Who's your patron?

With a melodramatic, pre-Victorian feeling I want to believe that the greatest loves are left unspoken, invisible and trembling. The deeper one love goes the less stamps of existence it needs. It is at the surface of feelings that couples feel the urge to decorate their relations with red ribbons and red roses and red underwear - completely unhygienic as they have 0% cotton. And teddy bears. Why on earth teddy bears? I have cable TV. I watch the Animal Planet. And believe me, romance is not what you see in the mating of bears.

Mr. Santa Valentine is a fraud. He is even worse that Santa Claus. If you can believe that. First of all he was not one and only saint person. History wants it there to have been a number of Valentines, saints, semi-saints, wanna be saints, decadent saints, all from different parts of the globe and of the time. And the story gets even worse if you take into account that there is not one single written proof, not even a legend, none, zero, nada, niente supporting his employment as saint patron of love.

February 14th, the day consecrated to the enormous event of falling in love with another human being (or in the most cases falling in love with love and all its garnishes and decorations) has an architect. It is Geoffrey Chaucer the father of English literature, and as such a man of a great imagination. Our old friend Geoffrey chose Saint Valentine to protect the marriage of Richard II and Anne of Bohemia in a poem of his. Guess what! This imaginary wedding took place on February 14th! Valentine the saint patron of love? BUSTED!

Unlike lovers who are left to march into the unknown armed with ….. nothing, travellers can address all their requests and prayers to an original saint and protector: Saint Christopher. A third century backpacker, who wandered the world in search of novelty and adventure. In one of his trips he carried a small child across a stream. The weight of the child was enormous, and it turned out that it was Christ who was so heavy because he bore the weight of the world on himself. How cool is that?!

I am turning to the sympathetic ear of Saint Christopher and whisper: "Dear Saint, get me cheap tickets to Kathmandu. I have a budget of 1000 € and everything I find is far beyond that". "Dear Saint Christopher I am flying in a week’s time. Please protect both engines of the plane, keep turbulences at the minimum required level and please please please prevent any lunch with fish and Brussels sprouts.”

I am inviting all the travellers of the world to honour their saint patron on the 9th of May. Let’s economize the money we have put aside for Valentine's day. Lingerie won't take us further than a smelly exchange of liquids. Let's look the ones we love straight in the eyes and say: "I want to travel with you. I want to buy tickets with you, make a suitcase with you, catch a train with you, miss a train with you, buy souvenir pencils with you at a price that will make us suspicious that someone tricked us with the currency exchange rate".
I will keep a faith in Saint Christopher and turn a scorning smile at Saint Valentine.
I choose the love that goes beyond the four walls of a bedroom.
Saint Valentine versus Saint Christopher: 0-1.

Travelling light

If you have a taste for sights, and buildings constructed with the material of deep history, if what pleases your eye and your soul is austere, colorful gardens, or dream palaces made of artistic aesthetics, if you appreciate quiet people, sophisticated men in contact with a superiorly intellectual world, and if you want to loose yourself in the meanders of an inner search, just don’t go there.

Cause this is the city of red bricks, humid walls, a sky covering only the pallets of grey and black, a city with a hardcore industrial philosophy and life style, a not an unjustified fame for criminality, and an annual average of rainy days which can outdo the competition. Its population is divided in two and a civil war is long standing and ravaging the area. Cause Manchester City and Manchester United are the absolute rulers and governors!

I am secretly proud to have been a Mancunian for a while in my life. In Manchester every time you get off a bus, the common practice is to turn your eyes to the driver, smile and say the wonderful: ”Cheers mate!”. This greeting is pronounced with a little bit of provincial accent, and a special emphasis on “Ch” and “ma”. I had the chance of saluting the bus drivers some hundreds of times, getting off and on Oxford Road, the ultimate passerelle for the 80,000 students studying in the four universities that hold an enviable position among their European counterparts.

The truth is that there I wasn’t quite a model of a student. I hardly remember what I learnt - if I learnt anything at all. When it is the good mother European Union that pays, studies are not much of a pressure. What I certainly remember though, is my final paper bearing the pompous title “Study of the Translation of the Bible through the centuries”. And I presented a quite memorable spectacle as for about two months I was carrying with me at least two bibles and other religious paraphernalia, in all the bars and clubs and those accessories of mine certainly did not match with the drank or behaving-like-a-drank self I was at the time.

Manchester is the city that opened the door to capitalism and Industrial Revolution. This is probably the reason why until today it incorporates the very best and the very worst taken to terrifying extremes. Its night-life is the worthy child of Manchester’s scene of the 1980’s, this landmark in the history of music, with the necessary accompaniment of enormous quantities of alcohol and equal quantities of drags, while its two football teams carry their supporters to an ecstasy, comparable only to the diabolic possession of men and women found in the ancient tribes of Mali and Timbuktu.

In my story, Manchester is one of the most carefree periods of my life, though in the general happiness scale I am now higher than I was back then. My own Manchester makes me think that the road to personal completion is a series of good timings. There is only one good time for terrible hangovers and around the clock folly, only one good time for light spirited flirting and rave dancing, only one good time for future investing hard work. And once this good time is over, we are only left with our unaccomplished desires. And any unaccomplished desire is very heavy to carry in our luggage, cause after all one of the things that define good travelling is to travel light.

Wondering and wandering in Paris

Trying to find even a small speck of logic in life is like trying to loose weight. At the moment we are starting to philosophically scratch our head or on that Monday when we cut down all food except from yogurt and fruits, it is already too, too, too late. By that time a lot of water has passed under the bridge. Too many mistakes on our back, too many chocolates on our hip, for things to be undone. And if we feel that this time we have finally reached some answers ..... what we have truly lost is only liquids!

I have long ceased to be searching for the meaning of life. I’m not that brave, and besides that, I’m only a girl of a small-medium size IQ. I have also long ceased to believe in happiness. Happiness is not a state in which one can lead a life. Happiness and orgasm are one and the same thing. Imagine if they could last for ever! That would mean the end of the civilization as we know it! Proust would never have bothered to write down so many words about a madeleine melting in a cup of tea, if he had better things to do.

The second week of this brand new year finds me with a pessimism that makes me hold an umbrella under a shiny sky. And on top of it all, for reasons that go beyond my reasonable control it will take me a while before being able to plan and make my next trip. To make a long story short, I am left with what is second to travelling, which is no other than dreaming of travelling. Not bad considering the budget of it. A few dozens of lost man-hours is the only cost you pay.

And what I am dreaming of is Paris. Being in Paris is to me being in the hug of a long lost lover. Every time I am there I have butterflies in my stomach. And every time I wish I were there I am setting Paris pictures as desktop background. Tour Eiffel centered, Notre Dame tiled, Place des Vosges stretched.

Paris has a beauty that brings tears to my eyes. I still don’t know whether the incomparable number of books I have read about it is the result or the cause for this love of mine. I remember every literary character who has lived in Paris, as someone I once knew personally. I have searched the map for the streets and neighborhoods found in P. Modiano's books. The hunchback of Notre Dame is of course alive and trying to find some peace in his tower, but how could he with all those savages exclaiming "Oh! What a view!"?

In Paris I remind myself to slow down. I sink down in the haven of the cafés, these democratic successors to the aristocratic salons and I rejoice the “zouzouzouzou” sound of the language around me. In the cemetery of Père Lachaise I don’t use the map sold at the entrance, I am sure my steps will lead me to the tomb of Balzac and to the angel adorning the tomb of Chopin. In the bars of the steep and narrow streets of Montmartre I am wondering if they still serve absinth, and below the open skies of the boulevards I only wish I could fly with the airship of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin. I love this city because at a time when colored lips made the difference between a lady and whore, the Parisians dared to place among their urban palaces, and their magnificent structured nature, a huge erection made of iron, the everlasting symbol of modern era.

I’m standing below this four leg monster, which gives me the impression that it waves in the breeze, and I can’t help it to think that here, I can certainly be larger than life.

Ho!Ho!Ho!

Christmas is wonderful. Christmas is perfect. For the “SantaClauswillbringme” ages.

Because anyone above that age lives under the threat of the global conspiracy, with the code name “Christmas holidays”. We all know that everyone hate their guts with this story. But as if a deadly menace is hanging over our heads, no one will ever admit it. We do all the appropriate shopping, and all that red decoration, we cook as if there is no tomorrow, we generously give away smiles, and wishes and “oh-we-are-so-happy” looks. As if someone from above checks our Christmas mood level, and no one would ever like to be found with a Christmas mood below the generally accepted limit.

I know no living creature being brave enough to refuse to buy the slightest gift, to eat fish instead of turkey or other fleshes slowly cooked in absolute harmony with mushrooms of a nominal value standing at 25€/50 g. And all that because the day is special. The day is special only to the guy who pocketed 25 € for selling three funguses! This Christmas holiday thing equals to violation of human rights and should be seriously checked by the competent authorities. At both national and international level.

I’m escaping Christmas bringing to my eyes images of the world at this very moment. A Buddhist monk, no more than 12 years old, is shaving his head at Angkor, Cambodia. He does it skillfully, almost ritually, and I’m impressed that he uses no mirror. - A young woman helps her husband aligning multi-colored processed leathers. The leathers must stay under the sunshine for a while before finding their way to the bazaar of the town of Fez, Morocco. A heavy smell is in the air. – A barefoot bunch of children is chasing a ball in the pastel streets of Puerto Limon, Costa Rica. – A cormorant and his owner are having some rest at the banks of Lee river, near Yangshuo, China, after a long day of fishing. These cormorants-fishers are precious in China. A ring obstructs their throat making impossible to swallow the fishes and thus they deliver them to their owners. – The fountains and artificial lakes behind India Gate, New Delhi are crowded with boys and girls having the time of their life as they play with the dirty water. There is even a band playing!

It’s comforting to know that the world is still spinning around. It is comforting to know that the world will go on spinning around. That our personal highlights and dramas are not so important after all. And Christmas is not special because someone named Christ was born. There is no such thing as Christ and there is surely no such thing as virgin mother. You can say that Christmas is special because lots of us have extra free time. And this is good.

I will keep a sense of melancholy for the days. I will remain un-glamour and bleary. I will keep in my mind the people whose only reason to celebrate is that they made it through one more day. Santa Claus is a fat man in his middle age crisis, with serious problems of regression to childhood, and allow me to say, with a very suspicious attitude with his wanting to take all children to his lap. I will decorate my balcony with a hung Santa. With sparkling lights around the rope. I will let the passengers wonder: Was it suicide or murder?

All I need is a bitter song

I heard you. You were standing in front of me. In the bus, Tuesday morning. I heard you because you wanted to be heard. You have the impression that you are dignified enough to express powerful opinions, such as the one that caught my attention: “If he were a nice boy, he wouldn’t be hanging out in a place like that.”

Your brain is a small as a peanut. And your hair is oily. Women with oily hair should be spending more time using hair products than expressing opinions. What makes Exarhia an area with strong heartbeat is that you, and your super market and laiki agora friends, and your miserable skinny husband and your castrated son, and your daughter who will never be married to a doctor because she is a slut, and you know it, have never passed below my window. And my window is at the gates of Exarhia.

My sadness those days is so thick you could cut it with a knife. All I need is a bitter song, to make me better. There is no anger in me. Anger is for those who are lucky enough to be 15 years old. Hearing them screaming out in absolute orgasmic unison “Μπάτσοι μουνιά σκοτώνετε παιδιά” was like all angels and cherubs chanting in the central square of paradise. It’s divine to see so much anger in so beautiful creatures. Anger for the young and painful sadness for those who were once young, is to me the proof of being alive and healthy.

I have been accused to take things personally. Hearing that a young life probably deserved to be extinguished, seeing my neighbors swiping the relics of their properties, trying to fit myself in the categories of a stereotyped world, is personal. It is personal to live in the terror of a dozen of men who keep their faces covered only because they have this little problem with the size of their penis. Come on, guys. Show us your faces, size is not everything after all (yeah, right…).

If only we could try to retain stupidity at the lowest acceptable levels. If only we could see politics beyond the terminology of political parties. Be curious. Be touchy. Our times call for involvement, participation, information and knowledge. I want to respond to the murder of a kid, by being a less frightened person. Even a better person. I will start by smiling to the Pakistani living next door. I cross them ten times a day and one of them has the best hair style ever. I will start buying my coffee from this little cafe risking to close down, although what they serve is hardly a good coffee. I will be polite to those who are, and bitter to those who are not, but always with a smile on the face. What If we all did the same?

Because as an old friend used to say, I believe we can be extraordinary together, rather than ordinary apart.

Merci, beaucoup

Grenoble is my personal turning point into adulthood. And by adulthood I don’t mean that I suddenly started being mature, reasonable or responsible, but I certainly became more future-oriented. Isn’t that what being an adult is supposed to be?

Grenoble got me seriously suspicious that outside motherland Patra, there was actually a world. And to say the entire truth even a better one. I even felt constraint to find that the famous Greek saying “At the time we were constructing the Parthenon people in Europe used to climb up the trees to feed themselves with rotten fruits” had something of a slight exaggeration.

Grenoble is not a place to live if you take sea for granted. It is a place that made me feel claustrophobic. Being the capital of French Alpes, it is surrounded by mountains which in their turn are surrounded by other mountains and you go on and on and on …. It makes you want to search for an emergency exit. Although you are sure not to need any type of exit in a place like that.

The mind of the 18 year old scared, lame puppy that myself was at the time, formed the impression that Grenoble, was actually the city of the crippled. So embarrassing to admit such a thing now. But seeing so many wheelchairs on the streets, in the university halls, literally everywhere was not a sight to which I was used, having grown up on the holy grounds of Greece. We back at home are healthy. We all walk standing. What are they doing to you people??? It took me a while, but I finally got it…

And I was yet to discover the pleasure of having a pick-nick with a friend in the near-by park, the killer wind blowing on the bridges over the Isère River, the thrill of meeting people from around the world (my Japanese fellow students had a really hard time to come to believe that we have mountains, and winter with proper rain and snow! My American fellow students were pretty convinced that no such place like Greece existed anywhere in the world and that I was a fraud having invented a country as well as a language), the excitement of living with nuns (what kind of young girl is excited living eight entire months with nuns??), the art of stealing apples in the super markets, the art of stealing whatever in the bookstores, the art of stealing spoons in the cafés, the romance of eyes playing in the launderette while pretending to be reading a book, the ingenuity of living without a fridge, the bitter-sweet feeling of being lonely, and alone.

Grenoble is the place where any parent would like their children to grow.

Though, and here I am asking for your attention :

Grenoble, as happens with the entire country of France, is inhabited by French people. Rude French people. Who throw you to the lions for not pronouncing Merci well. If only I could ever find the courage to scream at one of them “I have read Proust in the original you bastard!”. French people who speak French all the time. What can one expect from a nation that has invented “four times twenty and sixteen” for 96? Snobs, who in their justification, however, have plenty to be snob of.

Maiden posting

A Lila Pause bar of chocolate made me want to travel. It was the prize of a school geography competition of which I was the winner. Fortunately it was large enough for me to share it with my other classmates, not to say that I wanted to hide as much as possible the fact that I was a nerd, vehemently struggling to be the winner.

Drawing down the globe map in something less than 3 minutes and writing down all (and I mean ALL) countries with their respective capitals in less than an hour, is certainly something to be pride of.
Luckily, at that time USSR was one single, unified and powerful country with just only one capital, and not that jungle of train-lettered countries with equally train-lettered capitals probably all ending in -stan.
Not a chance of my winning such a competition, nowadays.

So, these are the first lines of this blogspot of mine. Ever since this general blogspot mania came to surface I wanted to do it. To talk about what being “intrip” means to me. To talk about the handful of trips I have made. And those I am dreaming of making. It is not that I am the Greek equivalent of Megan McCormick, nor the poorer version of Maya Tsokli. No, no far from it. I can’t say that I have been off the beaten track. I have mostly done all that is touristy in a destination. But I would really like to become a traveler. I want to place myself somewhere within a bigger frame. You see, within the borders of the microcosm I live, my ego grows to gigantic dimensions. And traveling makes me feel small. It’s nice to feel small. I think it helps me complain less.

I think I will be writing in English – for the most part at least. A credible explanation for this would be that I have a number of non-Greek friends who I think would like to read me. But it wouldn’t be a true one. I have not that many non-Greek friends, let alone non-Greek friends who would like to read me. A semi-true explanation would be that I am more relaxed in a language that is not mine. Words feel less “binding”. However, a nothing but the truth explanation would be that I am americanizing myself day by day. I don’t say «παίξε-γέλασε» for something that is easy, I say “piece of cake” or even worse «ένα κομμάτι κέικ».
I have also caught myself drinking milk straight from the bottle.
Standing in front of the open fridge.
In the middle of the night.
Feeling sorry that the bottle does not have a comfortable handle.
Like in the USA.
I have never been to the USA.