good. I missed the islands immediately. And I still do. I can’t wait to go back.

The Greek Trek: Amorgos

As I wrote last time, I headed off to the islands without any particular expectations. To my pleasant surprise it was there, for me, that the real enjoyment of this trip was found.

We visited 3 islands: Amorgos (which shows up on the map but doesn’t get any coverage in the Fodor’s guide) where the wedding was, Santorini, and a very brief pitstop on Mykonos. I sat down this morning ready to write a page about all 3, but now as I’m in the process of winding down about just one, I see that this entry will need to talk about one island only, and this is but a small fraction of what was great about being there.

Amorgos was simply charming. It’s not a major tourist destination, so although there are hotels and places for getting postcards and stuff, it was at bottom very friendly and quiet. It was there that I began to be struck by the natural light and the colors of the environment. The buildings were all bright white with, usually, brilliantly blue trim. The landscape was generally rocky and the indigenous (?) plant life scrubby, in a way that looked more minimalistically beautiful than desolate. And there were these rocky terraces all over the island that at first we thought protected what little of a place to farm out a person could get. But there were so many terraces, and so little plant life, I began to wonder if they were more for just to dampen the effects of erosion generally. On the banana-van ride to the opposite side of the island to catch our ferry to Santorini, I remember amidst all the goats seeing a small family working on one, and felt in the moment that those terraces represented the work of countless generations of families sorting out rocks and putting in their contribution to the terraces that lace the hillsides.

Also worth noting is the smell of the air. It might have taken Joanna’s pointing it out to me to expedite my own observation, but in the fair bit of walking I did, I did notice that the air was positively suffused with a savory scent of herbs growing all around. It was absolutely delicious. Also, and it’s kind of hard to describe, there was this interesting sort of sweet smell. I don’t know what it was – maybe from the grapes growing on the island? It smelled a little like honey? It was hard to pin down. The closest thing I have to compare it to, when encountering that sweetness, was how it feels if you’re swimming in Hawaii in the warm water, and you run across a tendril of a cold current that just touches you and then moves on. The sweet smell was like that – I’d catch it in the air, like walking through it, and go “oh, yum!” But if I’d back up and try to find it again, it was gone. It was something one had to catch in the moment and enjoy it while it lasted and hope for it to come across again; it wasn’t something to be pinned down and immobilized.

The closest to capturing it I found is in a local beverage called, I think in English, raki (how the eta gets transliterated does not seem to be strictly rule-governed, so far as I can tell). The folks running our hotel, bless them, were still awake when we arrived after midnight, and greeted us with little shotglasses of the drink and explained its tie to the herbs and honey and grapes of the island. And afterward, when I realized that raki tastes like how Amorgos smells, I had to buy a couple of bottles to bring home. In fact, that’s all (besides memories and photos) that I brought back from the islands.

Another special thing about being on Amorgos – besides Anders and Michelle’s wedding of course, which was beautiful and tear-inducing (but deserves a voicing more poetic than what I can conjure up), and wound up with a fantastic party dancing to Indian music and a 5 a.m. jump in the pool (that I regretfully missed) – was after the relaxing atmosphere enabled me to shed off the frenetic buzz that can accumulate from everyday urban life. And that was getting to sit around with new people, or people met before but not really known, without anything in particular to do or anywhere in particular to go, and get to know them better. That was pure and simply awesome, and is what rendered the mass exodus the day after the wedding bittersweet, for I would have sure been happy to have it continue with the folks who left for a few days more. Another time!

But anyway, here are some examples of how the hotel staff helped make the experience all the more achievable and enjoyable. One afternoon, some of Michelle’s family had brought food over with them from India – rice, spices, chutneys, pickles. And the hotel was quite okay with them moving into the kitchen there to prepare lunch; in fact, I think they even offered up to cook the meal themselves after a little instruction, and then served it up for everyone. I came in on the late side to that event, so I might not be right in all the details. But the food sure was delish! Pickled lemons: very interesting! And I was flattered to hear, when I asked for seconds, Michelle’s uncle say that I was definitely ready for a visit to India. To be sure, I’ve been more than ready for a while. Knuckling down and making it happen is another story, of course, but I hope to see that day come soon.

Another example comes from the day there was a thunderstorm on Amorgos. First, it was awesome that there >was< a thunderstorm. I LOVE thunderstorms, and it was a glorious indulgence to laze in bed with the patio doors open and listen to the thunder rolling outside. (Lazing in bed was also good because the night before was the rehearsal dinner, with, as one might expect, a fair amount of drinkage.)

There had been planned for that day a ferry ride to Santorini and a picnic there. But with the weather, and then stories of a test-ferry-run by some of the party guests to Santorini and back leading to stomach upset in persons usually quite seaworthy, the trip was cancelled. But it was all good – the picnic was moved indoors to the hotel where there were plenty of chairs and couches, a pool table and a wide-screen TV. By the time I finally made my way over, it was so nice to see folks sitting around, playing card games, lounging together chatting, sharing pictures, playing pool. And consuming the food and wine and beer that had been bought for taking out to the picnic. No one on the staff blinked about providing plates and glasses, and cleaning up after us, or balked when a crew went out to buy more supplies and brought it in. It was one of those moments where I thought, “nope, definitely not in the U.S. anymore.” Because I couldn’t imagine a U.S. hotel with a full bar and restaurant not getting snippety about that. But on Amorgos, the attitude was like, “if this is what makes you happy, then we’ll support you in making it happen – no worries.”

The Greek Trek: Athens

Just a few more bloggedey notes about Greece, and then I’ll move on. Last time I wrote about random tidbits, but here’s the way the trip went more generally. First we spent 2-3 days in Athens (which at the onset I thought I’d appreciate most) and then went islands-ward (about which I was absent of expectations altogether). For the islands, we wound up spending several days on Amorgos, then several days on Santorini, and then one quick day on Mykonos before heading back to overnight in Athens before our 6 a.m. flight back home. Today I’ll just stick to a couple of observations about Athens.

Athens, at least in the downtown area, was pretty gritty, run-down with ubiquitous graffiti tagging, and relatively expensive. The ancient sites were, don’t get me wrong, very cool. But I think in my imagination I was hoping to feel something of the soul of the old philosophers and other thinkers as I traipsed around the old agora, but I didn’t pick up on anything of that at all. For my two cents, and deriving from what I’ve got in my experiential vault, for more of that “wow” factor of feeling the past alive in the present, a place like Rome really gets that vibe going on.

Maybe that’s why I enjoyed the acropolis museum so much. The museum is built atop a partially excavated ancient ruin. You can see it all open around the suspended walkway/entryway. The floors on the ground level have clear glass panes so that as you walk through the sleek, modern structure you have a view downward straight into the past. So to my mind at least, it conjured up a sense of the present rising up from the past.

Besides the ground-floor design, what also took my breath away was the third floor Parthenon exhibit. As you ascend the stairs, there are big pane-glass windows that give a view straight out to the old Parthenon itself. And the third floor is a reconstruction of the artwork at the top of the Parthenon done to scale, some parts being from the original structure, and others (mostly others) being a plaster-of-paris remake, all set within contemporary brushed-steel looking settings. The plaster remakes looked pretty rough, and I’m guessing that was deliberate although the artistic point was kinda lost on me. All the same, it was really beautifully done. And it was on that floor that we were texted a photo of Maria and Teemu’s newborn baby boy, which made it all even more special still: present mixing with the past, and present meeting with the future. Pretty cool.

What also had Athens as a rocking experience was when we went to the temple of Zeus and ran into 3 of our friends – Jake, Elizabeth and Bernie – there. Of course, they were in Athens, as we were, en route to the wedding. But still. Athens is a big place and it felt somewhat miraculous that we managed to run into each other so serendipitously. That opened up the way for an afternoon and evening of great fun and wine sampling and, of all things, dinner at a quasi-Polynesian restaurant (hey, why not? We figured there’d be plenty of time for eating feta later on).

My imagination didn’t seriously begin to stir until we started ferrying about to the islands. In the evening the water was calm and purplish-blue, and all about were all these islands dotting the water. The crescent moon as it set was a brilliant orange. The part of my heart that loves to wander could well imagine what a thrill it would be to have been an ancient greek traveller, and how ready the area presents itself to encouraging a person to extend the length of one’s leash to his or her homeland by sailing incrementally from island to island. And the islands I’ll talk more about later.