Lift your tear streaked cheeks off that keyboard dear fan(s) of this blog because I'm back after a week in Barcelona.
In case you were blind and hadn't noticed, I love food, so travelling for me is mostly about how good the food is. Every bad meal I eat makes me feel cheated, that I've lost a precious meal in my life which I will never get back. This trip to Barcelona was not my first - I did a grand tour of Spain in 2005. Out of two weeks, the only dish that sticks in my memory was a prawn and chilli tapas either in Valencia or Seville.
And this time round I can't actually remember anything that I ate which was WOW, apart from two rounds of dulce de leche, which is not Spanish it's South American. All that fancy architecture and good city planning makes up for it though. My only other issue with Spain is that I just don't understand why people there sit at home with their blinds shut. We drove up to Andorra and all along the way there were cars aplenty, people entering and exiting houses, but nearly all the blinds were down.
Why would you sit with your rollers open only a crack on a sunny day when your house faces the sea? It made me go all Greek, saying things like "Our salads are better." or "We wouldn't do that." and "We are more people in a city and our drains don't smell!" We, we, we.
I've noticed outside of Greece my Greek is pretty good because I only have one other Greek speaker with me. I could talk about whatever I wanted, make comments and in-jokes without anyone knowing what I was saying. I added a new word to my vocabulary, papari which I can't tell you what it is because anyway I only intended to use it when no one knew what I was saying, as in "What do you want to do today? Shall we go to Cafe Papari again?" Tee hee! Potty mouth! I told Mr Zeus it was his fault because like a child, I was learning the language by repeating what he said around me and if he didn't want me talking like a sailor he should watch his own language. He told me I was not a baby so I couldn't use that excuse.
Back in Athens my Greek instantly fell apart under the gaze of 5 million other Greek speakers. I'm also being a lady and not saying papari any more, because I've found the comic effect wears off pretty fast.
And now I find myself at the end of my first complete year in Greece. How do I feel? Pretty good. For the first time since I was little, I have reached the end of the year and done everything I had set out to do. Nothing is left over, I have no regrets.
Wishing you a great New Year!
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Christmas Break
I'm off now for a Christmas break out of Athens so all of you enjoy. This is my first ever Greek Christmas tree which I put up this past weekend.
Greeks don't exchange gifts on Christmas, they do that on new year's eve. And trees, Santa Claus etc are relatively new trends. Traditionally a boat is decorated for Christmas in Greece.
And apart from my beloved honey cakes, melomacarona, I don't know what else is traditional Christmas food here, but I don't care because they're so yummy they're all I need. See you on the other side!
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Why the Hell does she look so HAPPY??!!
This is a post for the ladies so any boys reading, leave now or else have your illusions of where our smooth skin comes from shattered.
Last night I was engaging in some cosmetic gymnastics, hot wax in one hand and a glass of Dutch courage in the other and I thought “How ridiculous. It’s December and I’m still waxing to within an inch of my life.”
Why do we do it, ladies? What is the deal with body hair? The moment I get one area waxed and under control, another starts begging for attention. I’ll be done waxing my arms and my eyebrows will grow overnight. When I inspect my finished eyebrows, I notice my upper lip could do with some work. It never ends!!
Add to this that I do not have a waxer in Athens. I do it all myself. Yes, all of it. All you need is a mirror and a few yoga positions. Mostly I am too chicken to try my Greek when dealing with sensitive and unmentionable areas. It might all come out wrong and end up with getting told off for indecent exposure, you just never know.
Plus I might find the one racist waxer in all of Athens and well, let’s not go into details other than to say that even a one degree temperature difference when using hot wax makes for a pretty miserable week, and I should know.
A girlfriend of mine once complained that men had it easy. All they have to worry about is the hair on their heads and face. I disagree. We women do this to ourselves. For example, my foray into bikini waxes began out of boredom one Saturday afternoon. I left the salon with a mixture of triumph and horror. Why would anyone do that to themselves on a regular basis, I wondered. But smooth skin for a woman is addictive and before I knew it, I was whispering into my phone during work hours, booking illicit waxes.
Asian girls, have you ever tried to leave the house for a bikini wax when Mum is around? It’s like the Spanish inquisition, you can’t very well admit you’re off for something as new age and depraved as *gasp* a bikini wax, but none of your excuses cut the mustard either.
“I want to take a walk.”
“But it’s raining.”
“I have something to do.”
“What exactly.”
“Stuff!”
“What are you up to?”
“Mum I’ve got to go I have a er… hair consultation.” (that’s partially true)
“Why are you getting a hair consultation when you’re flying back to Athens tomorrow?”
Frustration! And the dumb thing is that women wax for the benefit of other women. Common wisdom has it that once the clothes are off, most men just hope that you are not another man. You could be covered in scales for all they care. But women check other women out, looking for more/less arm hair to feel better/worse about themselves. You would not catch a man pouring hot wax onto their nether regions unless a bet or a sexual quirk was involved.
Isn’t it all so stupid. I bet we could have cured AIDS by now with all the man hours we spend waxing. That’s another reason life in Greece suits me. The Hondos Centre has an entire aisle of hundreds of different products dedicated to hair removal. No offence, but the women here are much hairier than Northern Europe so when I’m going through a lazy spell, I feel right at home.
Last night I was engaging in some cosmetic gymnastics, hot wax in one hand and a glass of Dutch courage in the other and I thought “How ridiculous. It’s December and I’m still waxing to within an inch of my life.”
Why do we do it, ladies? What is the deal with body hair? The moment I get one area waxed and under control, another starts begging for attention. I’ll be done waxing my arms and my eyebrows will grow overnight. When I inspect my finished eyebrows, I notice my upper lip could do with some work. It never ends!!
Add to this that I do not have a waxer in Athens. I do it all myself. Yes, all of it. All you need is a mirror and a few yoga positions. Mostly I am too chicken to try my Greek when dealing with sensitive and unmentionable areas. It might all come out wrong and end up with getting told off for indecent exposure, you just never know.
Plus I might find the one racist waxer in all of Athens and well, let’s not go into details other than to say that even a one degree temperature difference when using hot wax makes for a pretty miserable week, and I should know.
A girlfriend of mine once complained that men had it easy. All they have to worry about is the hair on their heads and face. I disagree. We women do this to ourselves. For example, my foray into bikini waxes began out of boredom one Saturday afternoon. I left the salon with a mixture of triumph and horror. Why would anyone do that to themselves on a regular basis, I wondered. But smooth skin for a woman is addictive and before I knew it, I was whispering into my phone during work hours, booking illicit waxes.
Asian girls, have you ever tried to leave the house for a bikini wax when Mum is around? It’s like the Spanish inquisition, you can’t very well admit you’re off for something as new age and depraved as *gasp* a bikini wax, but none of your excuses cut the mustard either.
“I want to take a walk.”
“But it’s raining.”
“I have something to do.”
“What exactly.”
“Stuff!”
“What are you up to?”
“Mum I’ve got to go I have a er… hair consultation.” (that’s partially true)
“Why are you getting a hair consultation when you’re flying back to Athens tomorrow?”
Frustration! And the dumb thing is that women wax for the benefit of other women. Common wisdom has it that once the clothes are off, most men just hope that you are not another man. You could be covered in scales for all they care. But women check other women out, looking for more/less arm hair to feel better/worse about themselves. You would not catch a man pouring hot wax onto their nether regions unless a bet or a sexual quirk was involved.
Isn’t it all so stupid. I bet we could have cured AIDS by now with all the man hours we spend waxing. That’s another reason life in Greece suits me. The Hondos Centre has an entire aisle of hundreds of different products dedicated to hair removal. No offence, but the women here are much hairier than Northern Europe so when I’m going through a lazy spell, I feel right at home.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Aegean or Asia??
An interesting thing happened to me on this trip to the UK. A potentially life changing thing and to tell you about it I need to go into a bit of background.
I'm an Asia girl at heart. I love Asia. It's where I grew up and no matter what part of Asia I'm in, it all feels smoother, easier, more homely, more familiar. I would love to go live somewhere in Asia, but the Home Country is out of the question because I'm too used to my freedom as a woman.
In 2004, I turned a corner in my life after a period in which I had hit rock bottom and decided to change everything. I treated myself to a birthday in Southern Malaysia, staying with a friend and driving the 30 minutes to Singapore nearly every day. I loved that part of the world; no winters, spicy food, variable scenery, organised and affordable. "This," I thought, "is where I want to live."
Back in the UK I fired off job applications to Singapore. And then the Olympics happened and everything changed. I moved halfway between Asia and Europe and I am happy. But I'm not a risk taker. I don't burn all my bridges, hence negotiating to keep my job just in case things blew up in my face here.
Now I am faced with a very tempting situation. I have been offered a job in the Singapore office of my company. If I was single I would have taken it tomorrow, but I'm not single and I also now have the benefit of hindsight to see how hard it was to move away from my family. I don't know if I could handle doubling the distance.
Mr Zeus is also a Greek Greek, in that Greece is the only place he can see himself living forever. I can't see myself living anywhere forever, but that's my problem. I could not take him somewhere and watch him be miserable.
The ideal situation for me would be to go do this for a year or two, have my adventure in Singapore and then come back and pick up where I left in Athens. What if I go and I hate it? Or Mr Zeus hates it? What would I do for work back in Greece? There isn't a nun in a sex shop's chance of me getting the same arrangement I currently have.
This is the problem with people like me. No where feels like home, no where feels permanent, no where - not even Asia - feels like I could live there forever, and it never will. If I had some sort of affiliation to any place, I could have turned the job down instead of day dreaming about humid weather and laksa. Instead, my risk-averse side has wedged itself between myself and a decision and I am frying necessary braincells trying to figure out how to have my cake and eat it too.
I think my best strategy is to take a deep breath and deal with this in the new year - I have time. Also, I'm not one for horoscopes but the very day this offer was made to me, I decided to read mine and it said that something I desperately want is right infront of me but I should not act too hastily.
But hey, you know what? Sitting at home in these four walls with a fish for company day in day out is pretty confidence killing. Whether I take the job or not, being told that they are not going to start looking for someone until they have my answer makes me feel pretty good. I am walking a little taller, my head a little higher.
Image: http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2006/07/24/laksa24706_wideweb__470x317,0.jpg
Thursday, December 13, 2007
I'm Becoming Obnoxious
I'm back after my short trip to the UK but this time it feels like I've been away for months even though I only left last Saturday. I have been fretting on the flight because for the first time in a long time I didn't really feel like coming back to Athens.
I put this down to all the socialising I did on this trip - I felt my personality sparkling at mega-watt strength and it was really nice, you know? Just being able to communicate so easily, making jokes, discussing stuff. I felt alive and entertaining. I don't feel that spectacular in Greece, though I do try, and I suppose time and more Greek will fix that. I was reassured when we came in to land and I gazed fondly over the olive groves. It was a nice sight after the concrete of London.
And I am proud to report I finally cracked the Greek Girl look. This time I didn't pack my runners at all, and gave myself what seemed to me a Greek girl’s choice of shoes: painful or very painful. Even my new flat heeled boots caused me huge amounts of agony which I count as an achievement because I reckon it gave me that aloof look Greek girls wear. I finally know what that is, they're just zoning out to block out the pain they're in.
Early this morning I left the flat in my boots but couldn't take the burning pain where the boots squeezed my little toes. So I opted for the less painful option of aching foot arches, and do you know what I achieved today? I travelled in stilettos. Yes! I did it and I was also well dressed! Now all I have to do is dye my hair a uniform shade of blonde and leave my eyebrows black.
My main purpose for going on this trip was to attend my workplace Christmas party and it was there that I realised what the relaxed, earthy attitude to life in Greece is doing to me. The morning of the party I grabbed a bottle from my sister’s desk and sprayed. Come evening, I was giving it my all on the dance floor and it became obvious that whatever I had sprayed on was deodorant and not antiperspirant.
Two years ago, maybe even a year ago, I would have been taking regular trips to the bathroom and stuffing tissue in my armpits, mortified. But Greek living has affected me to the point where I thought “What the hell, it’s pheromones not sweat. Mi casa su casa.” I couldn't do anything about it so I genuinely didn’t care, which is a good thing considering how plagued by stupid little hang-ups I can be. I have teenage Greek boys in summer time to thank for that one.
Everyone keeps asking me when I’m going to get married and it got me thinking about it. Maybe we should fit that in somewhere. Me and Mr Zeus can be terrible procrastinators. We’ve been saying adamantly that we’ll join a gym every other month for two years now and still not done it. If we don’t start getting around to some form of initial wedding planning, I can see us still sitting around in 10 years time, looking at our calendars and saying this will be the year, then getting distracted by something.
People have already invited themselves, we have to deliver on the building momentum.
I put this down to all the socialising I did on this trip - I felt my personality sparkling at mega-watt strength and it was really nice, you know? Just being able to communicate so easily, making jokes, discussing stuff. I felt alive and entertaining. I don't feel that spectacular in Greece, though I do try, and I suppose time and more Greek will fix that. I was reassured when we came in to land and I gazed fondly over the olive groves. It was a nice sight after the concrete of London.
And I am proud to report I finally cracked the Greek Girl look. This time I didn't pack my runners at all, and gave myself what seemed to me a Greek girl’s choice of shoes: painful or very painful. Even my new flat heeled boots caused me huge amounts of agony which I count as an achievement because I reckon it gave me that aloof look Greek girls wear. I finally know what that is, they're just zoning out to block out the pain they're in.
Early this morning I left the flat in my boots but couldn't take the burning pain where the boots squeezed my little toes. So I opted for the less painful option of aching foot arches, and do you know what I achieved today? I travelled in stilettos. Yes! I did it and I was also well dressed! Now all I have to do is dye my hair a uniform shade of blonde and leave my eyebrows black.
My main purpose for going on this trip was to attend my workplace Christmas party and it was there that I realised what the relaxed, earthy attitude to life in Greece is doing to me. The morning of the party I grabbed a bottle from my sister’s desk and sprayed. Come evening, I was giving it my all on the dance floor and it became obvious that whatever I had sprayed on was deodorant and not antiperspirant.
Two years ago, maybe even a year ago, I would have been taking regular trips to the bathroom and stuffing tissue in my armpits, mortified. But Greek living has affected me to the point where I thought “What the hell, it’s pheromones not sweat. Mi casa su casa.” I couldn't do anything about it so I genuinely didn’t care, which is a good thing considering how plagued by stupid little hang-ups I can be. I have teenage Greek boys in summer time to thank for that one.
Everyone keeps asking me when I’m going to get married and it got me thinking about it. Maybe we should fit that in somewhere. Me and Mr Zeus can be terrible procrastinators. We’ve been saying adamantly that we’ll join a gym every other month for two years now and still not done it. If we don’t start getting around to some form of initial wedding planning, I can see us still sitting around in 10 years time, looking at our calendars and saying this will be the year, then getting distracted by something.
People have already invited themselves, we have to deliver on the building momentum.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Things To Make And Do
We all need a break from the routine sometimes. I bet you now and then even Dora Bakoyiannis sits in her office late at night, going through papers, looking out of the window and thinking "Man, I'd just love to go get a kebab right now. And then go to bouzouki, drink too much whisky and kiss a guy who by harsh coincidence happens to work with me...sigh!"
When Athens life is getting you down, I suggest you head out of the city and refresh your eyeballs with just how beautiful Greece is. Last weekend we went north to Larissa and Meteora to visit some of Mr Zeus's family. When I met him I imagined a giant clan like in Big Fat Greek Wedding. Instead I could fit his family in a matchbox. As for me every time I go back to the Home Country I am met by some kid at my uncle's door who I don't know, to later discover he is one of the four new little cousins born in between a visit. I have over 20 first cousins alone.
Anyway, Larissa and Meteora are both such beautiful places they just take your breath away, especially Meteora which ranks amongst the most amazing places I've ever seen in my life. It's like a bunch of giant boulders were dropped in the middle of nowhere. It's really beyond what words can describe so I suggest you go there. There is a lot of internal tourism to that area so bus tours from Athens shouldn't be hard to find.
That area of Greece looks identical, and I mean IDENTICAL to Northern Home Country, and there were other things in common too. Each aunt and uncle that met me embraced me like a long lost child (I think they'd all given up on Mr Zeus ever marrying) and tut tutted that I was too skinny. It was like my own aunties and uncles but talking in Greek: eat this, eat that, no I don't want to hear that you've eaten enough you're too thin, whatever diet you're on drop it now, here I've packed you some fruit preserve, eat it for breakfast every morning and you'll be fine in no time.
I never knew what to expect when I embarked on meeting Mr Zeus's family but hand on my heart, they have welcomed me without a single question or issue from day one. We may have started with next to nothing in common, but we both had appreciation of family as an uncompromisable value.
The afternoon we were leaving for Athens I was chatting to one of my new Greek cousins, alternating between Greek and English when I couldn't find the appropriate vocabulary. Her seven year old son said: "I know why she's talking in English. She's saying something she doesn't want me to hear."
"No," I explained, "I don't know Greek, I'm still learning that's why."
"You don't know Greek?! But I knew Greek from when I was a baby."
"That's because you were born here. I wasn't."
"She doesn't know Greek!"
I bet you next time his mum makes him sit down for homework he'll say "Yes mum but remember that girl who was 25 and can't speak Greek. God only knows what she did in school, at least I'm not that bad." In an effort to teach him a little bit about different cultures I grabbed the receipt on the table and wrote his name in Home Country script for him. He was suitably impressed.
Ain't playing families fun?
I've got to say though I am a good old fashioned Greek/Home Country Mother In Law pleaser type of girl. Growing up in the Home Country in a small town there was next to nothing for a young girl to amuse herself with that wouldn't get her disowned and so we were trained in a variety of crafts that kept us out of trouble. Thus I'm a 21st century girl stuck with defunct skills like embroidery, lace-making, dress making and crochet. But hey what better way to please Ma in Law? How could a girl who can make a doily be an evil son snatcher?
Oh well it means that I can search the bargain bin in the yarn shops downtown, find the good stuff and get to the till faster than the grannies. I may get laughed at for crocheting scarves at my age, but I'm saving the drugs for old age. I think I'll be more grateful for them then.
Image: Meteora
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Friend Wanted - Must Not Be in Denial
One year and six months after moving to Greece and my life is pretty much the way I wanted it. I now have social options I never had before, as in I can choose to entertain myself, or call a variety of friends to arrange coffees with and stay out late and then be able to direct a taxi home. Don’t ask about my Greek, it could be better, and I am being nagged nagged nagged about it. More on that in another post.
One thing I do feel very frustrated about is the information blackout I receive on all things Greek with my Greek friends and contacts. They will talk to each other about how bad a certain law is, but if I bring it up, they’ll paint a rosy picture and tell me I’m wrong, or get irritated and start comparing the laws of other countries (where I don’t live so not interested) or ask me how much better things were in the Home Country (ditto), remind me that Greeks Invented Everything and close by saying I am a foreigner so it’s not really my fault that I don’t get it. All this without trying to help me get it by talking to me as openly as they would to a Greek.
Don’t understand how this works? Here’s a fantasy scenario to help:
Bombs are raining down on the streets of Athens and Kostas is thinking to himself:
Kostas: Popo look at this. Look at what our country has become. There are bombs falling on the streets of Athens. Our politicians are IDIOTS! We deserve better than this. This is how we are treating our people in 2007? Very bad.
*Bollybutton comes crashing into the room*
BB: There are bombs falling outside!!! Oh My GOD!
Kostas: Aaaah BB. Welcome! No don’t worry it’s nothing.
BB: Nothing?! How can you say that!! Those are bombs not nothing!
Kostas: *shakes head in a pitying manner* Silly BB, those are not bombs, they just look like bombs to you. It’s just a matter of Greek politics.
BB: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!
Kostas: What they’re doing is they’re taking the tarmac off the roads because it needs redoing.
BB: Kosta. They are not taking the tarmac off the roads. They are bombing the city. Look! That building just got hit.
Kostas: That needed demolishing anyway, you know how slowly the mayor gets around these things and then they have to rush. Seriously it’s all under control.
BB: Why are you saying that. Do you think it’s normal for bombs to fall from the sky?
Kostas: *irritated* So? We can make our own laws. You think America isn’t dropping bombs in Iraq? At least we have democracy here.
BB: But can’t you see that this is WRONG?!
Kostas: BB it’s Greek politics, you can’t understand because you’re a foreigner. Don’t forget the Turkish occupation.
BB: Yes, the Turkish occupation, I know and I understand. But that’s over now, you have EU funding, things shouldn’t be this way! I mean really, bombs are normal?
Kostas: I’ve told you already they’re just taking the old tarmac off the street.
And so on and so forth. So I am advertising a vacancy. I want a Greek friend who will talk to me openly and honestly about Greek politics and life without:
1) Trying to make things sound better than they are
2) Jumping straight to defence mode
3) Refusing to accept that Such a Thing (insert as relevant) happens in Greece
4) Blaming it all on the Turkish occupation
5) Blaming it all on the Americans
6) Making irrelevant comparisons to other countries
7) Deciding that I won’t get it because I’m a foreigner
One thing I do feel very frustrated about is the information blackout I receive on all things Greek with my Greek friends and contacts. They will talk to each other about how bad a certain law is, but if I bring it up, they’ll paint a rosy picture and tell me I’m wrong, or get irritated and start comparing the laws of other countries (where I don’t live so not interested) or ask me how much better things were in the Home Country (ditto), remind me that Greeks Invented Everything and close by saying I am a foreigner so it’s not really my fault that I don’t get it. All this without trying to help me get it by talking to me as openly as they would to a Greek.
Don’t understand how this works? Here’s a fantasy scenario to help:
Bombs are raining down on the streets of Athens and Kostas is thinking to himself:
Kostas: Popo look at this. Look at what our country has become. There are bombs falling on the streets of Athens. Our politicians are IDIOTS! We deserve better than this. This is how we are treating our people in 2007? Very bad.
*Bollybutton comes crashing into the room*
BB: There are bombs falling outside!!! Oh My GOD!
Kostas: Aaaah BB. Welcome! No don’t worry it’s nothing.
BB: Nothing?! How can you say that!! Those are bombs not nothing!
Kostas: *shakes head in a pitying manner* Silly BB, those are not bombs, they just look like bombs to you. It’s just a matter of Greek politics.
BB: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!
Kostas: What they’re doing is they’re taking the tarmac off the roads because it needs redoing.
BB: Kosta. They are not taking the tarmac off the roads. They are bombing the city. Look! That building just got hit.
Kostas: That needed demolishing anyway, you know how slowly the mayor gets around these things and then they have to rush. Seriously it’s all under control.
BB: Why are you saying that. Do you think it’s normal for bombs to fall from the sky?
Kostas: *irritated* So? We can make our own laws. You think America isn’t dropping bombs in Iraq? At least we have democracy here.
BB: But can’t you see that this is WRONG?!
Kostas: BB it’s Greek politics, you can’t understand because you’re a foreigner. Don’t forget the Turkish occupation.
BB: Yes, the Turkish occupation, I know and I understand. But that’s over now, you have EU funding, things shouldn’t be this way! I mean really, bombs are normal?
Kostas: I’ve told you already they’re just taking the old tarmac off the street.
And so on and so forth. So I am advertising a vacancy. I want a Greek friend who will talk to me openly and honestly about Greek politics and life without:
1) Trying to make things sound better than they are
2) Jumping straight to defence mode
3) Refusing to accept that Such a Thing (insert as relevant) happens in Greece
4) Blaming it all on the Turkish occupation
5) Blaming it all on the Americans
6) Making irrelevant comparisons to other countries
7) Deciding that I won’t get it because I’m a foreigner
Applications on a postcard to this blog.
I live here, I want to understand how this country works. Tell me the truth, I won’t run out and erect billboards saying “Greece Sucks”, every country has its own issues and I want to fully understand Greece’s. Give me a chance.
Monday, December 03, 2007
One Down
I have several posts in my mind today so this will be the first. If you haven't already done so, I suggest you pay a visit to California Kat's American in Athens blog. Kat is leaving Greece for good, but I don't know when. I get the feeling that it's soon though.
She has been providing top-notch information on her blog and I don't know what we will do when she leaves :(
Nothing else left to say really, except pay her a visit, and good luck with the moving, Kat. Here's wishing your next destination provides the life you hoped for.
She has been providing top-notch information on her blog and I don't know what we will do when she leaves :(
Nothing else left to say really, except pay her a visit, and good luck with the moving, Kat. Here's wishing your next destination provides the life you hoped for.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Here's Looking At You... Or Not
Since moving to Greece I have resurrected my belief in the Evil Eye and lately every mysterious bump, bruise and pain is gravely proclaimed to be the work of the nasty, toxic Evil Eye. Sounds creepy, doesn’t it?
The Evil Eye can be interpreted as bad vibes, bad energy or the evils, created by malice, jealousy or envy. We have the same concept in the Home Country, though there, it is not warded off with blue eyes. Black is the predominant colour to get rid of nasty vibes, though wearing all black seems to have a cancelling out property and is not really recommended.
Bits of black fabric are tied to great lumbering trucks and a baby’s face and eyes are marked with a smudge of black kohl by way of creating an imperfection which will put off evil spirits. When my youngest sister was born, a friend arrived with teeny tiny black glass bangles for her to wear and keep the evil eye away. Girls and women including me wear kohl in their eyes for the same reason.
Superstition, myth and mystique are rampant in both countries and so warding off evil eyes is done in hundreds of different ways; the above are just the most common.
The Evil Eye can be interpreted as bad vibes, bad energy or the evils, created by malice, jealousy or envy. We have the same concept in the Home Country, though there, it is not warded off with blue eyes. Black is the predominant colour to get rid of nasty vibes, though wearing all black seems to have a cancelling out property and is not really recommended.
Bits of black fabric are tied to great lumbering trucks and a baby’s face and eyes are marked with a smudge of black kohl by way of creating an imperfection which will put off evil spirits. When my youngest sister was born, a friend arrived with teeny tiny black glass bangles for her to wear and keep the evil eye away. Girls and women including me wear kohl in their eyes for the same reason.
Superstition, myth and mystique are rampant in both countries and so warding off evil eyes is done in hundreds of different ways; the above are just the most common.
So what to do if the bad energy gets through your defences? Once again, there are hundreds of ways and prayers to get rid of it. The concept of the evil eye most likely existed before any religion, and so they continue today under the cloak of whichever religion is dominant. Both the Home Country and Greece lean heavily on their respective religions to magic the evil away.
By far the most fun technique I ever witnessed was on one of the many occasions one of my sisters was de-evil eyed. She has very unusually coloured eyes for the Home Country and this attracted the evil eye with impressive regularity through the envious/jealous looks of others. In fact, if I hadn’t witnessed her unexplainably fall ill so many times after an innocent outing, I doubt I’d believe in the powers of bad energy.
A green chilli was produced and one of her hairs wrapped around it. The chilli was then wrapped in paper, twirled around her head and set on fire. Depending on how the paper burned, we were informed that she had indeed been eviled but was now cured.
Now really, would you rather have the dramatics of that or a boring old Yiayia making a cross over you?
Some might call the evil eye nonsense and a belief in it the sign of backwardness. But that’s only because they’re jealous they never had chillies set alight over them.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Yes, but can you do THIS!
Flicking channels last night after getting a bad review for my attempt at being fashionable from Mr Zeus (he said between laughter that I was fashionable by UK standards - not a compliment) I started watching this, Alicia Keys' new video.
And watching her shake her big curly locks I realised to my delight that we have almost exactly the same hair. So there! I may not know how to dress, but my hair is effortlessly wonderful, all it takes is a wash and dry and BOOM! Ready for action! How do you like them apples?
Image: http://www.aolcdn.com/ch_kids/alicia-keys-diary-300-400-101206.jpg
Monday, November 26, 2007
Bolly Badly Dressed No Mates
On Saturday I had tickets to see Beauty and the Beast with a friend. Now, mostly I said yes to going because I like this friend and wanted to spend some time with her, the show itself didn't really interest me that much. Also I'll jump at an invitation for anything because having worked from home all week, come the weekend I want to get out.
My company had to bail at the last minute which left me with a mission: either get rid of both tickets, get rid of the extra, or find someone else to go with me. Z2 was my only option, but he made it clear he'd rather stick hot pins in his eyes than sit through the show with me. After being showered with refusals from everyone I knew, I tried my luck at the Badminton Theatre and waited.
And waited. And waited. While I was waiting, I noticed how nicely dressed some of the children were. Then I looked around. There was not one badly dressed child there. They all looked like pictures out of a catalogue. Raising my eyes above floor level I was horribly reminded that I live in Greece, where the women dress to kill come what may. And there I was with helmet hair, dressed like trash. I made an observation - not one single other female there was wearing sports shoes, and hundreds must have passed me as I loitered trying to get rid of my tickets. Hundreds of women, wearing good shoes. I bet they didn't even own a pair of runners.
I don't know why I keep forgeting to make an effort when I step out and then end up feeling hideously out of place. This for me was a disaster. My own lack of style is one issue, but obviously people dress their kids here at the very cutting edge of fashion. My future children are doomed, I tell you.
"You know those kids, the slightly dark ones?"
"No."
"Those kids, you know them, they have a foreign mother."
"Several kids at this school have a foreign mother."
"Yes but it's those kids, the really badly dressed ones."
"Ooooh now I know who you're talking about."
As it hit showtime I gave up and took my seat plus spread all my stuff over the spare. Actually I can think of worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon than reliving childhood memories of that moment of excitement in the Home Country when our mother would come back from the video store and wave a very badly pirated copy of the latest Disney cartoon infront of us. At least I knew all the songs.
But I can't escape the fact that the money I spent on those tickets should probably have been spent shopping for Greek lady wardrobe staples such as:
1) Several very tight turtle neck tops (current ownership: 1)
2) A gillet (current ownership: 0)
3) Several pairs of boots (current ownership: 1)
4) A few jersey dresses, knee length (current ownership: 0)
5) Bug-eye glasses (current ownership: 0)
It would be okay if I had a unique sense of style which looked good, because I don't really want to turn into a drone who looks like everyone else. But my own sense of 'style' can't even be called that. I just want to not be given that "bloody hell!" once-over the other women give me, I'm scared of them, remember. Tips, anyone?
Friday, November 23, 2007
Fish In Greek
Ever looked up a recipe and run off to the market to pick up the ingredients, only to realise you don't know what a sea bream looks like and don't know what it's called in Greek? Worry no more with this site that gives you all the popular table fish in English, Greek and Latin. Happy cooking!
I'm an idiot
I'm in trouble. This morning as we were sipping our hot bevvies in bed, Mr Zeus told me off for not bothering with my Greek anymore, and I didn't protest the truth of this statement.
Somewhere in October I called up my regular free classes to see what was up, since they were meant to call me with dates and times and had not. Turns out there is no third level class, which is interesting because these are the classes that immigrants are supposed to attend in order to sit an exam that proves their proficiency in Greek, so if nothing beyond level 1 and 2 is on offer, what are these people supposed to do?
I should speak more Greek but the problem is this: sometimes I speak perfect Greek and other times I can barely string a sentence together. It's irritating and makes me feel stupid, so I avoid it if I can. I tell myself that if my Greek is good enough to give relationship advice to a Greek friend, then I don't need classes, but the reality is it takes me thrice as long to say "Your boyfriend is a loser" in Greek than in English.
It's infuriating to me that I am still so crap at Greek that I need more classes. I hate being reminded that instead of frolicking around online, I should be brushing up on my grammar. It feels like being five years old again. I'm 25! I should be able to do what I want godammit!
But Mr Zeus is right. He has no sympathy that the 3 year old next door has overtaken me in vocabulary and my godson is bound to follow soon. Can you imagine the buttock clenching mortification of that? Anyone got any ideas? I don't want to go back to Hellenic American again, they were barely average.
Another more interesting problem is that I want to learn how to swim better. I can just about swim to save my life if I had to, and I have, but I thought I'd use the winter to get better. Unfortunately for a former desert-dweller like me, a grown woman who can't swim is so unheard of in Greece that the only classes on offer at the local pool are for those parentally neglected midgets who were never taught to swim before they could walk like all Greek children are.
I complain, but I can guarantee you that if such a class existed, I'd be too lazy or socially anxious to attend. Social anxiety is something that I abandoned in my late teens and has revisited me here in Greece where I am self conscious of the fact that I look like good company until I open my mouth and then I just come across as an idiot who has been in Greece since last June and still can't hold a conversation in Greek.
An impressive amount of complaints on this sunny Greek winter day. Oh well, at least it's the weekend.
Image: http://blog.sellsiusrealestate.com/wp-content/complaint1.jpg
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Tea for 200, olives for 2000
Mr Zeus calls me a monkey. He means it affectionately though and I can't really argue seeing as I enjoy mindless monkey-see-monkey-do tasks.
At the moment it is olive harvest season in Greece which means we have our work cut out for us. Most blocks of flats have a couple of olive trees growing outside which belong to the family that owns the flats. This year has been a bumper crop.
When you collect olives for oil, like I did last year, you basically bash at them with a kind of wide-tooth mini rake to untangle them off the branches, which was not all that tiring because it was just like my average hairwash, all that hacking and untangling and cramps in your arms.
At the moment it is olive harvest season in Greece which means we have our work cut out for us. Most blocks of flats have a couple of olive trees growing outside which belong to the family that owns the flats. This year has been a bumper crop.
When you collect olives for oil, like I did last year, you basically bash at them with a kind of wide-tooth mini rake to untangle them off the branches, which was not all that tiring because it was just like my average hairwash, all that hacking and untangling and cramps in your arms.
Oil olives can get bashed to bits and it doesn't matter because they're going to get squashed into oil anyway. Table olives are a different matter and require collecting by hand to preserve their form. You can either do this by giving your trees a trim and collecting the olives off the fallen branches or make like a monkey and perch in the branches with a plastic bag slung over one wrist.
We've ended up with a lot of really nice, fat olives. And seeing as each day I have a few hours to kill before work, processing these thousands of olives is my happy task. I must wash them then make a slit in the side of each one, with a blade not a knife, then drop them in giant plastic vats of water where they will stew for a week or two before they get a water change and salt and vinegar pickling solution.
I quite enjoy the mindless repetition of the job. It takes my mind off things. For those of your who are curious, take it from me that there is no such thing as a fresh table olive. I didn’t believe Mr Zeus when he told me you had to pickle olives to eat them and boy did I learn my lesson when I took a bite out of an olive fresh off the tree.
At the moment I am sipping on a hot cup of ceylon tea which I bought from a Lebanese shop downtown after my own supply of cardamom flavoured tea ran dry. As I’m starting to get used to finer tastes in life, I’ve become snobbish about my tea after learning that teabags are made of what is basically the dust of tea leaves left at the bottom of the barrel.
“How ghastly!” I thought, and switched to whole leaf tea. I bought myself a kilo of Canary Island Birds Sri Lankan orange pekoe tea. A whole kilo. It was either the whole kilo or a tiny box that looked like it would last a week, they seem to have no in between. So pop around folks, I’ll put the kettle on and you can help me with my olives.
By the way if you don't have your own olive tree, I am told that the trees in the local squares don't belong to anyone, but don't take my word for that. You could always just relieve me of some of mine.
Monday, November 19, 2007
She's STILL talking about her appetite...
When a religious person fears she is losing her faith, she probably takes comfort in dreaming about God.
As my appetite continues to come back in fits and starts, on Saturday night I dreamt of my favourite food critic and one of my favourite writers, Adrian A Gill.
I love A A Gill. I love the way he writes. I love how he makes or breaks careers with his reviews. I love how all the top restaurants in London have his picture pinned up in the kitchen by way of warning – be careful if this customer shows up. His passion for words easily surpasses his passion for food. He loathes Greek cooking, and would probably not talk to me at all purely because I now live in Athens. Maybe he’s a complete monster in real life and would kick me into the path of oncoming traffic without a second thought if I dared approach him, but I *love* him.
In the dream we were in some restaurant or other and I had somehow twisted his arm into having lunch with me. Him, a well-heeled journalist who writes for the Times on a salary of £300,000+ about what he ate; me a literary nobody. Having lunch at the same table. It could only happen in a dream.
Seeing as I was dining with the Godfather of gastronomic choice, I probably should have asked him what to do about my ailing food mojo, but I didn’t. Still, waking from that dream was inspiration enough, a sign of sorts. A A Gill had come to me in a dream and we had had lunch together. That’s got to mean something positive.
As my appetite continues to come back in fits and starts, on Saturday night I dreamt of my favourite food critic and one of my favourite writers, Adrian A Gill.
I love A A Gill. I love the way he writes. I love how he makes or breaks careers with his reviews. I love how all the top restaurants in London have his picture pinned up in the kitchen by way of warning – be careful if this customer shows up. His passion for words easily surpasses his passion for food. He loathes Greek cooking, and would probably not talk to me at all purely because I now live in Athens. Maybe he’s a complete monster in real life and would kick me into the path of oncoming traffic without a second thought if I dared approach him, but I *love* him.
In the dream we were in some restaurant or other and I had somehow twisted his arm into having lunch with me. Him, a well-heeled journalist who writes for the Times on a salary of £300,000+ about what he ate; me a literary nobody. Having lunch at the same table. It could only happen in a dream.
Seeing as I was dining with the Godfather of gastronomic choice, I probably should have asked him what to do about my ailing food mojo, but I didn’t. Still, waking from that dream was inspiration enough, a sign of sorts. A A Gill had come to me in a dream and we had had lunch together. That’s got to mean something positive.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Cubanita, Negrita, Morena
The other night I went to this place which was doing or at least attempting to do a Cuba night and it brought back some sweet memories.
At university, there was a bar I would go to every Tuesday night without fail because Tuesdays was their international night where they played music from all over the world. I would arrive early to get in for free and not leave till they closed at 2 am. And I danced from the moment I stepped in till I left. This place was Bar Cuba in Cardiff, and I adored it for the music and dancing, despite its sticky floor and questionable clientele.
Random strangers on the street would stop and say "Hey, Cuba girl, are you coming tonight?" and I would say "Yeah of course, I have no idea who you are but sure I'll be there, where else would I be!" Twice I went there the night before a final exam, studying all day and then figuring I might as well let some exam stress out by partying. I earned various nicknames as titled in this post. I was an addict.
Sometimes in Athens I will hear a song that was a regular number at Bar Cuba and it will take me right back to those nights with my best girlfriends dancing like there was no tomorrow. Trying to run up the stairs to the DJ booth without getting groped to request songs, battling to the bar to ask for glass after glass of water; three years and that place made next to no money from me except for the times when I was late and couldn’t get in for free, in which case I would set my watch back 5 minutes and argue fruitlessly with the bouncer that it was still before 10.
Happy, unforgettable days, the glory days. By the time I graduated Bar Cuba had started to lose its shine. The once cute DJ Michael’s hot bod had started to fill out and not that I’m still stalking him or anything, but I found out recently that he left there to move back to London. Ahem.
Sometimes I throw together a mix for my mp3 player and realise it's made up entirely of Bar Cuba classics. It’s been tough picking a mix to reflect these days, but here are some favourites to share in a memory:
Click here
At university, there was a bar I would go to every Tuesday night without fail because Tuesdays was their international night where they played music from all over the world. I would arrive early to get in for free and not leave till they closed at 2 am. And I danced from the moment I stepped in till I left. This place was Bar Cuba in Cardiff, and I adored it for the music and dancing, despite its sticky floor and questionable clientele.
Random strangers on the street would stop and say "Hey, Cuba girl, are you coming tonight?" and I would say "Yeah of course, I have no idea who you are but sure I'll be there, where else would I be!" Twice I went there the night before a final exam, studying all day and then figuring I might as well let some exam stress out by partying. I earned various nicknames as titled in this post. I was an addict.
Sometimes in Athens I will hear a song that was a regular number at Bar Cuba and it will take me right back to those nights with my best girlfriends dancing like there was no tomorrow. Trying to run up the stairs to the DJ booth without getting groped to request songs, battling to the bar to ask for glass after glass of water; three years and that place made next to no money from me except for the times when I was late and couldn’t get in for free, in which case I would set my watch back 5 minutes and argue fruitlessly with the bouncer that it was still before 10.
Happy, unforgettable days, the glory days. By the time I graduated Bar Cuba had started to lose its shine. The once cute DJ Michael’s hot bod had started to fill out and not that I’m still stalking him or anything, but I found out recently that he left there to move back to London. Ahem.
Sometimes I throw together a mix for my mp3 player and realise it's made up entirely of Bar Cuba classics. It’s been tough picking a mix to reflect these days, but here are some favourites to share in a memory:
Click here
Here
And here
Ps: my food mojo is still not back. Damn.
And here
Ps: my food mojo is still not back. Damn.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Sudden Loss of Appetite
This time when I went to the UK something was Not Right. I'm fed up travelling because I have to do it so often, but I can usually enjoy my trips for two things 1) family and friends 2) sharing food with family and friends.
One was present in abundance, but two just didn't capture my imagination, and I can usually not get enough of London's international cuisine. Usually I plan in advance that this time I would like to try so and so cuisine from that country, look up the restaurants and go armed with this info to innocent coffees with friends before casually asking if anyone's hungry because I've heard of this great place etc. etc.
I usually love food, revel in its complex flavours and soak up the love I can taste in my mother's cooking. But this time, nothing. Zip. Somewhere along the road I lost my food mojo. I got hungry, starving even, but had no appetite. There was nothing that came to mind as in "If I could eat that I would be satisfied." Whatever I thought of I sought out, and when I got it I didn't want it.
My mother was beside herself as if you know me, you know what a freakishly healthy appetite I usually have and also that I can't exactly afford to lose any weight. But what could I do? Nothing brought my appetite back, and so I ate literally enough to keep me going but whatever I put into my mouth might as well have been cardboard. Was I missing Mr Zeus too much to eat? I don't know, this has never happened before.
My relationship with food seriously soured, and I have yet to get it back. Yesterday after a third day of feeling like death I decided I couldn't be complacent any longer. I love food too much and if I lost my passion for food, what would follow next? I lead so heavily with my stomach that pretty much everything else branches off from that.
Being in a patient mood, I opted to take things slowly. We were low on ground pepper so I raided the spice cupboard and sniffed various jars along the way. There is cardamom that reminds me of festivals, tangy smelling paprika from Tunisia, heady fenugreek seeds, chilli powder that gives off a scent like it was sleeping and is mad that you woke it up. I poured black peppercorns into the pestle and mortar and pounded away, enjoying the peppery, lemony aroma.
The flat sort of turns into a bachelor pad when I am away so I tried to find something I could eat, something that would capture my imagination. I spied two forsaken oranges on the counter top and inspiration struck. What better way to kick start my depressed taste buds than a sweet orange eaten Home Country style with chilli powder and salt?
It never occurred to me how weird it was to put chilli powder and salt over your fruit until I left the Home Country. But there it's the most normal thing in the world. Our mother would set us off to the fruit market with an empty jug where we would get a man to fill it up with freshly squeezed oranges, finishing it off with a dash of salt and pepper.
My little experiment did help somewhat, and when Mr Zeus came home we jumped in the car and headed to the local fruit and vegetable shop. There I bought a colourful combination and decided to try something new. I bought three large quinces (kudoni). I’ve never eaten quince before but after reading Pim’s blog I thought since it was the season, and I needed my gastronomic fires relit, trying something totally new might be helpful.
Anyway today I have some colour back in my cheeks so I don’t think all is lost. My food mojo should be returning soon and in the meantime I will keep tasting, sniffing, combining and inventing. Of course it does help that Mr Zeus is a ridiculously good cook.
One was present in abundance, but two just didn't capture my imagination, and I can usually not get enough of London's international cuisine. Usually I plan in advance that this time I would like to try so and so cuisine from that country, look up the restaurants and go armed with this info to innocent coffees with friends before casually asking if anyone's hungry because I've heard of this great place etc. etc.
I usually love food, revel in its complex flavours and soak up the love I can taste in my mother's cooking. But this time, nothing. Zip. Somewhere along the road I lost my food mojo. I got hungry, starving even, but had no appetite. There was nothing that came to mind as in "If I could eat that I would be satisfied." Whatever I thought of I sought out, and when I got it I didn't want it.
My mother was beside herself as if you know me, you know what a freakishly healthy appetite I usually have and also that I can't exactly afford to lose any weight. But what could I do? Nothing brought my appetite back, and so I ate literally enough to keep me going but whatever I put into my mouth might as well have been cardboard. Was I missing Mr Zeus too much to eat? I don't know, this has never happened before.
My relationship with food seriously soured, and I have yet to get it back. Yesterday after a third day of feeling like death I decided I couldn't be complacent any longer. I love food too much and if I lost my passion for food, what would follow next? I lead so heavily with my stomach that pretty much everything else branches off from that.
Being in a patient mood, I opted to take things slowly. We were low on ground pepper so I raided the spice cupboard and sniffed various jars along the way. There is cardamom that reminds me of festivals, tangy smelling paprika from Tunisia, heady fenugreek seeds, chilli powder that gives off a scent like it was sleeping and is mad that you woke it up. I poured black peppercorns into the pestle and mortar and pounded away, enjoying the peppery, lemony aroma.
The flat sort of turns into a bachelor pad when I am away so I tried to find something I could eat, something that would capture my imagination. I spied two forsaken oranges on the counter top and inspiration struck. What better way to kick start my depressed taste buds than a sweet orange eaten Home Country style with chilli powder and salt?
It never occurred to me how weird it was to put chilli powder and salt over your fruit until I left the Home Country. But there it's the most normal thing in the world. Our mother would set us off to the fruit market with an empty jug where we would get a man to fill it up with freshly squeezed oranges, finishing it off with a dash of salt and pepper.
My little experiment did help somewhat, and when Mr Zeus came home we jumped in the car and headed to the local fruit and vegetable shop. There I bought a colourful combination and decided to try something new. I bought three large quinces (kudoni). I’ve never eaten quince before but after reading Pim’s blog I thought since it was the season, and I needed my gastronomic fires relit, trying something totally new might be helpful.
Anyway today I have some colour back in my cheeks so I don’t think all is lost. My food mojo should be returning soon and in the meantime I will keep tasting, sniffing, combining and inventing. Of course it does help that Mr Zeus is a ridiculously good cook.
Monday, November 12, 2007
What Not To Wear
Correct me if I'm wrong but Greeks don't like rules and they don't like order. The exact opposite of the Swiss, so it's always fun to travel to Greece with Swiss airlines.
Yesterday I was in transit in Zurich surrounded by Greeks when the boarding call went out. We'd like to invite passengers seated in rows 26 to 35 to board first. My seat was 31A. All the Greeks got up and everyone tried to board at the same time, because like I said they don't like such rules, and such behaviour is called ellinares by Mr Zeus. The comic quality of this can only be appreciated in Switzerland, where the Greeks won't listen and the Swiss are too polite to say no your seat is 5F, I said rows 26 to 35, get out of the queue until you're called. So everyone was trying to board at the same time. Ha ha!
I noticed that I was almost dressed like a Greek girl on a journey, but I say almost. All was in order until you got to my feet. I tend to travel in trainers/sneakers/sports shoes. Sometimes I toy with the idea of boots or heels, but I abandon it in favour of comfort. In all my travels I have NEVER seen a Greek girl travel in trainers. It's like they'll die, but they won't travel in trainers. Actually I lie, once or twice I did see a Greek girl in trainers but she was usually a sporty type. The shoes you travel in are practically a second passport. Hey, see that girl over there? Her skin tone is a little suspect, but she's dressed like an Ellinida. Hair, coat, bag, tight jeans, oh wait. No, she's xeni. Look at her shoes!
Taking my seat I wished I could tune out the buruburu around me. I was having a rotten day, the sort of day where you'd only be satisfied if you were the only person on the flight and Antonio Banderas in a sequined thong was your flight attendant.
Now that I can understand Greek, I find it hard to recall what it sounded like before. Every so often, though, I am reminded when someone says a word that I don't know. To understand how that feels, imagine you are listening to someone and they are saying how the weather yesterday was cjjebsuyk but not that terrible. Cjjebsuyk is just a sound, a collection of noises until someone explains it to you. And just like that, a noise becomes a word.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Bollybutton's Festival Friday Beatbox
Continuing my obnoxious efforts at multiculturalism in Greece, today all Hindus everywhere are celebrating the Festival of Light. And all non-Hindus like me are jumping on the bandwagon because well, we love an excuse for a party.
So here is a song from a very famous movie which is not all that ha ha hee hee, but I'm posting it for two reasons. In the movie, this is the last Festival of Light the family spend together before disownment strikes. And it showcases my favourite actor, Shah Rukh Khan, who I met yesterday, *heart*. Watching how short the actresses are next to him is kind of scary. He himself was shorter than I am, so these women must be pocket sized.
In a separate but unrelated incident, I passed my driving test this morning so here is a silly song which makes deliberate fun of 40s, 60s and 80s Bollywood, including a ridiculous 60s car scene. And they say Bollywood takes itself too seriously.
To the paranoid nationalists, I'm not trying to wipe your culture out. I know how much Greeks love to party and if you were more aware of the cultures living within your country, you'd have an excuse to party practically every other day of the week. Don't tell me being able to officially avoid half a year's work doesn't appeal to you, because I won't buy it.
Enjoy and keep the dream alive!
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Dreams and Realities
One of my all time favourite jobs was when I was an entertainment journalist years ago for a small newspaper in London. I loved going to press conferences, doing interviews and spending my nights walking along the queues outside clubs and restaurants and saying to security, "Bollybutton plus 1, I'm on the Media List." The job was a dream, but the crap money was only out-crapped by the chief editor who withheld all my bylines.
This afternoon I got to attend a press conference after years and years for the first ever world premier of a Bollywood film in London, and I got to meet one of my favourite stars. When I say meet, I mean I was within touching distance of him. Actually, he walked right past me and I could have sat on his lap in the moments before everyone else realised he was there, but I didn't. Professionalism and all that.
What struck me was just how short he is. How do they make these people look so tall in the movies? And why can press conferences never keep to the advertised time schedule? By the time they wrapped up, I was already an hour over my permitted one hour lunch break.
Tonight I was meant to go to the red carpet premier, but my co-conspirator was only able to secure one pass. So my question of what the deal is with Bollywood and curly haired girls (as in the lead is NEVER curly haired and the curly haired girl is always a home-wrecking seductress or the asexual friend) will go unanswered.
But it was a glimpse of a star and a glimpse of a really fun part of my past and that's enough for me for now. Besides, running across London, up and down tube station stairs and the adrenaline of pre-meeting-your-idol nerves and dealing with rude media types means I'm kind of deflated and my legs are killing me.
Hasn't moving to Greece cost me all that? Don't I wish I was still announcing myself on media lists and living my journalistic dream in London? No, because right now my life is exactly as it should be, and besides, where there's a will there's a way. No matter which turn I take in life, I can't let go of writing. And so I work to keep my dream alive, and up till now, it's going okay.
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