Bollybutton's Friday Beatbox

It's been far too long since we put on our dancing saris and busted a move. It's Friday! We got through one more week of evil Bollywood villains and plotting, giant bindi wearing mother-in-laws! What better way to express our happiness than through the medium of Bollywood dance?




Image: http://pics.livejournal.com/filmi_girl/pic/00095d8p

Find A Happy Place

After having my face practically ripped off my head, I thought I could not take any more wedding related shizz. But never say never!

Sore, irritable, and complaining to anyone willing to listen, I dragged my bridal ass downtown on Saturday morning to run errands, namely buying sugared almonds for wedding favours which I'm making myself (all that work and no one even keeps them afterwards) and picking up some fabric to make a dress for the casual part of the wedding day.

I went to the same shop I always go to for fabric and in the chit chatting about the fabric, I revealed what it was for. So the lady in the shop was kind enough to knock a few euros off the price since it was for a 'special occassion'.

On the ride home I was furiously running through all the things that were irritating me, like a kid picking at a scab. My thoughts sounding something like this:

* I can't BELIEVE I have to make so many of these favours when no one even keeps them afterwards!!

* My newly unblocked pores are sweating so much!

*Why is this flyer stuck to my shoe? Disgusting, melted chewing gum. Yet another thing to be pissed off at

* EUR 300 for hair and makeup? Are these people insane? I'll just do it myself and screw anyone who disagrees

And blahdy blah blah. It was a full on moan fest. I got home, threw the fabric into the washing machine to pre-shrink it and hung it out to dry.

A few hours passed and I forgot about the fabric. Finally on Sunday morning I remembered that I'd put it out but it had since disappeared from the line. Where could it have gone, one wondered.

Peeking into the back yard, I was horrified to see my poor dress fabric lying in a heap, crumpled and mashed into the mud of the yard. Yes, Brush-With-Death puppy had got bored of having no one to bark at and had a great time ripping a full variety of holes into the dress fabric, ranging from huge to teeny tiny. It was hard to find a square metre without some sort of hole through it.

I began to cry. And then I stopped. I rewashed the fabric and worked all around the holes to cut the pattern pieces. Not an easy task considering the dress is bias cut.

As a result of my pity party and lashings of negativity, all I did was attract even more bad luck. So from now until D day, I am no longer blogging about anything wedding related.Having found myself in a Catch-22 situation where giving my opinion results in people doing what they want to do anyway, and where not giving my opinion results in them insisting they know my opinion, then doing what they wanted to anyway, my new answer to any question is: "Do what you think is best."

I have adopted a zen-like attitude, a sort of mental hibernation. I'll wake up after the wedding.

Image: http://www.orbitcast.com/archives/head-in-the-sand.jpg

This is the Death Mask of Womanhood*

There are times when I feel so out of touch with woman kind, that I really wish that I too was interested in all the stuff that other women are interested in - hair, nails, shoes, salon appointments, stupid looking handbag dogs etc.

I am on the whole happy with who I am, but sometimes I wish I found this stuff interesting, or could at least fake my interest in it, just to join in with the gang and have things to talk about.

What I'm talking about is the kind of woman who has been taught the 'rules of womanhood' by her mother. Who never leaves the house without makeup, who goes once a week to get her hair and nails done, who complicates her life unnecessarily but can't come to grips with you being female, not being a lesbian, and not being interested in those things.

My mother owned one eye pencil, one lipstick, one blusher and one perfume. That's it. She replenished the same exact shade and brand whenever she was done, and she always looked pretty great to me. But you might as well be from the moon if you admit that philosophy to other women, especially in Greece.

The build up to this wedding is turning into an exercise of first time rites of passage in womanhood for me. Since the Wedding Beast has now reached the size where it is devouring me, one nerve at a time, I thought I might as well join in and try some of this stuff women keep going on about. It might even be relaxing! A facial for example!

Since the resident spots did not even flinch when I began applying expensive spot busters to them, carpet bombing was the only option left. So I turned to my crazy friend M from bellydance, who happens to be beautician, but the good kind, ie she doesn't wear 6 inches of makeup or have fake nails.

She gave me a long chat about how careful I would need to be with my skin because the melanin would leave marks that would take forever to fade if I went to someone who had no experience with ethnic skin.

Now, I trust M. I know that all this will be worth it at some point and that at least most of the spots were evacuated from their posts this morning. But oh my GOD. I've experienced less pain in the dentist's chair.

The first facial of my life confirmed for me that women are completely insane. I had the living daylights squeezed out of my pores and then M declared "We'll burn the microbes now" followed by the bone-chilling sound of electricity crackling. "What the hell is that!" I wailed as she brandished a torture device near me.

And then, dear reader, I lay there while my face was electrocuted. And not only that, I paid for it afterwards. Do you know what they call this treatment? High frequency facial treatment. I suppose no one would submit to it if it was called what it actually is: Facial Electrocution treatment.

My face looks like a hot mess at the moment. Every pore on my face is screaming "FUCK YOU" at me and has turned red, swollen and angry. I feel like crying when I look in the mirror. With M's follow up schedule, I'm sure things will smooth out and at least those awful bumps won't come back. But when my face looks like I stuck it in a bee hive, it's really hard to hold on to that faith.

Preparations for the wedding is proving very revealing in terms of all the awful things women do to themselves to 'look good'. I was happy with my face. Experiencing all that pain on my face of all places has made me feel violated - I wish I could go back to this morning before I knew that ones face could feel such pain.

It's also made me realise that the women who are into this stuff are fucking crazy. Why complain about how long it takes you to maintain your hairdo when you could just walk out the door after washing your hair? The sky won't fall, you know.

And manicures? Seriously guys, these don't even last more than two days. You pay money to make your nails look like your nails do anyway. When I showed my french manicure to Mr Zeus's grandma, she said "I don't see any manicure. Why didn't she paint them with a colour?"

The excuse is that all this rubbish makes women feel good about themselves. Why do I feel like the only person thinking "But the emperor has no clothes... he's naked! Why all this oohing and aahing over how great his clothes are?"

And if you are a woman who goes for facials, waxing, laser treatments, salon hairdos where they yank and pull at your hair all the time, facial electrocution and suchlike, I don't EVER want to hear about your painful period again. And give birth naturally! I don't want to hear about your pain threshold, you big fat liar! You can't torture yourself for years like this and then decide pain is something you can't handle. Liar, liar, LIAR!

With a face like this I am not leaving the house for the rest of my life. I think it's time to freak out my neighbours and start wearing a niqab.

*Disclaimer: I am pissed as hell this week. And especially today, when my face looks like fuck and smells like wet metal.

Image: http://www.prevention.com/pvnstatic-assets/images/298x232_article_size/beauty/298x232_LB_AAA_home_skcare_ST.jpg

Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad

This morning I got a nasty shock when I went outside to silence our dog barking. I admit he is a problem barker, but I was not prepared to find a piece of aluminium foil pushed under the fence containing two biftekia smothered with a rancid smelling blue liquid.

Without having the decency to come and talk to us about our dog's barking being disturbing, or even to leave a note, someone had tried to poison our dog. An animal that is only following its protective instincts. Lately I've been running errands in the mornings before work, and I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't been at home to check why he was barking and find him curiously sniffing at the "treat" left for him.

The people in the apartment building opposite saw me and my Greek sister (sister in law) shaking our heads over the poisoned meat and ushered us over. Apparently, someone in the neighbourhood had come to the building opposite ours and given the family's details in an attempt to convince the people in that building to make a complaint about us to the police.

What kind of people are these that would poison an animal without even approaching the owners first? Death by poisoning is a very slow and painful way to die. The animal suffers beyond belief. A dog of mine in the Home Country was poisoned and vomited blood for days before his poor little body could no longer take any more.

Lots of people in our neighbourhood keep dogs, and lots of them bark. One dog in particular yaps all day and all night in the summer. But I feel our dog was particularly targeted because he is a Doberman, and this breed has the mistaken stereotype of being vicious. Anyone who ever had a Doberman as a pet knows what silly, playful and lovable animals they are. Whoever tried to poison him must have thought that he's only being kept as a guard dog and not as a pet, so his death would only be an nuisance and carry no emotional weight for the owners.

Animal poisoning is very common in Greece so I don't know why I was so shaken today. I just had faith that my neighbourhood was populated by people with some decency and values, not barbarians who think its okay to torture another living creature.

Image: http://www.signswithanattitude.com/images_signs/special_signs/dead_dogs.jpg

Europe's Bad Taste on Display at Eurovision

In the UK, representing the country for Eurovision is considered career suicide. It gets an ok following, but the last few years people got bored of the political voting and stopped watching. Hey, no one likes being reminded that the whole playground thinks you're a bully and won't play with you.

In Greece though, Eurovision is such a big deal that the chat shows dedicate blanket coverage to the goings on of the contest in the two weeks running up to the finals. Even my favourite chat show "Κοιτάω μπροστά" (Looking Ahead) sacrificed an afternoon to Eurovision, which I was most disappointed about. More on Κοιτάω μπροστά another time, it's the daytime TV equivalent of cocaine.

When our dear superstar Sakis picked his song, I was doubtful. It didn't sound Eurovisiony enough to me. But oh well, Eurovision's biggest audience is women and gay men, so Sakis was sure to bring the votes in. I'm crazy about Eurovision and missed out on attending it when it was held in Greece because it was too close to an important exam. But I thought never mind, Sakis is totally selling the whole Next-Year-Eurovision-On-A-Greek-Island thing. Who could possible resist that?

And then along came some Norwegian guy who still hasn't gotten over some girl he went out with and moaned about it to all of Europe. And Europe in a display of terrible taste gave him a landslide victory. Why am I surprised? Last year's Russian entry was equally shit and only won because of political voting.

I have things to say to the following parties about this heinous miscarriage of justice:

1. Now, Europe. Obviously you're all sentimental fools nursing broken hearts. I get that. We've all been there - the one that got away, the one I was so in love with, blah blah blah. But JESUS!! GET OVER IT! Couldn't you have just got some therapy instead of ruining my Eurovision dreams, and those of Sakis and all of Greece?? Don't you know who Sakis is? He's like a god here! I hope you're satisfied with what you've done. Go freeze your asses off in Norway next year and think of this as your extremeties loose sensation:

"I could have been in Greece right now if I'd voted for Sakis."

2. Northern Europe, who voted so shabbily for Greece - thanks for nothing. You all come here in flocks in the summer, stealing our jobs and our women and our sunloungers and forcing us to see your pasty white bodies turn red under the Greek sun. You come here all the time, year after year, and we're nice to you. The least you could have done was voted for Greece, how bloody ungrateful can you get?!

3. Sweden - I hear your Eurovision presenters has some rather nasty things to say about Sakis and his enthusiastic shirt ripping. I'd like to see you sing and dance like that at the same time with not even a wobble in your voice. Not even big international stars can dance like that and sing live, including Madonna who always mimes when doing yoga onstage. Furthermore, take notes of subclause a and b below:

a) You sent some terrifying manwoman to represent your country.

b) If it's going out of fashion for the Greek boys to chase the Swedish girls on holiday, that's not Sakis's fault.


4. Sakis, it was with a heavy heart that I watched your unnecessary apology to Greece. It's not your fault that Europe has bad taste in music. My tip for next time is: when shirt ripping is in progress, accidental or otherwise, go for it and rip it right off. That would have at least doubled your votes.

5. Russian cameramen - you didn't do too good a job. Don't you know who Dita Von Tees is?

6. Finally, Norwegian winner. Thanks to you we will have to listen to everyone else's miserable love stories next year.


On merrier notes, I thought it was a really good contest this year. I was sure the competition was going to be very tight. Landslide victories are no fun to watch. I thought Armenia, Turkey and Azerbaijan all had fun songs and I was happy to see my cheesey pal Arash again.

We were watching the contest with some friends and the disappointment in the air was tangible. When the last vote came in, with Greece about 300 points off winning, a member of the gang said "That's it guys, we lost"

You gotta admire that sort of optimism, not losing hope till the last moment.

Image: http://images.icanhascheezburger.com/completestore/2008/12/11/128734810832554971.jpg

Big Brother Isn't Watching Me

The Greek government spends most of its time being disasterously out of touch with its people, so I was delighted to hear that Google's Street View cars have been banned from picturing the streets of Greece in order to protect the privacy of the public.

Echoing a widespread view, Yannis Papadopoulos, a Greek leftist who agreed with the watchdog's precautionary stance, said: "Privacy as a concept or even word may not exist in our language but all this snooping is simply Orwellian. We won't let it pass."

Street View seemed like a cool idea to me, until I started reading about people who had been caught by the cameras in the privacy of their own homes half-dressed, or in other compromising positions, and could not get their image removed from Google. So there you were admiring yourself in some newly purchased Y fronts, and all of a sudden the whole world is watching.

What I didn't like about the article is that it starts off painting this move as a reluctance on the part of Greeks to embrace new technology. True as that may be, it certainly doesn't apply in this context. This is about the protection of individual privacy, not a fear of new technology.

Hooray! A rare step in the right direction by the Greek government!

Image: http://www.blogcadre.com/files/images/83732757_866609a35c.preview.jpg

Bolly Biscuits!

Henceforth, the only biscuits allowed in the BollyZeus household are those by biscuit makers Papadopoulos.






This song was composed by Oscar winner AR Rahman who did the music for Slumdog Millionaire. Told you he was a genius!

Bollybutton Becomes Bridezilla

I'm ashamed to say I had a bust up with Mr Zeus the other day because my imagined small and personal wedding has turned into a Wedding Beast with a life of its own and upwards of 200 guests on the list. I'm watching the wedding madness unfold around me and feeling like Toula in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when everyone takes over the wedding, the guests, the invitations etc.

All this was making me supremely pissed off, so I've decided that if I can't beat them, I'll join them. No point feeling irritated that things aren't going your way. All that "It's YOUR big day" stuff is nonsense anyway. Anyone who's been on the inside of a wedding knows that the last person the "big day" is about is the bride and groom.

I realised that things were getting truly stupid - why were we wasting our time arguing about this sort of thing? Since I was never someone who sat around imagining what my wedding would be like, who cares how it turns out! It's only one day in my life after all. It will be perfect whichever way it turns out because I am to all intents and purporses married anyway to Mr Zeus. Plus, I will finally have all the people I love in one spot altogether for the first time - my own family and my Greek family. So why sweat the small stuff?

Besides, as Mr Zeus said, it's not like I'm Swedish. I have adequate training for Wedding Beasts from life in the Home Country. This wedding pales in comparison to some of the mayhem I've witnessed.

I was on the phone with one of my sisters and we were recalling a wedding we had gone to in our neighbourhood as children. A wedding in the Home Country lasts a minimum of three days - the henna party, the wedding and the reception. The wedding is paid for by the bride's side and the reception by the groom's side. The reception is like another wedding, involving a whole new set of lavish clothes for the bride. That outfit is usually chosen by your mother-in-law, and many times I used to feel they picked something deliberately hideous just to spite the bride.

Those are the three basic ceremonies, but people who like to show off add any number of auxillary and pointless ceremonies. Each one takes up a separate day, and so once we ended up going to a week-long wedding that ran as follows:

1. The Yes Ceremony - To celebrate the couple accepting the engagement. Whatever, it's not like they had a choice to say no.



2. The Engagement Ceremony - The exchanging of rings takes place



3. The Oil Ceremony - The bride gets her hair oiled. All the female guests take turns adding a drop at a time. Yeah, pointless. It was running down her face by the time we were done.



4. The Ubtan Ceremony - The female guests take turns applying a traditional bridal skin scrub to the bride. WTF right? This is usually done in private without any ceremony to go along. I mean, I don't see anyone coming to my bathroom to exfoliate my elbows. Am I missing out?



5. The Henna Ceremony - Fun times. My favourite part of any wedding



6. The Wedding



7. The Reception

Don't be fooled. Each one of those days involved lavish settings, decorations to the house and full-on wedding meals. It was awful. By the time we got to the wedding we just didn't care any more. Everyone was feeling like they had run a marathon and our mother was at her wits end because each of the seven days required a different outfit for us.

So all I have done is slightly re-wired my brain to think Asian Wedding not European Style wedding, and things are feeling more manageable already.

Today I think I got my marriage licence, but it's come stapled with something to the front that I can'y make head nor tail of, and I don't see our dates anywhere on the papers so I don't know what else is left to do. Did I miss a step or something?

The most upsetting thing of all was that the Mayor's office keeps all the papers I submitted. Including my Apostille stamped birth certificate. Weep!!! I'll have to go through all that again if I ever need a birth certificate copy in Greece, which I probably will at some point.

But anyway, looks like summer finally decided to make an appearance and it was about damn time.

Image: http://www.thestuffhegaveme.com/product_image/2009bridezilla.jpg

A Little Post for my Little Man

There is only one male on this planet who can stick his feet under my nose and command, "Smell!" and I'll do it. My beloved godson, the one I faked Christianity for.



Image: http://www.mississippifamilylawblog.com/Holding%20Hands.jpg

Message in a Bottle

The Guardian newspaper is running a fun story on readers' letters to their younger selves, and while I may not be the wisest of people, I think there are some things I would have loved my younger self to have known:

To Bollybutton, roughly 10 years ago:

1. You're in your late teens now and still an ugly duckling. You've in fact convinced yourself that you'll never be attractive and are okay with that, which is an achievement since even I have to tell you, you are quite hideous right now. But that's mostly your fault because you reject any form of beautification as anti feminist. On that front, you should know it does get better, and actually this period will turn out to round you off nicely as a person, because you know you can't wing it on looks so you focus on other aspects of your personality.

2. The most shocking thing I have to tell you from the future is that you are working in a bank. Yes, as much as it pains me to say this, your parents were right about your career choices, and a lot of other things. You should not have studied journalism at university. Actually, you should have not gone to uni. You should have started working at the local paper if you were really serious about the journalism thing.

But you do go to university where you pretty much waste all your free time doing nothing. You should have joined the uni newspaper at least, you lazy bum.

3. Since you didn't listen and went to university, my note from the future is to let your hair down more. Smoke some pot! Have some drinks! Go to all the parties! You know how you say now you are determined to live your life without ever touching a drop of alcohol? Well, that gets blown to dust after you meet the love of your life in 2004, and all you think is: "Why did I wait so long to try this?"

4. On that note, and this will shock you to death because you are so dead set on this one, you don't save sex till marriage either, and all you think is: "Why did I wait so long to try this?"

5. At the end of your university life, you meet someone. Now, trust me, you didn't like this guy when you met him at the start of your university life, so why change a good thing. But seriously, you made this more complicated than it had to be.

Either sleep with him or cut yourself loose right now. Since you're going to get yourself tangled up anyway, don't bother moping about it for as long as you did, it really is no big deal in the end. There are worse things in life than getting cheated on. *slap* Get over it!

6. Real life will come as a terrible shock to you and you will sink to such a miserable low at the end of 2003 that you'll wish death upon yourself every day, mostly because all your illusions got shattered at the same time and you can't cope. It does start to make more sense though.

7. Look in the mirror. See how flawless your skin is? Why didn't you notice that more, especially when all your girlfriends told you how great your skin was? Do you think you got away with the spots thing because you're done with puberty? Well. I've got news for you, girl!

8. You're going to be one of those women who takes care of her men like he's a little baby.

9. Don't be so angry. The world goes on, and though right now you believe that if you fan the flames of your passion for change, something will happen, the truth is it won't. Observe the world, keep going to protests, but don't be so convinced that people like you will change something.

10. Go home to visit your parents more often. I mean, you do well, but in a couple of years you're going to up and move to another country (yipee!) but when you do this, you will acutely regret all those weekends and holidays when you could have been at home with your family. Spending half-term with your friends will not be what you remember. You'll just regret not spending that half-term with your sisters and parents.

11. Don't you talk to your mother like that!

12. Also, enjoy your trips to the Home Country more often. In these years, you get to go for four, sometimes five or six weeks at a time. Don't roll around complaining that you're starting to feel bored and missing your friends in the UK. Since those years have passed, you have not managed to go back for longer than 10 days.

You think the Home Country will always be there to visit, but if only you could see the mess of a country it will become. If you knew this, you'd spend your whole summer holidays there. I can't even tell you if the Home Country will still exist in another 5 years, let alone 10, because I don't know any more.

13. On these visits, spend more time with your Uncle and Aunty. They won't be around much longer.

14. Make more of an effort to talk to your Dad in his mother tongue. The man has spent upwards of 20 years talking to you in English. You will learn the comforting effects of hearing your mother tongue when you are forced to learn a new language, and you'll start restricting your conversations with your father to his dialect, but you're pretty hopeless at it. If you start now, you might do better.

15. You finally get to go to the Olympics! And it sparks a domino affect that changes your life.

16. You turn out to be a lot braver than you thought, and do a lot of the things which you used to say "I could never do that"

17. Boots discontinuing your favourite hair mousse is not cause for firing off page long emails to your friends about what to do, how your hair looks today, etc etc. How the hell can you spend so much energy on such pointless things?

18. You will never again get the social opportunities university offers you. You could learn so much through the student societies - new dances, new languages, new cultures, music. This chance will never, ever reappear. Don't waste it. Out of all your friends who you waste your time with instead of growing as a person, only about 3 or 4 will still be with you in 2009.

19. Be nicer to your older sister. You will learn later what she's trying to cope with.

20. To finish, in 2009 you will be happy. You're still worrying over stupid things which in 10 years you'll feel like an idiot about. But you are happy. You feel reborn. You have learnt to see beautiful things all around you and enjoy good company as if it were a glass of cold water on a hot day. You are buzzing with optimism for the future. You value life for what it is in all its colours, a precious gift which we only get one chance at. You don't miss the past and your childhood as much as you did 10 years ago. You still sit around on your ass too much though.

What do you wish you could tell your teenage self?

Image: http://www.dailygalaxy.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/11/19/shutterstock_6711424.jpg

Translate. What's the Worst That Could Happen?

I'm terrible at maths. If anyone says "My brain is stuck, what's so and so minus 12?" I feel my stomach hit the floor and my brain turn to mush as I struggle to find a way to escape the trap without looking as stupid as maths makes me feel. I'm told this might be a Pavlovian response to my maths teachers of youth whose technique involved drilling times tables into our heads and stalking the classroom with a ruler to crack across your palm when you got it wrong. Being bad at math meant you were automatically stupid, and no matter how hard I tried, the moment I saw the numbers on a test paper, I flew into a panic and the numbers began to swim infront of my eyes.


It still happens. That horrified feeling of realising you don't know what the hell it is the symbols mean, though some part of you knows that if only you could calm yourself down, you might be able to make some sense of the puzzle before you.


I had that same horrified feeling this morning when I went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs downtown in Athens to get my birth certficate translated. To get to this stage, I had to shell out EUR 80 for an express copy of a new birth certificate in the UK, delivered to my parents' house, and then my mum had to go to Milton Keynes for the Apostille stamp [add another EUR 35] and post it back to me Special Delivery which took nearly 10 days to arrive because of the Easter post backlog.


The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is a really depressing place, a shabby building screaming out for a new coat of paint and a something to get rid of the Screw You Foreigners atmosphere of the place. I feel sorry for anyone who has to go there, I even feel sorry for myself. We foreigners milled around outside like lost cattle till the gates opened before 9 am. This was my first time dealing all alone with a Greek institution and I was really nervous. I felt like I was groping about in the dark as I followed the crowd through the gates and made my way to the 2nd floor.


When I got to the office that deals with Greek and English translations, I discovered that all the tables on the walls, on the booths and anything helpful or otherwise instructional was in Greek. And official, technical Greek. So there I was without my dictionary, staring around wild-eyed and panic-stricken, knowing if I could just calm down I might be able to understand the tables. It's just that I was so wrong-footed at finding everything in Greek that my mind went blank.


You see, here's my really radical line of thought and what I expected to find: the Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs, that deals with, you know, foreigners, would surely have instructions in one or two languages other than Greek. But obviously that's way too crazy a thought for even the Ministry's employees to attempt. Make life a little easier for foreigners in Greece? Are you joking?? It's that kind of crazy thinking that leads to COMMUNISM, Missy!


Eventually after several moments of panic, I worked out what I had to do by following the crowd. I filled in a short form which, mercy me, had instructions in English too, and handed it over with the other papers and EUR 12 for an express translation which will take one week. Express? Oh well. Handing over my papers, the money and getting a receipt took mere seconds, but those moments of cluelessness that preceded have no doubt added some more hairs to my grey streak.


Now I can see the benefit of forcing people to do things in the native language. I've met people in the UK with so little English, and some who have been in the UK 25+ years and can speak not a word of English, because the system makes it too easy to get away with. This hinders integration.


But guys, really. I'm trying to integrate. I live here, I spend my worthless GBPs converted to Euros here, I'm getting married (if you'll let me) and maybe I'll be having little Greek babies too. I don't even hang out with expats, that's how hard I'm trying to integrate. You don't have to be so scared of me not learning Greek so as not to translate anything!


Looking on the bright side, if nothing else I am learning new words throughout this ordeal of paperwork. My latest acquisition is sfragida, the Greek for stamp, a word which I always get stuck prononoucing - sffff sffffff. This was learnt when describing my Apostille stamp nightmare to a family friend we had gone to visit, and it turns out she was having the same problem trying to process her British-born grandaughter's birth certificate in Athens. And wasn't I delighted to be in a position to advise a Greek on how to extract ones self from red tape!

Image: http://www.engrish.com//wp-content/uploads/2008/08/if-you-are-stolen.jpg

BB Goes to Mykonos

I did something I've never done over Orthodox Easter and went to Mykonos. Mykonos is Greece's number one party island, especially famous with celebs and the gay community.

We took advantage of a special offer on at a hotel that normally costs stupid amounts of money, which we shared with a very noisy Spanish family and a couple of football players. And an extremely, extremely friendly receptionist who practically ripped off her clothes and did a naked dance on the main desk in her shameless pursuit of Mr Zeus.

"Mr Zeuuus" she cooed one afternoon after we'd returned from lunch for a nap, "how aaaare you?" *makes goo goo eyes, makes goo goo eye*

"I'm doing fine Kyria Whatever (Kyria in Greece is the equivalent of Ms or Mrs, and used regardless of a woman's marital status)"

"Oh chortle chortle! Not Kyria Whatever, DESPINIS Whatever (Despinis is the equivalent of Miss, used not that often but to imply a young, unmarried girl)"

Next, she probably dropped her pen down her cleavage and asked him to retrieve it "because I just painted my nails" for all I know, since I decided I'd had enough disrespect for an afternoon and went to wait outside our room while two little Spanish girls played with a stray cat that looked all partyed out.

That's the telling thing about Mykonos and how it must be in the summer. Even the cats on the island look coked out of their brains. They have these pathetic little scratchy voices like they spent all night smoking and shouting "Yeah DJ! Louder! Louder! Come on cats, hands in the air and SCREEEAAAAMMM!"

At this time of year, Mykonos is still just about okay to visit and have a relaxing time. But if, like me, you tend to have Ugly Days, it's not the most fun place. The light in Mykonos is so white it highlights flaws on your face you weren't even aware of so that even if you think you're okay looking, a day in Mykonos makes you throw up your hands and scream "Oh God! I'm... Quazimodo!"

The island is crawling with beautiful people who don't smile and all look like they were made at the same factory. Yeah okay, I know the beautiful people are what Mykonos is all about, but for all their good looks none of them looked like they were having much fun. We went to the famous Caprice bar which was lovely, but not much partying was going on in there.

So we went to Mykonos Bar which drew us in with the one and only decent song they played for the next hour and a half, by which time we'd ordered drinks and it was too late to make a quick exit. Finally when we couldn't take any more remixed Greek ballads, we went hunting for something else and we did find one really small bar, the name of which escapes me, where we had a great time.

A bunch of drunk Greeks took a photo with me as I was making my way back from the ladies room, so if you woke up with a picture of you and a dark-skinned girl in a white dress with glasses and you have no idea who she is or why she's in your picture, that's me.

The hotels' pool was filled with sea water. The sea around Mykonos is chilly even in the summer but it was positively asset-freezing this time of year. Still, having dreamt all winter about swimming, I couldn't wait any longer so while Mr Zeus dipped his toes in, I dipped myself in.

Bonus points for me since I was so terrified of the sea four years ago I would blanch if I went any deeper than my waist. I couldn't even swim back then, and I'm not too great at it now either since my muscles have turned to custard sitting all day infront of this computer. But I did enjoy myself more than ever before.

On that note, winter seems to have lasted forever. It's still not hot. It's starting to feel like summer will never come. My life in Greece is the summer, and then the bits where I'm waiting for summer to happen.

Image: http://www.mikatravel.com/front/files/travels/TVL6813FM54YF263/img/mykonos2.jpeg

If You're Happy And You Know It

I was puzzled this morning to see a news report about new child wellbeing statistics for Europe by the Child Poverty Action Group which placed Greece at number 24 out of 29 countries, just above the United Kingdom at number 25.

The usual countries like Sweden, Finland etc were near the top and the Netherlands came out at number one.

How could this be? Can Greece really be only just about marginally better to raise a child in than the UK? I'm not a parent so I'm not exposed to a child's view of life in Greece. Let's take the points one by one:

Greece: Overall rank 24 our of 29

Health: 29 out of 29

This could be true. A public health system does exist in Greece, theoretically for free, but like with all other things, nothing gets done without bribes being exchanged. Practically everyone has health insurance for private hospitals as most Greeks will snootily tell you that government hospitals are only for gypsies.

However, if you turn up at a hospital needing urgent treatment, you will not be turned away for lack of hard cash or insurance to cover you. You will get treated.

The Greeks also have some of the worst teeth I've ever seen which is saying something after life in the Home Country. I don't really understand that, since the diet is quite healthy in my observation, yet if you stood on the street and did a random count, you'd be left thinking most people in Greece really can not afford a dentist. Or a toothbrush. But do Greek kids have the worst teeth and health in Europe??? I doubt it.

Subjective Wellbeing: 3 out of 29

Now this is telling, because this measures what the kids surveyed actually thought their own lives were like, and they seem to think their lives are pretty good. Either they're seriously delusional (along with me who thinks Greece would be a super place for kids) or their actually lives and their lives as on papers and statistics are quite different.

Children's Relationships: 23 out of 29

This measured how well children were able to talk to and get along with their peers and adults. Confusing, once more. On one hand, the Greek approach to parenting is like the Greek approach to any other problem: either bribe away the problem or scream away the problem. If you've ever been to Jumbo you'll see this gloriously illustrated.

On the other hand, children in Greece are the absolute centre of everyone's universe. They are adored and longed for and their futures dreamt about by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins etc long before they're even in existence.

When I take my replacement-for-a-child doggy out for walks, I very often see grandparents out with strollers talking to their teeny tiny charges, describing everything they can see to infants often just a few months old. I'd say that's some pretty solid bond forming. So I don't know what to think of that one except to say maybe kids in Greece don't get along that well with other kids in Greece.

Material Resources :19 out of 29

Indicated by income, access to material goods and parental unemployment. Could be true. Mr Zues and I pay more in utility bills per quarter for our tiny flat than my parents do in the UK per year for a whole house, and we don't even have children. God only knows how parents get along in Greece with the cost of day to day living being so high. Food, clothes and day to day living costs a lot in Greece, and that's for a moderate lifestyle.

Greece also has a high rate of female parent unemployment. But then have you ever been to visit a Greek baby at home? They live in permanent danger of being squashed to death by the mountains of toys that are lavished upon them. Either this is an extreme exception, or Greek kids like all kids everywhere are greedy brats who watch those flashy toy adverts and always want more, more, MORE!!!!

Behaviour and Risk 22 out of 29:

I'm someone who spent much of my early years in the Home Country doing the following:

1. Gallantly fulfilling dares to stick my little fingers into those perfectly child-finger sized electricity sockets,


2. Eating the lead out of pencils (it was a craze in my class)


3. Faking illnesses to win contests for who could pop the most pills at the school nurse's office


4. Setting everything and anything on fire while my parents slept


5. Finding snakes under pulled up rugs


6. Throwing screaming tantrums in the bazaar because Mum wouldn't buy me whatever junk it was I simply had to have


7. Sucking on sample tablets from my Dad's clinic until the sugar coating wore off


8. Drinking and passing out on an entire bottle of cough syrup because I liked the taste


9. Fishing for used syringes in Dad's clinic dustbin to inject my sick baby dolls with and


10. Whiling away many an afternoon with my sisters strapping a blood pressure monitor armband around my neck and pumping it up until I could see stars. For those who don't know, that armband is supposed to go around your arm where it is pumped until the blood supply is temporarily cut off.

So who am I to say anything about a bit of bad behaviour and the stupid things that children do. Rather that than a sterile childhood, I say!

Education: 21 out of 29

I agree with this one. Kids in Greece face a really tough educational system in schools that are so run down they make even me feel appalled. The teachers are poorly paid and unmotivated and the children are kept on a constant treadmill of homework and tests that are so advanced for their age I really feel sorry for them.

Because this is the system I went through myself in the Home Country, and all it did was make me feel like an idiot through my entire school life until we came to the UK, where suddenly my teachers thought I was a genius because I was at a level at least four years ahead of the curriculum in the UK.

I feel bad for the kids in this system in Greece, because some of them will be like me and won't be able to keep up, and they will spend all their school lives thinking they're stupid or slow or can't work hard enough as a result.

Housing and Environment: 14 out of 29

Not the worst, but not good either. I can't speak for the rest of Greece by in Athens children grow up in tiny flats, sometimes without their own bedrooms (using the sitting room to sleep) and play on tarmac streets because there is a severe lack of both footpaths and green spaces in Athens.

So that's what the survery had to say and while some of it was true, I would still question Greece's ranking so low in the index. On paper it may look like children in Greece get a raw deal, but in practice, in terms of what I see around me, things are not so gloomy. Let's consider this for a second: the way children are raised in Greece has had some impact on lessening the effects of the credit crunch in Greece.

For a start, most parents try to provide their children with a flat of their own when they grow up. Secondly, a great family safety net exists here which means that it would be almost unheard of for someone to get their house repossessed because of falling back on mortgage payments. Your family would simply never allow that to happen and would pitch in to keep you from sinking.

Surveys can tell you a lot and they can also tell you nothing at all. Ask the right questions and you could come up with a different answer every time. I for one don't believe that Greece is such a rotten place for a child to grow up. If this survey were true, why would North Europe's happy and delighted children grow up to kill themselves and their peers in such great numbers?

Image: http://blog.syracuse.com/family/2008/02/tantrum.jpg

Dream a Little Dream

Watch this and if you can tell me your heart didn't melt at 1:56, it must be made of stone!!!

Just goes to show how much we judge people on their looks every day, and how wrong we can be.

When Models Eat

It amused me no end to hear a rumour that Kate Moss is going to write a Kosher cookbook. Kate Moss, as in supermodel Kate Moss, as in that's-not-icing-sugar-on-her-donut Kate Moss? Bahahahaha!!! A supermodel.... that ... eats food .... ha ha ha... please I can't laugh any more, my face hurts.

So what exactly might Kate's book read like, I tried to imagine?

Coking Cooking with Kate: A Culinary Journey

Hi! I'm Kate Moss. You're probably thinking "Do models even eat?" but rest assured, within the folds of this book lie threes of delicious recipes from over the years. Some conjure up warm childhood memories, while others were gathered through my extensive travelling as a model. Though it may surprise you, I adore food. I believe in simple food that excites your drugged out brain and leaves you wanting more.

Boiled Pea
Difficulty Level: Easy
Preparation time: 15 minutes

A filling meal and cheap too in these credit crunch times.

Ingredients:
One organic Pea

Materials:
Solid Gold Saucepan
Evian Water

Method:
Take organic pea and gently rinse with Evian water. I believe in organic farming, but who am I to preach! Place golden saucepan on the hob and fill with Evian water. Bring to a boil. Add pea. Salt if it's really necessary, but don't forget that that's extra calories. Boil for 5 minutes, drain and serve on diamond studded dinner plates. Your delicious plate of pea is ready for you to tuck in to.


Spaghetti
Difficulty Level: Intermediate
Preparation time: 10 minutes

Ah spaghetti! My childhood favourite and still that humble staple that I tuck into with gusto when I feel particularly piggy.

Ingredients:
Three strands of organic spaghetti
One organic cherry tomato (naughty!)
One basil leaf

Materials:
Solid Gold Saucepan
Evian Water

Method:
Bring your golden saucepan of Evian water to the boil and add three strands of spaghetti. Boil until ready. I like mine el dente, because the extra chewiness means I probably burn a few more calories here and there. Drain and pile onto a large platinum plate. Slice tomato and basil leaf and garnish spaghetti strands. Phew, all that lifting pans and chopping tomatoes is exhausting when you're always on the brink of starvation. Enjoy the delicious rewards of your hard work to their fullest! Mmmmm.


Icecream
Difficulty Level: Difficult

Now I know what you're thinking - models and icecream?! Yes, it is true that models are forbidden by law to consume icecream, but that's why I invented this delicious alternative.

Ingredients:
500 gms of cocaine
Evian water
Sweet thoughts

Method:
Place cocaine into a bowl, preferably the hollowed out skull of a rival model. Add enough Evian to make a creamy paste. Stand over bowl thinking the sweetest thoughts you can, like that time you told the behind the scenes fashion show girl that she was an ugly freak but not a hideously ugly freak, though she was. Anyone other than models are a less human race, which is another sweet thought.

Freeze. Stir now and again to break up the ice crystals, but take care that your twig-like arms don't snap off in the process. Serve up a big bowl and consume while taking a champagne bath.

Author's note: This book may seem a bit thin content wise, but it can be put to further good use if you don't have the time or the inclination to eat. Or if you are a model in which case you just don't eat at all. In a pinch, sprinkle the pages of this book liberally with cocaine or any other Class A drugs you have lying around and consume. A great way to beat those hunger pangs before a fashion show!*

*Not even joking here. A friend of yours truly has observed models behind the scenes at fashion shows eating tissue paper to keep away hunger pangs. Ever heard of cucumbers or celery, ladies?

Image: http://pro.corbis.com/images/42-16073237.jpg?size=572&uid=%7BBF3BFCB4-ABAC-480D-81E8-8A0C18307350%7D

Blue Screen Thinking

Today's post was going to be a pleasant ramble about how I should stop being so ungrateful about all the marriage paperwork. After all, there are people in the world who would do this much paperwork and ten times more for the privilege of marriage that we take for granted, but can't because they are a different religion or the same sex or not what was chosen for them.

But that's before Round 2 of the paperwork started. One fine day after my dad had couriered my birth certificate to me in Athens, I began making enquiries about getting it translated into Greek. I thought I'd get this out of the way while the 22 days the British Embassy wants to issue your No Impediment certificate pass.

A translated birth certificate is a necessary step in order to process your application for marriage. I checked with my other foreign and much smarter than me friend about what the translation office was like to deal with. And she asked if I had got the Apostille stamp for the birth certificate.

The what now? I rechecked all the papers. The Greek papers said all foreign birth certificates had to be legalised with an Apostille stamp and that most embassies would do this. But not the British Embassy. The only way I could get this done was through a government office in Milton Keynes. Doing it by post would take another three weeks on top of the three weeks I was already waiting for my I'm Not A Bigamist certificate from the embassy

So I altered my Easter plans and scheduled some days in London to fit in a visit to the Legalisation Office. I'd done all my checks online beforehand and felt satisfied at my own efficiency at solving the problem. When I boarded the train bright and early this morning, merry thoughts ran through my head. Soon I'd have my legalised papers and within a week we would finally have a date. Our wedding announcement had already gone to print with mine and my parents' names amusingly translated into Greek. Anxious friends would be able to book their tickets at last.

When I got to the Legalisation Office I was 15 minutes early and joined a weary looking queue outside the offices. Those mean government workers wouldn't even let us into the warmth until it was EXACTLY 9.30. I had not even had a morning cup of tea, but oh well. We were let in, issued numbers and then waited for one of the only two operating counters to free up as the numbers of hapless waiters grew and grew.

Finally it was my turn. And do you know what happened? After taking a morning train, trekking around in the cold, waiting 15 minutes in the wind and another 15 minutes while the employees finished a 'work meeting', I was out of that office in under one minute. Not because the employees are mega efficient, but because my birth certificate is laminated.

I'm surely not the only person in the country with a laminated birth certificate. Couldn't they write me a letter or something with the Apostille stamp and staple it to this? No. What about peeling off a corner of laminate and stamping it there? No. What about stamping the laminate and quickly putting some tape over it? No. Is there absolutely positively nothing you can do? No. But it's the only copy I have. Well then apply for another one. It'll only take till your first child is born.

These freaks have written an entire section on their website called Avoiding Delays where it says jack all about laminated paperwork. How long would it take someone to write "If your documents are laminated, roll them up and stick them up your backside but don't bring them here"

I should have guessed what a bunch of miserable and inflexible morons they'd be when their website declared warningly NOT to bring children and babies along when processing papers. Such items would have to be left at the desk on arrival. It didn't say that but it might as well have. Any office that bans children is out to facilitate the downfall of humanity.

I bet in their little morning meeting they pick numbers out of a bag and declare that Today's Number to Shaft is numbeeeer eeeeeiiiiggght! That was my number.

So I called Mr Zeus in tears of frustration at having come all the way to somewhere as unglamorous as Milton Keynes, paid money and missed half a day's work for nothing. He suggested checking if the British Embassy in Athens would issue me a new birth certificate. Which is what I did, and basically they told me to go get screwed since I hadn't been born in Greece.

Abandoned by my own embassy. I thought embassies existed overseas to make the lives of their countryfolk easier.

Well muchachos, you can forget me registering any of my future children with YOU. If one of them gets stranded somewhere godforsaken and I call for help, you'll probably send me a leaflet on conception so I can make a new one. You know, for all the talk of Greek bureaucracy, so far it's been dealing with the British side of things that has been a complete nightmare. It's the inflexibility of thinking that gets to me. In Greece, a few contacts and some silvered palms and you're on your way again. In the UK, if Computer Says No, Computer Says No, and not even God can change that.

So here I am, stuck without a legalised birth certificate with hardly any idea what to do next. In my fury I told Mr Zeus that I'd take my unstamped birth certificate to the translation office and just bribe the person on duty to translate it anyway. But I doubt that would work.

My checklist for you if you're a foreigner in Greece wanting to get married is this:

1) Don't do it
2) If you insist on doing it, don't be British

Image: http://hotcrumbsoflove.com/blog1/wp-content/uploads/Frustration_Relief.gif

It's All In Your Mind

I came across an interesting quiz on the Times website yesterday. It was designed by a scientist to uncover how male or female your brain is, as there is not always a correlation between brain sex and body sex. It doesn't mean you're gay, just that some people are wired in a more male or female way of thinking and approaching things.

The scale ran from 1 for very male to 20 for very female. I completed the test and came out at 8, so much more male than female as far as my brain goes. But that's hardly a surprise. I never had any problems reading maps to the extent that I can navigate me and Mr Zeus using maps in Greek, and for me GPS takes all the fun out of travelling.

I used to love taking apart my toys to see what was inside. I have a guerilla shopping technique - in and out in as little time as is possible. I've never been for a manicure or a facial and never felt the need to. I'm terrible at making small talk and prefer to get to the point.

My future sister in law was showing me how she has started to re-dye her hair in stages so it will be the exact colour she wants in time for our wedding in July. It dawned on me that many of the women around me are already pondering their look for the wedding, whereas my plan was to wash and go and hope for a good hair day. Some women I know get into a total frenzy when I say I don't know yet what I'm doing for hair and makeup. Don't get me wrong, everyone wants to look nice, but I don't want to be obsessed with how perfect everything must be. I already have zero control over when my resident spots break into rebellion.

My ultra skanky plan was to walk into the MAC store on Ermou with a pic of a desired makeup look on the morning of the wedding (I still can't think of it as that, more like a party) and say "I'd like to achieve this look, can you do me a demonstration?" and walk out with my makeup ready-done and maybe buy a product or two to cover up my evil motives. Would that really be so terrible?

For hair I really don't know. My hair is so thick and curly I don't think anyone will know what to do with it. Would it really be so heinous to bundle it up loosely with some flowers? I did my own hair for my godson's baptism and everyone asked me where I got it done.

I'm going to sit back and watch the fur fly around me. I'll probably lie here and there and say I've organised weekly oxygen facials by blind Tibetan monks in order to not appear to be a bad sport. I almost feel like I'm spoiling other people's fun when my answer to everything is "I don't know yet". The paperwork and legalities of the marriage and just getting a frickin' date are of more concern to me than the other details. Hopefully the ethnic wedding attire will be enough to distract guests from spots and bumps and lumps, oh my!

Image: http://www.shopniac.com/ecx/I/41FcQ4SRWUL.jpg

The Secret Life of Crabs

Probably my favourite Greek song is Ta Kavourakia, a touchingly sad yet somehow humorous tale about the anguish of a family of crabs when Mummy Crab abandons them to start an affair with a Sparos, a type of fish. I think it's an adorable song, and the first Greek song I ever knew the chorus to. I wonder what imagination it must take to sit and write a song about the emotions of a broken crab family.

The Little Crabs (Ta Kavourakia)

Two little crabs sit amongst the pebbles on the shore
Abandoned, anguished and they sob away the poor little things
Their mother Mrs. Crab has a hot date with Mr. Sparos in Rafina x2
And the little crabs keep sobbing, on the shore amongst the pebbles x2

Mr. Crab returns home in the evening and finds the house deserted,
He searches for his family and tears his hair out
He heads to Rafina to try to catch up with Mrs. Crab x 2
And the little crabs keep sobbing, on the shore amongst the pebbles x2

A rosey dawn breaks and Mr. Crab returns
Back to the coast but without his wife
She’s swimming in the shallows of Rafina with Mr. Sparos the all-nighter x2

And the little crabs keep sobbing, on the shore amongst the pebbles x2

In Greek:
Στου γυαλού τα βοτσαλάκια
κάθονται δυό καβουράκια
έρμα παραπονεμένα
κι όλο κλαίνε τα καϋμένα

Κι η μαμά τους η κυρία καβουρίνα
πάει τσάρκα με τον σπάρο στη Ραφήνα
κι όλο κλαίνε τα καβουράκιαστου γυαλού στου γυαλού τα βοτσαλάκια

Πάει ο κάβουρας το βράδυβρίσκει το τσαρδί ρημάδι
ψάχνει για τη φαμελιά του
και τραβάει τα μαλιά του

Βάζει πλώρη κούτσα κούτσα στη Ραφήνα
να πετύχει τη κυρία καβουρίνα
κι όλο κλαίνε τα καβουράκια
στου γυαλού στου γυαλού τα βοτσαλάκια

Το ξημέρωμα ροδίζεικαι ο κάβουρας γυρίζει
δίχως τη συμβία πάλι
κούτσα κούτσα στ' ακρογυάλι

Με τον σπάρο το ξενύχτη στη Ραφήνα
παίζει τώρα στα ρηχά η καβουρίνα
κι όλο κλαίνε τα καβουράκια
στου γυαλού στου γυαλού τα βοτσαλάκια

Don't you feel sorry for the little crabs? At the same time, doesn't this song make you smile?

English lyrics from: http://www.ikonband.com/lyrics/crabs.html

Greek lyrics from: http://www.greekmidi.com/songs/tsitsanis/takavourakia.html

Smoking Hot Sundays

Yesterday with about a hundred better things to do, I embarked on making a batch on nam prik pao from the Chez Pim website. This is a Thai chilli sauce that caused a terror alert when a chef whipping up a batch sent the fumes of burning chillies out into the street where the general public began to suffer from coughing fits. The police closed the streets for three hours trying to locate the source of the chemical attack before the restaurant realised they were to blame.

I had bought the bag of dried chillies from a shop in the UK, but you can get these downtown in the dodgy Asian shops on Menandrou street. Sure enough, when it came to stage one where you dry roast the whole chillies, the smoke from the chillies set my lungs into a coughing frenzy so bad I barely had time to catch a breath.

"There's no need to kill yourself over chilli sauce" observed Mr Zeus as I struggled to get my words out between coughing.

Some fried garlic, fried onions, tamarind, shrimp paste and sugar later, I was left with a jar of chilli sauce that smells like chilli-roasted-jam heaven. Now, Pim says she eats this spread on toast like jam and all I have to say to that is she must have a tongue made entirely of scar tissue because as much as I can handle the burn, I took a teeny tiny drop to taste and that tiny drop left me with watering eyes and beads of sweat on my forehead. It's atomic hot despite removing the seeds as per the instructions.

So nam prik pao is torture to make and torture to eat, but it smells and tastes so delicious and irresistable that I can see myself adding it to stir fries in the near future, albeit in teeny tiny amounts.

Which makes me wonder how I will use a whole jar. In all honesty, if any of you want some I will be happy to dish it out into little jars for you. It took such care to make it would be tragic to have to throw it out because I couldn't consume it all.

Speaking of torture, today I went to the British embassy to start the ball rolling for my permission to marry. I must say, I was surprised by how painless it all was. Apart from spending nearly half an hour trying to find a place that was open before 9.30 am to photocopy Mr Zeus's ID card and having to leave the embassy again to withdraw the cash I'd forgotten to pick up, the overall process was not too terrible.

I was asked my religion amongst other things, though, which surprised me as I don't see what that has to do with anything seeing as it's a civil ceremony. But I was happy to note that the lady did not write my answer down and neither did it appear anywhere on the papers I signed. I'm not sure if we would have had a problem with the different religions down at the mayor's office.

A few more questions were asked, passports and ID inspected, signatures taken and that was pretty much it. Thankfully the process will take 21 days, not working days, so the papers will be ready by mid-April and come mercifully translated into Greek. The staff at the embassy, from security through to Consular services, were also impressively polite and helpful. Sometimes I tend to have this pathetic look about me, which makes people feel sorry for me and act a bit sweeter, who knows.

Even more helpfully, the mayor's office is willing to accept the certificate of No Impediment despite it being valid for just three months. Mr Zeus's sister totally pulled that whole "Only You Can Save Us Now!" attitude and the mayor's office employee, who must love the god-like implications of such phrases, said no problem.

So after round one I have no bruises or psychological scars. But we still have some way to go, and I will keep you informed of each step.

Marriage. Is it worth the Paperwork?

For a country as family obsessed as Greece is, where only 5% of all births are outside of marriage, they really don't make the process of getting married very simple. It could be that I'm a foreigner and so the extra paperwork, or it could be like this everywhere and I don't know any better. It's not like I spend my weekends jetting around Europe marrying strangers to compare the process with Greece.

With time ticking away fast and all my international pals still waiting for a wedding date (long-haul tickets, visas hotels, you know, those kind of minor details that friends need to have time to organise when they don't live in Europe), I finally decided to get my paper work started to register our marriage in July. And so far, the whole thing has put me right off marriage. Our little, non-legal, non-binding verbal ceremony last year which lasted all of 5 minutes was so much simpler and already left me with that "married" feeling.

The actual legal process is making me want to tear my hair out. And I have a lot of hair, but Greek bureaucracy has so many little convoluted sub-clauses, stamps, departments, papers, wrong paper - go back to start and impossible people, that even the thickest of heads can be rendered as bald as a baby's behind by the time you're done.

Mr Zeus's sister went to the local mayor's office yesterday to pick up Round 1 of registration forms, all in Greek. I wonder what do people do when both halves of the couple are foreigners? They get an instruction sheet detailing all the paperwork a foreigner needs to marry in Greece, written helpfully only in Greek, naturally.

First on my list of things to do was talk to the British Embassy, which I did this morning.

BB: "I was wondering what paperwork I need to get married in Athens?"

Embassy: "You need to get married in Athens?"

BB: "No, what PAPERWORK do I need to get married in Athens."

E: "How long have you been in Greece?"

BB: "More than three weeks." (not a lie, come on)

E: "Ok so if you have been here more than 21 days you need to bring your passport with you. Is your partner Greek? So you need to also bring a photocopy of his Greek ID. And EUR 133"

God dammit! Bye bye wedding shoes, jewellery and pre-wedding pampering.

E: "But I should tell you the Certificate of Non Impediment (free to marry in other words) is valid for only three months. When is your wedding?"

BB: "In July"

E: " Could you apply for it after three months if it's just a civil ceremony?"

BB: "No, because we're having a wedding party to go with the registration, and I can't get a date unless I submit my paperwork to the mayor's office, and I can't do that unless I get the certificate from you guys."

E: "Talk to the mayor's office, sometimes they accept the Certificate of Non Impediment for up to a year even if it runs out in three months. If you apply for the certificate now you'll get it in 21 days."

Which means April is when I'll get the certificate to be able to START the process of my paperwork down at the mayor's office, God knows how long that will take... not to mention things like proof of residence and everything officially translated into Greek, plus a 500 word essay on 101 Ways You Enjoy Being Screwed by Greek Bureacracy... Mmmm gustaro.

Tick tock guys!!! July is not that far! Why do I have a horrible sinking feeling that by the time we get the date it will be cutting it way too close for any of my friends to make it?

Screw you, legal marriage!!!!!!! I wish I could blame someone, but the truth is I totally believed Mr Zeus when he said "It's no big deal, don't stress." Perchance I should have paid attention to my friend who took weeks upon weeks to get her permission to marry and planned ahead of time because being a foreigner she has been on the receiving end of the type of bureaucracy not even Greeks dream of? *Bangs head on table*

Will you guys come to my wedding :'( ? It's going to suck ass if none of my friends make it.

Image: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_xOFor8ew4mo/RqopNpnrLNI/AAAAAAAAAic/UvCJ2TD_0NE/s400/joanofarcxcopy.jpg

Shake off those Mid Week Cobwebs

.. with A R Rahman from the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack. Everyone in the subcontinent already knows what a musical god AR Rahman is, it just took the rest of the world some time to realise this.

Now, I put my hands up and admit that when I first came across M.I.A. on the Z-list music channels where alternative musicians start out, I laughed at her. I thought she was another rich Asian brat who was using Mummy and Daddy's money for her little music hobby and trying to be edgy. But I was totally wrong and respect to her, she's a fresh breath of air in a stale music industry. That'll teach me to open my big mouth!!

M.I.A. is a British born artist of Sri Lankan descent whose family moved back to Sri Lanka when she was a baby and got involved in politics. She had a difficult childhood as a result, was often displaced and at times contact with her father was severely restricted to protect him from the Sri Lankan army. The violence and political unrest she witnessed around her went on to infuse her music and her outspoken style, leading her to let rip at MTV when they censored her song "Paper Planes" which contained an anti-arms trade message.

Enjoy!

Slumdog Millionaire / Greedy Me

I finally watched Slumdog Millionaire and it's probably one of the best movies I've ever seen. It was also extra fun for me to be able to follow all the Hindi dialogue without needing the subtitles, and it was nice to watch it with a Greek audience that reacted along with the action on the film, gasping, groaning and clapping.

For the first time in my experience of Athenian cinema, nobody was blah blahing during a movie or making snide comments. Apart from reacting at intense moments, the audience was drop dead quiet - it's a miracle!!

Watching the movie had two unfortunate side effects, though. That night I dreamt that I was reading the athinorama.gr website and two new Bollywood movies were being released to be played in Athens cinemas. And I was of course crazily happy about this, but alas, 'twas but a dream.

The second side effect is that the movie made me extremely hungry for street food, and I don't mean souvlaki. That scene where Jamal is recalling the price of pani puri on Chowpatti beach ignited a lot of memories of hasty pani puri munching outside my school. We were forbidden from street food because of the risk of getting sick from it, or even ending up dead from it. The guy who sold the pani puri even got leprosy at one point, and we still kept going back to him while his fingers were practically falling off into the pani puri.

But it was always worth it, and street food tastes so much better when its forbidden. I could practically taste those chubby pani puris on the screen with chilli tamarind sauce being poured over them. On the last night of my visit to the Home Country two years ago, my best friend got us pani puri (also known as gol gappa) at my request, and after the first bite I knew that it was going to make me pretty sick. What can you do, x number of years away from the Home Country and your own immune system starts taking vacations and making you look like a delicate foreigner.

But since it was my last night and all I had to do in the next 24 hours was sit on a plane, I ate them all anyway. Who knew when I'd get proper street pani puri again, right? So naturally I got quite sick from them, and I wasn't sorry for a minute, not even when Mr Zeus tried to tell me what a fool I was on my 100th trip to the toilet. He's never taste pani puri, he'd be willing to get sick for them too if he had!!

So while the rest of the audience left the cinema probably contemplating all the things they had just seen, amongst other things I was thinking "Just how long must pani puri take to make?"

Now I'm sitting here with mountains of work, wondering at what point my craving is going to get bad enough for me to launch into the long-winded process of pani puri from scratch. Since you can't buy them in Greece, the most time consuming part would be making the puris, discs of dough rolled very thin and fried so they puff up and remain hollow inside, then you fill the insides with chopped onions and tomatoes, potato, yoghhurt, spices, tamarind sauce, chilli powder, coriander and bhoondi.

Hmmm.... what's a hungry girl to do?

Down At The Cheese Hospital

Last year when we were in Crete, we drove past a tyrokomeio. I, in all honesty and thinking it was perfectly logical, said to Mr Zeus "That's where people go when they want to make cheese? I mean when it's not turning out right, to get advice on what went wrong?" He laughed till he cried. I mean who can blame me? Tyrokomeio, nosokomeio, same thing, right?

Well, in order to set up your own basic tyrokomeio all you need is milk and lemon juice. Paneer is persian for cheese, and it's a very young, basic type of cheese (milk solids, rather) that is used a lot in Indian vegetarian cooking. It has a bland taste, so it's sort of like a milky version of tofu. And it's dead easy to make.

The last time I was in the UK, just before we hit the Asian shops to investigate wedding attire, we stopped off at a place called Khazana where I ate till I was ready to burst and then moaned about it up and down Handsworth High Street. That's what I do, I eat till I'm going to pop and then complain about it. Most recently I did that last Friday night and thought guiltily of starving African orphans as I nursed my Bump O' Gluttony (3-months-pregnant-look) and listened to the garbage collectors roll about in the wee hours thanks to greed-induced insomnia.

But I digress! Oh Khazana... the sweet and tangy burst of tamarind sauce and yoghurt on the papdi chaat, the spicy pop of a goll gappa crunching in your mouth, and chilli paneer with so much chilli that you smelt the peppers before you ate them, with one hand free to wipe your sweat and running nose. No bother, that's why God invented mango lassi, so us South Asians could fry our taste buds and then deliciously douse the fire.

My sister has the recipe for the chilli paneer and she also has the convenience of being able to buy paneer at a supermarket. Not a hope of hell for that in Athens, but paneer is so easy to make you needn't bother anyway.

Paneer for 3 people:

1.5 litres whole milk

3 tablespoons strained lemon juice

Muslin

Method:

Boil the milk and reduce the heat, stirring so it won't stick. Add the lemon juice and swirl the pot to get the process of the curds and whey separating. Eventually in a few minutes you should end up with white lumps of curd and almost clear yellow whey. Add a bit more lemon juice if it seems to be taking too long, or add the pot back onto a low heat.

Line a colander with the muslin and pour all the curds and whey into the cloth. Gather up the corners and twist to squeeze out the liquids. Give the muslin bag a rinse under the tap to wash off the whey and squeeze again. Tie the bag from the kitchen tap and leave to drain for an hour or two. Squeeze under a plate with a weight on top (cans of tomatoes or a stone mortar). Leave for an hour.

Chop and use!

Image: From http://hyms.surgsoc.googlepages.com/surgeons.jpg/surgeons-full.jpg

Very Happy In My Heart

It turns out that the third DVD out of the Bollywood movies given away free recently is a movie I hadn't seen at all until I got it free with a Greek newspaper. It's called Tashan, and I killed myself laughing while watching it. Since a lot of it is deliberately stupid and plays with Hindi and English mixes, I'm not sure how much of that gets carried across in subtitles.

Anyway, here is a song that makes me laugh every time I hear it. It's one of those Bollywood-poking-fun-at-its-own-ridiculousness songs, and in this part of the movie, the three fugitives have bullied an American director to let them film a song in his sad movie about widows in order to slip past the police as part of his crew. Don't ask.

The song contains wonderfully stupid lyrics like:
Seeing your white white face, my fast-beating heart decides to take a chance

Very happy in my heart, my heart burts into dance

Pink pink cheeks like a rose I have
Blue like the sky eyes you have
A sweet face like a moon
Black hair like a cloud
I can't hide it any more, my heartbeat becomes very loud (ok, those are your standard Bollywood lyrics, but the next one is my favourite)

In your heart's theatre, my heart makes an advanced booking
In my heart's theatre, your heart makes an advanced booking

Very happy in my heart, my heart burts into dance

Incidentally, if you listen to this song, the word re is used in exactly the same context in Hindi as it is in Greek.

And it might please you to know that this song from the movie was filmed on the Greek island of Milos:

Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykDLFypQ4XA

Friday Bollywood Beatbox

Marjaani -

Love Mera Hit Hit - Neeraj Shridhar, Tulsi Kumar

Image: http://www.jazzyworkshop.com/lp_images/bollywood.jpg