I think it's time for a shortened brain dump.
1) I am listening to Dimmu Borgir. Do yourself a favor and follow suit.
2) I am fascinated by the role that aesthetics play(or don't play)in daily life. I would never have expected Baudelaire to be such an influence post-undergraduate, but my default response to the events around me is "La vie en beau!" If you know what I mean.
3) I am so happy that I was an English major. Really, I should say that I was a literature major, but in two languages at once. But fuck am I brilliant.
4) I want a Mead Hall.
5) I am the philosopher king; the Kwisatz Haderach; Prospero before he drowned his books - Nicholas Urfe after colonizing mars; etc. etc.
6) I'd like to finish the saga of Alastor Sinncraft, and begin anew on the trials and tribulations of Thomas whatsisname in the land of the Esquimaux.
7) I want a Mead Hall.
8) It turns out that I'm legitimately descended from the real-life Lords of Rohan. Bad. Ass.
There will be more to come (finally!) over the next few weeks, dear invisible reader - I merely need time to compose my wits, and to perhaps to put together several treatises on aesthetics, the sacred, and the role of deconstructionism in the life of a modern dandy-philosopher.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Dear Friends:
Wendy, Jasper, and I thank you so much for the many ways in which you've reached out to us with your thoughts, your kindness, your prayers, and your support. It has helped give us strength at a comfortless time and we are deeply moved and appreciative.
We would ask you to share the following information with as many people as possible.
---------------------------------------
Hart's Memorial Service will be held next Friday, February 19, at the Boulder Unity Church at 6:30pm. The Unity Church is located at the corner of Valmont Rd. and Folsom St. The service will be open, as Hart would like, and we would like to invite anyone to join us in sharing any words, thoughts, art, music, writing, photos ...
After the service, we would like to invite you to join us at our home at 1445 Redwood Ave. in Boulder.
There should be sufficient parking at the Unity Church. There should be on-street parking near our house.
--------------------------------------
As a memorial to Hart, we have established two gifts. One at September High School in Boulder and the other at the San Francisco Art Institute (SFAI). Both schools meant so much to Hart and will work to support his desire to help other young artists.
Gifts to September School (http://www.septemberschool.org/) can be made on behalf of Hart Lipton either on their website or by check. You can also contact their Head of School, Dan Fox (dan@septemberschool.org).
The Hart Lipton Scholarship Fund at the San Francisco Art Institute (www.sfai.edu ...please don't confuse it with one of the "generic" Art Institutes of San Francisco) is ready to receive donations. There are multiple ways individuals can contribute to the fund:
If donating by check, please ask donors to send their contributions payable to SFAI, and write “Hart Lipton Scholarship Fund” in the memo line of the check. The mailing address is:
Advancement Office
San Francisco Art Institute
800 Chestnut Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
Online donations may be made at http://activeweb.sfai.edu/giving/. When donating online, select the “Hart Lipton Scholarship Fund” option from the pull-down menu for “Gift Designation”.
Donations may also be made by telephone, and wire transfer information may be received by calling the SFAI Advancement Office at (415) 749-4582.
----------------------------------
Again, thank you all for your support, kind words, and memories.
With all our love.
Wendy, Josh and Jasper
Wendy, Jasper, and I thank you so much for the many ways in which you've reached out to us with your thoughts, your kindness, your prayers, and your support. It has helped give us strength at a comfortless time and we are deeply moved and appreciative.
We would ask you to share the following information with as many people as possible.
---------------------------------------
Hart's Memorial Service will be held next Friday, February 19, at the Boulder Unity Church at 6:30pm. The Unity Church is located at the corner of Valmont Rd. and Folsom St. The service will be open, as Hart would like, and we would like to invite anyone to join us in sharing any words, thoughts, art, music, writing, photos ...
After the service, we would like to invite you to join us at our home at 1445 Redwood Ave. in Boulder.
There should be sufficient parking at the Unity Church. There should be on-street parking near our house.
--------------------------------------
As a memorial to Hart, we have established two gifts. One at September High School in Boulder and the other at the San Francisco Art Institute (SFAI). Both schools meant so much to Hart and will work to support his desire to help other young artists.
Gifts to September School (http://www.septemberschool.org/) can be made on behalf of Hart Lipton either on their website or by check. You can also contact their Head of School, Dan Fox (dan@septemberschool.org).
The Hart Lipton Scholarship Fund at the San Francisco Art Institute (www.sfai.edu ...please don't confuse it with one of the "generic" Art Institutes of San Francisco) is ready to receive donations. There are multiple ways individuals can contribute to the fund:
If donating by check, please ask donors to send their contributions payable to SFAI, and write “Hart Lipton Scholarship Fund” in the memo line of the check. The mailing address is:
Advancement Office
San Francisco Art Institute
800 Chestnut Street
San Francisco, CA 94133
Online donations may be made at http://activeweb.sfai.edu/giving/. When donating online, select the “Hart Lipton Scholarship Fund” option from the pull-down menu for “Gift Designation”.
Donations may also be made by telephone, and wire transfer information may be received by calling the SFAI Advancement Office at (415) 749-4582.
----------------------------------
Again, thank you all for your support, kind words, and memories.
With all our love.
Wendy, Josh and Jasper
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Damn you, school
Well, I have three papers due this week. Two are your garden-variety, five- to seven-page papers, and the third is the first draft of a fifteen- to twenty-page research project. Thanks to a couple of life-saving extensions, I now have one paper due on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Oh, right - and a quiz today and a test next Tuesday. It's depressing to think about how much I still have left to do this semester, and how little time I've got to actually do it.
I'm not sure why all of the English professors insist on having everything due at the same time (both shorter papers were supposed to be turned in on Monday). You'd think they'd coordinate or something, instead of just dooming every English major to random weeks of abject misery.
At any rate, The next three days are really, really going to suck - which is especially wonderful since I now have all this time on my hands after the end of soccer season, and I wasn't particularly looking forward to spending an extra two hours every day on work. But that's the way it's going to be from here on out, I'd say. English exams in January (which gives me two months to read everything I have to read), followed by French exams in early April (another two months to read everything I have to read for those), and then a mad scramble to figure out what to do with my life after I (hopefully) graduate. That leaves a very, very slim chunk of time left over for things I actually want to do, like sit around and play video games.
On the plus side, I'm looking forward to staying fit/getting fitter now that I don't have to do it for anyone. Working out is great when I'm not worrying about soccer - in fact, I'll probably get even fitter now that soccer isn't taking up all of my time. Strange how things like that work.
I'm not sure why all of the English professors insist on having everything due at the same time (both shorter papers were supposed to be turned in on Monday). You'd think they'd coordinate or something, instead of just dooming every English major to random weeks of abject misery.
At any rate, The next three days are really, really going to suck - which is especially wonderful since I now have all this time on my hands after the end of soccer season, and I wasn't particularly looking forward to spending an extra two hours every day on work. But that's the way it's going to be from here on out, I'd say. English exams in January (which gives me two months to read everything I have to read), followed by French exams in early April (another two months to read everything I have to read for those), and then a mad scramble to figure out what to do with my life after I (hopefully) graduate. That leaves a very, very slim chunk of time left over for things I actually want to do, like sit around and play video games.
On the plus side, I'm looking forward to staying fit/getting fitter now that I don't have to do it for anyone. Working out is great when I'm not worrying about soccer - in fact, I'll probably get even fitter now that soccer isn't taking up all of my time. Strange how things like that work.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
A Thing
So, I had thought I had gotten over the whole "originality crisis" after my sophomore year of college, which was riddled by angsty, meandering term papers and overly-verbose textual masturbation. So it should be no surprise that this post is going to be an angsty, meandering, overly verbose example of textual masturbation.
I'm sitting here, trying to write a short (one to two page, which is legitimately short) paper for my American Lit class. I suffer from a dysfunction where I'm compelled to google my paper theses immediately after I come up with them, in the hopes that nothing will appear, and my Thought will be proven Original. This never happens. Sometimes it's obvious; such is the case tonight, as I'm writing about commodity fetishism and the dangers of capitalism in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth. Sometimes, however, the realization that one of your Really Good Thoughts is disgustingly old news is downright crushing. For example, for the past year and a half I've been semi-consciously putting together a theory about poetic violence as a response to boredom; at least three of the last six papers I've written have been about Baudelarian violence as a response to ennui in various modern and pre-modern texts. Last Wednesday, my British Lit teacher spat this tidbit like it was yesterday's leftovers. Everybody knows that violence is a response to boredom, and that poetry is violence. In retrospect, it was idiotic to think that I was on to something, but it's nevertheless incredibly disappointing to realize that all your Really Good Thoughts already got Thunk about forty years ago.
I've yet to find a cure for the apathy and intellectual depression that's brought on by the Originality Crisis. Most have suggested that it's unavoidable, since nothing's original anymore, which somehow doesn't make anything better. It seems that the best answer would be to avoid google, but somehow I'm not sure that ignorance is bliss - walking aroung acting like you're the king of everything is only entertaining when nobody can prove you're not. I'd rather be aware of the possibility that I'm intellectually bankrupt than be the laughingstock of the educated community at large. To some extent, old good news is still good news, and I oughtn't feel ashamed that other really smart people have the same really smart thoughts that I do.
That was nice and inspirational, but as self-advice, it's fairly empty. I'm perfectly aware that my distress over not being the first to do or think of everything will continue to be near-crippling in its effects. What I've so far been able to avoid is complete and utter nihilism; the "why bother if it's already been said" - which I think at least has an optimistic ring to it. I've reached a point of almost transcendent self-awareness. I can pretend that I'm Hot Shit, even though I know I'm not, just because I'm still fairly sure that I'm Hotter Shit than most of my peers. My Hypocritic Oath (c. Mike Krahulik and Jerry Holkins), taken young, allows me to be perfectly contradictory in everything I do and feel great about it - except for, as I said, the crippling anxiety that plagues me in my paper-writing.
I think that, in the future, I'll continue to post intellectual musings, as this silly little web log (or "blog," as it's now called) offers a perfect textual space to clear my head: no one reads it, and if they do, I can claim sanctuary since I'm young, stupid, and a blogger (and thus inherently dismissable).
Kade Out!
I'm sitting here, trying to write a short (one to two page, which is legitimately short) paper for my American Lit class. I suffer from a dysfunction where I'm compelled to google my paper theses immediately after I come up with them, in the hopes that nothing will appear, and my Thought will be proven Original. This never happens. Sometimes it's obvious; such is the case tonight, as I'm writing about commodity fetishism and the dangers of capitalism in Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth. Sometimes, however, the realization that one of your Really Good Thoughts is disgustingly old news is downright crushing. For example, for the past year and a half I've been semi-consciously putting together a theory about poetic violence as a response to boredom; at least three of the last six papers I've written have been about Baudelarian violence as a response to ennui in various modern and pre-modern texts. Last Wednesday, my British Lit teacher spat this tidbit like it was yesterday's leftovers. Everybody knows that violence is a response to boredom, and that poetry is violence. In retrospect, it was idiotic to think that I was on to something, but it's nevertheless incredibly disappointing to realize that all your Really Good Thoughts already got Thunk about forty years ago.
I've yet to find a cure for the apathy and intellectual depression that's brought on by the Originality Crisis. Most have suggested that it's unavoidable, since nothing's original anymore, which somehow doesn't make anything better. It seems that the best answer would be to avoid google, but somehow I'm not sure that ignorance is bliss - walking aroung acting like you're the king of everything is only entertaining when nobody can prove you're not. I'd rather be aware of the possibility that I'm intellectually bankrupt than be the laughingstock of the educated community at large. To some extent, old good news is still good news, and I oughtn't feel ashamed that other really smart people have the same really smart thoughts that I do.
That was nice and inspirational, but as self-advice, it's fairly empty. I'm perfectly aware that my distress over not being the first to do or think of everything will continue to be near-crippling in its effects. What I've so far been able to avoid is complete and utter nihilism; the "why bother if it's already been said" - which I think at least has an optimistic ring to it. I've reached a point of almost transcendent self-awareness. I can pretend that I'm Hot Shit, even though I know I'm not, just because I'm still fairly sure that I'm Hotter Shit than most of my peers. My Hypocritic Oath (c. Mike Krahulik and Jerry Holkins), taken young, allows me to be perfectly contradictory in everything I do and feel great about it - except for, as I said, the crippling anxiety that plagues me in my paper-writing.
I think that, in the future, I'll continue to post intellectual musings, as this silly little web log (or "blog," as it's now called) offers a perfect textual space to clear my head: no one reads it, and if they do, I can claim sanctuary since I'm young, stupid, and a blogger (and thus inherently dismissable).
Kade Out!
Thursday, July 23, 2009
A series of disappointments
I'd like to take a moment here and talk about the last two movies I saw.
It's not as if I was expecting the second Transformers movie to be good, exactly - but I certainly wasn't expecting it to be nearly as bad as it was. I actually don't even know where to start. I could start with the atrocious, face-palm opening that literally made me cringe with despair, the unbelievable wince-inducing attempts at one-liners, or the unfathomable plot holes, but I suppose I'll just start ranting and see where I end up.
Transformers should be the coolest thing ever. Giant robots that transform into cars and fighter planes? There is basically no excuse for not making that awesome. Plus, how much was the budget for this goddamned thing? Like a hojillion dollars? Optimus Prime is a GIANT ROBOT that transforms into a SEMI TRUCK. That should be, like, the most badass thing in the entire world. But every time he opened his stupid robot mouth I wanted to scream. He is given literally the dumbest lines I think I have ever heard in a movie. I can't actually remember all of them right now, but I think that's because my brain blocking out traumatic memories.
The propoganda in this movie is disgusting. Too many examples to list. The only evil car in the movie is German. Yup.
God, you know what? I can't even remember what I was going to write about. It's all too stupid. But Shia LeBeouf's fast talking can only do so much to save a movie, and it definitely wasn't enough. The parts where the robots are fighting are awesome, and the parts where people are talking are acceptable. It's when the robots talk and hte people fight that things get really stupid. I'd really like to know who wrote the script, so I could meet him and kick him in the nuts. I don't care if we're "not supposed to take it seriously" - Mr. Bay obviously takes this film (and everything else about himself) very seriously, so I don't think there's any reason not to call Bullshit. Seriously, what a waste of money.
The second movie I saw was the latest Harry Potter. Honestly, I don't even know why I bother anymore. I haven't liked the last 2, but for some reason I paid seven dollars to see this one, too. I'm telling you, don't bother. It is terrible. There is not a single redeeming feature about that film. It's unilaterally atrocious. The acting is terrible. The script is terrible. It's incredibly boring. The characters are hateful. Literally the only thing that's "neat" is how the Death Eaters fly around - which is by turning into black smoke and shooting around like giant, evil high-polluting bottle rockets. I don't see why the good wizards can't fly around like that, too. But whatever. Least of my worries.
Don't bother to watch this movie if you've read the book. Literally every likeable thing about Harry Potter has been completely ruined. For example: Albus Dumbledore, who features prominently in the 6th installment, is turned into the biggest asshat in the world. I still can't believe that someone, anyone, thought it was a good idea to cast him as a benevolent headmaster. First of all, the actor, whatever the hell his name is, has absolutely no emotional depth. No matter what he's saying, he sounds like he's pissed off, or like someone has just punched him in the nose (probably because he sucks so badly) and he's kind of ticked about it. He has been an asshole since movie number 3 - This is a problem, because the Dumbledore in the books is not an asshole until book #6 - and only briefly, but at least you notice that a nice person has lost his temper. In the movie, your response is "God, look at this guy. What an asshole. I can't wait 'til he's dead." Seriously, the ending doesn't come near quickly enough.
Actually, almost every single character is deplorable. Rupert Grint couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, Daniel Radcliffe has two faces (Wry, cringing grin; and cringing frown/scream, which look exactly the same except that he screws his eyes up in face number two), and Emma Watson - well, I guess she's the most acceptable of all of them. At least she sort of seems like a Hermione. Ugh. Alan Rickman, the only decent actor in the whole bunch, has like ten lines in the whole movie, which is unforgiveable. Any way, moving on.
Actually, if you haven't read the book (which, if you're under the age of 50 is almost mind-blowing), there's no point in watching it either. It makes no sense. It is a random sequence of completely disconnected events brought to life by characters with which you have no emotional attachment, other than to hate them. Massive chunks of the book are skipped over (as has been the trend). It's more of a pop-up book than a movie (And then Dumbledore died, and Harry was sad), which is just kind of depressing.
I guess that's really all I've got for now.
It's not as if I was expecting the second Transformers movie to be good, exactly - but I certainly wasn't expecting it to be nearly as bad as it was. I actually don't even know where to start. I could start with the atrocious, face-palm opening that literally made me cringe with despair, the unbelievable wince-inducing attempts at one-liners, or the unfathomable plot holes, but I suppose I'll just start ranting and see where I end up.
Transformers should be the coolest thing ever. Giant robots that transform into cars and fighter planes? There is basically no excuse for not making that awesome. Plus, how much was the budget for this goddamned thing? Like a hojillion dollars? Optimus Prime is a GIANT ROBOT that transforms into a SEMI TRUCK. That should be, like, the most badass thing in the entire world. But every time he opened his stupid robot mouth I wanted to scream. He is given literally the dumbest lines I think I have ever heard in a movie. I can't actually remember all of them right now, but I think that's because my brain blocking out traumatic memories.
The propoganda in this movie is disgusting. Too many examples to list. The only evil car in the movie is German. Yup.
God, you know what? I can't even remember what I was going to write about. It's all too stupid. But Shia LeBeouf's fast talking can only do so much to save a movie, and it definitely wasn't enough. The parts where the robots are fighting are awesome, and the parts where people are talking are acceptable. It's when the robots talk and hte people fight that things get really stupid. I'd really like to know who wrote the script, so I could meet him and kick him in the nuts. I don't care if we're "not supposed to take it seriously" - Mr. Bay obviously takes this film (and everything else about himself) very seriously, so I don't think there's any reason not to call Bullshit. Seriously, what a waste of money.
The second movie I saw was the latest Harry Potter. Honestly, I don't even know why I bother anymore. I haven't liked the last 2, but for some reason I paid seven dollars to see this one, too. I'm telling you, don't bother. It is terrible. There is not a single redeeming feature about that film. It's unilaterally atrocious. The acting is terrible. The script is terrible. It's incredibly boring. The characters are hateful. Literally the only thing that's "neat" is how the Death Eaters fly around - which is by turning into black smoke and shooting around like giant, evil high-polluting bottle rockets. I don't see why the good wizards can't fly around like that, too. But whatever. Least of my worries.
Don't bother to watch this movie if you've read the book. Literally every likeable thing about Harry Potter has been completely ruined. For example: Albus Dumbledore, who features prominently in the 6th installment, is turned into the biggest asshat in the world. I still can't believe that someone, anyone, thought it was a good idea to cast him as a benevolent headmaster. First of all, the actor, whatever the hell his name is, has absolutely no emotional depth. No matter what he's saying, he sounds like he's pissed off, or like someone has just punched him in the nose (probably because he sucks so badly) and he's kind of ticked about it. He has been an asshole since movie number 3 - This is a problem, because the Dumbledore in the books is not an asshole until book #6 - and only briefly, but at least you notice that a nice person has lost his temper. In the movie, your response is "God, look at this guy. What an asshole. I can't wait 'til he's dead." Seriously, the ending doesn't come near quickly enough.
Actually, almost every single character is deplorable. Rupert Grint couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, Daniel Radcliffe has two faces (Wry, cringing grin; and cringing frown/scream, which look exactly the same except that he screws his eyes up in face number two), and Emma Watson - well, I guess she's the most acceptable of all of them. At least she sort of seems like a Hermione. Ugh. Alan Rickman, the only decent actor in the whole bunch, has like ten lines in the whole movie, which is unforgiveable. Any way, moving on.
Actually, if you haven't read the book (which, if you're under the age of 50 is almost mind-blowing), there's no point in watching it either. It makes no sense. It is a random sequence of completely disconnected events brought to life by characters with which you have no emotional attachment, other than to hate them. Massive chunks of the book are skipped over (as has been the trend). It's more of a pop-up book than a movie (And then Dumbledore died, and Harry was sad), which is just kind of depressing.
I guess that's really all I've got for now.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Santorini, Wednesday
Wednesday
Woke up, ate breakfast, forget what happened next. At some point, around “lunchtime,” I walked up the road to look for cheap food at the mini market - a disgusting place; filthy, with ancient wares and rotting fruits. I bought a box of Loukum (Turkish delight, although don’t ever let the Greeks hear you call it that. Side note: Yesterday, at Manuel’s restaurant, three American girls walked in and started chatting with the manager. He asked where they were going next, and when they replied Turkey, he put his head in his hands, sat down next to them, and began to explain why this was a terrible idea. I lost track of the conversation then, as Olivier called me, and I had to remember my French) for two euros, and took it home. It looks to be about as old as I am; the powdered sugar long since turned to a yellowish crust, the candies themselves bland and mushy. Unfortunate.
After that, I went back to the pool (I’ve been listening to George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire – yes, I am a nerd – and I quite like it so far, although it’s taken me over ten hours of listening time to get through half of a book that I could have read in a night), and before I knew it, it was five o’clock. Or six, maybe – or seven. Who knows? In any case, I decided it was time for dinner, so I roused myself (read: put on pants) and walked through Fira looking for dinner. For some reason, I settled on a place that looked like a restaurant – mistake. I ordered saganaki (fried cheese) and a roast lamb shank. The saganaki tasted like saganaki – which is to say, good – but the lamb was a far cry from what I ate last night; Manny’s dripping, crisped chops. It was no where near as tender, no where near as flavorful. The bread, however, was excellent. For some reason my stomach’s still bothering me – although I suspect that long hours in the sun and little water didn’t do much to pacify it.
**
As Jasper was walking down the narrow road back to Blue Sky Villas, ice cream in hand (tiramisu and chocolate), he passed a girl walking in the other direction. She was young, maybe twenty, and very American; short jean shorts, blond hair, plump. He took no notice of her until she smiled at him and said hello. He smiled, said a polite “Hello” back, turned his attention back to the ice cream and began to continue down the road until he realized she was still talking to him.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked. Jasper looked at her suspiciously. “Not sure,” he replied, wary. “Might stay in.” “How long are you here for?” she asked again. “Back to Athens on Friday,” Jasper said, “and then Paris.” “Is that where you’re studying?” Full of questions, this one. “Just finished the semester,” Jasper said. “Where are you from?” the girl asked, still smiling. “Colorado, and school in Washington,” said Jasper. “We kept on seeing each other all day,” she said. “The pool,” she added, when she saw the quizzical look on his face. “Ah,” said Jasper, half-smiling, “of course.” She still didn’t look familiar. “We’re going to go out tonight after dinner,” she began, “want to come? Where have you been going?”
“The Two Brothers,” said Jasper.
“Oh yeah,” she said, some old man was trying to get us to go there last night, but he was so creepy! All the men here are so creepy! And so old!”
“Don’t go to Athens,” was Jasper’s response.
“What’s your room number?” she asked, “we’ll come knock on your door after dinner. Unable to think of a way to give the girl his room number without coming across like an asshole, Jasper replied after a minute.
“Nineteen,” he said.
“Great,” she replied. “I’m Heather, by the way.”
“Jasper,” Jasper said, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she said, “See you tonight at the hotel – or we’ll meet you at the Two Brothers.” Jasper winced.
Heather never showed, for which Jasper was very grateful. He didn’t want anything to do with her. Dames were trouble; dames always were. But, he had told Sean, Genie and Steve that he would meet them at eleven at the bar, so at eleven fifteen he trudged up the hill to the Two Brothers. Other Sean was there (and thankfully, no women were), and they talked sports and watched Shakhtar beat Werder Bremen in the UEFA finals. Jasper wasn’t in the mood for the Two Brothers; after six days under the Greek sun his head felt like a fried egg, and the booming music and shouting didn’t do much to help him out. All he really wanted was a couple advil and a glass of water. So, after two whiskeys and a shot of ouzo for the road (on the house, of course), Jasper walked back home and got into bed with a tall glass of ice water.
**
Kim has since pointed out that Jasper essentially (albeit unknowingly) invited the girl back to his room, which was certainly not his intention. Apparently, that's what giving out your room number means. I claim sanctuary, since I was fixated mostly on my ice cream, and not what was coming out of her mouth. Plus, I have a history of being socially oblivious, which not everyone remembers. What I did notice was that she was American, slightly chubby (I am not a savory character by anyone's definition), that she tried to make her handshake firmer to match mine, and that she must have overheard me talking about Paris (probably on the phone with the Reuters girl), because she jumped to the studying conclusion far too quickly for my comfort. In any case, I'm hoping that this girl never shows up. I had no idea women could be that...predatory.
For some reason, I’ve been thinking about the “future.” It’s certainly looming at this point in my life – one more year of college to go, no idea of what I want to be doing – and it’s fairly impossible not to take note of its vast, empty shape off in the near distance. I’m not sure how Greece has anything to do with this, but it seems to me it does – I predicted an introspective week, and it has certainly been that. Solo voyages are healthy, and I’ve taken advantage of this one, I’d say – even though from an outsider’s perspective it probably just looks like vacation (which it is, only so much more). I’ve enjoyed myself immensely; even while lounging by the pool I catch myself smiling, happy for some honest-to-god peace and quiet for once.
Woke up, ate breakfast, forget what happened next. At some point, around “lunchtime,” I walked up the road to look for cheap food at the mini market - a disgusting place; filthy, with ancient wares and rotting fruits. I bought a box of Loukum (Turkish delight, although don’t ever let the Greeks hear you call it that. Side note: Yesterday, at Manuel’s restaurant, three American girls walked in and started chatting with the manager. He asked where they were going next, and when they replied Turkey, he put his head in his hands, sat down next to them, and began to explain why this was a terrible idea. I lost track of the conversation then, as Olivier called me, and I had to remember my French) for two euros, and took it home. It looks to be about as old as I am; the powdered sugar long since turned to a yellowish crust, the candies themselves bland and mushy. Unfortunate.
After that, I went back to the pool (I’ve been listening to George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire – yes, I am a nerd – and I quite like it so far, although it’s taken me over ten hours of listening time to get through half of a book that I could have read in a night), and before I knew it, it was five o’clock. Or six, maybe – or seven. Who knows? In any case, I decided it was time for dinner, so I roused myself (read: put on pants) and walked through Fira looking for dinner. For some reason, I settled on a place that looked like a restaurant – mistake. I ordered saganaki (fried cheese) and a roast lamb shank. The saganaki tasted like saganaki – which is to say, good – but the lamb was a far cry from what I ate last night; Manny’s dripping, crisped chops. It was no where near as tender, no where near as flavorful. The bread, however, was excellent. For some reason my stomach’s still bothering me – although I suspect that long hours in the sun and little water didn’t do much to pacify it.
**
As Jasper was walking down the narrow road back to Blue Sky Villas, ice cream in hand (tiramisu and chocolate), he passed a girl walking in the other direction. She was young, maybe twenty, and very American; short jean shorts, blond hair, plump. He took no notice of her until she smiled at him and said hello. He smiled, said a polite “Hello” back, turned his attention back to the ice cream and began to continue down the road until he realized she was still talking to him.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked. Jasper looked at her suspiciously. “Not sure,” he replied, wary. “Might stay in.” “How long are you here for?” she asked again. “Back to Athens on Friday,” Jasper said, “and then Paris.” “Is that where you’re studying?” Full of questions, this one. “Just finished the semester,” Jasper said. “Where are you from?” the girl asked, still smiling. “Colorado, and school in Washington,” said Jasper. “We kept on seeing each other all day,” she said. “The pool,” she added, when she saw the quizzical look on his face. “Ah,” said Jasper, half-smiling, “of course.” She still didn’t look familiar. “We’re going to go out tonight after dinner,” she began, “want to come? Where have you been going?”
“The Two Brothers,” said Jasper.
“Oh yeah,” she said, some old man was trying to get us to go there last night, but he was so creepy! All the men here are so creepy! And so old!”
“Don’t go to Athens,” was Jasper’s response.
“What’s your room number?” she asked, “we’ll come knock on your door after dinner. Unable to think of a way to give the girl his room number without coming across like an asshole, Jasper replied after a minute.
“Nineteen,” he said.
“Great,” she replied. “I’m Heather, by the way.”
“Jasper,” Jasper said, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she said, “See you tonight at the hotel – or we’ll meet you at the Two Brothers.” Jasper winced.
Heather never showed, for which Jasper was very grateful. He didn’t want anything to do with her. Dames were trouble; dames always were. But, he had told Sean, Genie and Steve that he would meet them at eleven at the bar, so at eleven fifteen he trudged up the hill to the Two Brothers. Other Sean was there (and thankfully, no women were), and they talked sports and watched Shakhtar beat Werder Bremen in the UEFA finals. Jasper wasn’t in the mood for the Two Brothers; after six days under the Greek sun his head felt like a fried egg, and the booming music and shouting didn’t do much to help him out. All he really wanted was a couple advil and a glass of water. So, after two whiskeys and a shot of ouzo for the road (on the house, of course), Jasper walked back home and got into bed with a tall glass of ice water.
**
Kim has since pointed out that Jasper essentially (albeit unknowingly) invited the girl back to his room, which was certainly not his intention. Apparently, that's what giving out your room number means. I claim sanctuary, since I was fixated mostly on my ice cream, and not what was coming out of her mouth. Plus, I have a history of being socially oblivious, which not everyone remembers. What I did notice was that she was American, slightly chubby (I am not a savory character by anyone's definition), that she tried to make her handshake firmer to match mine, and that she must have overheard me talking about Paris (probably on the phone with the Reuters girl), because she jumped to the studying conclusion far too quickly for my comfort. In any case, I'm hoping that this girl never shows up. I had no idea women could be that...predatory.
For some reason, I’ve been thinking about the “future.” It’s certainly looming at this point in my life – one more year of college to go, no idea of what I want to be doing – and it’s fairly impossible not to take note of its vast, empty shape off in the near distance. I’m not sure how Greece has anything to do with this, but it seems to me it does – I predicted an introspective week, and it has certainly been that. Solo voyages are healthy, and I’ve taken advantage of this one, I’d say – even though from an outsider’s perspective it probably just looks like vacation (which it is, only so much more). I’ve enjoyed myself immensely; even while lounging by the pool I catch myself smiling, happy for some honest-to-god peace and quiet for once.
Santorini, Tuesday
In case you hadn't noticed, there are four new posts today. I urge you to scroll down and read from the beginning, as then things might make sense. My sense of time is shot; I keep running over the days of the week in my head - but I can never remember what's what. Which is, I suppose, part of the point of coming to Greece.
Weirdly, I got a phone call this morning from a British woman in Paris, who works for Reuters news agency. Apparently she had gotten my name from a Bulgarian intern (?!) who she said she thought I knew - I don't, and I'm faintly disturbed by the prospect of mysterious Bulgarians shadowing my every move. Anyway, she wanted to interview me about studying in Paris, and what effect the strikes had had on my semester. I obliged willingly - I'm wary of people putting words in mouth, so I did my best to correct her when she started writing stories instead of listening to me. Anyway, I'm not sure if I'll ever hear about it again, but it was certainly an interesting thing to have happen. EDIT: This actually happened yesterday. Or possibly the day before; it's impossible to say, really. SECOND EDIT: Here it is: http://www.reuters.com/article/lifestyleMolt/idUSTRE54I1ML20090519?pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=10531 I kind of sound like a tool. Oh well.
So far, following my gut has resulted in good experiences. Today, walking up the hill to look for food, I ducked into a gyro shop. I got a first-rate pita and a coke for five euros (a little steep, but good), and started talking to the chef – Manuel, an Australian of Greek descent. He, too, has been all around the world (seems to be a lot of that going around), being a chef in some capacity or another, but he’s spent every summer for the last three years in Santorini. I asked him why. “You know, wherever I go I’m working sixteen hours a day non-stop, on my feet the whole time. You get stressed out and angry, no matter where you are. But everywhere else I’ve been, I could never relax after work. Here, no matter how angry or stressed out I am, I walk up the hill, I see that view, and everything melts away. It’s like, fuck, you know?” I thought that was probably the best description of Santorini that I would ever run across, so I came back here to write it down.
After lunch I took a walk, but quickly ran out of steam. I headed home and sat by the pool a little longer, and then decided that, for some reason, I wanted to play solitaire. So I did, for about two hours – I didn’t win a single game. I must be the worst solitaire player of all time. At some point I stopped playing solitaire and started doing sit-ups, and took a shower afterwards.
I went back to Manuel’s for dinner at around nine thirty, and per his suggestion, had the grilled “lamp chops.” They were, in a word, delicious, almost transcendent. Metatastual: tender and juicy, lightly charred on the outside, and deliciously spiced. They came with French fries and some tomatoes, and all joking aside, it’s probably the best lamb I’ve ever had. And it cost 11 euros – which again, is a little pricy, but it was so good. One thing I like about Greece is that everyone remembers you (or at least pretends to) and greets you with a handshake, a smile, and a “How are you my friend?” That’s not just the Greeks, either. There must be something in the water.
After dinner I walked back up to the Two Brothers, where I met Claire, Sean and Other Sean. As soon as I walked in, Claire asked me how my head had felt this morning. All I could do was wince in reply. I wasn’t ecstatic about the prospect of another night of drinking, so I sipped idly at a gin and tonic and talked soccer with Other Sean for a while after Sean left. Genie and Steve came in at about eleven, and Genie immediately bought me a drink. We all talked for a while, Genie still ecstatic about Twilight, talking about the Twilight parties that her friends throw (these are grown women), and how much she wished her husband (balding) had my hair. Other Sean added that everyone at the bar was asking him if he knew who the kid who looked like the guy from Twilight was. It was all very flattering, but seriously, really weird. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing.
Anyway, after Other Sean left to see if he could find the Swedish girls at another bar, Genie and Steve wanted to know all about my girlfriend (Genie: Let me guess. Stunning, ninety pounds, drop dead beautiful? Me: Basically. But she also does chemistry). Side note: Every time I tell people I’m here alone, I get positively stunned looks in reply. “What, no girlfriend?” everyone asks. And it’s certainly a good question, since Santorini’s one of the most romantic places I’ve ever been. Watching the sun set here is almost a religious experience, and in all sincerity, I wish there were someone here who I could share it with. I feel like I’m going to get home and be off in another world; unable to convince anyone that any of this happened. It’s been, in the best of clichéd terms, like walking in a dream.
In any case, Steve and Genie are basically teenagers who happen to have left adolescence far behind, so hanging out with them was, again, pretty entertaining. Genie once again insisted on buying everyone shots (ouzo), and then introduced me to a couple of Australian videographers (Genie: They’re photographers! Them: Videographers. Genie: Whatever), who agreed that I “looked like the Twilight posters.” Well, what with the deafening music despite the fairly deserted bar, a less-than-happy stomach, and no desire to have any more gin, I called it a night at twelve. Walking home, the scent of honeysuckles and the squeak of bats thick in the air, I thought about going back to Paris. I don’t think I want to. Going back to Paris seems like – like going back to black and white television after a week spent in Technicolor. I want to stay in Greece. Well, that’s not true. I want to come back to Greece some day – I have to. There’s too much to see. A week is plenty of time for Santorini, but there’s so much more. And as much as I enjoy being alone, this would be a great place to visit with another person, especially a place as breathtaking as Santorini.
Carefree will I roam; Ordinary eyes.
Weirdly, I got a phone call this morning from a British woman in Paris, who works for Reuters news agency. Apparently she had gotten my name from a Bulgarian intern (?!) who she said she thought I knew - I don't, and I'm faintly disturbed by the prospect of mysterious Bulgarians shadowing my every move. Anyway, she wanted to interview me about studying in Paris, and what effect the strikes had had on my semester. I obliged willingly - I'm wary of people putting words in mouth, so I did my best to correct her when she started writing stories instead of listening to me. Anyway, I'm not sure if I'll ever hear about it again, but it was certainly an interesting thing to have happen. EDIT: This actually happened yesterday. Or possibly the day before; it's impossible to say, really. SECOND EDIT: Here it is: http://www.reuters.com/article/lifestyleMolt/idUSTRE54I1ML20090519?pageNumber=1&virtualBrandChannel=10531 I kind of sound like a tool. Oh well.
So far, following my gut has resulted in good experiences. Today, walking up the hill to look for food, I ducked into a gyro shop. I got a first-rate pita and a coke for five euros (a little steep, but good), and started talking to the chef – Manuel, an Australian of Greek descent. He, too, has been all around the world (seems to be a lot of that going around), being a chef in some capacity or another, but he’s spent every summer for the last three years in Santorini. I asked him why. “You know, wherever I go I’m working sixteen hours a day non-stop, on my feet the whole time. You get stressed out and angry, no matter where you are. But everywhere else I’ve been, I could never relax after work. Here, no matter how angry or stressed out I am, I walk up the hill, I see that view, and everything melts away. It’s like, fuck, you know?” I thought that was probably the best description of Santorini that I would ever run across, so I came back here to write it down.
After lunch I took a walk, but quickly ran out of steam. I headed home and sat by the pool a little longer, and then decided that, for some reason, I wanted to play solitaire. So I did, for about two hours – I didn’t win a single game. I must be the worst solitaire player of all time. At some point I stopped playing solitaire and started doing sit-ups, and took a shower afterwards.
I went back to Manuel’s for dinner at around nine thirty, and per his suggestion, had the grilled “lamp chops.” They were, in a word, delicious, almost transcendent. Metatastual: tender and juicy, lightly charred on the outside, and deliciously spiced. They came with French fries and some tomatoes, and all joking aside, it’s probably the best lamb I’ve ever had. And it cost 11 euros – which again, is a little pricy, but it was so good. One thing I like about Greece is that everyone remembers you (or at least pretends to) and greets you with a handshake, a smile, and a “How are you my friend?” That’s not just the Greeks, either. There must be something in the water.
After dinner I walked back up to the Two Brothers, where I met Claire, Sean and Other Sean. As soon as I walked in, Claire asked me how my head had felt this morning. All I could do was wince in reply. I wasn’t ecstatic about the prospect of another night of drinking, so I sipped idly at a gin and tonic and talked soccer with Other Sean for a while after Sean left. Genie and Steve came in at about eleven, and Genie immediately bought me a drink. We all talked for a while, Genie still ecstatic about Twilight, talking about the Twilight parties that her friends throw (these are grown women), and how much she wished her husband (balding) had my hair. Other Sean added that everyone at the bar was asking him if he knew who the kid who looked like the guy from Twilight was. It was all very flattering, but seriously, really weird. I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing.
Anyway, after Other Sean left to see if he could find the Swedish girls at another bar, Genie and Steve wanted to know all about my girlfriend (Genie: Let me guess. Stunning, ninety pounds, drop dead beautiful? Me: Basically. But she also does chemistry). Side note: Every time I tell people I’m here alone, I get positively stunned looks in reply. “What, no girlfriend?” everyone asks. And it’s certainly a good question, since Santorini’s one of the most romantic places I’ve ever been. Watching the sun set here is almost a religious experience, and in all sincerity, I wish there were someone here who I could share it with. I feel like I’m going to get home and be off in another world; unable to convince anyone that any of this happened. It’s been, in the best of clichéd terms, like walking in a dream.
In any case, Steve and Genie are basically teenagers who happen to have left adolescence far behind, so hanging out with them was, again, pretty entertaining. Genie once again insisted on buying everyone shots (ouzo), and then introduced me to a couple of Australian videographers (Genie: They’re photographers! Them: Videographers. Genie: Whatever), who agreed that I “looked like the Twilight posters.” Well, what with the deafening music despite the fairly deserted bar, a less-than-happy stomach, and no desire to have any more gin, I called it a night at twelve. Walking home, the scent of honeysuckles and the squeak of bats thick in the air, I thought about going back to Paris. I don’t think I want to. Going back to Paris seems like – like going back to black and white television after a week spent in Technicolor. I want to stay in Greece. Well, that’s not true. I want to come back to Greece some day – I have to. There’s too much to see. A week is plenty of time for Santorini, but there’s so much more. And as much as I enjoy being alone, this would be a great place to visit with another person, especially a place as breathtaking as Santorini.
Carefree will I roam; Ordinary eyes.
Santorini, Day 1(Monday)
Monday
Day
What a day. What an incredible, amazing, absolutely ridiculous day. I woke up at 9:15 and went to breakfast (bread and butter and jam, probably not worth five euros), then took a dip in the pool. Then I walked up to the nearest Moto rental place, where a man greeted me: “Why not try a bike, my friend?” So I got myself an ATV. It cost 10 euros for 24 hours, and that’s only because I got myself the fast one (I’d hate to see the slow one). Add to that 5 euros of gas, and I was set for the day. I took off randomly, aiming for Perissa, but I ended up in Kamari, where I found a “beach.” Really, it was large black pebbles. It was hardly comfortable, and also incredibly hot – like, oven hot. So after half an hour I got back on the X-Rider (for that was the name of my fearsome mount) and cruised towards Perissa. There I found a real beach, where I lay for a long time. It was all black sand – rather, fine black grit that invaded everything. Even so, it was very, very nice. I had a Greek salad and ouzo at one of the ubiquitous tavernas along the shore, and changed into my bathing suit (for no reason, as it turned out – I never went in the water). By this time, it was mid-afternoon, so I thought about heading home. But then I got distracted by the promise of red sand beaches, and so I followed the signs. I parked along the shore, and after a quick hike, I was looking out over the red sand beach of Santorini. Stunning. A huge cliff of red, eroding volcanic stone looms over the beach, and it really is red. After another lie-down, it really was time to head home. So I threw on my sweater and got back on the ATV and began the “long” drive home – nothing is really that far away from anything.
Riding the ATV was probably the most fun I’ve had in a long while. You feel so free – it’s ridiculously intoxicating. I had only the most general of maps, and would decide to head off in a random direction whenever the urge took me, pulling over to take pictures every ten minutes – and somehow I managed not to get lost. I found myself laughing out loud fairly regularly – I dare say I was more carefree than any of the other tourists I saw on their ATVs, all riding tandem and studying their maps with worried faces. That’s another thing – I think I must be the only tourist that’s here alone. Everyone’s in pairs, whether it’s the constant stream of vacationing couples, or the groups of young teenagers. And honestly, I am pretty glad I did. Not that this wouldn’t be the perfect place to come with somebody, because it would, but traveling alone is a pretty crazy experience. You learn a lot, listen a lot, and see a lot – more, probably, than you would if you weren’t flying solo. And everyone so far has been incredibly friendly, which I’m not sure I was expecting.
Night
After I parked the X-Rider in front of Blue Sky Villas, I took another quick dip in the pool, put on my pants and sweater, and sat outside and had a beer (which was given to me in the morning by a pair of Canadian women who were leaving that afternoon). Then I got up and walked into town. It was just as beautiful as the first time I was there, all white houses and blue roofs, and I stopped again on the edge of the cliff to stare out over the water for a good twenty minutes. Then I made my way to an open-air café on the cliffside, where I had a Greek coffee (I don’t even know what it was, but it was disgusting – just sludge, not even tasting of anything other than – oats, maybe? Bizarre) and another ouzo. I sat there for a long, long time, watching the sun set over the caldera. Behind me was a group of Americans, and I amused myself by eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversations. When they left, I offered to take their picture (which, for some reason, put one of the men very ill-at-ease), and told them where to watch the sun set in Athens. They were very grateful.
I walked out of the café and into the first restaurant I saw with octopus on the menu. It came grilled, with mashed potatoes, a salad, and some incredibly delicious mixture of rice, peas, and sweet peppers. The octopus was okay – nothing a Portuguese would be proud of, but it did the job. Covered in oil and lemon juice, it went down pretty easily. I’m having weird food issues these days – I rarely want to finish anything, and usually feel ill after I have a large meal. I don’t know if it means I just can’t eat as much, or if I haven’t been eating good food, or what. But it’s strange, whatever it is.
Wandering out of the restaurant, I saw a bar showing rally highlights on TV – and it so happened that it was happy hour. The Two Brothers is smallish but lively, the closest thing to a dive bar that I’ve seen since I got here – definitely my style. The bartenders are very friendly, and there’s some old guy named “Alex” who “works” outside, blowing his whistle at pretty girls. So I stopped short and walked in, and this is what happened next:
Girl (in English, smiling): Are you all right?
Me, smiling back: Yeah, thanks. (To the bartender) Jameson on the rocks, please.
Man sitting next to me: Where are you from?
Me: Colorado. The states.
Man: Ah. I’m from Scotland. And she’s from England. What’s your name?
Me: Jasper.
Man: I’m Sean. And this is Claire.
Me: Nice to meet you both.
Claire: Watch out, he’s a nutter
And he is, really, but of the best sort. He used to be in the army (for six years), doing exactly what he wouldn’t say. But he’s lived all over the place, finding odd jobs wherever he goes, living out of pocket and “not touching me bank accounts.” He’s about thirty, I’d guess, maybe a little younger, and he’s the guy at the bar that everybody knows and loves. He’s the free publicity, basically – the life of the party, singing and dancing and laughing and flirting with all the girls and joking with all the guys. He and I sat at the bar for a long time, talking, drinking and smoking, while Claire (who technically works there, though she doesn’t do much) jumped in and out of the conversation. At about eleven, Sean left to go see a woman, and I had another whisky. At that point I got approached by another woman, Genie, who was visiting with her husband, Steve.
“Can I feel your hair?” She asked. “Why not,” I said. So she did. “Have you seen Twilight?” She asked again. “Yup,” I said. “You look just like Edward!” she squealed, “My girlfriends are going to flip over this! Can I take a picture?” Laughing, I assented, so she took a picture of Claire and me. “Seriously, this is fantastic,” she said, “My girlfriends are going to be so jealous. We’re all obsessed with Twilight.” Then she bought everyone a round of shots – Me, Genie, Claire, Steve, another guy (my age) who they were with (also named Sean), and the bartenders. She kept asking everyone if they had seen Twilight – no one knew what she was talking about, which made her very disappointed. Steve and Genie were really fun and incredibly nice, and I sat and talked (and drank) with them for a while as well. Their son (Aged eleven – Genie is 43 and Steve is 37, but neither of them looks a day over 30) plays soccer, and they wanted to talk about competitive ball. Genie kept insisting on buying me drinks, which was fine with me. After a few more shots, a couple pictures, and a few more vampire-related jokes, she and Steve called it a night. I turned back to the bar, only to have Other Sean pull me away. He was talking to three Swedish girls, and I suppose he wanted me in some sort of Wingman capacity. So I joined them.
“Have you seen Twilight?” asked one of the girls. I laughed, and said yes. “That is good. Twilight is…good,” she said, and all her friends wholeheartedly agreed. “Do you know you look just like the boy in the film?” they asked. We talked briefly about family in Sweden (although I could barely understand anything they said. They all spoke English, but accented, and for some reason the music kept getting louder and louder as the bar got emptier and emptier), and they asked for a picture as well. Sean wandered back in at around one o’clock, having dropped his date off at home (being a gentleman, he said), had a few more beers, and somehow managed to get everyone to start dancing. Other Sean and the Swedish girls left for another bar, and Sean decided to call it a night, as he had to get up early for work (at what everyone assures me is the most exclusive hotel on the island). I was ready to leave as well, but for some reason I had another whisky. As I was about to walk out the door, the bartender (Alex) stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he said, “the lady at the bar would like to know if you have heard of a film called Twilight.” I walked over and said hello, and the bartender told me that she wanted to buy me a drink. “A shot of whisky in a beer,” he said. Very, very reluctantly I assented, took the drink, said goodbye, and walked out of the bar (I say walked, but what I did was far less elegant than walking). I made it back to my room, where I learned that being sick alone is even less fun than being sick in the company of others. In fact, it’s terrible. Anyway, I rinsed my head in a cold shower and downed a bottle of water, and then stumbled into bed.
I woke up with an absolutely terrible hangover and slept through breakfast, rising only to return my ATV. Then I came back, put on my swimsuit, and lay by the pool for three and a half hours, draping my arms and legs in the water. I ate some yogurt (also given to me by the Canadians), and drank some more water. It’s now 4:30, and I’m beginning to feel myself again. I’m supposed to meet Sean, Genie and Steve again tonight, but I don’t know if I can do it – maybe I can get away with cola and tonic water, because even though lying by a pool in Greece is fantastic, there are still things I want to see.
My god, I feel like I must be omitting so much – it seems like yesterday lasted a year. I kept telling myself, “write every day, write every day – you’ll forget everything if you don’t,” and already it’s proving true. Oh, well. Plenty of time left.
You’re next to me asleep and I smile; think I’ll drive on for a while.
Day
What a day. What an incredible, amazing, absolutely ridiculous day. I woke up at 9:15 and went to breakfast (bread and butter and jam, probably not worth five euros), then took a dip in the pool. Then I walked up to the nearest Moto rental place, where a man greeted me: “Why not try a bike, my friend?” So I got myself an ATV. It cost 10 euros for 24 hours, and that’s only because I got myself the fast one (I’d hate to see the slow one). Add to that 5 euros of gas, and I was set for the day. I took off randomly, aiming for Perissa, but I ended up in Kamari, where I found a “beach.” Really, it was large black pebbles. It was hardly comfortable, and also incredibly hot – like, oven hot. So after half an hour I got back on the X-Rider (for that was the name of my fearsome mount) and cruised towards Perissa. There I found a real beach, where I lay for a long time. It was all black sand – rather, fine black grit that invaded everything. Even so, it was very, very nice. I had a Greek salad and ouzo at one of the ubiquitous tavernas along the shore, and changed into my bathing suit (for no reason, as it turned out – I never went in the water). By this time, it was mid-afternoon, so I thought about heading home. But then I got distracted by the promise of red sand beaches, and so I followed the signs. I parked along the shore, and after a quick hike, I was looking out over the red sand beach of Santorini. Stunning. A huge cliff of red, eroding volcanic stone looms over the beach, and it really is red. After another lie-down, it really was time to head home. So I threw on my sweater and got back on the ATV and began the “long” drive home – nothing is really that far away from anything.
Riding the ATV was probably the most fun I’ve had in a long while. You feel so free – it’s ridiculously intoxicating. I had only the most general of maps, and would decide to head off in a random direction whenever the urge took me, pulling over to take pictures every ten minutes – and somehow I managed not to get lost. I found myself laughing out loud fairly regularly – I dare say I was more carefree than any of the other tourists I saw on their ATVs, all riding tandem and studying their maps with worried faces. That’s another thing – I think I must be the only tourist that’s here alone. Everyone’s in pairs, whether it’s the constant stream of vacationing couples, or the groups of young teenagers. And honestly, I am pretty glad I did. Not that this wouldn’t be the perfect place to come with somebody, because it would, but traveling alone is a pretty crazy experience. You learn a lot, listen a lot, and see a lot – more, probably, than you would if you weren’t flying solo. And everyone so far has been incredibly friendly, which I’m not sure I was expecting.
Night
After I parked the X-Rider in front of Blue Sky Villas, I took another quick dip in the pool, put on my pants and sweater, and sat outside and had a beer (which was given to me in the morning by a pair of Canadian women who were leaving that afternoon). Then I got up and walked into town. It was just as beautiful as the first time I was there, all white houses and blue roofs, and I stopped again on the edge of the cliff to stare out over the water for a good twenty minutes. Then I made my way to an open-air café on the cliffside, where I had a Greek coffee (I don’t even know what it was, but it was disgusting – just sludge, not even tasting of anything other than – oats, maybe? Bizarre) and another ouzo. I sat there for a long, long time, watching the sun set over the caldera. Behind me was a group of Americans, and I amused myself by eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversations. When they left, I offered to take their picture (which, for some reason, put one of the men very ill-at-ease), and told them where to watch the sun set in Athens. They were very grateful.
I walked out of the café and into the first restaurant I saw with octopus on the menu. It came grilled, with mashed potatoes, a salad, and some incredibly delicious mixture of rice, peas, and sweet peppers. The octopus was okay – nothing a Portuguese would be proud of, but it did the job. Covered in oil and lemon juice, it went down pretty easily. I’m having weird food issues these days – I rarely want to finish anything, and usually feel ill after I have a large meal. I don’t know if it means I just can’t eat as much, or if I haven’t been eating good food, or what. But it’s strange, whatever it is.
Wandering out of the restaurant, I saw a bar showing rally highlights on TV – and it so happened that it was happy hour. The Two Brothers is smallish but lively, the closest thing to a dive bar that I’ve seen since I got here – definitely my style. The bartenders are very friendly, and there’s some old guy named “Alex” who “works” outside, blowing his whistle at pretty girls. So I stopped short and walked in, and this is what happened next:
Girl (in English, smiling): Are you all right?
Me, smiling back: Yeah, thanks. (To the bartender) Jameson on the rocks, please.
Man sitting next to me: Where are you from?
Me: Colorado. The states.
Man: Ah. I’m from Scotland. And she’s from England. What’s your name?
Me: Jasper.
Man: I’m Sean. And this is Claire.
Me: Nice to meet you both.
Claire: Watch out, he’s a nutter
And he is, really, but of the best sort. He used to be in the army (for six years), doing exactly what he wouldn’t say. But he’s lived all over the place, finding odd jobs wherever he goes, living out of pocket and “not touching me bank accounts.” He’s about thirty, I’d guess, maybe a little younger, and he’s the guy at the bar that everybody knows and loves. He’s the free publicity, basically – the life of the party, singing and dancing and laughing and flirting with all the girls and joking with all the guys. He and I sat at the bar for a long time, talking, drinking and smoking, while Claire (who technically works there, though she doesn’t do much) jumped in and out of the conversation. At about eleven, Sean left to go see a woman, and I had another whisky. At that point I got approached by another woman, Genie, who was visiting with her husband, Steve.
“Can I feel your hair?” She asked. “Why not,” I said. So she did. “Have you seen Twilight?” She asked again. “Yup,” I said. “You look just like Edward!” she squealed, “My girlfriends are going to flip over this! Can I take a picture?” Laughing, I assented, so she took a picture of Claire and me. “Seriously, this is fantastic,” she said, “My girlfriends are going to be so jealous. We’re all obsessed with Twilight.” Then she bought everyone a round of shots – Me, Genie, Claire, Steve, another guy (my age) who they were with (also named Sean), and the bartenders. She kept asking everyone if they had seen Twilight – no one knew what she was talking about, which made her very disappointed. Steve and Genie were really fun and incredibly nice, and I sat and talked (and drank) with them for a while as well. Their son (Aged eleven – Genie is 43 and Steve is 37, but neither of them looks a day over 30) plays soccer, and they wanted to talk about competitive ball. Genie kept insisting on buying me drinks, which was fine with me. After a few more shots, a couple pictures, and a few more vampire-related jokes, she and Steve called it a night. I turned back to the bar, only to have Other Sean pull me away. He was talking to three Swedish girls, and I suppose he wanted me in some sort of Wingman capacity. So I joined them.
“Have you seen Twilight?” asked one of the girls. I laughed, and said yes. “That is good. Twilight is…good,” she said, and all her friends wholeheartedly agreed. “Do you know you look just like the boy in the film?” they asked. We talked briefly about family in Sweden (although I could barely understand anything they said. They all spoke English, but accented, and for some reason the music kept getting louder and louder as the bar got emptier and emptier), and they asked for a picture as well. Sean wandered back in at around one o’clock, having dropped his date off at home (being a gentleman, he said), had a few more beers, and somehow managed to get everyone to start dancing. Other Sean and the Swedish girls left for another bar, and Sean decided to call it a night, as he had to get up early for work (at what everyone assures me is the most exclusive hotel on the island). I was ready to leave as well, but for some reason I had another whisky. As I was about to walk out the door, the bartender (Alex) stopped me.
“Excuse me,” he said, “the lady at the bar would like to know if you have heard of a film called Twilight.” I walked over and said hello, and the bartender told me that she wanted to buy me a drink. “A shot of whisky in a beer,” he said. Very, very reluctantly I assented, took the drink, said goodbye, and walked out of the bar (I say walked, but what I did was far less elegant than walking). I made it back to my room, where I learned that being sick alone is even less fun than being sick in the company of others. In fact, it’s terrible. Anyway, I rinsed my head in a cold shower and downed a bottle of water, and then stumbled into bed.
I woke up with an absolutely terrible hangover and slept through breakfast, rising only to return my ATV. Then I came back, put on my swimsuit, and lay by the pool for three and a half hours, draping my arms and legs in the water. I ate some yogurt (also given to me by the Canadians), and drank some more water. It’s now 4:30, and I’m beginning to feel myself again. I’m supposed to meet Sean, Genie and Steve again tonight, but I don’t know if I can do it – maybe I can get away with cola and tonic water, because even though lying by a pool in Greece is fantastic, there are still things I want to see.
My god, I feel like I must be omitting so much – it seems like yesterday lasted a year. I kept telling myself, “write every day, write every day – you’ll forget everything if you don’t,” and already it’s proving true. Oh, well. Plenty of time left.
You’re next to me asleep and I smile; think I’ll drive on for a while.
Santorini, Arrival
I arrived on Santorini at three o’clock, stepping off the boat in complete awe of the blasted caldera. Santorini is always talked up by every tourist and guidebook, but somehow I thought it was only that – talk. No, the massive cliffs are incredible, the black volcanic island in the middle dark and beautiful.
Disembarking, I followed the crush onto the dock, where I was assaulted by an army of sign-bearing Greeks, shouting the name of their hotels and car-rental companies. I accosted three American boys who were leaving, and asked them where they stayed. Blue Sky Villas, the told me, and said it was plenty clean and safe. “But far from the beach,” said one, “so rent an ATV.” I found the man holding the Blue Sky Villas sign, and when five young American girls and two French girls approached him, I figured it was probably clean and safe enough. They took us up to the hotel in a little bus, the road winding up along the cliff face precipitously. At the top, we drove along what felt like the rim of the world, until we came to Fira. Blue Sky Villas is nice, the proprietor friendly and the room big, open and clean. It costs twenty-five euros a night, including breakfast, which seems like a deal to me. There’s even a swimming pool, should I decide to relax at the villas for a while.
Fira town is incredibly beautiful. It follows the ridge of the cliff that overlooks the bay, and all along its sides are cafes, bars, hotels, and tourist shops. Everything is brilliant, sparkling white – even under the cloudy sky. My first act was to buy a gyro at a diseased little stand that didn’t seem like it got much business. Nevertheless, it was tasty, and I sat on a whitewashed ledge and sipped a cold beer with my pita. Then I found a small supermarket and bought toothpaste (for some reason, I pretended to be French) before I walked up into the city proper. It’s beautiful, all small winding streets and terraces. There are some incredible views on the cliff side, and a stomach-wrenching cable car that goes down to the old port. I wandered for hours.
Tomorrow I’m going to rent an ATV and drive around the island. It costs seven or eight euros for a twenty-four hour rental, and everybody’s on them. I’ve seen a couple of racy-looking buggies for rent too, so I might see about those. I would go for a scooter, but the ability to drive in the sand seems useful – plus, although it’s likely untrue, the ATVs seem a touch safer, and I’ve already witnessed at least five near-accidents.
I got home at about seven, and I took an accidental nap, waking up at ten-thirty. I elected to skip dinner and wait for breakfast, and decided to spend the evening writing instead – which I’m doing, sitting in the chairs in the courtyard outside my room. It’s eleven-thirty now, and I’m considering bed. Morning is coming, and hopefully the sun with it – and I’ve got a lot to explore. Old ruins, black sand beaches, seaside towns – I hope I can see it all, but I’ve only got a few days. This trip is going to go quickly, and then it’s back to France – France, which seems so boring, so blah – host families and suitcases and logistics, when all I really want is the promise of a 25-euro room and a small duffel bag. I’m bringing presents back from Greece – no way not to – and my little bag is already full to bursting. I might have to pick up another, a prospect which doesn’t cheer me.
Put me in a new direction; point me to the edge of the world.
Disembarking, I followed the crush onto the dock, where I was assaulted by an army of sign-bearing Greeks, shouting the name of their hotels and car-rental companies. I accosted three American boys who were leaving, and asked them where they stayed. Blue Sky Villas, the told me, and said it was plenty clean and safe. “But far from the beach,” said one, “so rent an ATV.” I found the man holding the Blue Sky Villas sign, and when five young American girls and two French girls approached him, I figured it was probably clean and safe enough. They took us up to the hotel in a little bus, the road winding up along the cliff face precipitously. At the top, we drove along what felt like the rim of the world, until we came to Fira. Blue Sky Villas is nice, the proprietor friendly and the room big, open and clean. It costs twenty-five euros a night, including breakfast, which seems like a deal to me. There’s even a swimming pool, should I decide to relax at the villas for a while.
Fira town is incredibly beautiful. It follows the ridge of the cliff that overlooks the bay, and all along its sides are cafes, bars, hotels, and tourist shops. Everything is brilliant, sparkling white – even under the cloudy sky. My first act was to buy a gyro at a diseased little stand that didn’t seem like it got much business. Nevertheless, it was tasty, and I sat on a whitewashed ledge and sipped a cold beer with my pita. Then I found a small supermarket and bought toothpaste (for some reason, I pretended to be French) before I walked up into the city proper. It’s beautiful, all small winding streets and terraces. There are some incredible views on the cliff side, and a stomach-wrenching cable car that goes down to the old port. I wandered for hours.
Tomorrow I’m going to rent an ATV and drive around the island. It costs seven or eight euros for a twenty-four hour rental, and everybody’s on them. I’ve seen a couple of racy-looking buggies for rent too, so I might see about those. I would go for a scooter, but the ability to drive in the sand seems useful – plus, although it’s likely untrue, the ATVs seem a touch safer, and I’ve already witnessed at least five near-accidents.
I got home at about seven, and I took an accidental nap, waking up at ten-thirty. I elected to skip dinner and wait for breakfast, and decided to spend the evening writing instead – which I’m doing, sitting in the chairs in the courtyard outside my room. It’s eleven-thirty now, and I’m considering bed. Morning is coming, and hopefully the sun with it – and I’ve got a lot to explore. Old ruins, black sand beaches, seaside towns – I hope I can see it all, but I’ve only got a few days. This trip is going to go quickly, and then it’s back to France – France, which seems so boring, so blah – host families and suitcases and logistics, when all I really want is the promise of a 25-euro room and a small duffel bag. I’m bringing presents back from Greece – no way not to – and my little bag is already full to bursting. I might have to pick up another, a prospect which doesn’t cheer me.
Put me in a new direction; point me to the edge of the world.
First Travels – Disconnected thoughts
First Travels – Disconnected thoughts
Early Morning
As the Blue Star Ferry Paros rumbles away from Piraias and slips out into open water, I’m struck again by relative anonymity of the landscape around Athens. Low, rolling hills and a crush of urbanism fade into brown, dry mounds and, to the South, the Mediterranean. I don’t know whether it’s the scenery itself, or because I know I’m in Greece, but there’s still a romance to the landscape; a stark, desolate epicness that is only augmented by the images of gods and heroes that dance in front of my eyes.
The sun’s shining hazily through the early morning clouds, illuminating the small sailboats that dot the coastline. Poetry lives thick every where in Greece, in old, crumbled ruins and in the bustling modern ferries. People of all nationalities laugh and chat (and many sleep), and almost uniformly, everyone seems to snap a picture on departure.
*
On the boat
This morning I woke up half an hour later than I intended, resulting in a mad dash to the metro, a realization that I wouldn’t make it to the port in time, and an equally mad dash to a taxi, which I shared with two other Greeks. The driver was very helpful, although I’m fairly certain that I overpaid for the eight minute drive to the docks. Maybe someday I’ll be able to take a cab without getting strung along like a show pony.
All the French are in Greece, enjoying a break from the endless train to sun their faces in the Mediterranean. Their accents are smooth and familiar; a comfortable, mellifluous sound against the slightly harsher Greek. There are plenty of Americans as well, and I swear that every other person I saw last night was speaking German. I suppose everyone needs a little bit of Greek exuberance, which so far has not been hard to come by. Even the dourest of Greeks does something to affirm the Hellenic mythos.
Groups of young American backpackers are already forming; flirtatious young men and women who are happy to find a familiar face and a recognizable accent. They’re all short shorts and muscle shirts, their Oakleys and baseball caps making them easy to spot.
It’s not as if I’m doing the best job blending in myself, however, my large backpack and homemade cloak duffel make sure of that – not to mention my shorts and deck shoes. But everyone on the ferry has a relaxed air about them, everyone’s been bitten by the Yiati Ohi that seems to grab you like a hydra’s head as soon as you set foot on Greek soil. I ought to have brought a book with me; more and more I realize how headphones cut you off from the world. I’m hit by the urge to keep my eyes and ears open, to take in the microcosm of this floating melting-pot.
Still, Santorini lies ahead, somewhere out in the water. Islands loom out of the Mediterranean like sleeping titans, giving the already hazy, thick air a further does of enigmatic romance. It’s hard not to believe in the old gods in the face of such an ancient place. Every cliff-face I see, I think: That is where Aeolus kept his winds; or That must be the island of the Cyclops. It makes me wish we were sailing instead of chugging through the water – my constant love for all things ancient has, quite possibly, reached its epicenter. A part of me wants to put on a pair of Greek sandals, strip down to a tunic, and spend the next five days sleeping on the beaches and the rocks underneath the cypress trees. And then I think: Jasper, you don’t wear sandals. And who would ever want to see your nasty feet?
*
Reflections
Reading over my previous entries, it’s obvious to me that my pilgrimage to Greece is long overdue. For the most part, my anxious Parisian prickliness has already been replaced by a wary smile and what I hope will turn into real relaxation. I’ve got a ways to go, though, before I am home again. I’m hoping that a regimen of sun, ouzo, feta and olives will be a viable cure for what’s been ailing me.
*
A Person, and a short stream-of-consciousness observation:
A couple of real, honest-to-god douchebags are sitting at the tables on the other side of the deck from me, wearing long shorts, a baseball cap, two leather choker necklaces, a silver wrist chain, and a cut-off tee-shirt that says “Football club Barcelona” on the chest; his head replete with buzzed hair, soul-patch and miniature chin-strip. His friend is equally ridiculous, wearing a long-sleeve “Wrestling champion tee” (and I don’t think it’s ironic), board shorts, ear studs and shield sunglasses. Along with a less offensive companion, the two of them are shamelessly chatting up two American girls, who giggle and sip their frappés coquettishly, eating their pastries with pinkies upturned. A part of me wants to make some friends while I’m here (not with these people, of course), but a bigger part of me wants to spend the week in solitary, introspective silence. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of writing, which can only be a good thing.
There’s a Greek woman smoking a pack of Pall-Malls, and I have the desperate urge to roll them up in my t-shirt sleeve. My hair is suitably greased-back, in the best of fifties fashion – my uncontrollable cowlick transforming into a rockabilly-meets-21st- century pompadour.
I’m amazed that my sunglasses are still going. It’s been over a year now, and they’re scratched, bent, broken, falling apart; the frame is cracked and the lenses fall out occasionally, but they’re clinging to life with admirable tenacity. I’ve grown fond of them, despite the fact that they make me look ridiculous (like a drug dealer, said Linzy).
The wind’s picking up now, blowing across the stern with insistence. The islands continue to roll by, obscured by cigarette smoke and the same persistent haze, which is beginning to turn darker and cloudier. I’m three hours into an eight-hour trip, and the sea is stretching out in every direction, not fast and blue but deep and dark, the wake of the ferry leaving a bubbly, bright azure that’s slowly reclaimed by the relentless march of the waves. The sun is hidden now, and I’ve put on a light sweater. I have half a mind to move over to one of the tables closest to the railing, but based on the fact that they’ve all been vacated by jacketed travelers, I would guess that it’s much chillier over there.
As soon as I hit Santorini I’m buying toothpaste – I forgot to bring any, and my mouth feels like an ashtray.
And it is windy now, cold and blowing. All of a sudden I’m glad I brought my raincoat. It’s Monday. Tuesday is coming – did you bring your coat? Chin-Patch is staring at the girls with the hungry eyes of a snake-oil salesman, his biceps on prominent display.
End of the trip
In a way, Greece makes me sad. What place does it have in the modern world? The Greek people are proud, and it’s easy to see why – but Greece is no longer the center of the Western World, and hasn’t been for quite a long time. I’m having trouble reconciling the ancient and the modern, I suppose – thrown off by the predatory tourism, ut also unable to resist the clarion call of ruined marble and the ancient world; the entire basis of the modern tourism industry. I think I wanted Greece to be as I read about it in my old books – deserted, old in every way. I’m finding it to be an unfortunately normal country.
Paros was our first stop. As we pulled back into the sea the sun briefly poked through the clouds before the sky returned to an obscure gray. I would have liked to explore, but there was no time – and even from the boat, it looked less interesting than some of the other islands.
Knossos, our second stop, seemed far more mysterious. Probably because there’s an ancient arch on a hill in the water as you come into the harbor, and the hillsides are sharper and steeper, more mysterious than those on Paros. It’s cold now; I’ve had to put on a second sweater, and the wind is still blowing. I hope I get some nice weather during my visit, but I also wouldn’t mind a violent rain.
Woke up broke free drove a long time, didn’t purge you from my mind
Early Morning
As the Blue Star Ferry Paros rumbles away from Piraias and slips out into open water, I’m struck again by relative anonymity of the landscape around Athens. Low, rolling hills and a crush of urbanism fade into brown, dry mounds and, to the South, the Mediterranean. I don’t know whether it’s the scenery itself, or because I know I’m in Greece, but there’s still a romance to the landscape; a stark, desolate epicness that is only augmented by the images of gods and heroes that dance in front of my eyes.
The sun’s shining hazily through the early morning clouds, illuminating the small sailboats that dot the coastline. Poetry lives thick every where in Greece, in old, crumbled ruins and in the bustling modern ferries. People of all nationalities laugh and chat (and many sleep), and almost uniformly, everyone seems to snap a picture on departure.
*
On the boat
This morning I woke up half an hour later than I intended, resulting in a mad dash to the metro, a realization that I wouldn’t make it to the port in time, and an equally mad dash to a taxi, which I shared with two other Greeks. The driver was very helpful, although I’m fairly certain that I overpaid for the eight minute drive to the docks. Maybe someday I’ll be able to take a cab without getting strung along like a show pony.
All the French are in Greece, enjoying a break from the endless train to sun their faces in the Mediterranean. Their accents are smooth and familiar; a comfortable, mellifluous sound against the slightly harsher Greek. There are plenty of Americans as well, and I swear that every other person I saw last night was speaking German. I suppose everyone needs a little bit of Greek exuberance, which so far has not been hard to come by. Even the dourest of Greeks does something to affirm the Hellenic mythos.
Groups of young American backpackers are already forming; flirtatious young men and women who are happy to find a familiar face and a recognizable accent. They’re all short shorts and muscle shirts, their Oakleys and baseball caps making them easy to spot.
It’s not as if I’m doing the best job blending in myself, however, my large backpack and homemade cloak duffel make sure of that – not to mention my shorts and deck shoes. But everyone on the ferry has a relaxed air about them, everyone’s been bitten by the Yiati Ohi that seems to grab you like a hydra’s head as soon as you set foot on Greek soil. I ought to have brought a book with me; more and more I realize how headphones cut you off from the world. I’m hit by the urge to keep my eyes and ears open, to take in the microcosm of this floating melting-pot.
Still, Santorini lies ahead, somewhere out in the water. Islands loom out of the Mediterranean like sleeping titans, giving the already hazy, thick air a further does of enigmatic romance. It’s hard not to believe in the old gods in the face of such an ancient place. Every cliff-face I see, I think: That is where Aeolus kept his winds; or That must be the island of the Cyclops. It makes me wish we were sailing instead of chugging through the water – my constant love for all things ancient has, quite possibly, reached its epicenter. A part of me wants to put on a pair of Greek sandals, strip down to a tunic, and spend the next five days sleeping on the beaches and the rocks underneath the cypress trees. And then I think: Jasper, you don’t wear sandals. And who would ever want to see your nasty feet?
*
Reflections
Reading over my previous entries, it’s obvious to me that my pilgrimage to Greece is long overdue. For the most part, my anxious Parisian prickliness has already been replaced by a wary smile and what I hope will turn into real relaxation. I’ve got a ways to go, though, before I am home again. I’m hoping that a regimen of sun, ouzo, feta and olives will be a viable cure for what’s been ailing me.
*
A Person, and a short stream-of-consciousness observation:
A couple of real, honest-to-god douchebags are sitting at the tables on the other side of the deck from me, wearing long shorts, a baseball cap, two leather choker necklaces, a silver wrist chain, and a cut-off tee-shirt that says “Football club Barcelona” on the chest; his head replete with buzzed hair, soul-patch and miniature chin-strip. His friend is equally ridiculous, wearing a long-sleeve “Wrestling champion tee” (and I don’t think it’s ironic), board shorts, ear studs and shield sunglasses. Along with a less offensive companion, the two of them are shamelessly chatting up two American girls, who giggle and sip their frappés coquettishly, eating their pastries with pinkies upturned. A part of me wants to make some friends while I’m here (not with these people, of course), but a bigger part of me wants to spend the week in solitary, introspective silence. I have a feeling I’m going to be doing a lot of writing, which can only be a good thing.
There’s a Greek woman smoking a pack of Pall-Malls, and I have the desperate urge to roll them up in my t-shirt sleeve. My hair is suitably greased-back, in the best of fifties fashion – my uncontrollable cowlick transforming into a rockabilly-meets-21st- century pompadour.
I’m amazed that my sunglasses are still going. It’s been over a year now, and they’re scratched, bent, broken, falling apart; the frame is cracked and the lenses fall out occasionally, but they’re clinging to life with admirable tenacity. I’ve grown fond of them, despite the fact that they make me look ridiculous (like a drug dealer, said Linzy).
The wind’s picking up now, blowing across the stern with insistence. The islands continue to roll by, obscured by cigarette smoke and the same persistent haze, which is beginning to turn darker and cloudier. I’m three hours into an eight-hour trip, and the sea is stretching out in every direction, not fast and blue but deep and dark, the wake of the ferry leaving a bubbly, bright azure that’s slowly reclaimed by the relentless march of the waves. The sun is hidden now, and I’ve put on a light sweater. I have half a mind to move over to one of the tables closest to the railing, but based on the fact that they’ve all been vacated by jacketed travelers, I would guess that it’s much chillier over there.
As soon as I hit Santorini I’m buying toothpaste – I forgot to bring any, and my mouth feels like an ashtray.
And it is windy now, cold and blowing. All of a sudden I’m glad I brought my raincoat. It’s Monday. Tuesday is coming – did you bring your coat? Chin-Patch is staring at the girls with the hungry eyes of a snake-oil salesman, his biceps on prominent display.
End of the trip
In a way, Greece makes me sad. What place does it have in the modern world? The Greek people are proud, and it’s easy to see why – but Greece is no longer the center of the Western World, and hasn’t been for quite a long time. I’m having trouble reconciling the ancient and the modern, I suppose – thrown off by the predatory tourism, ut also unable to resist the clarion call of ruined marble and the ancient world; the entire basis of the modern tourism industry. I think I wanted Greece to be as I read about it in my old books – deserted, old in every way. I’m finding it to be an unfortunately normal country.
Paros was our first stop. As we pulled back into the sea the sun briefly poked through the clouds before the sky returned to an obscure gray. I would have liked to explore, but there was no time – and even from the boat, it looked less interesting than some of the other islands.
Knossos, our second stop, seemed far more mysterious. Probably because there’s an ancient arch on a hill in the water as you come into the harbor, and the hillsides are sharper and steeper, more mysterious than those on Paros. It’s cold now; I’ve had to put on a second sweater, and the wind is still blowing. I hope I get some nice weather during my visit, but I also wouldn’t mind a violent rain.
Woke up broke free drove a long time, didn’t purge you from my mind
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