tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2986869732757635632024-03-05T01:26:24.450-08:00Sunshine Seeker Those who wander will never wonder. Christine St. Pierrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04534056966884462303noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298686973275763563.post-75299601325569107152013-10-01T01:11:00.004-07:002013-10-01T01:12:25.657-07:00Unmarked Roads: Adventures on a Greek Island <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Day-to-day life on Serifos was smooth, warm, and moved along at the pace of the sun. In the morning, I rose and made breakfast in the kitchenette, windows open, music wafting away in the breeze. Usually, breakfast involved pita, scrambled eggs, fresh tomatoes, fresher feta, and kalamata olives. Unpitted. Always. Then we would lazily meander to class at the taverna down the beach or, on days off, to town, hoping for an exciting excursion or a relaxing afternoon alone to gather writing material. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span">This little Greek bundle of cuteness (above) lived down the road, his home marking the corner which would take us either </span>into the hills or down to the blue and white port town of Livadi. This day, like many days, we would all walk to town for to decide between a sea kayaking excursion in the Aegean Sea, a four-wheeling adventure into small beach towns and abandoned mines on the island, or up and around the side of a mountain to our special place, the secret cove. The beauty of Serifos is that it was impossible to feel like a tourist--the nature of the island is to build community and live in peaceful solitude.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A mountain slowly rose along the edge of our cove, and on the other side of the mountain waited the secluded nudist cove I introduced in my last post. Over time, and a few hikes too late, we learned of this breezy, breathtaking path up and around the mountain, leading to the secret cove and eliminating the need to travel through the chaparral desert death ravine that we had frequented so many times before. Below, an epic ladies excursion begins. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After we arrived at the cove, we jumped our usual cliff (running start, slight angle to miss the jutting rock), swam across the cove, and wandered around the cliffs of ancient sea coral. Then we planned the next island excursion: another ATV road trip. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Above, Sarah, Hannah, and I rev the engines of our rundown rides, hopeful that they would last us throughout the day. We had until the sun went down to explore the island and certainly wasted none of our time. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We explored unfamiliar roads, passing by white stucco homes and rows of wild lavender, sage, and thyme, picking handfuls for dinner later that night. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After stopping at the top of one of the highest peaks we could find, we sat quietly, absorbing the energy of the island, the simplicity in its quiet, rugged aesthetic. Even the quiet had a noise--a low rumble, a mixture of heavy mountain winds and brisk sea breeze carving through the canyons. As we sat, we noticed beneath us, in the shadow of one mountain walked a herd of goats, one by one in line on their way back to the farm. Only after did we notice a shepherd walking behind them, staff in hand, quietly meandering through his mountainside. I could feel his hard work, his pride--his long robes told a tale of many generations of goat herder on the very mountain atop which we sat. It was a beautiful moment I'm sure none of us will lose track of in our memories. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so, onward we drove. Somehow, unmarked backroads led us to the same road that wound down the steep hill into Mega Livadi, the port town Scott had taken us to for our class outing. We sat at the same table on the beach, our feet in the sand, and listened to the waves slowly breaking on the shore.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unlike last time, this particular afternoon we were not alone. The precious Italian toddler in the photo below sat with his parents and a large group of friends or family at a table behind ours, having a boisterous, happy lunch filled with laughter and energetic conversation. For much of the meal I watched and listened to them, wrapped in each other, arms slung over shoulders, heads leaning against on heads, and pure human emotion radiating from their smiles. The bonds of friendship and family in European countries defy societal stereotypes that, in America, keep friends from being physically connected. Men will hug without underlying discomfort or shame, women will walk holding hands or wrapped in each other's arms--the best of friends enjoying each other's company. This group was no exception. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we watched this little one as he stood in awe at the waves coming in, his Poppa walked up next to him and knelt in the rocks. He began picking up rocks and skipping them across the choppy water. His son would laugh and jump up and down, urging him to throw rocks again and again. Finally, the little boy caught on to what his Poppa was doing and picked up a smooth, black rock from the beach. He raised his arm, pulled it back behind his shoulder, and sprung it forward. Then, he brought his hand back to his chest, opened his little fingers, and looked at the rock still in his hand, frustrated and confused as to why it too didn't go flying into the sea like his Poppa's had. He didn't understand to open his hand and let go of the rock in mid air. Eventually, after many failed attempts, he opened his hand and watched the rock fall right in front of his feet. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He looked at the ground, searching for his rock. He caught sight of it, and his expression changed--a smile broke across his face and he jumped up and down, laughing and cheering himself on. We all began clapping, so proud at his success! He might not have skipped any rocks, but he moved forward one baby step--or baby throw--at a time. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Myself, Alice, Hannah, and Sarah enjoying lunch on the beach. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How can anyone say no to this cake? Not eating dessert on a regular basis might have been my biggest challenge while living on this island. Tough life.</span> </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On our way back to town, the sun began to sink lower in the sky. As we drove along the mountaintops, we noticed that the surrounding fields grew increasingly burned, black and charred. After stopping to examine the ground, we concluded that a huge fire had blasted through the mountains, burning someone's old farmhouse; giant red onions were bulging from the blackened earth, having continued to grow beneath the earth's burnt crust even after the fire. At this point, the sun was really low in the sky, and the temperature on top of the mountain began to drop. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sarah and I agreed that we wanted to chase the sunset, hoping to head to the western side of the island just in time to catch the saturated orange star sinking below the horizon of the Aegean Sea, blazing in deep fuchsia and burnt orange, bright yellow with pastel hues; our cove was on the other end of the island and, unfortunately, the sun set on the opposite side of the mountain behind our bungalows, blocking its most magnificent moments. Hannah and Alice decided to head back to town, drop off their ATV, and meet everyone else for dinner, leaving Sarah and I on top of the mountain, happily gathering red onions. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After half of an hour meandering around the charred farmhouse remains, we made our way back to the ATV, hopped on, and turned the key--click, click, click--to no avail. We didn't panic. It happened so often, we practically felt like mechanical engineers, mastering the art of kicking the front of the ATV while simultaneously turning the key and jumping up and down on the kickstart. In the past, this trick had worked like a charm. But as the sun sank lower, we got colder, and our hopes turned to desperation as we realized we had waved off our friends, one of which had the only cell phone--our only way of contacting help. We tried reading the instructions on the side of the ATV but, heck, it was all Greek to us. So, we kept doing much of the same--kicking, jumping, yelling, turning, pushing, swearing--until we heard a little dirt bike put-putting its way along our road. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the bike neared, we saw that the old, electric blue clunker was being ridden by an old chubby man with along, white beard billowing past his shoulders and wearing a blueish-gray robe tied around his waste with rope. We flagged him down and I tried to explain what had happened, rambling in English between chattering teeth. He stared at me, then at Sarah, and all three of us realized we weren't going to be able to communicate. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"A-T-V... oh-hee no work-ing... kal-lah [motions the turning of a key and thrust of a kickstand] START?" I tried to communicate in broken Greeklish. He looked at the machine and shook his head. Then he swung his leg around the seat, pulled a lever in the center console, kicked the starter, and just like that, the engine coughed and gargled and begins to rumble. Sarah and I jumped at each other, hollering and shouting while gravitating to the old man, hugging him and thanking him all at once. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Ohxi, ohxi!" The old man begged, pulling his arms up across his chest, refusing to hug us. We stepped back and looked at him, confused. He pointed down the hill toward a twinkling town off in the distance. "Livadakia, you?" He asked. We shook our heads yes, and he motioned for us to follow him down. Clearly, we were two lost travelers who didn't know what we were getting ourselves into, and he made sure that we at least got off the mountain safe and sound. We pulled onto the gravel road and slowly followed his electric blue dirt bike to town. Once there, he waved us off, and we hung a sharp left, darting up the western mountains as fast as we could to catch what was left of the sunset. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Later, we told our mentor Scott about our mystery hero atop the mountain. "You <i>hugged</i> him?" He asked, with a smirk. "That's the Orthodox Priest who lives at the Hora. Wearing a robe tied together with a rope?" We nod. He laughs. "He was saying <i>'No, no!' </i>because he didn't want you to hug him--he's not supposed to touch women! Instead, you kiss your hand, touch it to the ground, then raise your to his!")</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sunset wasn't difficult to chase. We climbed a string of steep, winding roads until we landed on the top of a low-lying mountain with a deep inlet far below and to the left, hiding another secret beach we had yet to find and explore. We were driving down the driveway toward a farmhouse with a few befuddled boys standing on their porch, probably wondering what we were doing in their neighborhood.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We drove past, smiling and waving, our eyes on the perfect peak lying about a mile in front of us. That was the sunset spot, and we weren't going to stop until we got there. When the road ended we left the ATV and began on foot, walking along a wall of rocks stacked about three feet high. On the other side of this wall, a mule had been grazing and we noticed her just as she noticed us. She raised her head from the dry grass, curiously watching us from the other side of the rock wall. The legs on her right side were tied tightly together with coarse rope, the same way many herds of goat and sheep were tied. Apparently, it prevents the livestock from escaping the property, but from my perspective, it was inhumane. The rope was much shorter than their actual leg span, so the two tied legs were cinched close to each other. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mulan wobbled over to us, her large ears flicking forward, then to the side, then slightly back, unsure of what to think. I clucked to her the same way I would cluck to my horse, Leo, and she creeped closer, holding her nose out to catch our scent, smelling our energy and deciding whether or not we were safe to encounter. I held out my hand and her soft muzzle met my palm. She rested her head in my hands and then reached her nose out toward my mouth. I breathed in her flaring nostrils, two short breaks and one long one; in herds of horses, breathing into the nostrils is a commonly used form of communication, and the younger, submissive horses use a pattern of two short breaths and one long to passively accept the other's dominance. Mulan accepted us, and we her, and the three of us became good friends.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Walking along the stone wall, we carefully tiptoed around the prickly chaparral brush and, Mulan at our side, watched the giant sun set the sea ablaze with color for the first and last time on the island.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One round of ATV adventures later, we became the stranded victims of mechanical difficulties once again. Fortunately, I wasn't on top of a mountain without a phone this time. We had become stranded along one of the island's rocky coasts with a beautiful view of Sifnos, a smaller island in the distance (above).</span> </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">JT (above), the resident Mr. Fix-it, tried the beloved kick-jump start trick to no avail. After a few unsuccessful phone calls and a few hours of sunbathing, our boredom got the best of us curious adventurers. Although Meredith (below) was getting some serious tanning checked off the bucket list, we decided it was time for yet another epic adventure, so we left the ATV's behind to think about what they had done and took to the roadside cliffs to see what kind of fun awaited. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It didn't take long for us to find something to explore; a gentle, rocky slope degraded from the coastal side of the road and led to mouth of a large, abandoned cave. The cave was used for the mining of iron-ore, once the island's main export and source of revenue. These caves also reflect beliefs in Greek mythology--the Cyclopes were said to have lived in these caves, mining iron to create the famous lightning bolts used by Zeus. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The exposed iron-ore along the walls of the cave created beautiful splashes of blue, burnt orange, burgundy, and green hues in the rock. We entered with caution, unsure of how the ground would hold up. The drop-off to the left of our group plunged into a seemingly dark, endless abyss, with shallow ledges along the wall disappearing into the depths. I assume men used these ledges to mine deep into the abyss, probably connecting them with ladders. The ingenuity and strength of the islanders astounded me; I so badly wanted to travel back into the cave, curious as to how far their courage led them, but we were quickly distracted by a breathtaking view just behind us. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The mine went far back, deep into the rock wall, but it also went along the side of the cliff, with window-like holes (below) and beautiful rock pillars offering views of the blue sea. As I stood there, I imagined men and donkeys hauling bags of minerals hundreds of decades ago, and felt a wave of humility and honor to be in a place with such history and importance. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The inside of the cave led around an inlet in the island's wall that was otherwise inaccessible, opening up a playground of cliffs, caves, waterfalls, slides, and crystals--all naturally occurring--just waiting to be admired. So, after absorbing all that we could of the incredible energy inside the abandoned mine, we left the darkness and walked into the sunshine. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just outside the cave openings were incredible van-sized boulders of quartz, marble, and other crystals, crammed together by hundreds thousands of years of history. These crystallized rock formations are incredible examples of the natural wealth to be found in Greece. The photographs do not do these giant crystals justice--I was standing on top of the formation above!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The opening of the cave led to an incredible grotto, hidden very low along the side of a tall, rocky island's edge. In the photo above, you can see me with a red bandana near the top left climbing a staircase of sea coral, while Hannah and Sarah stand at just in front of the mouth of yet another cave, along a tide pool that creates gentle waterfalls as the waves pull back into the sea. We found these cliffs worthy of jumping and swam, smiles beaming from ear-to-ear, along the wavy coastline. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of the caves along the island's cliffs were partially submerged by crystal clear tide pools during the day. At night, the moon draws the water level higher, and these caves become alive with creatures swimming the dark seas. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An old stone pillar, or even a dilapidated wall, acted as reinforcement for the cliff walls.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we ascended up the hill to meet our valiant ATV mechanic, I stopped to admire the stone wall and abandoned mine, the cliffside playground, and centuries of history we were leaving behind. Life gives us opportunities to learn about ourselves in the most elusive ways; an afternoon that, to some, would be considered a failure, sending them back to the hotel pool and an early dinner, sent us on a seemingly pointless quest that uncovered secrets of the island's history. Always true in life (and no exception to this situation) is the old saying: the raft is the shore.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Many homes on the island were built one story at a time, often appearing unfinished, with jagged cable wires stemming from the four corners to allow for additional levels to be built as the family grew larger. Unlike what I've seen of much of America, in Greece families are not only incredibly tight-knit, but they are so involved with each other's lives they often live in the same home. In a community as small as the one on Serifos, though, it seemed that everyone was considered family. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The view from the roads leading back to our cove of Livadakia was incredible, with saturated fall colors and low-lying clouds that threaten gloomy weather, overpowered by the bright blue sea and sky off in the distance. Clouds appeared to hover over the island as if suspended by fishing wire, bouncing atop the sea breeze like cotton balls in the wind. Serifos seemed simultaneously vast and condensed, expansive and just one short drive from end to end. Depth was blurred by a lack of trees and the magnificence of the quiet landscape. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Hora is a beacon overlooking Livadi, the port town along Livadakia beach where we lived. At the top of the highest visible peak from our bungalows, the Hora is an incredible maze of stucco homes, artisan craft shops, and breezy tavernas connected by narrow stairways decorated with vibrant patterns of tile. At night, the restaurants come alive with dinners lasting from early evening until late into the night; friends and family would gather, slowly dine, and drink to the good life, one of happiness, humility, and Greece. </span></div>
Christine St. Pierrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04534056966884462303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298686973275763563.post-41383618256932467942013-09-20T19:44:00.000-07:002013-09-20T19:46:24.692-07:00Strata<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our goodbye
was cold and thin. Looking at him, seeing his lake-eyes frozen over, I glimpsed
distant life beneath their ice barrier. The closure of winter had allowed the
congealed blue beneath his lids to thaw. The sun warmed my shoulders, beads of
sweat, tears, something, dripped from his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the awakened water fish swam between moss and sea grass, rocking back and
forth with the moving tide. The season changed, and there we stood.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wiped the
sweat off his brow and looked away, eyes squinting from the intensity of the
summer’s sun. The escapade that was once our love and lust had grown old and
disillusioned. We stood facing each other, arms dangling like the morning’s
catch strung along the lakeshore. Words ran in terror from my panic. Afraid to look
again into his eyes, I turned away from him and toward my car. The suitcases
were stacked so that I couldn’t see out the passenger windows. I took one last
look at him, burning the image in my memory. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turned
the ignition, and in an instant the roar of the car filled me with excitement.
The gravel under my wheels soothed me, calmed me. I tried to see above the
suitcases for a final glance, but the baggage was stacked too high. Not even
the scolding afternoon sunlight could reach me through that barrier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The car
drove; I was gone. The plane flew; I had arrived.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Athens is a
city atop a city, each stratum representing an era, pressed into hidden layers.
The layers of rock press upon each other, laying to rest centuries of history,
some organic, some ethnographic, but all holding lost dwellings and ancient
artifacts. Athens is a city folded over on itself generation after generation,
and again. Ancient catacombs and underground passages loom beneath the weight
and rattle of Metro trains charging down the tracks. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Greek
language itself—spread out in stratigraphy, replaced by a more modern tongue—is
impossible to understand fully without grasping its technical gradation.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>Understanding the symbols allows one to
read the word. Speaking the word allows one to suspect the word’s meaning.
Glimpsing the word’s meaning allows one to communicate and acclimate, to feel
more comfortable waltzing these streets in a dreamlike state, skimming atop
layers of history folded in the fallen cities underfoot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had
believed that I understood his language, had known his depths. I had traced
every groove of his abdomen, the ridge of his brow, the way his eyelash rested
upon his cheek while he slept. I knew his face on the cusp of laughter; I knew
when he was repressing his words, frustration hardening around his eyes, his
mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
cosmetic dispositions were both our form of communication and of concealment,
leaving unexposed what was internal, secret, buried.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never really knew him at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not see the catacombs of his past
alongside a pair of metro tracks. I could not apprehend his language. I could
try to read it, I could speak it, but I could not communicate, acclimate. I was
a foreigner in a place that—for some time—I had mistaken for home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Athens was
home to me only briefly, just long enough for a mosquito bite to itch terribly
and fade away, long enough for a bruise to throb and dissipate into yellow,
then nothing. Peeling back the layers of Athens—beneath the buildings lined
with graffiti, the gutters home to unloved cats, abandoned dogs, the tracks of
the metro, the ancient ruins of other worlds so far from us now, the layers of
sediment and rock—I found the sea. I found the sea and the ferry that
shepherded me across its vast expanse of deep blue might. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As the
ferry left the Athens port I felt unburdened. The coast faded and the seawater
attainted a darker shade of blue; from the deck I saw Athens behind my wake,
apologizing for nothing and wishing me the best of luck. My adventure had resurrected
and new life awaited me in Serifos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The sea was
so open, directionless—the cluster and stress of Athens, and of my
relationship, were far behind me now. The ferry rumbled powerfully underfoot.
Revitalization was no longer a mere craving but a reality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leaving was
easy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He would
still exist without my being near, waiting for me, thinking of me, but I
desired nothing he had to offer. A sea away, a street away, a table away, from
across the crowd. He is gone, near or far. I cannot see him now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The hole I
dug for myself sank deeper and deeper, its slippery mud walls melting under my
hands as I clawed and clung. I could see the oval opening high above my head
where the sun awaited me and clouds passed—the way out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a
while, he and I dug together, slaving and sweating over rusted shovels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now my hands blistered under the burden of a
chore meant for two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ferry’s
strident horn roused me from my ocean deep sleep and drew me to the surface of
what I assumed to be a coast. My confusion and panic from that startling
transition soon turned to disbelief when I looked to see the port town
spinning. Our boat was turning a tight rotation, backing up to the pier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had
arrived at Serifos, a place where even the Greek gods and heroes sought refuge
and calm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I watched
the ferry’s massive door slowly open; light flooded in through the expanding
gap, vanquishing darkness. The sun, setting over the surrounding mountains,
illuminated white homes coating the tiers of the town before me, and the
lapping waves at my side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reptilian,
I stood in the sun, shedding misconceptions, memories, and persuasions from
layer after brittle layer of my obsolete skin. My desire to observe the organs
of the island—its functions and expectations, the darkness of the mines—seems
pointless and flat. The caves of the Cyclops are empty, holding only echoes,
myths, unanswerable questions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I felt the
urge to rise from the depths and reach the summit of those unwavering
mountains, out of my mind and my loneliness, to see the island from a
perspective of panorama. From such great heights, perhaps, I would understand
the island and the culture that started at the bottom of the sea and slowly
grew—over thousands upon thousands of years—to become paradise. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For so
long, I had wondered how a life of dreams came to be, how illusion could become
so believable—living from season to season, job to job, face to face, stacking
blocks of adventures, lovers, tales, destinations until they spell “bliss.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Luck?</i> He would say. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is not luck; it is life. You simply have to live it.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My climb
would begin the next evening as the sun began dropping from its highest point
in the barren sky. What began as a simple hike became a vision quest.<u> <o:p></o:p></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The initial
physical demands of the hike were more than I had anticipated. My calves ached,
and my chest burned. The throbbing in my head synched with the beating of my
heart as sweat pumped from my pores. Clustered homes in the town kept any
breath of wind from cooling me down. My consciousness grew faint. Already, the
water I had chilled for the climb had become too warm to drink, teasing my
unquenchable thirst. Catching what was left of my breath for only a moment I
ascended with weary determination. Finally, I tapped into the breeze. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ahead of me
sprawled a narrow dirt road tracing through humble farms between two mountains
speckled with black and white goats. The road seemed seldom traveled. I
followed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I neared
goat pens divided by stone walls that wended up the mountains, the coast that
was once invisible turned the distant horizon a profoundly deep blue. Around
me, sprawling fields yielded to mountains, the green and deep purple of the
sharp brush looking lush and inviting. The stone-walled tributaries trickled
from their source at the farms to the mountains’ peaks, sustaining goats big
and small, motley and white, each with its legs tethered to prevent escape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stopped
to watch the goats and pity their shackled imprisonment. My gaze followed the
clumsy footsteps of a bleating kid under the tie’s restraint. The kid
struggled, moving awkwardly to catch up with its herd. The kid’s mother turned
to it, catching my eye, and I glimpsed a sliver of blue water behind her.
Enchanted, I craned my neck for a clearer view. There awaited the cove. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I ran
from one illusion to another, I must have known, must have hoped, this day
would find me—the day that control and courage and freedom would be mine to
manipulate. I had wanted for so long the end of the endless rehearsals—curtains
drawn, take a bow, applause. The years we spent in between bliss and hatred had
amounted to a question mark, a furrowed brow, pursed lips. I was the girl who
cried wolf, who cried <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please, don’t go</i>,
who cried into a pillow, who cried for help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let go.
Don’t look into his lake-blue eyes as they fill with brackish water. Go to it.
Don’t listen to his interjections of promise and blame. Descend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b>Nestled between towering walls
of prehistoric rock, the inlet seemed small and very far away. I stopped to
feel the wind that once carried Paris to Helen and guided Apollo and his steeds
across the sky. Now, I felt the desire to abandon my journey and return to the
depths. The purpose of my vision quest had appeared below me from the great
height I had struggled to climb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I began my
descent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was
no real path to the cove; it had been a figment of my hopeful imagination. I
desired a path, something to follow—safety; but my route was a maze among
thorny scrub and towers of rock. I scrambled and leapt, trekking over unstable
ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Regardless,
I kept a fiery determination to reach the cove. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
challenge was convincing myself to get here, to leave him. That descent, too,
had appeared dangerous and risky. I knew I would scrape my knees, pick up the
phone, bike past his home. I would wish I hadn’t begun, I would want to go back
and lie next to him once again, to watch his chest rise and fall, to wonder
what he was dreaming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Surrender
would be so easy. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baby, I love you. I’m
sorry, I was being dramatic.</i> The fault would be mine and he would be mine
and I would bow my head in shame, my heart and my pride retreating once again
to the unlit depths of my chest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I
scrambled, I turned often to admire the distance I had traveled, distracting
myself from the hike back up the mountain to the road and my race with the
ever-descending sun. It was hot. I was exhausted. At times I wanted to turn
back, filling my hazy mind with doubts—the terrain is too rough, I will drown
and no one will find me, the cove doesn’t exist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But the
cove did exist and was my constant motivation, its blue water, arctic and
electric, its scale so small in comparison to the surrounding mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally,
the land became milder, and the relief of reaching the gentle cove overcame me.
The rocks between the bushes became smoother, softer, gradually forming a
beach. I arrived. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The water
was energizing and welcoming. I splashed in celebration, feeling the embrace of
the sea. Overheated and exhausted, I repeatedly submerged myself in the cove’s
water, my entire body tingling, expelling the heat and weariness from each
pore, expelling the stresses and worries and burdens from before. Floating on
my back I let the Aegean’s sympathetic wake carry me, catching glimpses of the
path I chose to climb down, bobbing, water splashing into my eyes and nostrils.
The water flooded into my ears and all became quiet. I could hear the steady
heaving of my lungs and the throb, throb, throb of my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rejuvenation!
Celebration! The tether and rusted shovel slowly fell into my hole’s darkness alongside
boxes of hatred, memories, and denial, until I could no longer see them, could
not even hear them hit the bottom. Behold, life! New life, familiar life, game
nights and passing joints and rosy cheeks. The tomatoes tasted like red, the
sidewalks didn’t end, and the faces of my friends became familiar. I understood
their jokes and their existence. The raft was, again, the shore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My knees
stung, the pain was wonderful. My eyes dried in the shining sun. From inside me
a curious itch bleated through my lips—laughter. At that moment, I couldn’t
remember his face at all.</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman Italic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Christine St. Pierrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04534056966884462303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298686973275763563.post-41750007270792125262013-09-12T11:05:00.000-07:002013-09-12T11:05:01.839-07:00Σ'αγαπώ Serifos: Island Life in the Aegean Sea<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EzJUbcnA1Wx1gY4ZWSTcn1kK4VaJOigJVkjzYPcJBRNNsjqhe04PdSmbMNaY7bdtYMRVMZGxRbYJKiNNzydvjAdZOgwMKE35EpvcoAT8H-4bAMoPTcvvv-6dMuPISTjiZWVIcuy3E7yr/s1600/1291479925745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7EzJUbcnA1Wx1gY4ZWSTcn1kK4VaJOigJVkjzYPcJBRNNsjqhe04PdSmbMNaY7bdtYMRVMZGxRbYJKiNNzydvjAdZOgwMKE35EpvcoAT8H-4bAMoPTcvvv-6dMuPISTjiZWVIcuy3E7yr/s400/1291479925745.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After only a few short weeks in Athens, we creative writers switched gears and headed for slightly different terrain. Swimsuits, sun hats, and flip flops took precedent over walking shoes and theft-proof backpacks as we prepared for island life on Serifos, the simple and secluded Greek island of the Cyclades nestled in the Aegean Sea.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just before leaving Athens for the island, we learned a lesson often preached about being overly cautious while abroad with important items like passports, money, other forms of identification, and bank cards.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Molly and Katie (below) were just two of many in our crew who were robbed while riding public transit to the ferry terminals. Both had bags that did not fully close at the top, while others in our group had wallets removed from zipped pockets, money removed from the wallet, and the wallet replaced in the backpack, pocket zipped tight. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOXGiSupOKtaIDuwX8yle3P8N_4rkR0FL9p64C2ZIjFznKpAnKiaW9U1jnu27jre950Hurml6cTUrN6_BxMni4GdaWEeoeavDyYQv-9cAxZgoUtSlA7Frwxak-A_DyP4a9_qeWm3ZhfRo/s1600/29309_1315706815316_1622665_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOXGiSupOKtaIDuwX8yle3P8N_4rkR0FL9p64C2ZIjFznKpAnKiaW9U1jnu27jre950Hurml6cTUrN6_BxMni4GdaWEeoeavDyYQv-9cAxZgoUtSlA7Frwxak-A_DyP4a9_qeWm3ZhfRo/s400/29309_1315706815316_1622665_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Often, theft is performed by children. The scenario plays out as follows: a parent and two small children ride public transit, standing arm-to-arm in jam-packed train cars or buses. One child will create a scene--tantrums, tears, etc.--that diverts attention from child #2, who then slips through the train car, thieving money and other important items. They hit the jackpot with our crew, naive to the thought of theft. We all learned a great deal that day, including the headache and difficulty of replacing passports, ID's, and bank cards while abroad. Make paper copies of <i>anything</i> important and carry them in separate, secure places, friends!</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9GwiZbRhWEEHp_G02yZXUWGWo45E_2QKGZUFkjZ2JkHn7c9tAQRUJZvYMyY8_Vl3vbTDYrOCrfEVnYAnmcfxc3QXcyCBmSWplBNTRIwMOEx56Fv4FzJohLwSQSBdeTlG9nLO64wJZvae/s1600/29309_1315707335329_1315993_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP9GwiZbRhWEEHp_G02yZXUWGWo45E_2QKGZUFkjZ2JkHn7c9tAQRUJZvYMyY8_Vl3vbTDYrOCrfEVnYAnmcfxc3QXcyCBmSWplBNTRIwMOEx56Fv4FzJohLwSQSBdeTlG9nLO64wJZvae/s400/29309_1315707335329_1315993_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After our little theft fiasco, we were more than ready to board the boat and disappear into the Greek coast's blue and white horizon. </span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguQBTw7zoU9gIMQfAOgIvBDX7bHDK3o1g451RU2QTcq1_yjtnDtWLST7Lq1nMYO5DCBKSRKCc_QEy1osBqWbG-KKZ5dVU7ESaDcHAHbhEwhaTXQpHmSGghXz_l0d5p8FUZadZ3js-xDEc6/s1600/1291478365706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguQBTw7zoU9gIMQfAOgIvBDX7bHDK3o1g451RU2QTcq1_yjtnDtWLST7Lq1nMYO5DCBKSRKCc_QEy1osBqWbG-KKZ5dVU7ESaDcHAHbhEwhaTXQpHmSGghXz_l0d5p8FUZadZ3js-xDEc6/s400/1291478365706.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Similar to the San Juan Islands near my new home in Seattle, Washington, the Cyclades are accessible by ferry, and the ride is spectacular. Standing on the observation deck, you can observe the unique qualities of each island. I would imagine Odysseus, great-grandson of the Olympian god Hermes, sailing through the Aegean Sea centuries ago. As told by Homer, Greek epic-poem <i>The Iliad </i>describes mythological creatures like the sirens who tempted Odysseus toward danger with their irresistible song. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9joUfhSN5wGhK3b6MM5nwK1TEiYMOCgDQeMY8YxcmCqkUrkl9rCg_GogmsXYWQvpbhxLdNBXw0Sp_WzX7BPbicIKtkludAQf_ag1dgOExdrm6lCMVuQ6S_RM9IrtXyWkhZu2CJTdvmbW/s1600/29309_1315708855367_5882444_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9joUfhSN5wGhK3b6MM5nwK1TEiYMOCgDQeMY8YxcmCqkUrkl9rCg_GogmsXYWQvpbhxLdNBXw0Sp_WzX7BPbicIKtkludAQf_ag1dgOExdrm6lCMVuQ6S_RM9IrtXyWkhZu2CJTdvmbW/s400/29309_1315708855367_5882444_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Meredith snaps a shot of me, newly arrived at the Port of Livadi, at our new home and what would become my favorite place on this planet, where a part of my soul will always linger.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The island is a quiet getaway to many Europeans, housing small communities not yet modernized to accommodate the average traveler; I felt as though I was traveling to the country for an undisturbed writing retreat. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In Greek mythology, Serifos became home to Perseus, forefather of the Twelve Olympians, and is the very place he returned with Medusa's decapitated head. The island then became an one of exile in the Roman imperial period, and in the 19th century experienced profit from exploitation of iron ore deposits. The iron ore has been all but drained from the island--old mines and abandoned caves are a memory of what once was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">That's me, knee-deep in a dream come true.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our bungalows (above left) were open and airy, with beautiful white and blue highlights, grape vines growing on the trellis above the patio, and fragrant flowers blooming as far as the eye could see. The walk to town from our bungalows was uphill to a point, rolling into a gentle downgrade as we neared the docks, restaurants, and bakeries (above right). The bakeries had the most beautiful desserts, glossy and layered with rich ingredients that made walking past without sneaking a treat nearly impossible. To add to temptation, the spanakopita at these bakeries will presumably remain the best I'll ever have. This meal on-the-go is made with layers of flaky filo dough, feta, spinach, and a little bit of magic. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">University of Missouri hosted our semester writing abroad. Poets, playwrights, fiction and creative nonfiction minds came together to conjure unforgettable experiences and literature.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's to us, 2010 crew. *clink*</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A short walk from my bungalow through a grove of flowers and hammocks lead to my favorite place to read, write, sleep, wonder, and wander. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrVzOzBUZ-6UjwctDtNUN-pBTZk-KSezbaAV19f32B-Cj7q6L-sEDlRUZZH4AlZCaSjDHR5RWH-clIFjII4y9S7KX4e9CImz6Fnb0SznVb18578xyiOc5b8A3ly-WaiPSkTNi8_B8U4rV/s1600/1291479325730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrVzOzBUZ-6UjwctDtNUN-pBTZk-KSezbaAV19f32B-Cj7q6L-sEDlRUZZH4AlZCaSjDHR5RWH-clIFjII4y9S7KX4e9CImz6Fnb0SznVb18578xyiOc5b8A3ly-WaiPSkTNi8_B8U4rV/s400/1291479325730.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I met two beautiful, free spirits from Goa, India, in this grove of trees. They had slung a few hammocks, lived, and swam (often naked) in our cove. I will never forget Ori, my dear friend, or his fashion-designing, season-hopping, modern pirate energy. I am so excited to visit Goa and experience what he described as a traveling artist's bazaar. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Blue and white.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our first hike outside of the cove was short and sweet--</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">quite innocent in comparison to the treks to come.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwUjmuBpK86SqTnmmy4edamyEw9CT548fcInNNXgEMFEQa-P4vOgm-dHlt5W5IM4TWRQTyhib4CSwXZgcjQS7DPriP-Tf61WScr4lzGBPNGOlR5UblWEZMjNCklWn-1SGzU9-LGtOEV6s/s1600/1291480085749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwUjmuBpK86SqTnmmy4edamyEw9CT548fcInNNXgEMFEQa-P4vOgm-dHlt5W5IM4TWRQTyhib4CSwXZgcjQS7DPriP-Tf61WScr4lzGBPNGOlR5UblWEZMjNCklWn-1SGzU9-LGtOEV6s/s400/1291480085749.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Homes in Greece modeled white exterior, chaparral landscapes, and priceless views of the Aegean Sea. With the consistency in seasons, many homes in Greece lack walls and invite natural elements indoors.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A view of the cove we called our home from a short hike uphill.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYW25_tEyvuaiSYB2BaR8ksv23AjgLZSvE7neQLkmyc3W4ooNyYRAt4cerpYngWjQFSms3dgAnQgfBQlmfi02WB7lrS6zZTm8bu6PlxaAJKjiZ2Gc2s2n-DSB3UYZeJP2XesMJGZb_RlwE/s1600/1291481245778.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYW25_tEyvuaiSYB2BaR8ksv23AjgLZSvE7neQLkmyc3W4ooNyYRAt4cerpYngWjQFSms3dgAnQgfBQlmfi02WB7lrS6zZTm8bu6PlxaAJKjiZ2Gc2s2n-DSB3UYZeJP2XesMJGZb_RlwE/s400/1291481245778.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The taverna, where we ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner, also held our language classes. Each morning we would ramble lazily down the beach, up a few stairs to this yard, and gather around a long table, practicing our Greek and sipping rich coffee drinks with our sunglasses on and an eye on the rolling tide.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never will I ever forget the feeling and taste of eating the taverna's calamari. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Blistered, not batter fried, and served with only a slice of lemon. Heaven. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9JHo5OOr7nyPpOH6v6zd78Ep3q8hB5yGvZyZVF0VN714BBbenONIxyckouqb0YWBd3TUZVIicuKz-u4-7L6AhxSHKtZTTYdZ7g5FrfuIk_u0BUoPmAuWzfaWBovC5_Qav8NcqsVcVGHu/s1600/1291481925795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9JHo5OOr7nyPpOH6v6zd78Ep3q8hB5yGvZyZVF0VN714BBbenONIxyckouqb0YWBd3TUZVIicuKz-u4-7L6AhxSHKtZTTYdZ7g5FrfuIk_u0BUoPmAuWzfaWBovC5_Qav8NcqsVcVGHu/s400/1291481925795.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kaitlin and I enjoy mythos beer, calamari, and an ice cream cone at the taverna for lunch. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When in Greece...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtW-VickQFKucGuZ5Yim_sBiz9zstjxm20vC0ZaQxtHLSPPCWkz8JYExejNnazcYAm98ZTb_41PX-jb-FlBCsB1yh6Cuz6mHIghZrmlVqFrUTFSL86d5PBOHxLZz4CBcehEfaLVdTQl7c7/s1600/1291482165801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtW-VickQFKucGuZ5Yim_sBiz9zstjxm20vC0ZaQxtHLSPPCWkz8JYExejNnazcYAm98ZTb_41PX-jb-FlBCsB1yh6Cuz6mHIghZrmlVqFrUTFSL86d5PBOHxLZz4CBcehEfaLVdTQl7c7/s400/1291482165801.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One afternoon I set off with a small group down an unknown dirt road. First, the road led us up the nearest hill, passed small farms decorated with goats. None of us knew where we were going, nor could we have expected the magical adventure we had begun.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYdqiRwr2KNsz_qsidvIu4PQWyZhx61BTA4_sziP9OjMIVDN1HYHxQ7bdKtJ9AEK6W_NMN_PsHVvE84wGU5T54J8Nnn82iSJdW42NhI8witiuEShV3iOf9q0GE85Vam3dwtpg-DFKhJO7/s1600/1291482285804.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLYdqiRwr2KNsz_qsidvIu4PQWyZhx61BTA4_sziP9OjMIVDN1HYHxQ7bdKtJ9AEK6W_NMN_PsHVvE84wGU5T54J8Nnn82iSJdW42NhI8witiuEShV3iOf9q0GE85Vam3dwtpg-DFKhJO7/s400/1291482285804.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite being able to read the sign, the names of the towns meant little to us at the time. Neither did the directions--all we knew is that we were walking into the unknown.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBJBWFFQ83dTzeVfMpTqpqGuBYpz67f6OurYoz2Bk144QXtag2iHur4imfctc-hola2fSjlC0s_v_n-53d7yyRq_w1R_4QB1EbR_AkPHBvhWQYaYUyhdjUV8c26TCEi-MAxhxaWG6SvPw/s1600/1291482445808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBBJBWFFQ83dTzeVfMpTqpqGuBYpz67f6OurYoz2Bk144QXtag2iHur4imfctc-hola2fSjlC0s_v_n-53d7yyRq_w1R_4QB1EbR_AkPHBvhWQYaYUyhdjUV8c26TCEi-MAxhxaWG6SvPw/s400/1291482445808.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Armed with only a water bottle, walking stick, and camera, we continued to follow this narrow dirt road, wrapping around the island. Eventually, one of us spotted an enchanted cove in the distance; none of us could have estimated the actual distance that stood between us and the cove, but we didn't care, either. So, we began our trek off-road </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(below)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, over a farmer's stone wall, past goats curiously looking at us, a chaff of grass dangling from their mouths, down a deceptively long and bristly slope, around winding ravines and prickly chaparral to a secret cove.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUM-qmgMAB-itCUFrM1_95E6xEYOl12w_ICtVbizlQ-CHx1wJ7aODLlxBbH76OYwNKhCjf6-0m-R2cGD_1NZCUE2lAB-Xa7u0mxWH1P3lJ9d3TgBkXo_yq_WJLRNg8bSIOSJplA5rBCriz/s1600/1291482965821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUM-qmgMAB-itCUFrM1_95E6xEYOl12w_ICtVbizlQ-CHx1wJ7aODLlxBbH76OYwNKhCjf6-0m-R2cGD_1NZCUE2lAB-Xa7u0mxWH1P3lJ9d3TgBkXo_yq_WJLRNg8bSIOSJplA5rBCriz/s400/1291482965821.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZHHTGTqbvCEXpyRy2leWLAzUu0tKH8OvcYya92fz1zBx1fSSMHCsIQwT_Eko9-BrA_xBRfMnrQwgNa6rJ-2Jy1VnwkHUMfyDzWirOle4n96UU8Wp3NoNfErMRcD9fT0gGX-M6CkHhSYUp/s1600/1291483085824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZHHTGTqbvCEXpyRy2leWLAzUu0tKH8OvcYya92fz1zBx1fSSMHCsIQwT_Eko9-BrA_xBRfMnrQwgNa6rJ-2Jy1VnwkHUMfyDzWirOle4n96UU8Wp3NoNfErMRcD9fT0gGX-M6CkHhSYUp/s400/1291483085824.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The photo above, taken an estimated three hours into our descent to the cove, hints at the demanding terrain and length of our hike. The little pond above was inhabited by hundreds, mayve even thousands, of tadpoles. The mountains in the distance were our markers, and where we would eventually have to hike to reach the road home. Like wanderers in the high desert, we slowly began losing both spirit and energy, until finally we reached the sea (below). Cool water never felt so good.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBpmWIF6l6JfELAk4rYmi2jqGL7WaHKX1HBFhvFDks_q7rbzhek_s3kjOZqLALKyj6hrA6O3NcRDxtZoG-Bf7VtGSBA_di8XeEFRcgn-XwfjHj9VOkF919RX4iIyv6mTgL2lWgmRev_xN/s1600/1292555872643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBpmWIF6l6JfELAk4rYmi2jqGL7WaHKX1HBFhvFDks_q7rbzhek_s3kjOZqLALKyj6hrA6O3NcRDxtZoG-Bf7VtGSBA_di8XeEFRcgn-XwfjHj9VOkF919RX4iIyv6mTgL2lWgmRev_xN/s400/1292555872643.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A group of naked, French snorkelers, the owners of this beautiful sailboat, left the cove once we arrived. Maybe they departed in the spirit of kindness, or maybe in their unwillingness to share the cove with (American) travelers. Or they were naked. Either way, what a beautiful sight. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9p5wHNFkecpqEW6HSQGXdDA9q5W5RlGrg5AzjJWs-9hIZUWfmTZY70GK2pJoxKDY2HH1nnsWuaBXR35jsvtKKfk0JkVX6QA55dfB1p-bwccdqB8241F4VuE6PaO7RsJ6x5ima_VPAtLa/s1600/1291483245828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9p5wHNFkecpqEW6HSQGXdDA9q5W5RlGrg5AzjJWs-9hIZUWfmTZY70GK2pJoxKDY2HH1nnsWuaBXR35jsvtKKfk0JkVX6QA55dfB1p-bwccdqB8241F4VuE6PaO7RsJ6x5ima_VPAtLa/s400/1291483245828.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like a "rain dance," my "cove dance" signified immense, inexplicable joy in the simple fact that we were no longer romping through an arid chaparral desert. Like finally laying your head down on the pillow after days of travel, jumping into this cove felt like home.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWzW0bTlLtmu1K4E3tSZTsi52LlayPwwmljhECwu6xFZwA8dqEU2lN_SHhmKMCD7RiaTARhfGpEMskNZQOCVs9C2yjIl-pUYBj4_YuGDODyGf7hISjkbA28QG43QnFiuc9cN9GgiAJa4L/s1600/1291483285829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiWzW0bTlLtmu1K4E3tSZTsi52LlayPwwmljhECwu6xFZwA8dqEU2lN_SHhmKMCD7RiaTARhfGpEMskNZQOCVs9C2yjIl-pUYBj4_YuGDODyGf7hISjkbA28QG43QnFiuc9cN9GgiAJa4L/s400/1291483285829.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The hike back to town was a different story. Leaving the cove was like leaving an oasis in hope for something better in the far off desert, except I knew that the "something better" was a bed and good night's sleep. Hiking back up the long, bristly slope was, as expected, much worse than the descent. Water bottles long emptied, cuts and bruises decorating our legs, and fantasies of hot showers and crispy calamari swirling around in our heads, we marched behind this happy old man and his mule (above). </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaxKui7_Lf6G1IzLyuy5UXDhlx-XqR2WwdC05Vi1kyiGqxZsbVEbBE8ij6Dhhz-TwcP6i-B3TiIx9Yt5AMMGWTK4r21ACpKsUe2rkBReQH0mZsdTgdrfYHEH5VZfeaUWH5KeI9JpDride/s1600/44316_1576650333552_1245779_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguaxKui7_Lf6G1IzLyuy5UXDhlx-XqR2WwdC05Vi1kyiGqxZsbVEbBE8ij6Dhhz-TwcP6i-B3TiIx9Yt5AMMGWTK4r21ACpKsUe2rkBReQH0mZsdTgdrfYHEH5VZfeaUWH5KeI9JpDride/s400/44316_1576650333552_1245779_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The white buildings in the distance mark the beginning of our community of bungalows. The stone shelters nearest me are actually home to livestock, mostly goats with their front and back legs tied together with itchy rope to prevent them from escaping. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYYc4aXer4xR-bSOPGpgqL_F_UZ2UK2M33y8BbDpr4MSvcKot-Xtx0_qGbPBiUOFOjkEb8SPp_-ZFcY-s_JLLBe4EcARpWE4eq9XgDCx5yrA5BnpsxHmBDpE1hOdnwpzT6YMIPrYDhCuW/s1600/1292556072648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmYYc4aXer4xR-bSOPGpgqL_F_UZ2UK2M33y8BbDpr4MSvcKot-Xtx0_qGbPBiUOFOjkEb8SPp_-ZFcY-s_JLLBe4EcARpWE4eq9XgDCx5yrA5BnpsxHmBDpE1hOdnwpzT6YMIPrYDhCuW/s400/1292556072648.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here, a better photograph of the cove. We returned there time and time again, bringing different wide-eyed travelers ready for a daring excursion. Those of us who had stumbled (literally) upon the place would lead small groups in between class or before dinner. Eventually, we found a different route around a windy mountain as opposed to the brutal ravine descent, and the trek became much more enjoyable. Later, we found out that locals and travelers refer to this cove as the "nude" cove due to its seclusion and the eccentric audience it attracts. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdJ7v29-BejOa1PEapgbqYZabWz1juN2C3iMbjYPZUn7L3GV8wtOjd4wbGNiFWzk4qU4hlqNQ_5EsZQstJZ6zeUMhgufjE6cRMI83TMcKi3HFVbi54ITJsDYH-oU6N99b-MhQMM09qX1t/s1600/1292556152650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdJ7v29-BejOa1PEapgbqYZabWz1juN2C3iMbjYPZUn7L3GV8wtOjd4wbGNiFWzk4qU4hlqNQ_5EsZQstJZ6zeUMhgufjE6cRMI83TMcKi3HFVbi54ITJsDYH-oU6N99b-MhQMM09qX1t/s400/1292556152650.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Never has a place been so still and solemn, yet powerful and full of energy as this. In fact, the secret cove became a symbol I often used in my prose. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The walls of the cove were actually old beds of sea coral that had risen with the mountain.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegESQnpre1izzTP8_-f8yt6xrOvNLwc5T9t68-ciDufujGm9UzhoTLuiozBWhGX_Tqx5oF_ThygsMZRW-yA0JEJKvVZARe0TK_lAVAlFN83IwBwTZlYUZ7x0UdOnymxeMxT9wn0WpCxkY/s1600/1292556232652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjegESQnpre1izzTP8_-f8yt6xrOvNLwc5T9t68-ciDufujGm9UzhoTLuiozBWhGX_Tqx5oF_ThygsMZRW-yA0JEJKvVZARe0TK_lAVAlFN83IwBwTZlYUZ7x0UdOnymxeMxT9wn0WpCxkY/s400/1292556232652.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After careful inspection and much deliberation, we decided that, if approached at the right angle and speed, we could launch off the cliff unscathed. Unfortunately, we didn't exactly plan an exit route once we had plunged into the open Aegean Sea on the outskirts of the island. The small outcropping of coral in the distance became our ladder, but climbing up was impossible--we had to wait for a wave to push us to the top and maneuver carefully around clusters of poisonous sea urchins. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhANm-dzj0Vz9KG89Mml0QRzVutX_ijziyH4ceQHAYmrSJePf0Q2pk5nEe4DnkrGglluAfGlS3UQApx5weO7V_1BxBcC96rEjh6ld99AL6iHRJm3iaGlPGT-aH6EgrMt9pjyz-ODCYLnWYA/s1600/1292556272653.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhANm-dzj0Vz9KG89Mml0QRzVutX_ijziyH4ceQHAYmrSJePf0Q2pk5nEe4DnkrGglluAfGlS3UQApx5weO7V_1BxBcC96rEjh6ld99AL6iHRJm3iaGlPGT-aH6EgrMt9pjyz-ODCYLnWYA/s400/1292556272653.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Initially, we weren't sure if the water was inhabited by sharks or other dangerous sea creatures, but</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> yet we jumped, again and again.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Later we found out that the Aegean Sea is shark-free, which led us to even more adventuresome cliff-jumping excursions. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnH1fQnBD_72DkLZ5dbNo7jzDidr3STRpMObj-beyr2Jcyf8i5eO7KKx7t3KXVv6QoXHVuMg90xZzKpsUeL0xMl_jREZ5tz-aXoUwfHY4q04k_W1925buHa4HQ7olAjfabItHi1TWW6SN/s1600/1292556632662.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnH1fQnBD_72DkLZ5dbNo7jzDidr3STRpMObj-beyr2Jcyf8i5eO7KKx7t3KXVv6QoXHVuMg90xZzKpsUeL0xMl_jREZ5tz-aXoUwfHY4q04k_W1925buHa4HQ7olAjfabItHi1TWW6SN/s400/1292556632662.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This tidal pool, located across the cove from our original jumping spot, was a fantastic place to observe Mediterranean sea life </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and the magically blue water of the Aegean.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSO9008iH0QoQJxOhBQjBXeqrClQwLw7PDX7B2WTkoaTg7KkO3MfbwY8VsVR7CxkYxKSgQthmaOL2Qb0-fZCL7iiogD0evBhj2L4rZwqKoE1uYN7_R-o2r3Wn7dWoKkaiStso1lcCEhW-k/s1600/1292556512659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSO9008iH0QoQJxOhBQjBXeqrClQwLw7PDX7B2WTkoaTg7KkO3MfbwY8VsVR7CxkYxKSgQthmaOL2Qb0-fZCL7iiogD0evBhj2L4rZwqKoE1uYN7_R-o2r3Wn7dWoKkaiStso1lcCEhW-k/s400/1292556512659.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The white cliffs across from the cove are the ones we had been launching off earlier in the day. We decided to swim across the cove, climb up the rock wall, and meander around until we found a cliff so high even I had to do the chicken-dance before jumping into thin air. The group consensus was that the second cliff was 50+ feet, and the landing space was much more restricted--a foot or two in the wrong direction could have seriously hurt someone. The fall was so dramatic that, after my second or third jump, I plunged so deep that my inner-ears popped and it took a long time to recover from the damage. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One day, our fearless leader, the ever-talented author Scott Cairns (above), took the creative nonfiction students all across the island for a history lesson and food tasting seminar. For us, class time meant driving to different towns, ancient churches atop mountains, and small, secluded beach restaurants, ordering half a dozen tapas and telling tall tales while lounging in the crisp, Mediterranean breeze.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aside from strolling through the grounds of the Parthenon and the Temple of Athena in Athens, this place was one of the most historically rich I've ever traveled to, vibrating at such a high energy that I felt as though I had walked through a vortex. Atop one of the highest points on the island, the White Tower was an Italian watchpoint during the Byzantine era. Around 330 AD, after the fall of Rome, the Byzantine Empire existed for over 1000 years and was the predominantly Greek-speaking continuation of the eastern Roman Empire based out of Constantinople. This tower dates from the Hellenistic era and was open to any weary traveler hoping for a beautiful view, visit to the chapel, or ancient history lesson. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A cemetery across from the White Tower offered insight into Greek Orthodox culture. Small shrines sat atop each above-ground grave and, encased in glass, loved ones placed small relics to remind them of the deceased--a small gold chain with a crucifix, a faded photograph husband and wife, a candle, the wax melted and wick burned, or a note to hold a loved one's words long into the afterlife. Quite a view for an eternity of peace and rest, I must say. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally, we reached Mega Livadi, once the most productive port on the island until Livadi, where we lived, earned the title due to its deeper water. This cove became a place I often traveled to, renting ATV's and bringing different people on excursions to taste the delicious food Scott ordered for us from a beach-side restaurant (below).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During a time of great economic boom, the above bridge loaded iron ore and other exports like honey onto large ships. During Turkish domination the island suffered economically, as the iron exports were ceased and pirates often attacked from outside the ports.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sitting at the restaurant on the beach, with our feet in the sand and the hypnotic ebb and flow of the water at our backs, we enjoyed each other's company and dined on savory Mediterranean specialties. Scott ordered what I can honestly say was the most delicious food I ate during my stay. Mutton from the owner's yard that was slow-roasted and melt-in-your-mouth soft, cooked with a red sauce that, in typical Greek fashion, had a hint of cinnamon, with a very large, beautiful red fish, cooked whole, and the usual calamari and lemon wedges, tzatziki and bread, potato wedges, and gavros tiganitos, or fried anchovies, with a little ouzo to smooth it all out.</span> </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During our excursion we drove along the island's coast, witnessing caves with a very exciting history. In Greek mythology, Serifos was once referred to as "the iron island," and was the home of the Cyclops. These giants were children of Poseidon who exploited the iron ore to forge his trident as well as Zeus's lightning bolts. The Cyclops lived and worked for the Gods within the caves; the cave above, in particular, is cherished by locals as the home of the mythological creatures.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In America, the above scene would have a PVC cross with deflated balloons, old photos tattered and worn by the weather, and wilted flowers placed by a loved one mourning the loss of someone special. In Greece, roadside shrines of victims of car accidents are an ongoing tribute to that person's life. As we approached this shrine, the smell of a candle burning hinted that someone had been there recently. Similar to the shrines atop the graves near the White Tower, this sacred space had many personal items, paying tribute to a young man. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, back at the bungalows, our group celebrated a day of birth. A happy 21st anniversary of the day Meredith (the brunette beauty on the right) was born--special thanks to both of her parents for raising an incredible person. To celebrate her vibrant existence, we had a potluck, drank some mythos tallboys (what? We're American), and hit the beach for what would turn into a fun night with new friends. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The owners of this bar ventured down the beach and happened upon us during our birthday celebration. We began chatting and they pitched us on their bar (I think the selling points were music, shots, and strobe lights), and ended up serving us a night to remember, straight up, no chaser. The next day, however, they dropped us a hefty surprise bill. Those "free drinks" must be heavily taxed in the Greek isles. Oh well, cheers to a night remember, or vaguely recall after puzzling bits and pieces together the next day.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This pool was a short walk from our bungalow. The covered area is where we held our special guest presentations and workshop readings. I will never forget the song that the pool manager played over and over on the loudspeakers. The speakers were audible from the beach, so even in my attempt to read and write as far away as possible, I heard the haunting echo of European electronic club music. A quiet getaway... sometimes. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ah, our loyal companion and his girlfriend (or daughter, we couldn't tell), Big Balls. What his name lacks in grace or valor, it makes up for in relevance. Aside from that, though, he truly was a sweet boy and a companion through the weeks that we lived on the island. At first he was timid, expecting us to scare him off as other tourists would. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Often he'd walk home with us to our bungalows and wait outside the door, knowing he wasn't supposed to come in.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Dogs in other countries typically don't get spoiled rotten with a prime spot next to you in bed, so he really took to our ways when he realized we would not only feed and pet him, but love him unconditionally while we were there. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Evening beach gatherings were a common sight for our family of friends. After a long day of Greek class, writing workshop, reading, and feverishly pouring inspiration onto paper, we would walk to town, buy incredibly cheap wine (which Scott later informed us was cooking wine, explaining the odd look from the Greek woman at the market and the splitting hangovers), and sit on our comforters, watching the moon rise and fall between the walls of our cove, wishing to be nowhere else. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At night, our group would walk to town and make our way down the main road, a strip of restaurants, jewelers, boating companies, and small hotels. The 2010 World Cup was taking place while we lived on the island, and Greece actually made it quite far in the tournament, so restaurant owners would beckon our large group from the street, knowing that we would slowly dine and drink while watching the games. Moving their televisions from their own homes down to the restaurant dining rooms, they would welcome us with open arms and wide smiles. Other travelers would dine, feet in the sand, alongside the lazy wake of Livadi in the evenings, taking in the pastel sky, sipping on casks of wine, and enjoying the unforgettable feeling of timelessness. </span></div>
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<br />Christine St. Pierrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04534056966884462303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298686973275763563.post-69123826907994950572013-09-04T15:38:00.000-07:002013-09-04T20:07:40.118-07:00Αθήνα: Travel Writing in Athens, Greece<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTE9DYqXvCpYAGtD9wjnAgNwp396ymxxUiRAbAQa_I0642L1acobZqtyE_3Y1LBejaDEC54COZR45bq81pKMdivs94IWf1Yal7JM5SjeGlGRpZvC5r_6RF4ubJgiT3-wIQpu6WVXBmky8/s1600/1288755737642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTE9DYqXvCpYAGtD9wjnAgNwp396ymxxUiRAbAQa_I0642L1acobZqtyE_3Y1LBejaDEC54COZR45bq81pKMdivs94IWf1Yal7JM5SjeGlGRpZvC5r_6RF4ubJgiT3-wIQpu6WVXBmky8/s400/1288755737642.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Me, Kaitlin, modern Athens, and the Parthenon from our balcony.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I stepped onto the balcony of our temporary home at the Attalos Hotel I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and inhaled a combination of exhaust and street gyros; finally, after a daze of international flights, frozen meals, and sleep deprivation, we had arrived in Athens.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> During the summer of 2010, I joined a group of creative writers for a travel writing workshop in Greece where we would taste, live, and write about the ancient, forgotten culture.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Athenian street dogs like the one above have a recognized importance in the city of Athens. Positioned on street corners and along alleyway fences, the dogs exist in loyal packs and have a strategic alarm system: each barks down the line to the next dog until the whole area is warned. The human nature displayed in these dog packs and the independent personalities present in each different dod inspired many of my creative non-fiction pieces. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One night, an Athenian street dog sauntered sleepily toward a street performer playing the trumpet over a dated recording. The dog stopped beside the man and, as onlookers gathered, began howling to the music in striking harmony. The act was quite a spectacle, drawing the after-dinner crowd, cameras ready, to enjoy the show. A few minutes and many euros later, the dog exited toward the dark plaza, leaving spectators smiling and humbled. Not a bad profit for the performer, either. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The very first thing I ate: authentic greek salad, with tomatoes that tasted like red, the olives like sun, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">and feta that melted on my tongue. No dressing, just a drizzle of rich olive oil and sprinkled fresh oregano.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Talk about a balancing act. I'll take the one in the middle. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The grocers, and most other businesses, were built in cubbies along city streets.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHD5la8RzkQjvyjHIoj1nD8DiUpObAAlLUBoRwp9TgQY7XhtqLYohwVfHHO3zZlsMKyN75-fBV7r32AavEhFE24D0czdvkE2ZjUkVGHrbJazJOETDlDTHgSz4SwfyPyb8yrNDOF_uBceYJ/s1600/1288586933422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHD5la8RzkQjvyjHIoj1nD8DiUpObAAlLUBoRwp9TgQY7XhtqLYohwVfHHO3zZlsMKyN75-fBV7r32AavEhFE24D0czdvkE2ZjUkVGHrbJazJOETDlDTHgSz4SwfyPyb8yrNDOF_uBceYJ/s400/1288586933422.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Welcome to the meat market.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> Unfortunately, I could get no closer--the smell of dead animal kept my visit brief. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcNivJGPpPr5BqLZb7We_PQNjRJdt1tFttjuinlSmGMKYvljvhevghoyRhwKPFY6ZqUvFhMbIWNxN7joHV0H3oIYefg_ewJ9VyNq4Nku-9_orxmwQDk9HZAi8ECrH-BYmtzllG4Vl-Oni/s1600/1288755497636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcNivJGPpPr5BqLZb7We_PQNjRJdt1tFttjuinlSmGMKYvljvhevghoyRhwKPFY6ZqUvFhMbIWNxN7joHV0H3oIYefg_ewJ9VyNq4Nku-9_orxmwQDk9HZAi8ECrH-BYmtzllG4Vl-Oni/s400/1288755497636.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Greek sweets were either adorable or absolutely stunning, and all were delicious.<br />Below you'll see a post-rainstorm rainbow bringing happiness to Athens on our first night.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6ik9yRDWbilhb7J4XxOQAMkcERW5yVQwICYMkI5pGdYRuANO23gctsctxyIVDFIuJAESnLQeGhFz1NthBe2kRCEGbDIer0jl1v5Fo7naZNg2kUhgWb-mg2DoZrNYgq_Q0DLulBv1Dmrp/s1600/1288585773393.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp6ik9yRDWbilhb7J4XxOQAMkcERW5yVQwICYMkI5pGdYRuANO23gctsctxyIVDFIuJAESnLQeGhFz1NthBe2kRCEGbDIer0jl1v5Fo7naZNg2kUhgWb-mg2DoZrNYgq_Q0DLulBv1Dmrp/s400/1288585773393.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9d7foSHiirBwxw_SIOshviS3Yu56vZrhelOGq_ekFN2iu-YaX1sj5gBSJ7If2hyBIcMED2cPkVZ_EoArS2kf-dVFD5Qwc9nnfUKextQmJsGqG3E2KVmV8iri6ubNC9-k-zapNEGhewT4/s1600/1289237589688.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK9d7foSHiirBwxw_SIOshviS3Yu56vZrhelOGq_ekFN2iu-YaX1sj5gBSJ7If2hyBIcMED2cPkVZ_EoArS2kf-dVFD5Qwc9nnfUKextQmJsGqG3E2KVmV8iri6ubNC9-k-zapNEGhewT4/s400/1289237589688.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhtfVQGDJAmJof_sSojXOg1oojP17sp9Wejvn6pc5O1LuUIRSObv2E-SO-lhhItivFaoOg5q09v695rkp1yB5VhuObl3AdoqxKKLZuXznGUE3haGwzEIJgH_ig2_acHeK5h1G9xtbrnon/s1600/1288573053075.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhtfVQGDJAmJof_sSojXOg1oojP17sp9Wejvn6pc5O1LuUIRSObv2E-SO-lhhItivFaoOg5q09v695rkp1yB5VhuObl3AdoqxKKLZuXznGUE3haGwzEIJgH_ig2_acHeK5h1G9xtbrnon/s400/1288573053075.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The year of 2010 was one of deep civil unrest and economic crisis for all of Greece. While mainstream media focused on the parliament's need for a bailout from incredible debt, there was an underlying issue being overlooked and misrepresented: the peoples' protest. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">International media's efforts to villainize protestors redirected attention away from the issue; I saw first-hand that the protestors fell into no categories other than "Greek" and "fed up." Old and young, free of gender or class, the people awoke from the fatigue that plagues modern society and rose to fight oppression and promote prosperity. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Molotov cocktails, rubber bullets, and hand-to-hand brutality were the most extreme of tactics used by both the people and riot police. Walking the streets of Athens during the day, broken windows and expressive graffiti were constant reminders of the ongoing struggle.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahmrvooJ1_4uJKATDn35cTTPdgm6yENVQXlozG7zL0jH4-7QDRk6Lyj2-bIu2eXqDLHwuud4oGUFWnrVb-Shna1MK3YSdaR11FXnDtd13SzQ8USKB0MYxqjLYy-nD2qQsB8Pe-qcPoGru/s1600/1288757057675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjahmrvooJ1_4uJKATDn35cTTPdgm6yENVQXlozG7zL0jH4-7QDRk6Lyj2-bIu2eXqDLHwuud4oGUFWnrVb-Shna1MK3YSdaR11FXnDtd13SzQ8USKB0MYxqjLYy-nD2qQsB8Pe-qcPoGru/s400/1288757057675.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Our first dinner as a group of new friends ready to taste and experience Greece together.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDgYg0sAy8arrxRfLItz9GXyw5ZPM7FH_JuoNzlJQNyBdyDvh1GpkEgOlLqYILBvLzLZZBB535gSM4frdrugyDITtgW0-6CpItsruLxLi9RfI3ibgz7yAd7XMgZWs_DIiYTGfNpDClS4Z/s1600/1288756857670.jpg" imageanchor="1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGDgYg0sAy8arrxRfLItz9GXyw5ZPM7FH_JuoNzlJQNyBdyDvh1GpkEgOlLqYILBvLzLZZBB535gSM4frdrugyDITtgW0-6CpItsruLxLi9RfI3ibgz7yAd7XMgZWs_DIiYTGfNpDClS4Z/s400/1288756857670.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There we drank, ate, and slowly began laughing with each other, certain that we would all be great friends with unforgettable memories in a few short months. Dinners were served tapas style, with many small dishes placed along the table, casques of wine to slowly drink, and an abundance of olive oil, tzatziki, and bread. The dishes varied greatly, ranging from slow-cooked mutton or moussaka to fries and balls of canteloupe. Below are my dear friends from home sweet Missouri, friends I already knew but created incredible bonds with during our travels.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsm3VNSGYNb288Zpfgi0NKfhKrWKyqzB1sq5pJkMCalyIcNX8QtpA7SHQLvUID96NHCsy2TI5Ai_YuKfNTjS4AlLZ3yBRRjRMGdwf40Bc9D-3BiFkemfcocCnzMqk-cPCJwjGlw_Vw3Boc/s1600/1288757177678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsm3VNSGYNb288Zpfgi0NKfhKrWKyqzB1sq5pJkMCalyIcNX8QtpA7SHQLvUID96NHCsy2TI5Ai_YuKfNTjS4AlLZ3yBRRjRMGdwf40Bc9D-3BiFkemfcocCnzMqk-cPCJwjGlw_Vw3Boc/s400/1288757177678.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Katie and I in our natural state (no, not drinking): laughing and loving life. <br />Below, sibling duo Kaitlin and Kyle being nothing short of adorable, as usual.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimifT2cytwmQre1qm0iqVtDc3nx9sbXxM8fVPJKXZ6eFfYrKY_s8xZfe-EwkK1QQINFD3LXhSeUgxtwcC16Isn53bX1WXCN1ME09RCHQfYGpmkcb-ngtShfrmUsdjE5tOwa81ijBG-L-ac/s1600/1288757257680.jpg" imageanchor="1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimifT2cytwmQre1qm0iqVtDc3nx9sbXxM8fVPJKXZ6eFfYrKY_s8xZfe-EwkK1QQINFD3LXhSeUgxtwcC16Isn53bX1WXCN1ME09RCHQfYGpmkcb-ngtShfrmUsdjE5tOwa81ijBG-L-ac/s400/1288757257680.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgym_RixV1l_gZciOvDDMHo7dG0cMubqKg9H8VPmV0INqWcF-NDcOl6IqqYCqKz7UmH9oPOw0aA-pmdjqFdywbCo-l9FzVkAvwPFqT2x9JZplxOP9EkAAQ31mRiy72HINsYfXwo6TleM7V_/s1600/1288757417684.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgym_RixV1l_gZciOvDDMHo7dG0cMubqKg9H8VPmV0INqWcF-NDcOl6IqqYCqKz7UmH9oPOw0aA-pmdjqFdywbCo-l9FzVkAvwPFqT2x9JZplxOP9EkAAQ31mRiy72HINsYfXwo6TleM7V_/s400/1288757417684.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Parthanon, in all of its lit-up glory from the dark passages of old Athens. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTw_MOsA8KsEOlKJQarihKTSeB-fxHORrULitOV2o5HdZnjdYwVY7uBOAhrLGb9YCQ3oehMSBuyexKsZOD5pNd-99NFzB4tNHVMQjk-tk0XV9b8LP1H88BojJemHtpQwx2h3cTvBR46DBA/s1600/1289224709366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTw_MOsA8KsEOlKJQarihKTSeB-fxHORrULitOV2o5HdZnjdYwVY7uBOAhrLGb9YCQ3oehMSBuyexKsZOD5pNd-99NFzB4tNHVMQjk-tk0XV9b8LP1H88BojJemHtpQwx2h3cTvBR46DBA/s400/1289224709366.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Night life in Athens is generally safe and filled with wide-eyed, happy people. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq91v5s5gjgJMSWFkP55HcrIBWfkhl2jdrl5eGoCyOLyRsVaWvxiFkDvLTEtPOSKkDu7RFLTo9_6d5Z3Q8JPAzLCZATmXK9j24HH0tb1XJ9iQoY7a88LwWOqV40W3Vk09iMqR9uzl86qrG/s1600/1289224829369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq91v5s5gjgJMSWFkP55HcrIBWfkhl2jdrl5eGoCyOLyRsVaWvxiFkDvLTEtPOSKkDu7RFLTo9_6d5Z3Q8JPAzLCZATmXK9j24HH0tb1XJ9iQoY7a88LwWOqV40W3Vk09iMqR9uzl86qrG/s400/1289224829369.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">During the day, certain parts of Athens are lined with vibrantly painted antiques. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVM__MroBuzlnwjFG4_EUgrz-B62i06AJZmL1YD5dgtFghg1iwbChUoja_0tKrGzRqlmkejXcKv2oz5yS6guZS3MpPlc7YdRQN3Zx6L0-91Jn2Pzna1KHXIZ1387z3vzFZcHV11SnzoIM/s1600/1289225029374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVM__MroBuzlnwjFG4_EUgrz-B62i06AJZmL1YD5dgtFghg1iwbChUoja_0tKrGzRqlmkejXcKv2oz5yS6guZS3MpPlc7YdRQN3Zx6L0-91Jn2Pzna1KHXIZ1387z3vzFZcHV11SnzoIM/s400/1289225029374.jpg" width="378" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Athens is a city built upon itself; generations of growth are represented in the layers of sidewalk that have raised the city foot by foot over time. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Church of Panaghia Kapnikarea (above) was built in the 11th century, around the year 1050, as a pagan cathedral dedicated to the worship of a goddess, likely Athena or Demeter.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"> This church is a beacon of Greek culture amidst a modern Athens and sits on a foundation many feet lower than the sidewalk on which I stood.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4OO0wMQJn5ntefh68cpNzcrKpTBzkBwHOdNEI-Ubqgv2xkZfpPqx1SguFFi0Y91HpCgsq_w5To_lvxDirEylD3c5CckcEbpZy6eQkuX7rWu7q6PQXShSoSHCZKdPSTJ8lye8W6as8Hrqd/s1600/1289225349382.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4OO0wMQJn5ntefh68cpNzcrKpTBzkBwHOdNEI-Ubqgv2xkZfpPqx1SguFFi0Y91HpCgsq_w5To_lvxDirEylD3c5CckcEbpZy6eQkuX7rWu7q6PQXShSoSHCZKdPSTJ8lye8W6as8Hrqd/s400/1289225349382.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Obligatory "girlfriends abroad" stair photo. That I love. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcniwyaxSM350nu4FAh5vMeVQWjzDGeiy3vFCZgSrgHAAWfJKeOc7lP56VzpRzoLMI8P-2-v4hSGqT7UwkzVIO55Nz1AcV6pHjwXXHDcv9ejmUdEOhg18c1xKV8-bqPwx-5cyxADWHwVI/s1600/28791_1425212587548_4282814_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcniwyaxSM350nu4FAh5vMeVQWjzDGeiy3vFCZgSrgHAAWfJKeOc7lP56VzpRzoLMI8P-2-v4hSGqT7UwkzVIO55Nz1AcV6pHjwXXHDcv9ejmUdEOhg18c1xKV8-bqPwx-5cyxADWHwVI/s400/28791_1425212587548_4282814_n.jpg" width="291" /></span></a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Yes, this happened. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sadly, the pigeon didn't poo on my head. Why is it unfortunate, you ask? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A bird pooping on your head is a Greek sign of good fortune to come!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Tomb of the Fallen Soldier rests in front of the Presidential Mansion and, similar to important tombs in many other cultures, is closely guarded by decorated an elite. A few of us happened upon the changing of the guards, a choreographed display of the Evzoni (above). Their traditional attire, direct and unflinching concentration, and precision were astounding; I can't begin to imagine the amount of discipline and training it would take to memorize the incredibly intricate and relatively lengthy routine. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I wandered side alleys hosting home-grown businesses and stairways leading to tiny, colorful apartments, I slipped into a magical bookshop that had no sign and no name. The stagnant air inside smelled like old books, many hands having flipped through their pages and passed along the binding. Classic Greek music echoed through the old phonographic record player, and a quiet, elderly Greek man half-stood from his creaky wooden chair to greet me as I entered. I was drawn toward the table visible in the back left corner, to the left of it rests a collection of ancient maps of the old world. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grabbed a French book from the shelves above that was dated back to a time long before the Americas were even discovered. I opened the book, holding the weight of centuries of readership and wisdom in the palm of my hands, and flipped to a page only to find a dried and flattened four-leaf clover, the origins of which I have no idea. Could it have been from so long ago? A little girl slipping a surprise into her father's novel? Or maybe a young lover's ode to his sweetheart, collected during an afternoon picnic. Endless romantisized beginnings ran through my head, and I was flooded with humility. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Metropolitan Cathedral of Athens, known commonly as the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Mētrópolis, was a stunning display of art in architecture. Deep green tile is intricately woven between carved marble and elegant, dangling chandeliers. The walls of this church were built with the marble of 72 demolished Athenian churches in the mid-1800's.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I follow behind Katie as she enters the plaka for a lunch writing session.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-Ev35a7xHUxCtK-zXvacybnmPMFAb7xLYMMEfqHLpqbiku1rRnhrR5lb_MFuoiLMhwWn-8jQIwE944krslIcGb2GsRhwnyqOfHd2x-6-eISEePbkPu3OpI0XT7djukNjOIDyig0-OnT_/s1600/1289238549712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-Ev35a7xHUxCtK-zXvacybnmPMFAb7xLYMMEfqHLpqbiku1rRnhrR5lb_MFuoiLMhwWn-8jQIwE944krslIcGb2GsRhwnyqOfHd2x-6-eISEePbkPu3OpI0XT7djukNjOIDyig0-OnT_/s400/1289238549712.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much of our time in Athens was spent as faces in the crowd, observing and interpreting the culture, food, and sights of the city. We sat on bus benches, stood near street vendors, and blended in major epicenters of Athenian culture. After taking ample notes and absorbing the energy of the city, we would rendezvous at an outdoor cafe for a slow, relaxing lunch to exhale our experience through pen and paper. Did I mention bottomless tzatziki and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">large pints of Mythos beer? That happened, often. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sipping and writing. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A stroll after lunch to meet for creative non-fiction class.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A vibrant Greek flag billows in traditional blue and white fashion atop Mount Lycabettus, the tallest point in Athens at just over 800 feet. A number of us dressed in our Sunday best and headed to the landmark, also referred to as Lykavittos Hill, to witness the panoramic view of ancient and modern Athens as it spills into the gentle Aegean Sea. The 19th century Chapel of St. George, marked by a wise old tree, glows at the Mount's epicenter, a small, vibrantly white building that acts as a beacon for those at sea. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite bad photo quality, the above photo is a favorite from the Athens vault. So incredibly clear is the desire of the Greek culture to grow and modernize, yet preserve and display the profound culture their ancestors had created. The ancient world of Athens stands its ground against a closing wall of modern, bustling city streets and stacked buildings. The openness and lush, green forests represent an ancient time, a time of simplicity, hope, and slow strolls through the olive groves.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The New Acropolis Museum in Athens tickled my inner-anthropologist. The walk from downtown was pleasant under the dry midday sun, eventually leading to an ancient path along olive groves, the very groves through which historical Greek philosophers may have pondered the world. I would imagine I was walking slowly astride Plato, my hands clasped behind my back and head bowed in deep thought, pondering the theory of forms. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As the museum neared (above) it became clear that the entrance floor was made of thick glass floating above an ancient village. From a bird's eye view, anyone can pear into the long forgotten lives of ancient Athenians. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Above left, you'll see my shadow far beneath my feet, my left arm extended over my head. As I searched the ruins below, I could see old stair cases and pathways, food storage rooms, fire pits, and doorways that Athenians meandered through in their every day bustle thousands of years ago. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Once inside, I viewed marble statues of the gods and great leaders, painted clay pots, and Greek epigraphy chiseled into marble and stone. The energy of the museum was astounding. A thick, quiet appreciation filled the air, radiating from every onlooker, mouth agape in awe or brows furrowed in extreme disbelief. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Walking the path that thousands of ancient Athenians used to get to the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, an amphitheater built in 161 AD with the capacity to seat 5,000 spectators for a musical production.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The mighty Parthenon, a temple dedicated to Athena, built in 447 BC.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Erechtheion, built in 421 BC and also dedicated mostly to Athena, defender of the city. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This iconic temple is best recognized due to unique and intricate architecture. Below, I stand near the very temple, touching the stone once carved away by hardworking Athenians. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcypNrR0aQ2sSevPhA0pDmeQeoaftbgRNlUctgtU5RJLyBOVKYb0BVHQpLZDN01H48ZIVGnDGoXb31N55xo9VRG0-FX168Q68uWrtyfljCkiTIEz28cF_qE7au2rDCtbYM7qHBxWk0jGQ_/s1600/1292089140975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcypNrR0aQ2sSevPhA0pDmeQeoaftbgRNlUctgtU5RJLyBOVKYb0BVHQpLZDN01H48ZIVGnDGoXb31N55xo9VRG0-FX168Q68uWrtyfljCkiTIEz28cF_qE7au2rDCtbYM7qHBxWk0jGQ_/s320/1292089140975.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCkllDwy8JfyFoXwa7FK7TNWFVcrjuD4hapl8CckDyHhN1o76i2w0CG4cO_hb2raHQ7ndZkPU4p5t5IZDY1tznaP_usSxLXAAnsJDRMoIraxv_omF4Nv7KjYFLBxuIgd8qeAbjlM1UQtt/s1600/1292089380981.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUCkllDwy8JfyFoXwa7FK7TNWFVcrjuD4hapl8CckDyHhN1o76i2w0CG4cO_hb2raHQ7ndZkPU4p5t5IZDY1tznaP_usSxLXAAnsJDRMoIraxv_omF4Nv7KjYFLBxuIgd8qeAbjlM1UQtt/s320/1292089380981.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To really <i>be</i> in Athens, you must peel back layers of time with your imagination and watch history breeze by, a fast-moving train without an end. Athens became a fishbowl of non-fictional, memoir prose into which I could dip my fingertips and retrieve a new story; ideas were endless, fresh and inspired by the vibrant culture, saturated with centuries of innovation and change, unrest and prosperity, historical icons and everyday humans. </span></div>
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Christine St. Pierrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04534056966884462303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298686973275763563.post-46944455602648367052013-08-26T00:42:00.001-07:002013-08-27T10:43:00.856-07:00Welcome, Weary Travelers!<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Please visit <i>Sunshine Seeker</i> on the new moon (September 5) to begin adventuring with me, Christine St. Pierre--the sunshine seeker with an insatiable desire to explore the wild world. </span></h3>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the meantime, discover </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://paleovision.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Paleo Vision</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #660000; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, another of my blogs focused on viewing life through a conscious, environmental lens.</span><br />
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Christine St. Pierrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04534056966884462303noreply@blogger.com0