Nothings on a Monday

I have nothing in particular to talk about today so this is going to be one of those 'filler' posts. On Saturday I went to the laiki and it really helped me to get over my week in London. It was like therapy for the soul, all those beautiful and fragrant fruits and vegetables and gleaming fish.

We got home and I said to Mr Zeus that we are millionaires. Look, here are all our jewels - fat plums, shiny nectarines, juicy red grapes, fragrant green peppers and sweet melons - and here is our gold and silver - two beautiful ears of sweet yellow corn and glimmering sardines fresh from the sea.

You know what I could never understand in the UK? Why do they shrink-wrap corn cobs? It already comes in the most perfectly designed, biodegradable packing of its own.

Last night we went to the marina to watch a bartending competition. I like watching that sort of thing, you know, where they throw the bottles around and do tricks. It really impresses me that people can be that good at doing something. I don't know who won, we didn't stay long enough.

Also yesterday afternoon with no mood to do anything I was sprawled on the sofa watching a food programme on Mexico. Oh God, it was like food pornography. All that chilli and fresh coriander. And then they talked about Mexico's famous mole sauce, a sauce made of a host of delicious spices, chocolate and chilli. Chocolate. And chilli. Two of my favourite flavours at once. If I ever get to eat real mole, I might very well die of sensory overload, or at least faint like that woman who wore vibrating underwear to the supermarket. Mole is traditionally only supposed to be prepared by women. But of course! Who would better understand the pleasure-pain balance of chocolate and chilli than a woman?

Finally, I have bitten off more than I can chew and decided that instead of roaming around in the dark with my day job I should try to get a basic qualification that would help me understand the world of finance more. The home study kit arrived last week. I began unpacking and out came a calculator. Quelle horreur! Okay, it was pretty stupid of me to expect to get a financial qualification with no maths involved, but I am the worst person when it comes to numbers.

I dropped the box as if it were full of dead kittens. It's been sitting in a corner for a week and I know there's a time limit on this thing so I'll have to get started at some point.

If you're good at numbers, congratulations. We live in a world where intelligence and numeracy are very tightly linked. People will fawn over you if you can work out square roots without a calculator, but ain't no one going to be impressed if you can spell fancy words. Human calculator is a party trick. Human dictionary is not.

Image: http://img260.imageshack.us/img260/1196/bubbles1600nv0.jpg

This Is How We Do It

You are looking at a picture of plates of henna decorated by my sisters with glitter and candles. This is what awaited me when I got to my parents' house last Friday and began my journey to respectability. In the Home Country, women from the groom's side bring candle lit plates of henna to the henna party as a gift. Five year old Bollybutton used to throw terrible tantrums if denied this honour, and the older girls would each scrape up a bit of henna from their plates and stick a birthday candle in the middle to shut me up.

The night before the wedding is traditionally the night of the henna party. In the Home Country, the bride to be dresses in traditional henna colours like yellow or green, sometimes pink with a bit of yellow. I wore a green outfit the same exact colour as powdered henna. For me the henna party is the most fun part because traditionally it's all women and girls. In such an atmosphere, women tend to let their hair down, dance, relax and sing songs and do henna for the bride. It's really nice.

Mine was a mixed henna party since I couldn't exactly kick Mr Zeus out and I wanted him to witness the ceremony. One by one, everyone comes up and places a little bit of henna paste onto a leaf or a banknote on the bride's hand. They each feed her something sweet and in the Home Country, small denomination bank notes are circled over the bride's head to remove the evil eye and placed in a pot. That money will later go to charity.

The henna and the sweets are to wish you a long and happy marriage. Also henna on a bride's hand serves as a nannycam for her parents. They say that the darker your henna is, the more your mother-in-law will love you. My Dad says this is because in a traditional set up, the bride would go to live with her husband in his home with his parents. A few days after the wedding the bride traditionally returns to visit her parent, and they could guage whether she was being put to work in the house or treated well by how quickly or slowly the henna on her hands faded.

After this ceremony comes all the singing and the dancing. Someone plays a little drum called a dholki and the rest clap to keep the rhythm (listen here for an example). We didn't sing a lot of songs because there were so few of us and unusually for the bride at a henna party I sang songs too. I love this part of the henna party because it usually ends with everyone collapsing with laughter as they try to remember the lyrics to songs that have been sung since anyone can be bothered to remember. My grandmother probably sang the same songs at henna parties when she was a girl.

Henna party songs tend to be fun, fiesty and a little bit risque, but that's characteristic of the part of the Home Country I'm from, we're famous for being the most musical and charismatic people. Here are some of the songs we sang, translated of course:

1. (In answer to Asia's obsession with fair skin)

Black, blackety black,

My sweetheart is dark so the whities can all get lost (we stopped after realising we were being racist towards my English brother-in-law)

2. (famous movie song that became inexlicably connected to henna parties, which you can watch here if you can bothered)

What business do you have in my courtyard?

Even those with a reputation are disgraced

If your wife's tall, you have a good reputation

Lean her against your house, what do you need a staircase for?

What business do you have in my courtyard? (chorus)

If your wife's fat, you have a good reputation
If your wife's fat, oh fatty, oh fatty fatty fatty

Lay her on the bed, what do you need a mattress for?

(chorus)

If your wife's black, you have a good reputation

Put her in your eyes, what do you need eyeliner for?

And so on and so on about the various shapes and sizes your wife could be and what they're useful for.

3.

The henna will darken on your hands

The drum will play all night

When you leave with your beloved
Don't forget these days and nights

His land waits for you

He sings songs in your name

Here comes a procession of happiness

Bringing a shower of colours

They sound pretty lame in English. There are so many more, and the sad thing is I sing them all without knowing what half the words mean because they're in a dialect I can semi speak. It drives my father mad, but we only ever spoke it when we went to the village so it got rusty. There are happy songs and sad songs because back in the day when the girl got married and left, her family didn't know when they would see her again if she moved far away.

The next morning we both got dressed in our wedding finery and took lots of pictures and then waiting for the man who was doing the ceremony to arrive. It's quite nice and simple, really. As part of the deal in countries where my religion is the main one, both parties make marriage contracts which are signed at the ceremony.

At this stage, the bride can request a payment from the groom which then belongs entirely to her. I suppose it was a way of providing the bride with some financial security in case she needed it or got divorced, because she can keep that money if they get divorced. This money, or mahr can be whatever amount or form the bride requests it in. One Iranian bride asked for 124,000 roses as her mahr and took her husband to court to get it when he didn't deliver!

I was far more lenient and set my mahr at EUR 150, an amount so low that the guy doing the ceremony called me back into the room to make sure I had actually requested that much and whether I accepted Mr Zeus as my husband. I said "Yes" and went back into the next room.

In the ceremony the bride and groom are kept in separate rooms and the theory is that this was to protect the bride. During the ceremony, each party is asked three times whether they accept the marriage or not. Maybe due to cultural reasons the bride might feel shy to say she accepts the marriage while her husband is there. Also, she may be being coerced into a marriage she doesn't want. By being out of sight of the groom, she might feel a little bolder to say no to the marriage, and in the true form of my religion, not the Al Qaeda form, a marriage is void if the bride or the groom is being forced into it.

Anyway, ceremony over we were reunited and got a little talk about how we must be kind to each other and take care of each other. I was reminded to take care of my spirituality because heaven is under the feet of a mother and one day I might be a mother.

We took a break and changed our clothes into something more relaxed, then we went out and had dinner. And that was that! I have my cousins as witnesses and a scrappy piece of paper with both our names and the amount of mahr on it as proof, and now I can say "I'm a married woman, you can't tell me what to do!" to my critics.

Image: My own

The Land that Sense Forgot

I got a comment today asking me why I haven't posted in so many days and I am touched that someone noticed! I have been recovering from a nerve shattering trip to the UK. On Sunday at the airport I bought a book which I settled down to read on the flight to discover that I have not only already read this book, I already own it. So you can understand my frame of mind after a week of rain and grey in the UK. I need to take a week off with my head buried inside a giant watermelon.

On Sunday I sat in an Olympic airways flight stuck at the hell hole that is Heathrow, in pouring rain, one hour delayed, in 14C in July and waited for the golden moment the plane took off and took me away from my increasingly despised birthplace. When the captain gave a speech in Greek over the intercom about how hard they are trying to keep Olympic going despite fines and bans on chartering flights and thanked us for helping their fight by flying Olympic, we all clapped. When the flight touched down in Athens to a July night of 25C, we clapped. I swear, I have tears in my eyes thinking about how happy I was when we landed and left the airport to the warm embrace of summer and the scent of life.

I was right about moving to Greece and on this trip I felt it more keenly than ever before. I feel like a stranger in London being swept along the anonymous faces, the constant rushing, the mind-your-own-business attitude which leaves me scared to get caught up in any trouble because I know people are less likely to help me than they would if I were in Athens. In my one week in London, five young people were fatally stabbed. The sixth died the day I landed. Six young people dead for no good reason - the nation should be on the streets in disgust and yet they do nothing.

When I got a humiliating dressing down from a bank clerk for being in possession of my father's card because my own had stopped working, this in spite of the fact that I was at the counter to replace the money I had used during the week and not to withdraw funds, I boiled with frustration.

"Do you expect a father to leave his daughter without any money for a week? He was trying to help me and you can call him now to check, I have his permission to use the card."

"No one except your father should have the card or the pin number, it's breach of contract."

"But do you understand what I'm telling you, it was an emergency situation and anyway I am putting money into his account not taking it out."

"If we catch you using this card again we will have to remove it from you. Your father is in breach of his terms and conditions by you having the card and the pin number."

"But I'm his daughter and he knows I have his card! Why is it such an issue for a father to lend his daughter his card?"

"Next time get him to write a letter or add you onto the card or we will have to cancel it."

"Why should he write a letter, I'm only here for one week! Can't you understand that I have my own bank card but it has stopped working so I needed this in an emergency till I get the replacement?"

"You shouldn't have his card."

What I see in the UK is the slow death of common sense and mental flexibility as everyone tries to cover their own backsides and screw you if you get in the way. Morons are slowly taking over the country. I fired off an email to Mr Zeus saying I hoped the UK got global warmed into oblivion and sank into the sea, which I admit is a little harsh and I do take back, but I don't apologise for how my one week in London made me feel like I was constantly banging my head against a wall.

So yes, it feels terrific that I was right to leave the UK. I took a gamble and I hit the jackpot. I always hated life in the UK and I am eternally grateful that I took up the opportunity to leave. Otherwise, what would I be doing? Turning green from the lack of sun, doing my nine-to-five and eating my watery tomatoes, sobbing onto my Prozac in front of a light box as a I tried to fend off my annual four month winter depression. If you are a young person living in the UK, reading this and thinking of leaving, let me tell you: Leave. Do it now by whatever means. There's nothing left in the UK any more.

And also, now I am part of respectable Home Country society since I had my religious marriage over the weekend. It feels great that now I can give out my number to friends in the Home Country and not have to worry about Mr Zeus picking up when they ring. More on the ceremony in another post.

Image: http://www.psychopanic.com/images/imwithstupid.jpg

Pick Me Up Before You Go Go

Yesterday evening someone used a pickup line on me for the very first time in my life. You know, one of the classic straight-from-the-book lines. I was rushing to meet a friend downtown and a man stopped me. And what do you know, it was a Creepy Older Man. Oh no, Bollybutton never ever attracts hot young things, just the Creepy Older Men!!!! Why?!?

"Excuse me," said Creepy Older Man in english.

Thinking he was a lost tourist and wanting to flaunt my local knowledge, I stopped.

"If beauty was a sin, you would surely go to hell. I see you're in a rush but I would have loved to have taken you for a drink sometime."

"Thanks, but I'm married." Not exactly a lie, I am practically married.

I told this story to my Greek friend S who I was rushing to meet and she said, "That's weird. A guy used the exact same copy-paste line on me once."

"Where?"

"At the end of the street where we go for dance class."

I don't believe it! This Creepy Older Man is a pigeon. He sits there all day using this exact same line, even the bit about taking you for a drink if you weren't in a hurry, the same way that male pigeons strut around after the females. Have you ever seen this? He'll strut up to one female and if she rejects him he just puffs out his chest and keeps on strutting. Eventually someone will say yes and he might get his groove on.

I don't get it. When Mr Zeus goes out all the sweet young things flock around him. They flock around him even when we're together goddammit! Why do I only get Creepy Older Men? Is it the glasses? I don't even attract the handsome and incredibly charming type of older man, just the creepy kind.

Image: http://i5.photobucket.com/albums/y182/Uzirider/my%20space/old-man.jpg

Pak Indian - Nil Points for Betraying Me

Most people in Athens have heard of Pak Indian Restaurant, located at 13 Menandrou Street in downtown Athens. It boasts being Athens' first Indian food restaurant. I had never been there until Saturday and have decided to put my thoughts up as a review for you, my readers.

About a year ago I went to another Indian restaurant, Iskandar and the food was good except none of it was spicy and it was way too expensive. To make Indian food that has everything right except the spice and price is like making a Greek salad, leaving out the feta and charging EUR 15 for it. Still, the place is beautiful and the service very good. The staff were great to me, and I don't think it's because I can speak their language.

So I thought I'd try Pak Indian too and see where my quest for authentic Indian food in Athens led me. A few doors away I was buying mangoes and asked the guy if Pak Indian was any good. "Yes it is," he said "because I own it!"

As I approached the establishment, I noticed a sign on the door that said chicken curry EUR 3, chicken biryani EUR 2. Bonus! I was schooled in the Home Country and this sign was written in Home Country, kind of like when you go to a Chinese restaurant with a Chinese friend, they always bring out a special menu that the likes of you would never otherwise have the chance of seeing.

Z2 was with me and we took a table. We ordered vegetable pakora (bhaji), chicken korma, chicken biryani, channa dal (yellow pea curry) and two Lahori paratha which is a type of flat bread. I spoke to the waiter and ordered in Home Country, asking for the food to be properly spiced the way we eat it. Hooray! I thought. All those years of Home Country schooling are finally coming in use for something - reading the discount menu!

The pakoras were pretty good even though they were quite a stingy amount, only four in a portion. Still, they tasted almost as good as what I make at home, ahem, so the meal looked to be starting well.

And then it all went downhill. Next up was the chicken biryani. Biryani is a rice dish that is supposed to be made by layering raw rice with a spicy mixture of either meat or vegetables, sometimes with raisins or apricots, and drizzled with saffron infused milk before cooking to give biryani its distinct half yellow half white rice. The combination is then steamed over a low heat to cook the rice. As it cooks all the ingredients mingle. Eating a good biryani is like unwrapping a present where each layer contains a surprise. I've eaten biryani in the best places for it, including the Indian city of Hyderabad which specialises in this type or rice, and of course my own mother's biryani which is outstanding because that's the city she comes from.

What a biryani should never, ever be is a plate of oily rice dyed - DYED - with yellow food colouring, piled on top of what I knew was just a bit of chicken curry dished out of the cooking pot and microwaved with the rice. Okay, it was still the best biryani I have had in Athens, but for the reputation that Pak Indian has as the best Indian food in Athens, I have to tell you guys, you are being cheated. This was a cut-corner biryani. It shouldn't even have been allowed to call itself biryani.

Next came the channa dal, a curry made with split yellow peas that look a bit similar to fava. Lucky for us channa dal is a dish that needs to be slowly cooked so there was no quick fix way to flog us a fake version. What we ate had been cooked for hours and it tasted that way. The channa dal was delicious eaten with the Lahori paratha. Not nearly as spicy as I would have liked, but still pretty good.

After this brief hiatus came the chicken korma. Chicken korma is a creamy chicken curry cooked with yoghurt and coconut milk. It normally has a pale, golden colour imparted by searing the chicken and frying the onions until they turn brown.

What I was served - oh God it pains me to even talk about it - looked like someone drank a mango milkshake, swallowed some chicken and vomited it onto a plate. It was the ugliest chicken korma I have ever seen. No flecks of spices in the jaundiced sauces which were coloured again with food colouring, not even a sprinkling or fresh coriander leaves. And it tasted appalling. What was it? I wanted to throw it across the room in disgust. I wanted to shout "Take this aborted foetus of a curry away from me and give it a decent burial!"

The meal was over and we waited for the bill. Oh well, I thought, at least we will get the special price on account of me being from the Home Country. But we DID NOT. For the two of us, the above menu, a bottle of water and 3 beers the bill was EUR 50. I laughed, No way, I thought. So I called the waiter back and said that on the door you have curries for EUR 3 and chicken biryani for EUR 2, why are you charging me EUR 10 for the biryani and EUR 9 for the *shudder* korma?

"That's a different type" he lied. "Much less elaborate curry and biryani."

I might have forgiven Pak Indian for the pseudo-biryani. I might even have forgiven them for the vomit-on-a-plate korma and the one solitary Bollywood track playing in a loop. But what I could not and will not forgive is the thieving way they charged me the outsiders' prices because I looked like I could afford them.

They betrayed me, one of their own, their own compatriot who after all these years kept alive the skill to read a language from right to left in the hopes of some perks, some discount, the instant calling card that says We are the Same.

If you were a Greek in a foreign country and you went to a Greek restaurant with a special Greeks Only menu, you would be charged the Fellow Greek price even if you looked like a millionaire. Heck, even I would get the discount simply for being an Asian girl who can read Greek. That's the way it's supposed to work, Pak Indian, do you hear?

The whole meal I was consolling Z2 that at least we'll get the discount price because of me. I have seldom felt so ashamed to be in the presence of my own Home Countriers and be treated this way. Thank God I didn't take my father there and dash his ideal of Home Countriers sticking together and taking care of each other in foreign lands.

Pak Indian, I wish I worked for a newspaper so this review could be made public. Your food was crap, your prices are shameful but most of all, I am never again going to part with a single one of my pennies for you because you committed the worst sin there is - you betrayed me, your own fellow country person and charged her non-compatriot prices.

Shame on you! Readers, whatever you may have heard from Pak Indian, you are being cheated of your money for painfully sub-standard Indian food. Take it from me who was raised on this cuisine and have eaten in many good Indian restaurants - Pak Indian is rubbish and if that's the best they can do and make people believe it's the best Indian food in Athens, then I should open my own restaurant and wipe the floor with them.

Image: http://www.boloji.com/cinema/motherindia/mi18.jpg

Bollybutton Barefoot

I used to have this nightmare that I was walking around doing my usual stuff and suddenly noticed I had no shoes on. In the dream, I would cringe with humiliation as people started noticing I was wearing no shoes, and I would wonder "What's the matter with me? How could I leave the house without wearing any shoes?"

Last night this scenario sort of became a reality. I got punished for moaning about how boring my life has been lately. Last week I had so much work I didn't have time to change out of my pyjamas for two days. For two weeks the only time I have left the house has been for one supermarket trip, one laiki trip and one coffee with a friend. That's it. The rest of the time I've been holed up inside working and feeling sorry for myself.

Yesterday after work let up a bit I went for dance class. I didn't really feel like dancing, I just wanted to hang out somewhere, so I went to hang out at dance class. Everyone was tired yesterday. We all flopped around like wilted flowers and exchanged our various complaints: too much work, too hot, no man, stupid man, etc.

On leaving class going home seemed like the worst idea to me. I needed to be out and so I bought a drink from a kiosk and took a stroll by the Acropolis.

I walked along in the beautiful summer evening, feeling smug at the tourists who would eventually have to leave the place I lived in, and walked all the way to Thissio where I met up with my Turkish friend A who was watching the Germany-Portugal match in a pub. We caught up briefly and after slobbering over a few gratuitous Christiano Ronaldo shots, I left as I had to catch the metro to get home.

Outside as I walked along and felt sad about having to return home, I tripped up. When I tried to keep walking the right slipper flew off my foot. It had snapped in a completely inconvenient, non fixable way.

So there I was, stranded in a very busy tourist area with three choices:

a) stay here as I am and wait to be rescued by someone willing to let me have their shoes for the night

b) walk around with one slipper on

c) bite the bullet and walk around barefoot

Being barefoot struck me as slightly less ridiculous than having only one slipper on. So I took a deep breath and began to walk. It's situations like this when being a foreigner comes in very handy; you just walk around radiating a tourist vibe like "Look at me, I'm just a tourist and I don't know any better."

Now, all ladies will be familiar with the post-club routine of walking home barefoot with your high heels in one hand. That's fine, we do that. But who walks around with their flip flops in one hand unless they're on the beach?

I went to Thissio and when the metro machines rejected my coins I decided I wouldn't ride the metro barefoot and then wait barefoot for a bus. I'd take a taxi. But there were none to be found. And so I walked up Ermou from Thissio to Monastiraki, along marble footpaths, along dirt footpaths, brick, pebble, tarmac and a building site strewn with sand and broken glass. It was like a video game: dodge the broken glass and get an extra 10 points if you find a taxi.

It was hilarious so I called Mr Zeus to tell him. "Don't worry," he said "in the summer tourists do that when they get too hot." Well if that's true then there are some pretty stupid tourists around because the ground was no cooler than a pair of shoes, having soaked up 41C worth of heat during the day.

"There you go," I thought to myself "you said your life was boring, well here you are. Walking around downtown Athens barefoot, attracting weird looks and looking enviously at those who have shoes to wear."

After a 10 minute shoeless trek I managed to flag down a taxi and the first thing he said when I got in was "Why aren't you wearing any shoes kale?" I held up the broken slipper "They broke! And you never think of carrying a spare pair, do you!"

When I told the story to Z2 this morning, he told me a story about how he'd been riding his bike at the crack of dawn once and saw a barefoot woman waiting for a taxi, high heels in one hand and thought it was one of the sexiest things he'd ever seen. But what does he know, bare anything on a woman is one of the sexiest things he's ever seen.

So there you have it. If you saw a woman walking around barefoot last night in Thissio with flip flops in one hand, I confess it was me. It's lucky for me my embarrassment threshold is so high.

Image: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/66/190674662_62cc9d13fd.jpg?v=0

Saawariya. Sorry for You

Last night after a walk with a friend I stopped by the local video club to see if there was anything worth picking up. Flicking through the new release section, I stopped in my tracks. In front of me was a sight I couldn't believe, a sight that both amazed and appalled me. It was a Bollywood DVD. New release. Rental ticket missing.

There was joy because a new Bollywood movie and not some art cinema offering was out in the local neighbourhood super-Greek video rental store, and someone had rented it.

There was also horror. Because this movie is one of a 3-in-1 DVD I bought downtown last Saturday for EUR 3. And it's bad. Appallingly bad. Big budget, unknown main cast, more money than sense, all style and no substance, a song every ball-breaking 7 minutes. The performance of the two new lead actors was so boring and bland I wanted to take them and roll them in chilli and lemon to spice it up a bit.

This movie is called Saawariya. I can just imagine the poor person who rented this DVD and sat at home thinking "Ti malakia einai auti? (what bullshit is this?)" and be put off Bollywood for life.

Let me tell you about Bollywood movies. They are supposed to be all song and dance, colours and unbelievable story lines. But the makers of Saawariya insult the intelligence of even the most die-hard Bollywood fan by thinking "If we make it big budget with a fancy set, no one will notice that actually nothing at all happens for 3 hours."

The plot didn't so much twist and turn as roll over in bed and fart. What a disappointment.

Why? When there are so many good movies why did that crap fest Saawariya make it to DVD release in the local video club? Why not Om Shanti Om with my beloved Shah Rukh Khan? That was at least entertaining in how it made fun of itself.

To the person who rented the movie, my sincere apologies. Next time you're in the mood for some Bollywood just borrow one of my DVDs for free.

Read more scathing reviews of Saawariya here and here. And don't rent it!

Image: http://i.indiafm.com/firstlook/saawariya.jpg

The Perfect Peponi

On Saturday I passed another rite of passage for any child of the 80s whose mother threw frequent dinner parties - my first melon baskets, marking my transition from pizza parties to dinner hostess. And not just any melon baskets.

I was doing my usual Saturday laiki shop and picked up a melon. The man on the stall put it back and picked up another one for me, assuring me his choice was better.

And wow, was he ever right. This melon, this peponi of my dreams, was absolutely perfect. One day before or one day later and it would have been less perfect. It was at its absolute, glorious peak of perfection. The first sign that it would be that good was when I opened my backpack to unload my shopping and a sweet smell wafted out. You can tell a good melon by the smell. Once I embarked on a futile mission in a London supermarket smelling melons while a bemused friend looked on and asked me what the hell I was doing.

"Trying to find a sweet one."

"And you'll do that by smelling it!"

"Of course!"

Oh, the tragedy of life in the UK with it's bland supermarket fruit.

I got to work on the melon and a small watermelon we had bought turning them into baskets, my mother's summer desert of choice at a dinner party. I ate the cut offs and I have to tell you, this was the most perfect peponi I have eaten in decades. A melon that good only turns up once every 10 years and I was the one who got it.

That evening I admitted to my guests that I was becoming a total grandma or housewife or something, because all day I had been so happy about this perfect peponi. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops: I found the perfect melon, the best melon in the entire laiki! They agreed with me when they tried it though, and my Irish friend fell about laughing at how enthusiastically I had resurrected this 80s party trick.

Melon baskets, people. Don't knock it till you've tried it. Instructions for a melon basket much fancier than mine can be found here. You will need a melon baller, an instrument like a mini icecream scoop which looks like this and can be found at Alpha Beta supermarket.

That's another reason I love summers in a hot climate. They remind you so strongly of the really simple and most rewarding pleasures in life, like cold glasses of water on hot afternoons, painting your toenails neon pink or the perfect slice of melon.

Image:http://www.tandmpics.com/280/4/409.jpg

Gold Hoop Jumping

There are some things in life you don't even notice until it becomes a possibility that you can't have it any more. This is what I thought about my life, having been a good Home Country girl who turned the balance upside down and didn't do things the acceptable route of meeting, dating, engagement, marriage, living together. When my older sister got married and went through the ceremonies, I could see the contentment on her face: "I did it the right way and I earned this". Never mind, I thought, I made my choices and I would be happy with them too. There would be no emotional kiss on the forehead from my father as he handed me over to my new life - I beat him to that two years ago when I boarded an Olympic Airlines flight alone from London to Athens.

So when I found multiple missed calls on my mobile and a frantic message from my mother that she'd been trying to call me, I became worried. She called again as I began to dial "BB where have you been I've been trying to call you!"

Panic

"Is everything ok mum? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just need to know your bangle size."

"My bangle size? What for?"

"Your cousin is coming from the Home Country and Dad and me wanted to give you gold bangles like we gave your sister when she got married. For your Ceremony."

On hearing this, the modern woman in me launched into a dialogue about how I didn't need gold bangles and it was okay. Actually, I didn't feel I had earned them because I didn't do things the right way. The next time I go to the UK Mr Zeus and I will indeed take part in a small ceremony at my parent's house which in Home Country terms makes us officially married. Gold bangles are the traditional mark of a married woman. Modern Bollybutton said not to worry, but Mum insisted. And traditional Bollybutton smiled.

It's not the bangles and the fact that they are gold - I'm not much of a fan of gold. It's the thought that I will receive a rite of passage which I didn't believe I would get or deserve. No matter how 21st Century I may be, a part of me will always be a Home Country girl. I don't know if that's Having It All, or just a confusing way to live!

I will finally be able to tell my best friends in the Home Country I am married and I won't have to hide my life in Athens any more.

And in case you're wondering, my bangle size is 2.4.

Image: http://images0.like.com/product-images--4a408d322416f3a42aa167a97a42105aaa4bcb8e-5ec2ec46e4617682--jpg_sqthumb_large--bracelets-guess-gold-bangles.jpg

A Perfect Sunday

Yesterday was one of those perfect summer days. Mr Zeus and I packed ourselves off to spend the afternoon with his eccentric aunty who lives in a lavish, sea-view retirement apartment which she acquired somewhere along her life of liaising with very rich men. Some might say that her childless life and faded looks with only two little dogs and a cat for company is rather tragic, but I say with a view like hers, a little-piece-of-heaven garden and a swimming pool in spitting distance, who gives a flying divorce settlement??

The pool as it turns out was filled with sea water which was a bonus for me. I have blogged many times that I'm scared of getting into the water because I can barely swim. So I had to go through my usual psyching myself up routine before I got into the water.

In the course of my two years in Athens - and as of last Friday it has been officially two years - I have finally reached a healthy weight. Family feuds, doubts, settling down issues all made me drop weight like there was no tomorrow. As the fog began to clear, as I settled into my life and my father started talking to me again like the old times, my weight has normalised and my body has flourished. Sometimes I stand infront of the mirror after a shower slapping my thighs and enjoying the new sensation of how they vibrate.

The point of this is that the extra two or three kilos have made me float so much better and yesterday I had a really great time swimming around. I actually enjoyed it because I didn't feel like I'm going to sink every few minutes.

Swimming over, I sat on Aunty's terrace drinking in the blue skies, blue seas, pink bouganvilla. It felt like my first true summer day of the summer so far. In the Homeland that total sense of peacefulness is called the coolness of your heart. I was so blissful that I wondered if my senses were going into overdrive when the ground beneath me rattled, but as we later learnt that was the Patra earthquake.

On the way home we sat in the traffic making cruel comments about young things in the fancy cars that their daddies and sugar daddies had bought them. Gotta have the hot car! I recently heard of someone we know with no earning capacity who took out a EUR 15,000 loan to buy a Mercedes. Smart move in these credit crunch times, but then that's the Greeks for you: sunbathe today and think about the burn tomorrow.

Image:http://www.snapscot.com/post/040904/040904BackyardBouganvilla.jpg

Dancing Queens - and King

Lately in dance class an interesting event has taken place. We have our first male belly dance student who attends classes with his wife. Having a male in our formerly all-female environment has turned us all into raving banshees who tease this guy mercilessly. Last week during warm up, one of the girls was talking about something and said loukaniko (sausage) when she meant to say something else. We all looked at our resident male ... there was a split second of silence and we all howled with laughter.

Yesterday going through warm up the teacher fetched a stick for our guy to place across his back to demonstrate how he should keep his back straight as he bends forward. As she produced the large stick, I shouted "Xilo!" (wood) and the guy scrambled to get away from the phallic looking instrument while our teacher chased him around the room with it. Today my stomach muscles hurt not from all the stretching but all the laughing. We laugh more than we dance these days as we jokingly tease our resident male. He has done a pretty brave thing to enter an all-female environment like ours.

Dance class is turning into the highlight of my week. Lately I have so much work to do that my fingers are aching as I type this. I'm all bent out of shape from sitting here at the computer. I cherish my 1.5 hours a week when I can stretch, reach, drop and undulate to work out all the cobwebs in my joints, but mostly I cherish it for the company.

After a really long time M came to class again. M is perpetually stressed and sarcastic and I adore that she doesn't hide how she's feeling for the sake of anyone. "Where did you disappear to?" she barked, "I thought you got left back in India."
"No way, I went to India, I shopped and I came back."
"Is that so? I hate you."
"And what should I do since I love you M?"
"Ante!"

S jumped in "Bollybutton's not going back, we won't let her. She's ours now!"

Amid all this there is usually a flurry of costume exchanging to see who likes what, three people talking to me at the same time to place orders, beauty tips, relationship advice and the teacher shouting that someone owes her money.

The dancing itself is starting to take a backseat in what's become my favourite 1.5 hours of the week.

It'll Be All Write

When I meet new people, I automatically tell them I'm a journalist because that's what I always wanted to do. It's not exactly a lie, I do freelance on the side of my regular job. At the photo exhibition I wrote about, my Turkish friend A introduced me to the fascinating circle she moves in. I shook hands with a man, let's call him Bob, and exchanged the usual so-what-do-you-do. "I'm a journalist," he replied, to which I gasped with delight and gushed "I'm a journalist too!! Who do you work for?"

And there in the soft lights of the market, in front of a photo of a gypsy wedding, Bob said "Al Jazeera. How about you?"

Damn. I was in the presence of journalism royalty. Crap cakes! "Oh you know, no one really. Mostly health and beauty stuff..." Me telling someone from Al Jazeera that I'm a journalist is like being an extra on a sitcom and telling Angelina Jolie you're an actress too. I didn't suppose he'd heard of Black Beauty and Hair magazine or would be at all impressed that I just submitted an article on the dangers of antiperspirant, so I cut my losses and fled to the next photographic display.

Every time this happens I feel myself shrink a little, and a little more, and a little more. A is so well-connected and I met so many important journalist types on that night that by the time I left I was so tiny I had to watch out for falling cigarette butts as I walked home.

Working for any of the big names - Al Jazeera, the BBC etc. - would be my dream and it's a dream I hope I'll achieve. I spent a lot of my early 20s getting my knickers into a twist at how many doors kept slamming in my face and annoyed with myself that I wasn't the journalist type who sells their grandma for a scoop to make it big.

However, the truth is that I'm quite happy with the pace things are moving at for me. After years in the wilderness knocking on doors, I am perfectly satisfied that once in a while I'll write something about how good olive oil is for you or 101 ways to wear a sari and manage to flog it. All I really ever wanted to do with my life is write, and I'm writing, so that'll do just fine for me.

A rather more unfortunate side effect of telling people I write for women's magazines is that they clasp their hands together and say "Oh wow! Like Carrie Bradshaw!"

Oh God! Being a freelance, female, curly haired writer automatically makes you Carrie Bradshaw? Someone help! And tragically, even in that instance I end up correcting them by saying things like "Oh no, not at all like Carrie Bradshaw. No where near as successful!"

Image: http://www.microcosmpublishing.com/catimages/typewriter.gif

Post to Summer

The bad news is that my birthday month is over. The good news is that it's June and things can only get hotter! Ellas Devil has made his blog look beautiful and summery - how does he do that? - and posted a meme for summer which I have taken upon myself to complete:

Summer Meme

Favorite summer flowers?
Favourite all round flowers - sunflowers and jasmine

Favorite flavors of ice cream?
Vanilla and strawberry

Favorite mode of transportation?
The bus - you see more that way

Favorite summer track?
Will Smith's Summer Time, it ain't summer till the radios start playing that!

Favorite summer food?
Mango and fried calamari

Favorite summer game?
Wow, this made me realise how lazy I am. People watching, like Spot the Fake Boobs, Spot the Feuding Couple and Spot the Guy who overcompensates For Other Shortcomings With An Overbuffed Body and Babe Magnet Car.

Earliest childhood summer memory?
Playing with matches while my parents took a siesta, looking at the sky during powercuts.

Favorite summer drink?
Lychee cocktail!

Favorite summer snack?
A nice cool slice of melon.

Favorite place to read?
Curled up on my newly summerfied sofa

Most annoying thing about summer?
It doesn't last long enough.

How I handle the heat?
By removing clothes. If I'm outside the house, by drinking ice cold drinks

Pet summer peave?
It's hunting season. The mere possession of XX chromosomes gets you cat called and whistled at all day.

All time favorite bathing suit?
My own skin.

Best time of the day?
Dusk in the summer when you've had a full day and you feel like Aaaaahh... that was truly a great summer day.

Most romantic summer activity?
Peeling grapes for your beloved

Favorite summer movie?
Anything with a summer theme

Summer is your most favorite season because?
Because it's the season of growth, heat, inspiration and the only time of year when I don't feel cold all.The.Bloody.Time. I can go out in the evening without a coat and a scarf just in case or a shawl just in case or whatever. I can pack away the hot water bottle I sit on the rest of the year because my buttocks don't need continuous defrosting. Yay summer! Stay for 12 months!

Image:http://www.comedyfestival.com.au/participation/2007/images/mc/197.56.thumb_large.smells_song_100_02.jpg

Look Good Enough to Eat

It's hunting season and bikini weather is upon us. So time to buff those bodies up to perfection!

I'm into homemade therapies and discovered to my delight that a friend from bellydancing class is too. When we chatted together during break she gave me her recipe for an amazing body scrub that she uses on herself. I made it last night and though I had to resist the urge to eat a spoonful of the mix, my legs are now buffed to perfection.

For a leg scrub you will need:

2 - 3 tablespoons of sugar

one small piece of cinnamon pounded to a coarse powder or 1/4 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 a teaspoon lemon or orange zest

olive oil

Method:

Add the olive oil to the sugar to make a crumbly paste. Add the cinnamon and lemon/orange zest. Mix it all up and scrub it thoroughly over your legs after you have washed and soaped. Rinse off. Your legs will be silky smooth and the sheen of oil left behind will nourish your skin.

Sexy times!

You know, I was told a few times by foreign women living in Athens that it is impossible for foreign women to make female Greek friends. They said that Greek women treated them with such hostility and suspicion that they had found it impossible to form any friendships with them.

Well, this is what I have found: there is a certain broad spectrum of Greek woman who will not ever want to be friends with you. But that's because she won't ever want to be friends with any woman. She views every other woman as a threat and a rival. She has female friends but she doesn't trust them. Such women are paranoid and rude to me and all other women but syrupy sweet to men. Thankfully I never have to mix with them in a social setting because not even Mr Zeus's female friends, who I count as my own, are like that.

The only place I regularly come into contact with Greek women outside of Mr Zeus's social circle is bellydancing class. Here, the girls welcomed me from the start. They were friendly to me and curious about where I was from. They took me under their wing and never once made me feel like I was any less than them. Am I friends with them? I'd like to think so. Am I good friends with them? No, but that's my own fault because I let the language barrier stop me from calling them up and arranging meetings outside of class so we can know each other better. I plan to work on this, because these are personalities I would feel disappointed to let out of my life.

At the end of the day, people in Athens react to you mostly the way you react to them. If you are rude, they are rude back. If they extend the hand of friendship and you don't take it, they will stop offering. After all, why should they chase me around to be my best friend if I'm not interested? It's already happened to me and I learnt my lesson.

So in my experience that myth of Greek women not making friends with foreign women has turned out to be totally untrue. Women might not have wanted to be friends with me because I was acting like a snooty cow, not because I am foreign and with one of their men. You take a little, you give a little.

With that in mind, here is the face scrub recipe I gave in return for the body scrub:

You will need:

2 tablespoons of gram flour (source from health shops or the Indian shops off Athinas street)

Rosewater, milk or plain water

Method:

Mix the flour and rosewater/milk/water into a thick cream and spread all over your face. Rub it in for five minutes and leave to set. Rinse off. Use rosewater to soften and refresh, milk if you have very dry skin and water if you have normal skin. A really good exfoliant and skin tightener.

So from Asia I give you a lovely face and from Greece I give you gorgeous legs. What more does a girl need?

Image: http://lib.store.yahoo.net/lib/pretika/st120scrub.jpg

What to Do with Free Porno CDs

In one year I have transformed from someone who killed anything I touched into a novice gardener. So much so, that it's getting out of control. The first thing I do when I wake up is peer over the balcony to check the levels of molestation my pea plants might have endured the night before. I have to force myself to go to bellydancing class because all I really want to do these days with my evening is pour a glass of ice cold water and poke around amongst my plants, repotting this and weeding that, checking on my sickly lemongrass seedlings and inspecting the growth of my plumeria. I nearly fainted with joy at discovering my first tiny pea pod yesterday. This is the rock and roll life I lead.

So where do the free porno CDs come in? Well, it wasn't some cheap ploy to get people on Google searches redirected to my blog, though God knows plenty of them end up here looking for Big Fat Hairy Naked Greeks.

My pea plants, my babies, have endured a double assault since their first days. Not only are they being attacked by whiteflies, but pigeons regularly enjoy feasting on their tender leaves to the point where half my pea plants are actually no more than little stubby stalks poking out of the ground, and still I water them faithfully hoping for regeneration.

This morning when I did my inspection and found that the pea flower one of my more sickly pea plants had managed to put out in the last few days had served as some hoodlum pigeon's breakfast, it was the last straw.

Since the peas are from organic seeds and have been so far grown in an organic way, I didn't want to use anything chemical. I had read that stringing up CDs and dangling them amongst your plants deters birds because they get freaked out by the light reflection. I raided the DVD cupboard and found some freebie porn CDs which I had kept for Just in Case. Some of the tackier newspaper in Greece give away free soft porn CDs. I don't know why I held on to these, maybe I was planning on making some very sexy coasters. Anyway they were there and would finally be put to good use.

I decided to go one up on just dangling the CDs as they were, and also Mr Zeus grandma uses the garden too and I don't think she's be too impressed with a slow, rotating peep show. I had heard in the past that birds also don't like bullseyes so I printed off some bullseye icons and taped them to the CDs. They are now strung up and I'll let you know if I have any success with the method.

As for the whiteflies, these little guys look so innocent but between them and the pigeons, they are totally wiping out my plants. I read on You Grow Girl that you can either buy yellow fly paper or make your own by coating a piece of yellow plastic with oil. Whiteflies like yellow and will get stuck to the oil.

I cut up a yellow plastic bag yesterday and covered a square with oil. And do you know what? It actually works! This morning there are lots of whiteflies trapped in the oil.

To those of you not the least bit interested in gardens, I apologise. It's just that I love my plants so very much! They are the perfect outlet for my mothering instincts.

UPDATE: The porno CDs didn't work at all, which just goes to show that no good can come of free soft porn. Instead my peas look ready to get married as I've drapped them all in white net. Seems to work.

Image: Bollybutton's skillful photoshopping from:http://identify.whatbird.com/img/4/539/image.aspx, http://images.jupiterimages.com/common/detail/54/66/23236654.jpg and http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/153/930~Jenna-Jameson-Posters.jpg

How to Waste Your Time

I have never dyed my hair except for having streaks put in. And even that I've only done three times in my whole life. I've never liked chemical hair dyes with good reason.

But being a woman of the East, I have spent many an afternoon with my hair caked in henna and when my Turkish friend A went to Istanbul, I asked her if she could bring me some fresh henna. Summer is here at last and I felt it was time for a change. Henna is not only one of the best conditioning treatments around for hair, but it is also a completely safe and natural product, so safe you could use it on a baby, and leaves your hair with an orangey red tint most visible under the sun. The lighter your hair the more obvious the results, and hence the many grannies in the Home Country with bright orange hair. Forget the blue rinse, ladies, orange is where it's at!

A's visit to henna my hair turned into an impromptu dinner party. Our guests watched as she expertly mixed the green powder with warm water and olive oil. You are supposed to add an egg too but I didn't have any. The process began with me in an old T shirt and a towel spread on the bathroom floor, and with all the masses and masses of hair I have, poor A was at my place till 1 am coating all my hair with henna paste. Mr Zeus complained about the smell and A told him that if he wants to be with a woman of the East he has to get used to it.

It's funny, even men and boys in the Home Country don't like the smell of henna. It's a product used pretty much exclusively by women and girls to mark happy occasions, so for the females, the smell of henna is one of the most joyous and comforting smells around, invoking memories of happy times and celebrations. But men are so averse to it that rumour has it that brides wear henna for their wedding to keep their amorous new husbands away!

Mr Zeus's friend T said the green paste in my hair was nice, almost like a mermaid effect. What imagination he must have since henna looks alarmingly like a cow pat. I'm so glad that A was able to come to my place or else I would have had to have gone to her and then ride the public transport back home with what looks like cow pat in my hair.

I wrapped my hair in a plastic bag and went to sleep with an old bed sheet over the pillow in case of leaks in the night. The next morning I woke up early and began the long process of rinsing all that henna out of all my hair, and I'm really happy with the results. The Turkish henna has left the hair of this Asian girl living in Athens looking really shiny and infused with a warm red glow.

So henna was a good thing to do with my time. What was a really bad thing to do, the worst in fact, was for me to waste my day off yesterday going to Ikea alone.

I had a day off yesterday because it was a public holiday in the UK and I'd really been looking forward to it. I imagined all the useful and creative things I could do. I rattled around the flat for a while packing away winter clothes (yay!) before I reached a decision. I would go to the new Ikea and pick up fabrics to give our living room a facelift. What a good idea it seemed at the time.

Off I went. I took the metro up to Aegalio and then I was supposed to get the 829 up to Bravo. I got off the metro and found the bus stop but no route map for the 829. Never mind, it was a one way street so where else could the bus go? To the end of the line, that's where, leaving me to walk through a residential area back to the main road and backtrack to the metro station. Thank heaven for my excellent sense of direction.

Back at the metro and not wanting to get lost again, I asked a periptero guy how far Ikea was on foot. "Do you see that bridge over there?" he asked, pointing to a 10 minute distance (I'm sorry I can't estimate distances in units like meters, only the time it would take me to walk them), "You go up to the bridge and turn right, then it's that much distance also on the other side." Okay, so a 20 minute walk. That was doable.

Periptero guy was wrong though. When I turned right and ended up on a motorway, I walked and walked. No Ikea in sight. I walked some more. I kept walking, all the while cursing how non pedestrian friendly Athens is. Everyone parks on the foot path and I was forced onto the motorway itself. "Oh God, what if I get hit by a car? Cause of death: Foreign girl on Foolish Ikea expedition."

After what seemed like forever, two and a half hours after I left my house, I arrived at Ikea and by then I was so pissed off that I spent 20 minutes buying a few bits and pieces before leaving again.

By the time I got home again it was 5.30. I had left home at 1.30. I had wasted my much longed for day off and in the end the fabrics at Ikea weren't even that nice, I should have just gone to the city centre where I know the shops and how to get to them.

I am especially blessed when it comes to pointless expeditions, no one does them like me. My sister curses me whenever I'm in London for dragging her off on things that should take 5 minutes but consume most of the day. Sometimes I even send her on pointless quests without even being with her by asking her to meet me at a metro station and getting the names mixed up so she ends up on the other side of London shouting at me down the phone that no, Mansion House and Manor House are not the same metro stop.

My pointless quests are born from a special combination of a stupid idea mixed with a very strong stubborn streak (I said I was going to get to Ikea, and God help me I will), dogged determination (I will get to Ikea if it's the last thing I do), a little bit of self torture (Poor me walking along on the motorway like a lost cow in this heat ... I deserve it) and of course the most important ingredient of all, boundless hope (If I walk for another 5 minutes, Ikea is bound to be there...Ok if I walk for another 10 minutes, I'm sure Ikea will be around the corner... this must be the last street before Ikea, I'm sure of it...)

Ikea on your day off. Bad idea.


Image: http://groups.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=groups.groupProfile&groupID=100112247&MyToken=20978809-9b7d-4d98-b495-88a945b4f91d

Wow Wow Wow WOW

When Kylie got diagnosed with breast cancer a few years back, I kicked myself for not shelling out for one of her concerts. If anything happened to her, there went my chance of ticking 'Kylie Concert' off my list of things to do before I die. Thankfully she pulled through and when I found out she was playing in Athens, not a force on this earth could have stopped me from going. If I had come down to my last few euros and a choice between food or the Kylie concert, I would have still gone for Kylie.

Last night I went to the Kylie Minogue concert in the Terra Vibe stadium. The ticket arrangement was a little weird - I'm someone who likes to elbow my way to the very front at concerts, and having purchased a EUR 100 ticket as a treat for myself, I found myself in a designated area to the side of the main concert stage. Bizarre! But I later discovered that being on this slope gave you a great view of the concert as a whole package, albeit from a sideways angle.

I had made my way down to the sidelines of the stage to be as close as possible to the stage, but when Kylie appeared, all I could see was the backs of peoples' heads, so I returned to the slopes where I could see better. Just as a note to the organisers, I do still believe that EUR 100 should buy you a prime spot right in front of the stage. Keep it in mind next time!

What a concert though. Today my arms are busted from clapping so much and I was on a mission to lose my voice from singing. Feel sorry for those around me, my singing voice is like a cat being dangled off a cliff by its balls. It was Kylie's first concert in Greece and her first time in Greece too. I wish she was doing more than one date, I would have gone again tonight!

Talent wise, there are many artists who are better than Kylie. But I love her for the same reason I love Bollywood. She's glitzy, glamorous and fun. The sequins! The glitter! The lighting! Plus as I was able to confirm for myself last night that she sings live, and sings live very well. Which is more than anyone can say for that talentless old hag Madonna who charges stupid prices for fans to watch her mime and do yoga on stage.

She's also very tuned in to her audience and dedicated a whole section of the stage show to her huge gay following. I think all of Athens' gay community must have been there last night! Before the concert I watched as straight couples embraced, kissed, held hands, and I hope that one day Athens becomes tolerant enough for the obvious gay couples around me to do the same. We really take our freedom to express our affection for the one we love in public for granted.

Anyway, her concert was an audio visual feast and the energy was amazing. She closed her encore with I Should Be So Lucky, and all us kids of the 80s sang along at the top of our lungs with our memories of bubble perms, Neighbours and Kylie Minogue cassette tapes. Remember those?

Image: http://img134.imageshack.us/img134/4125/kylieminoguejy0.jpg

An exhibition everyone should see

And I mean everyone. Yesterday evening I went downtown for the opening of a photographic exhibition that focused on ethnicity and humanity in Greece. It was mind blowing. I can't describe how beautiful the photographs were, so I urge you to go see them for yourselves.

Exclude Social Exclusion by Understanding, Learning, Participating
Photo Exhibition
May 19th - 26th, 2008
Monday to Sunday (11.00am - 2.00pm and 18.00pm -23.00pm)
Kypseli Municipal Market

Negri Fokionos 42

Participants : Dimitris Theodossis

Maro Kouri

Cassi Moghan

Nikianna Sianou

Iakovos Hatzistavrou

Entrance is free, yes, it will cost you nothing but a little bit of your time to see the amazing work that these people have done. To get there, I took the metro up to Omonia and then a taxi ride to the venue which was EUR 2.80. But alternatively, you can get on a bus from 28th October street in the direction away from Omonia square. I can't tell you the name of the stop so while you are on the bus, track the building numbers that pass on your right. Get off when you get to either Cinema Aello or building 144. From there you can walk to Negri Fokionos in a few minutes.

If you click on the map to enlarge it, I've tried to show the directions.

Go discover the colours of the city we live in!

Image: Copyright Maro Kouri www.marokouri.com

Sinus Busting Curry

Me and pretty much everyone I know lately has been suffering from some kind of blocked sinuses, cold, sore throat or suchlike. I don't know what it is. I blame the hesitant summer. One day it's blazing hot, then it's raining, then it's cloudy and muggy, then it's clear but windy. No full on summer so far, and we wait.

After waking up at 4 am today for a sneeze fest, I am taking action. I present you with my sinus busting curry, guaranteed to melt away stuffy noses, stuffy anything in fact, from the top end to the bottom of your body.

Ingredients (makes 1 curry)

6 prawns
1/4 teaspoon corriander seeds
1/4 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 a dried birdseye chilli (the hottest you can get) alternatively 1/4 tsp chilli powder
3 curry leaves
1/4 teaspoon tumeric powder
1/2 a small onion, sliced
1/2 a small tomato, chopped in big chunks
1 tablespoon Fage yoghurt
one small clove of garlic, finely chopped
salt to taste

Method
Pound the corriander, cumin and dry chilli into a coarse powder. Fry the onions with some oil until they begin to brown and throw in all the dry spices and salt. Fry for a few minutes, don't allow to burn. Add the prawns, garlic and the tomato. Stir and cook until tomatos start to fall apart. Remove from heat and add the yoghurt. Stir in until dissolved and return to a low heat. Bubble for a few minutes until thick. Serve hot with pita or boiled rice.

It should be orange coloured and it should burn like hell (na kaei tou thanatou). I'm eating mine now - I'm sweating but I can breathe again!

Tall Tales

I sometimes wonder, if our heads hadn't been so filled with propaganda about what a relationship is supposed to be like, would we feel disillusioned? Magazines, movies, books, TV, they all set out what It was Supposed To Be Like. And no matter how hardened you are to the messages, they become deeply embedded in the female psyche.

So would it be different if our minds hadn't been constantly bombarded with great love stories, impossible romance, impossible bodies and moon-howlingly good sex?

Then I realised that no. It would change nothing. Because even if you erased every relationship related piece of info from the 20th Century, we would still have fairytales. The lie of what relationships are like began way, way back.

Wouldn't it be nice if someone re-wrote all the fairytales in a more realistic context?

"Cinderella woke up one morning feeling particularly pissed off. She got out of bed, brushed her lovely blonde hair and slipped on her glass flip flops (the ones for inside the house). She groaned miserably as she realised she'd forgotten last night's laundry in the machine. Now it would be smelling musty and she'd have to do it all over again. As if the Kingdom wasn't suffering enough environmental problems without her wasteful ways!

Tackling the remnants of Prince Charming's midnight chess games, she grumbled angrily to herself. Goblets, platters, golden knives and forks so carelessly strewn everywhere. Why, she had spent most of yesterday cleaning the West Wing and now it was a royal mess again. Prince Charming could be such an ass sometimes.

As she was thinking this, Prince Charming appeared merrily at the doorway. 'Good morning!' he chimed. 'What a lovely morning in our Kingdom!'

Control yourself thought Cinderella, it's too early in the morning for a fight. But she couldn't help it. Her hormones were all over the place lately and before she knew it, she was saying things that not even her fairy godmother could take back on her behalf.

'Oh a good morning is it? For who? I certainly didn't get any last night, did you?'

Prince Charming's dazzling perfect smile disappeared. He was aghast and stared at Cinderella.

'Is that how you say goodmorning?' he enquired.

'Why do you look so surprised! You don't take me out, we haven't been to any balls since Snow White got married and that was two months ago. And look at this place! I don't work my fingers to the bone for you to mess it up again, I did enough of that for my ugly sisters!'

'Maybe if you had grown the pair of balls you so love using to crush me with earlier, you wouldn't have had all those years of oppression from them! Frankly I think you just liked being the victim!'

'DON'T BRING MY FAMILY INTO THIS!'

'But you hate them!'

'I don't care!!!! They are not the issue here Prince Charming!'

'Okay whatever, Cinderella. When you're done having your period, call me and we'll talk. I'm going to have coffee with Rumplestilskin.

'Come back here!' *Slam*

Cinderella was seething now, but upset with herself also. She really shouldn't have gone off on one like that. Especially when Prince Charming looked so adorable in his dashing uniform. Which he wore all the time, even to bed.

She wished she could call someone to talk about her problems. But the Fairy Godmother had moved to a far away kingdom to get her Phd and her friendly forest creatures were all busy with their babies. She sighed as she sat by the West Wing's window. It would be another evening of tears, talking things through and trying again. At least she knew that they loved each other and would work things through. She just wished someone had told her there is no such thing as Happily Ever After"

Blog for Human Rights

Today is Bloggers Unite for Human Rights. I began running through a list of human rights issues to highlight here and the list grew and grew and grew, until I realised I couldn't possibly shine a strong enough light on the problems faced by our fellow human beings. Torture, rape, trafficking, war, starvation, humiliation, not knowing how or where your day will end, not knowing how many of your children will make it through childhood, not knowing where the bullets come from, not knowing if the checkpoints will let you get to a hospital in time, nourishing and cherishing your land only to watch it get snatched away, being told the place you lived, the streets you grew up on, are no longer yours and have had a border drawn through them.

Every day, everywhere, we humans seem to go out of our way to hurt each other. Why? Don't we all, in the end, come from the same place?















Image: http://www.pregnancy-leads-to-new-babies.com/images/pregnancy-picture-heart.jpg

26 and Putting Pen to Paper

Inspired by the Autograph Collector's blog, which invites you to submit a blog post, hand written in Greek, here is my offering. After much conjugating and dictionary trawling, I think what I have managed to say is:

"Yesterday evening I went out wearing a beautiful lace sari. And everyone looked at me like I was a UFO. It's okay, if you think about it I am an alien.

Sorry for my Greek. I'll get beats if Mr Zeus sees all the mistakes I make. Don't tell him!"

Maybe I should have put together something more profound. But you know when you think about something for ages and when you finally say it, nonsense comes out? Sort of the same.

I'm supposed to tag 5 people but really I think everyone should do this. If you're not sure you can use an online translator. People will get what you mean to say.... I hope...

Petrol Crisis? What Petrol Crisis?

EllasDevil on his blog has highlighted Athens' current lack of fuel which has meant that petrol pumps up and down the country have run totally dry. The unthinkable has happened. Athenians are being forced to walk short distances! To walk! They never do that! Walking when you could have been driving turns your bleach blond hair black again and makes all the hair on your chest fall off. I kid, I kid!

But did the lack of petrol stop people being out in force in their cars these last few days? Did it hell! I took a walk yesterday evening and noticed next to no reduction in the number of cars on the main road. So long as the people who really needed the fuel were getting it, like ambulances and food transporters, I thought the strike would be a good thing and would finally force the drivers of Athens into the city's admirable public transport system.

But no! Public transport, didn't you know, is the reserve of the poor and the foreign. No car owner would be caught dead on it.

The Greeks and their cars are totally inseparable. A few years back the government tried to cut back on downtown congestion by allowing even number plated cars to drive on one day and odd on the other. That should have cut the congestion by about 50% in theory, right? All it did was make everyone run out and buy a second car, so they had one even and one odd. Genius!

I've also noticed and failed to understand the large numbers of gigantic cars in Athens. It's a really badly planned city with tiny, winding roads. Therefore it makes sense to have a compact city car that's easy to move around and easy to park. Heck no! I want to show off how much money I earn, or at least make my neighbours jealous and give the impression that that's how much money I earn. So I'll buy a huge black SUV and park it poking off the sidewalk and halfway into the road. So what if it's too big to negotiate tight corners? So what if I'm actually too small to be in control of such a car and send it juddering around into everyone's path? It's my right to be a pain in your ass, and I want to be a really big pain in your ass with my really big car.

Logic. That's a Greek word.

Image: Corrupted from http://hybridvehiclesguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/05/2007-ford-escape-hybrid-suv1.jpg and http://bunnyjo.blogspot.com/

Boys Are Stupid!!!

Reading Hope's blog and battling with my own personal frustrations, I put on a T shirt this morning that I bought when I got dumped by my first
boyfriend after a short and extremely confusing liaison. It says "Boys are stupid, throw rocks at them" and it still stands today.

Really, boys, what is with you? We're not that hard to operate you know! Read this article, this guy worked out exactly what women want from his 2 year old niece. READ IT!! It really is that simple you morons!!!! Man I wish I could go into details but I can't because I'm not one to discuss such matters out in the open. Suffice to say if you dropped by to pay me a visit you'd probably find me getting rid of cobwebs in lofty corners to garner something positive out of all this wall climbing I'm doing lately. Or doing the world a favour and saving water by doing my laundry with my tears of frustration.

Oh I can't blame it all on men. It's my fault too. As of late I've entered one of my temporary depressive phases as I've realised that maybe at My Age, it's time to let go of some of my more whacky life ambitions. One lifetime won't be enough to do them. One lifetime won't even be enough to do the serious ambitions I have.

With a heavy heart, this is what I am resigning to the scrap heap. Some of these are decades old, some are more recent. All of them were things that a part of me really believed I'd do at one time or another:

1. Be America's Next Top Model. On weekends in London I used to walk around, walking tall, in case a half-blind model scout with no sense of height perception spotted me and decided I would be the next big thing. Swan around in clothes all day for money, how easy. I could do that! I could have done that! I'll never do it.

2. Be a top latin dance star. There is nothing in the world that gives me a sense of release (well, at least lately) like dancing does. Most peoples' lasting memory of me from uni days is That Girl Who Was Always Dancing. I can't watch dance competitions without my adrenaline shooting through the roof. "I could so do that!" I say to myself. I've been saying that since I was 19. Now I'm nearly 26. I never bothered taking the salsa lessons. It's probably too late to start now. Still, perhaps I'll buy myself the costumes to wear. I only really ever wanted to do it for those amazing costumes.

3. Be editor of the Guardian. I love to write. But I don't love it enough to make it my entire focus 24/7. Hence the Guardian editorship shall never be mine.

4. Get chased by famous people wanting to be my friend, I mean begging to be pals with me. Give me a break, like I said some of these are really old ambitions.

5. Becoming really good friends with someone who I had no idea was world famous. It seemed like fun at the time.

6. Learn Persian and Arabic. One of the two might be possible, but there's next to no chance of me having the time or motivation to learn both. I can't even speak Greek properly yet!

7. Start singing one day and people to say to me, "Wow, Bollybutton, you're an amaaaazing singer." I can't sing at all, I'm not being modest. One's ambitions should not overshoot one's abilities.

8. Be an astronaut. I love the stars, the universe, the galaxies and curse my total incompetence at maths. Maybe I could have realised that ambition. So instead I'll get myself shot out into space when I die. Good compromise, no?

Remember when we were little, if someone asked us what we'd like to do when we grow up, we rattled off four or five options which we planned on doing all at the same time, and it seemed totally logical. All that time and possibility stretched before you. Where does it all go?

Image: http://www.postmodernsass.com/blogger/uploaded_images/BoysAreStupid-759160.jpg

Birthday List

It's my last Friday as a 25 year old. Last night I went out with my sister and some friends and made a hot mess of myself with a cocktail and a tequila shot. No one was impressed by my lack of drinking ability, but the laugh was on them when I woke up this morning feeling a bit rough but hangover free.
 
In tribute to my waning days on the right side of 25, here is my birthday wishlist in no particular order:
 
1. A surprise birthday party. I've been hinting at this ever since last year when Mr Zeus said he'd throw me a beach party for my next birthday. I see no evidence of either a beach party or a surprise birthday party. Men don't get hints. I should have just said "Mr Zeus, throw me a surprise birthday party please." Oh well, a girl can dream, right?
 
2. A one year supply of regular date nights, preferably involving dancing, or even just walks on the beach.
 
3. Someone to come in and get rid of all the clutter in our tiny one-person flat. I'd love to wake up and find a minimalist flat one day. I'd love to actually throw things away rather than bump them down to the basement. Damn Occupation Syndrome.
 
4. A secret admirer. Because every woman should have one of those.
 
5. A not so secret admirer. Because while secret admirers are good to have, not so secret admirers are better because they tell you they adore you. I'm being selfish but this is a fantasy birthday wishlist. I'd like an admirer to worship me and shower me with compliments and the occasional present.
 
6. A funky new haircut for the summer. Won't happen, because hairdressers don't invent funky haircuts for curly haired people. Fiends. 
 
7. Free reign of the roads in Athens. I'd like to actually use my driver's licence instead of just look at it. 
 
8. Satellite TV. I'm not entirely sure how great an idea that is seeing as when I'm in the UK I can flick through 100 channels and still find nothing worth watching. It's just that I've watched so many Jean Claude Van Dam movies in Athens because that's the only thing in English on TV on particular nights.
 
9. I would like 15 events this year to which I can wear my dazzling rainbow of saris and traditional clothes. In the UK I could hardly ever wear my trad rags because of a. lack of events b. terrible weather. In Athens, I can't wear them due to lack of social awareness. Whenever I pull out something for a wedding, for example, I'm advised not to wear it because my strange exotic clothes will drag attention away from the bride. Grrr! Get over it!
 
10. A TV show which involves lots of really hot guys parading around doing pointless things while wearing sequined thongs. I want equality on our screens. Show me some creativity, people. Enough with all the blonde semi-naked ladies on Greek TV from dawn till dusk. Balance the equation a little.
 
11. A delicious Indian takeaway to open right next door.
 
12. Fresh corriander to become available in all the laikis and supermarkets.
 
13. To see all my friends again, together in one place.
 
14. More tea. I ran out.

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