Day 4 (Chios): Another Non-Beach Activity

After spending a few hours at Agia Dynami beach on Saturday, we drove through the medieval village of Mesta, which, according to my friend the local, is one of the most beautiful and charming villages on the island. All crowded stone houses and winding, narrow alleys, it was also a driving hazard. We took what was in retrospect a wrong turn and ended up stuck in an alley waiting for a tour group's leader to finish his spiel and herd the group on to the next attraction. Not surprisingly, our presence in no way motivated the tour guide to hurry his subjects along or even to encourage them to move to the side of the road so we could pass. Here, a photo of whatever he was talking about, taken after we had the road back:

Mesta alley

Day 3 (Chios): A Non-Beach Activity!

Finding ourselves with some time to kill before extending our car rental, my friends and I did a little exploring. Armed with a map of the island marked up with "what to see" by our friend the bride, we decided to visit the Cave of Olympi, a 200,000 year-old natural wonder filled with stalactites resembling pipe organs and wedding cakes. As we descended into the cool, musty interior, our bi-lingual tour guide described (via a script from which he didn't dare stray) the climate and chronology of the cave. He ushered us along grumpily, almost as if he resented our presence. Humorless tour guides always amaze me. Why and how do they get into it? If you would rather play with rocks than talk to people, wouldn't you be a geologist and not a tour guide?

Cave Interior

It looks gooey but it's not.

Days 2, 3, 4, and 5 (Chios): A One-Track Mind

Chios is a medium-large (as far as I can tell by Greek standards, anyway) island in the eastern Aegean near the coast of Turkey. The island's claim to fame is the mastic tree, a small shrub-like evergreen that when wounded produces a sap used as, among other things, varnish, chewing gum, and body lotion. (There are even mastic-flavored yogurt and soda.) While mastic trees grow in other locations, the one that produces the valuable sap grows only on the southern side of Chios.

The summertime population of Chios, according to a local source, is almost four times its winter population (can that really be or did I misunderstand?), so making a living there isn't easy if you don't farm. A lot of people live in Athens most of the year and spend their summers on Chios running a business catering to tourists. Happily, there are few tourists on Chios and most of them are Greek. (In fact most Americans haven't even heard of it.) Knowing this in advance, I worried Chios would be lacking in the natural beauty we imagine when we hear the words "Greek island." Happily again, I was wrong. For four days in a row my only concern was getting to the beach (and hoping my camera battery didn't fail me). Here I'll let the pictures do the talking.

Vroulidia beach

Vroulidia water

Vroulidia rocks

Vroulidia sunset

Mavra Volia part 1

Mavra Volia part 2

Mavra Volia cliff

Emporio harbor

Agia Dynami from above

Agia Dynami lagoon

Agia Dynami water

Only in trying to do a little retroactive Chios research did I discover that that on Chios there is a UNESCO World Heritage site -- an 11th century monastery called Nea Moni -- which apparently has some of the finest mosaics around. I LOVE mosaics, so to have missed seeing these makes me hurt inside a little. I would have skipped the beach one afternoon in a heartbeat to go to Nea Moni.

Day 1 (Athens): It's F*cking Hot As Balls Here

I landed at Athens' Venizelos Airport* on the morning of July 23, far from rested but full of excitement (and caffeine!). This was to be my "alone" day -- my day of solitary adventure, which is the kind in which I suppose I take the most pride. Having perspired many a bullet over the potential closing of the Athens Metro beginning in July, I was relieved to find it running. Better than just running, it was actually efficient and extremely easy to navigate!

The Metro took me (with one transfer) to the very Acropolis of Art History lore. After exiting from the underground, I surveyed my surroundings to momentary panic: there was nothing but tourist shops in every direction. In desperation I looked up, and in doing so caught my breath. Rising above the schlock was the Acropolis, with the corner of the magnificent Parthenon peering out from over the top of the hill like a street cat, afraid to show too much of herself but unable to resist scoping the action.


In my wildest, nerdiest dreams, I could not have imagined being so impressed. To mount the Acropolis I followed the crowd, popping in at every incorrect entrance (why don't they just have an all-Acropolis ticket?) until I finally found the main one. Half a mile and twelve Euros later, I was on my way to the top.

The Parthenon Restoration Project, according to a sun-worn placard I read, began in 1983 (I was four). An article in February's Smithsonian magazine adds 8 years to the project's life and illuminates the obstacles and disctractions encountered by restoration team members (and the gaffes of turn of the 20th Century "restoration" attempts, which did far more harm than good). It also gives props to the ancients for genuinely baffling us moderns by the scope of their ability.

The iconic Parthenon view, iconic tourists included.

After not hearing "American" for a solid two hours, I had my first taste of home when a group of young Americans walked by me and one of the girls observed to her friend, "It's fucking hot as balls here." She was right, but I had long forgotten discomfort. Surveying the panorama of Athens, I tuned out Americans, Germans, and Italians alike (okay, maybe not the Italians) and inhaled the history and fresh air. I snapped photos of the Erechtheion and its famous caryatids, which I giddily recalled having studied in freshman Art History class. After gawking at the caryatids I noticed a hunk of stone on which was carved a blurb about the Erechtheion. To my great disappointment (although had I paid closer attention in class, this may not have come as such a surprise), I learned that the original caryatids (along with other archaeological finds from the Acropolis) had been removed and placed in the Acropolis Museum (ALSO under construction!); what I was marveling at were in fact replicas.

Imposters!

In order to get back to the airport in time for my flight to Chios, I had to cut short my Acropolis visit. In looking back, though, it's safe to say I got my money's worth. With more time I'd have entered the Agora and the various other temples that appeared to be on separate entrance tickets. The truth is that the signs are mostly inadequate and relatively scarce, which, given the Acropolis' status as THE Greek ruin to see, surprised me. On the one hand, it assumes you're well-prepared, with a guide, or have a guide book. On the other, it leaves so much of the history of the site open to interpretation. I get the impression that most people are disappointed, or at least underwhelmed, by the Acropolis. Putting aside the signs' deficiency, I can see why, given the ubiquitous "improvements." Scrutinizing the buildings' skeletons, I noticed just how many of these modern touches there were: a cement filling here, a metal rod there, a stray dog, a construction crane, and an umbrella salesman here, there, and there. . .

Maybe it was that I hadn't counted on making it, or maybe it was that I'm a bit of a history geek, but my Acropolis visit didn't disappoint or underwhelm. I value elation at learning and imagining, and I hope I never stop experiencing it.




From the airport I took the Metro line 3 (the blue line) to Syntagma Square and switched to line 2 (the red line) to Akropoli, just one more stop. Armed with my Wiki printout, I made it in 45 minutes with no wrong turns. On the way back to the airport I spent about 20 minutes browsing the Syntagma Square station, where excavation finds (and plenty of informational signs detailing them) are displayed. The coolest one was an aqueduct piece placed just right to show where Classical-era Athens street level was. I've chosen, however, to display the photo I took of a thousands-year-old skeleton as I'm probably the only lame-o who'd get excited about an aqueduct.


Back at the airport, I caught my flight to Chios. My friend (the bride) picked me up at the airport and I spent the next 8 hours pining for sleep until I was finally allowed it, while we ate, drank, drove around, and ate some more. (In Greece you can get chicken souvlaki AND french fries in the very same pita!) Chios photos in the next post.

*Anyone not sure how to maneuver the picking up of their bags from the baggage carousel should consult this very helpful guide (scroll down), chock full of advice on everything from claiming the best real estate for baggage-spotting to getting the most out of people-watching during this ordeal.

Distraction

I just got back from a week-long trip to Greece, time I intended to use not only to attend my good friend's wedding but also to reflect on my desires and implement at least the workings of a plan I would stick to for Changing My Life. (It needs the capital letters, it does.)

Instead I went to the beach every day and forgot about my life in New York. This, of course, while not being productive, was therapeutic in its own way.

Travel is something in which, no matter how low I've felt, I have never lost interest. What better way to learn simultaneously about yourself (am I really that square?) and others (wow, the Greeks eat dinner really late)? There are few places I wouldn't want to experience at least briefly. Of course it was financially irresponsible, but it would have been a crime against self-actualization to pass up the opportunity to see a new place and share in a friend's joy.

Choices

I'm absolutely terrified of choices. I don't have a problem with accountability, but when it comes to decision-making, I shut down. This deficiency has caused me to spend too long doing something for which I have no passion. My fear paved the way for complacency, and complacency became so pervasive and insistent that it seemed obvious and irreversible. Hearing myself talk about this (or worse yet, thinking about it) filled me with such self-loathing that I began to feel I deserved to be stuck. Then a recent series of good things that happened to other people jarred me. It dawned on me that my sense of self had become negligible and my desire to reclaim it was waning; my stasis was not security but avoidance. With all this in mind I have decided to make a decision, but now comes the hard part: deciding on the decision.

What should I do? Where should I live? Should I go back to school? If so, for what? There are too many CHOICES. This is the burden of the young and privileged (and indecisive): we have every opportunity in front of us, every advantage in our favor, and it's up to us to screw it up. I'm well-educated, I have transferable skills, I'm full of curiosity, I have a wonderful group of family and friends supporting me (believe me, I'm thankful), and I have the chance -- and means! -- to re-make my life. For most people this must be exhilarating. For me, it's terrifying.

Hi. My name is Brooke, and I was an Art History major.

My Big Indecision -- Here We Go

It took me a long time to decide to start a blog. I considered blogging and concluded that it was a silly display of narcissim, an utterly self-indulgent outlet for the self-important or hopelessly witty. (Besides, did I really have anything to say?) But then I changed my mind (a frequent occurrence). An outlet is an outlet, and I figured that in order to attempt to conquer my indecision, an outlet was in order. So here I am: I'm indecisive, and I'm facing my biggest indecision ever. Indulge me as I indulge myself and attempt to figure it all out.