Amara G. Hark Weber

2007-07-15T07:40:00.000+03:00

No matter what, you land with a thud. A dull hard whump that no one can really hear but yourself. And where you are now, there are people there, and where you are coming from, there are people there too. So where are you? Half way here, half way there, you are in the in between space. You are on an island.

I was not sorry to leave, I am not sorry to be home. Still, it was not easy to leave, nor is it exactly easy to be home. In the time that it takes to adjust to jet lag, I have re-adjusted to a version of my old life, which has magically become my new life. The place that I left, the year that I finished, the people who have slid out of my life as easily as they slid in, all of it is as foggy as a dream now, one that I thought I would be able to describe, only every time that I try, I realize that I don’t want to.

2007-07-02T10:21:00.001+03:00

It isn’t my story to tell. It never was. It is not even close to my story, although my life, our lives, did for some time intersect. It is a hidden story, one that does not exist on paper or in books. It is not told to family and only nodded at among friends. It is a story so full of secrets and hopes and sweat and tears and fear and memory and future and past that it hardly exists in the present. It is the story of stories. The story of the world countless times over. The story individuals who are lost, who are found, who are confused and hurt and proud. Individuals who were my friends, but whose community I could never join, and whose stories I could partake in, but not share with others.

My life in the Ghanaian community of Athens was flavored with hope and mistrust. My friends wanted something from me that I could not give, and I wanted something from them that I could never have, never really understand. Nearly all of my friends in Athens were Ghanaians, my boyfriend was Ghanaian, and the experiences of my year hovered somewhere between Ghana and Greece and the United States. It was a triangle whose corners never quite met, and I was floating in the lost space between. I kept reaching toward one place, but the moment I felt close I was shoved back and made to reach for another. I never found a balance, I was always between, I never reached any of my destinations.

Thinking about it from the other side, it feels inevitable that things developed the way that they did. I was never hurt, I was only confused. And I didn’t hurt anyone else, although there is always the disappointment. It was a series of misunderstandings that I fell backward into, misunderstandings based upon miscommunications based upon hopes on both sides that never materialized. It was not my fault and it was not anyone else’s. It just wasn’t my story to tell.

2007-06-11T14:03:00.000+03:00

Another Hog Heaven?

It smells like body. It smells like game. The floors are wet and men stand waiting, their white smocks covered in red brown blood. It is an enclosed market, but the ends of the rows are open to the outside. From the sidewalk, you can smell raw meat. Some days there are scraps of flesh, pools of blood beside the public dumpsters that are shared with a bank. Inside, there are the men holding cleavers and knives. They stand beside grinding machines. They call out from in front of giant fluorescent-lit cases, laughing with each other, enticing customers. They are jovial. They are jokesters. They know body, so they know themselves. Each man has a stall, each stall a case. Inside hangs the meat. It is all meat, every meat, red meat, white meat, fatty pork, rabbit, game, goat and sheep. Heads hang, suspended by chains in mid air, eyes half closed, eyelids missing, eyes shut, their faces death masks, future suppers, suspended between their former lives and the strange place where they are now, so far from their bodies.

To see the meat is astounding. Massive sides of beef, shimmering with red muscle and yellow fat, hang on giant silver hooks, the flesh punctured fiercely and somehow supporting the incredible weight. Delicate rabbits hang, their tails and tiny feet still covered in downy fur, their stained teeth long in their heads. Rows of feetless chicken, their necks tucked neatly under their wings. Skin? No skin? There are piles of slippery brown livers waiting to be weighed and sliced, pyramids of pork shops, ready ready ready. It is a place of life and death, of fascination and fear. Eyes open wide when they first enter. Skin touches skin as people pass one another. Fat, muscle, bone, tendon, hair, organ, look at us. We are all bodies. We are all shimmering, we are all hungry, we are all looking for exactly what we want.

The meat men stand firmly in front of their cases. They hold shiny knives that they sharpen often. They call out to you as you pass. Prices! Deals! When I am alone, they call out to the young lady, bloody knife in one hand, eyes on my breasts. They stand beside round chopping blocks, heavy and worn. Sturdy enough for a man to disassemble a side of beef, small enough to fit comfortably in front of a stall. The men know meat. They know parts. They can carve the flesh of an animal as easily as a child carves soap, as precisely as a sculptor. The sound of their working is something that you will not hear anywhere else. The dull thud of meat hitting the block, the slide and thwack of knives slicing. I have left the market with meat in my hair. I have left with the taste in my mouth, the smell in my nose. Smell this. It smells like body. It smells like game. It is the most familiar smell, but it is like nothing I have smelled before.

2007-06-03T16:29:00.001+03:00

Last week I learned that in exactly one month I will be at home in Minnestoa, and three months from then will be in London. It was a surprise to learn these things, although not an altogether unwelcome one. I miss Minnesota -- our house, my sister and mother, the softness of the summer air, cooking outside in the evening. I have begun to think of Athens in the past tense, and wonder how I will describe my time here. One can’t really. Ten months is far too much to say anything about when someone asks. I imagine that the most difficult thing will be in speaking with people who dream of Athens and of Greece. My time here has not been easy, and has had little relation to almost everyone else’s ideas or memories of this small nation. My view of life here has been from the bottom up, my closest friends are the people who many Greeks want little to do with. It is a curious way of experiencing a country, espically one which looms so large in Western imaginations. With just over two weeks left at Schedia, and then two weeks with my father after that, I am winding down. It feels good to do this, although it will be bittersweet to leave.

2007-05-29T20:40:00.000+03:00

From Santorini

This weekend I realized that people almost never speak to me on the street anymore. At first I wondered why this was, and then I realized. I am no longer open. The men who whistle do not have hope in their eyes, it is just a reflex. The people in shops know that I am not looking for gifts to bring home. I am no longer a foreigner here, but neither am I a local. Hovering in between seems to be the place where I am bound to end up almost wherever I go, and it is a place that I am growing to be comfortable in. Neither an insider nor an outsider, and as places in a society go, I suppose that this is a pretty good place to be.

2007-05-20T15:23:00.000+03:00

In the past week, I have begun to leave Greece. I have just over one month left, and I have noticeably started to slow. I can feel myself taking stock and checking out. I have been begun retuning borrowed items to friends who generously lent me this and that, and I catch myself looking down streets lovingly, as if this were the last time I would see them. It is strange bracing yourself for another big move, especially because I am still not sure exactly were I will be going, whether option A or option B will take effect.

As I have spent the past seven months trying figuring out where I am and what I am doing, I am now thinking about how to exit this odd city gracefully. Leaving is never as easy as I would like, and not matter how I try, there will be untied strings at the end of my stay here. Many of my Greek friends here are astonished at the way that my life seems to be going; leaping sideways between places and families and friends. Happy or not, they are strongly rooted here, and they shake their heads when I tell them my plans. My African friends know this kind of life, and the shake-ups that always happen with movement. They smile knowingly when I say that I am going, and they ask if I can take them with. Back to America? Maybe. Sort of. What kind of answer is that? I suppose that everyone wants to find his or her perfect home and there are many of us who are learning to make our homes in the space inbetween.

2007-05-15T16:31:00.000+03:00

So what is your favorite color - blue or white?

Images taken in stolen moments on Paros.

2007-05-05T13:12:00.000+03:00

I am still trying to figure out exactly what my role is at Schedia.

2007-04-30T13:29:00.000+03:00

I sometimes feel self-conscious when I go out with R because of the spectacle that we can become. He is Ghanaian, and I am American. We are both foreigners here, and even on our own we command second glances. Together, however, it isn’t just glances that we receive, but full-blown stares. Usually as we walk, we are so busy talking that I don’t notice the waves that we are creating. It is not always unfriendly looks that we receive, but more often those of curiosity. Who are those two? What exactly is their relationship? People search each of our faces in turn, and then direct their eyes towards the way that our bodies relate in an effort to decipher the coded language that we are inevitably sending out. I try to look away before I see how they make up their minds. The question that people are asking with their looks is not about us as individuals, but about us together, as a pair. R says that it isn’t as bad now as it used to be. He says that four or five years ago, everyone would stare. Now it is only three out of five people. He tells me not to mind what anyone is doing or thinking because it doesn’t affect us, but I can’t always muster his easy confidence. I am not used to having a relationship publicly examined for its sexual content.

As a young woman in Greece, I have grown used to the wondering eyes and catcalls of men, and alone I am able to discount them. I have even learned to confront those who cross the blurry line of acceptability. However, it feels completely different when I am walking with R and we get the once, twice, three times over. It is not the same direct advances that I receive on my own, but rather silent questioning stares that follow us as we go, and which feel much more invasive. Outside, I become defensive of our friendship because it feels exposed and tender. We often laugh at the commotion that we create (for example, last night, when a man did a double take on his motorbike, then stopped short to watch us pass, shook his head, and kept going), but it is a bitter laugh, and one that I wish that we didn’t feel obliged to make.

What is the most painful for me is the fact that outside of either of our houses, our relationship can feel like a stage production based more on who we are not (them) then who we are (two young people trying to figure their way through a confusing foreign system). Of course, I hate the fact that people stare, I hate feeling naked and judged, but these are feelings that right or wrong, one has to learn to swallow. It saddens me beyond what I can describe to know that this is the improved version of what R’s life used to be, and some of the stories that he has told about dating Greek women made me cringe. As painful as it can be, or can threaten to be, this is a subject that we have been talking about a lot. Who we are as individuals, who we want to become, and how people in this culture and in our respective homes regard us. R is absolutely right when he says that it is not important what strangers passing on the street may or may not think about us, but it is a lesson that, no matter how I try, is difficult to remember.

2007-04-22T15:33:00.000+03:00

Images from last Wednesday

Wednesday is the day when parents and children come to the Center. In the beginning each family worked closely together, but this has changed in the past months. As the children get to know each other, they work more independently. Mothers sit aside chatting and working on small projects. The children paint everything, from the walls and floors to themselves and each other. Controlled chaos seems to be the motto, and the staff tries to set up situations where the children will be free to do this. The director of the program wants to call an upcoming publication: “From Chaos to Self-Discipline: Elele II.” Apparently in Greek this sounds very poetic.

2007-04-17T14:15:00.000+03:00

We dye the eggs red and then bash them together. The strongest egg wins good luck for the entire year. I chose my egg carefully, picking the most beautiful one - deep red with brownish flecks. Unfortunately, it was cracked even before I began bashing. Is there a life lesson in this? Possibly.

2007-04-17T14:10:00.000+03:00

Day Trip

2007-03-29T00:18:00.000+03:00

objects with potential:

a used image of the Virgin and the Devil from the secret flea market

a key found at the back corner of a top shelf in my apartment

my ukulele that I should be practicing

from a Ghanaian friend who knows what my future holds

the first crane of the 1,000 cranes in Athens project

2007-03-18T18:30:00.000+02:00

Images from the anti-war protest.

2007-03-18T18:22:00.000+02:00

Images from Friday, a day when everyone wanted to be alone.

2007-03-11T18:44:00.000+02:00

Last Thursday I was worried about violence at the protest, so I tied a pink bow in my hair before I left my house. I wanted to look a bit out of place because I am young, and although I didn’t intend to stay when things turned violent, I did not want to be mistaken for a student with the police, or a police spy with the students. Before the protest began, I sat in the sun watching people gather at the front of the line, the place where the press people mull around, and the serious protesters, the ones with bombs in their backpacks who are not afraid to be photographed, stand. Despite the fact that there was story happening all around, I seemed to be the point of amusement for the rest of the press people, who kept looking over at me and laughing. None of them wore pink, preferring tough guy black or green jackets and trousers with thousands of pockets. The people covering the protests here are always men, but I hadn’t seen these ones at the other protests, and they seemed particularly grizzled and imposing. They all had enormous cameras, each with a lens as big as one of my legs. These guys are foolish, I thought, but at the same time I was envious of their confidence. They were filling a very specific role, and unlike me, they fit into the scene like pieces in a pie.

The ability to blend is something that I cannot do in Greece, and it seems that the longer I am here, the more confusing my role in most situations becomes. My presence as both a foreigner and a resident is oddly contradictory, much like my strange muteness while I can understand most of what is going on around me. I have been here long enough to know some things, but not long enough to make me a full participant in conversations with Greeks. However, when I speak with other foreigners, I am always surprised (and usually a bit disappointed) by what they don’t know about this place. Perhaps this confusion is just what it means to live and work outside one’s home culture, especially when your job is to seek out stories that are happening around you. My trouble is figuring out where the story ends and my own life begins.

2007-02-27T14:35:00.000+02:00

The student protests are growing, and last week there were tens of thousands of people. You never know what will happen - maybe there will be tear gas and stones, maybe there will be a woman dressed as a princess. I can say one thing, however: you don't know how fast you can run until you hear bombs exploding around you.

2007-02-18T20:14:00.000+02:00

three drops of carnival in Elefsina

2007-02-14T12:01:00.000+02:00

Love Poem #1280

How are you today, I was asked.
I am in love! I replied, and it was true.
Oh, how I love! How I love to feel this strangest of feelings!
It is the most warm: the burning on the inside of the ears
the red fuzz in the stomach
the unaccountable rise in the chest. The cross-eyed smile.
But how curious my love is –
not for a single person, nor song, nor food -
my love is for the music of sounds
and the taste of plain air.
I am in love with each person in my life (this means you!)
and I love your absence as much as you presence, for
it is only in your absence that
I can live in your memory. Although, it is only in your presence
that I can touch your hair, smell your skin.
Even while I love you, I am loving all the daytime and the
the night too. Those dreams! They are superb! The ones of kites
and windows; just think of all of the times when
you thought that you heard your name and turned your head (isn’t it
true that it always happens on sunny days?)
-Anonymous

I found this poem yesterday and began to think of all of the things that I love. There are many. I am lucky to love like this, I have heard that some people have difficulty loving. I love to love. I love to laugh and to cry and to feel jealous and to walk arm in arm with my friends. In fact, loving may be my worst vice. I fall in love with everything: foods, places, events, emotions, people, clothing, books, ideas, moments. It is never a light love. Every day I find myself tumbling hard for something, and take a moment to remind myself to breath. Every night I am exhausted and happy with the crusted beauty that I have seen during the day. My list from today: a text message that read: Amara, please tell me the weather in Athens: in Crete rain & I feel cold. By the way, how are you? A business man in the post office with an accidental silk stocking hanging from a buckle on his computer bag. The last bite of the gyros that I ate for dinner. It was perfect.

Today is St. Valentine’s Day, a day for love and lovers. Although I am quite single, I am a serious lover, and I think that today is for me, and everyone in my life. It is a day to celebrate the haphazard nature of emotion, and to think about the joy and the pain of love. Today I will take time to remember the strange and wonderful ways that I feel, and the wild directions that love comes and goes through me, always unexpectedly and always enjoyed.

2007-02-11T20:34:00.000+02:00

2007-02-04T18:44:00.000+02:00

Images from last week's protest

2007-02-02T13:20:00.000+02:00

clips from a life in motion

An old fat orthodox priest stands waiting for the bus. He reaches into the folds of his robe and removes a blue box of Chesterfield cigarettes, and raises one to his lips, replacing the box. Then from another fold emerges a cigarette lighter printed with the Greek flag. He lights inhales deeply.
****
…I retreated into the dressing room, and as soon as I had taken off the pants, the sales girl poked her head in the door and smiled brightly. “So, where are you from?” I was quite surprised, and a bit embarrassed to be standing skinny legged in my underwear, but I answered and we had the usual conversation: what are you doing here, how long will you be here, how do you like it here. “And the people?” she asked, “How do you find us Greeks?”
“Greek people?” I had never been asked this question directly, and again I was taken off guard. At least I had pants on by this time. “Ah…they are mostly good. I mean, they are fine. They are very funny, I think. I like them. I like you.” I had begun stammering, but she dove in and saved me.
“No, we are not good. We are not friendly at all.” She shook her head, looking at me with the pity given to a naive child. I zipped my jeans, and reached for a shoe. “How can it be that you don’t see this?”
“I don’t know.” I was absolutely unsure of what the right thing to say was. “You are very nice.”
“Yes, I am, but we as a people are very awful. You can’t trust us. We Greeks are terrible.” I pulled on my other shoe. Her face change as she smiled broadly. “Your life will be full of happiness and joy,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can see it. All of your dreams will come true.” And she stepped back to let me out of the dressing room. “Thanks,” I said, a bit confused. “I hope the same for you.”
“5 euro,” she yelled to the other sales girl at the register down stairs...
****
“When I heard that your name was Amara, I couldn’t believe it! I wanted to stop and take you in my arms! How can you have this name if you are not Nigerian? You know, it is a very good name. Very good!”
****
“Do your best, fuck the rest. This is what I say every day. This is my motto. Look at me – I smoke too much, I drink too much, I eat too much. But I try, and so it is ok. If I die tomorrow, I will die happy. Ah, look the police behind us!” Effie slowed the car and smiled. “Ha, look at the police! They can’t get through the traffic!” Everyone around us had also slowed, and true to Greek fashion was ignoring the lane lines. The three lane highway had magically become a 5 lane parking lot, the police siren wailing at the back. “Great! It’s great! Look at these guys!” Effie rolled down the window and leaned her head outside for a better view. “You can’t get through! You will never pass us!” she yelled. For the first time all day, she looked happy and excited. “Oh, I hate the police! HA!” She turned up the radio to drown out the siren, and drummed happily on the steering wheel.
****
“I have seen you in Athens. You were in the market buying beans. I have an amazing mind. It is like a box with no holes at all. Nothing escapes, and when I see you, I won’t forget it. Yes, I did not forget your face, but I don’t remember if it was you or I who was buying beans.”
****
There is a tall Greek man standing on the corner where there are usually South Asian men selling flowers or cell phone holders. He holds a tiny bouzouki, the body no larger than a balled fist. He is playing and singing furiously, eyes closed, mouth open, an earnest look of contentment on his face. It is cold today, and all of the cars have their windows rolled up. His long hair blows loose in the wind.
****
“Yes, the protest today was very weak. You know, last week, they set a policeman on fire. It was not the students, but the anarchists. The anarchists come and they don’t even care for the meaning of the protest. They use it as an excuse for violence. But you should have seen the pig roasting -- I was very happy! The next day in classes, when someone entered the classroom, we all called, ‘burn the police, fuck the pigs!’ Ok, that’s not a good translation. The Greek is much stronger. It was very beautiful!”
****
“Of course, I would have helped you no matter what. But I would not have asked you to share my dinner if you were not beautiful. What kind of man would I be if I did not pay my respects to youth and beauty? What? Am I making you uncomfortable?”
****
“I would like to move into my studio. It is on the ground floor of the building where I am now living. But before I move, I must save money and buy a washing machine. Why can’t I use my brother’s or my aunt’s? Ok, it’s true that my whole family lives in the building, but I would never ask to use their washing machine – it would too strange! No, I must have my own. I am addicted to laundry.”
****
She is a strikingly beautiful woman, her white hair wrapped in a brown scarf, clear grey laughing eyes, and thick round cheeks. I can imagine just what she looked like as a young woman. She sits all day at the bus stop with two paper bags at her feet. Each bag is filled with neatly stacked plastic containers. This bus stop is the starting point for all buses to Elefsina, but before they leave, they sit with their doors open for several minutes waiting. As the bus fills, usually with older Greeks and Albanians, and young South Asian men, she slowly stands and with the help of a heavy wooden cane, climbs aboard the bus. Click step, click step, she walks heavily with a hopeful gleam in her eyes. In her right hand, she holds an empty plastic container, and arm outstreached, she begins to call out in an unearthly voice, high and insane in its rising and falling tempo. Click step, she moves along the isle toward the back of the bus, and a few people reach out with coins to drop in her container. Others look away. Click step. As she approaches, you begin to smell stale urine and unwashed body. You see that her leggings have disintegrated, somehow merging with the flesh of her ankles. Click step, she is still speaking, still moving, and does not stop until she reaches the back of the bus. Slowly she climbs down the two steps, and sits down again on the bench outside, two paper bags at her feet.
****
The man was asleep on his stomach in the small patch of grass in front of the National Library, pigeons pecking all around him. He wore a wrinkled, but beautifully cut suit, and looked peacefully out of place. “Only on Sunday morning,” I thought.

2007-01-18T13:48:00.000+02:00

Since my arrival, I have been interested in learning about the recent changes taking place in Athens. This is a city known throughout the world for its life 2,000 years ago. However, a lot has changed since antiquity. The life that I see taking place on the streets around me has almost no relationship to the dreams of Greece that I have heard from others. I almost feel bad describing the reality of my life, which can be summed up by saying that I spend long days scrambling along slippery excrement smeared sidewalks trying my best not to get too lost. This can be taken both metaphorically and literally. Of course, I am asking directions as I go, depending almost entirely on the words and stories of others to articulate all that I see moving along the street.

One of the things that has struck me most about Athens is the number of non-Greeks living here, most notably young men who have poured across the boarder into the promise of Europe. The vast majority of these migrants are from Albania and other former Soviet Block states. However, there are also tens of thousands of Southern Asians and Africans who are making Athens their home. Speaking with Africans who I meet on the street, in shops and through networks I have been impressed and moved by their stories, and personal courage. I have decided to make a project of collecting some of these stories in a series of formal and informal interviews, and when possible, portraits. The following is an excerpt of a profile that I am working currently working on.

“Greeks they are lazy people. They eat all the time. I watch it. They will sit in a café for hours talking bita bita bita bita, and then they will just move next door and begin to eat. They will stay there for more hours. It makes me sad, because their children see this behavior and they learn it. I will never let my children be lazy. They must learn to work, they must study. If I see that they are lazy, I will disown them. You cannot be my child and be lazy. You cannot! And my wife too. She cannot be lazy. This is the most important thing.” –B

B works selling bootleg CDs and DVDs seven days a week in a historic area of the city frequented by tourists and young people. On good days, he can make more than 80 Euros, but some days he only makes five or ten. He has been working in the same area and saving for more than two years, although during the winter, he works shorter days. If the weather is bad, be does not go out at all, preferring to stay in bed watching CNN and praying. He says that some people believe in people, and that some people believe in God. He prefers God because God has really worked for him in the past.

B paid 6,000 American dollars to come to Europe, but did not intend to stop in Greece. He regrets not having gone all the way to Holland, as was originally planned. Traveling was so exhausting, however, that he decided to stop in the first European city he came to. It happened to be Athens. B never intended to stay in Europe. When he left Nigeria, he told his friends and family that he would be gone for three years and return with money. He plans on leaving in ten months, which will make his return to Nigeria exactly three years and three months after his initial departure. He will return with enough money to start his own business selling mobile phones that he will import from China.

As we were eating, B received a call. When he hung up, he was smiling.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Ah, it was nobody.”
“Then why are you smiling like that? You look very happy.”
“I look happy? I don’t know.”
“Yes, I think you know. Was it a woman?”
“Do I really look happy like that? Yes. Ok, yes, it was a woman.”
“Who?”
“A certain German woman, but I don’t like her.”
“You don’t? Then why are you smiling like this?”
“I don’t think I’m smiling. You know, this woman she really likes me, but I don’t like her. She is always calling me, asking me to come to her place, but I won’t go. I don’t know why, but I don’t like her.”
“Where did you meet?”
“She wanted to do business with me, but she also wants something more. She even offered to pay my rent, but I said no. I am smiling because I was lying to her. I told her that I am not in Athens. I said to her that I am in Patras, and she called to see if I had arrived safely. She doesn’t know that really I am here.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes you don’t like someone and you don’t know why. I can’t tell, but I just don’t like this lady. I really need to tell her that she can’t be calling me like this.”
“Did you let her pay for your rent?”
“No! Of course not! If I liked her, then I would let her pay, but I don’t like her, and to take her money would be wrong. My conscience wouldn’t allow it.”
“How long have you known her?”
“She has been calling me for three weeks now. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her these things before, but I think that now I must. I will say: if you want to do business, fine, but I can’t do more than that with you. And if she goes away, that is her choice. I can’t say anything.”
“Why did she first come to you?”
“I’m not sure. You know, the woman here, they love my hair. They just walk by and call to me like that. They say, “…” Do you know what that means? It means, “Nice hair” in Greek. People are always saying that to me, and even some of the Greeks try to make their hair like mine, but they can’t. On me it is natural. In Africa, this hair means that you are a crazy guy. It means that you are not a good guy. But here it is not the same. It is just a style. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“What will you do when you go back to Nigeria? Will you cut your hair?”
Laughing, “My mother, she will be worrying me. She will say, ‘Ah, you are not a foolish guy? Why this hair?’ She will be very angry, but I will keep it. The people there, they know me, and they trust me, so they can’t mind my hair. I don’t know why people in Nigeria don’t like this Rasta hair.”

2007-01-18T13:01:00.000+02:00

Yesterday the United States Embassy in Athens was bombed at 5:55 AM. It was the middle of the afternoon before I learned about this attack, and for some reason it seems to have struck a nerve that I didn’t know I had. I live about 10 minutes walk from the US Embassy, just on the other side of one of Athens’ two large hills. Because of this natural separation, I did not hear the explosion, which apparently shattered windows of nearby buildings. Despite the fact that I did not feel the force of the actual explosion, I am sure to feel the aftershocks for days to come, not only as I eat with friends who work at the Embassy, but as I think about what the bombing means to me as an American living abroad.

Here in Athens, there is a strong anti-American current that draws mutterings of disgust out of most Greeks, and news stories out of thin air. This distaste for America takes many forms, from casual remarks about American imperial culture to violent protests that culminate at the American Embassy. The anti-American sentiment can be somewhat understood coming from the mouths of Greeks, who lived under a brutal dictatorship in the 1970’s that was put in place by the CIA. However, the anti-American thoughts also run strong in many Americans, and I can’t count the times that I have heard Americans saying emphatically, “I am not American!” I am always a bit confused when I hear this. To be sure, American popular culture can be nauseating, American history as taught in our schools is a layering of falsehoods, American foreign policy is a nightmare, and the Americans that you remember seeing abroad were probably loud dense tubs. But America is also where each of us Americans comes from for better and for worse. We can hate our current political administration, we can read histories of slavery, of conquest, of secret wars, of how fast food is made, and we can feel unspeakably angry and disillusioned by what we thought was American, but this is precisely where we are lucky. We are allowed to learn! We are allowed to question! We have libraries, we have roads, we have free schools, garbage collection and machines that wash our clothes and do our dishes. Here in Athens, these things cannot be counted on. Garbage may or may not be picked up (the landfill is now full), libraries are not quite public, many people wash their clothes by hand, and as for the schools and roads, well, they leave much to be desired.

Greece is a proud country that has been pushed around in the past, and, perhaps as a result, is overly sensitive. The American Embassy is an easy symbol to push against. Several years ago, it was forced to move because of the level of violence that it attracted. It is now situated in a recessed compound behind a 9 foot steel fence, with a maze-like interior, and guards at every corner both outside and inside. It is an imposing structure. I have been there only once, and at that time was struck with the coldness of the building. Outside, there were long lines of people, Americans, and others each confusedly waiting, needing something, passport and papers in hand, unsure of what would happen once they entered after the long wait.

When I first heard that the American Embassy was bombed (to be precise, an anti-tank grenade was fired from a building across the six-lane street landing in a third floor toilet, narrowly missing the intended target of the large American seal on the outside of the building), my first reaction was, “Of course. Someone in Greece bombed the Embassy.” I was not surprised in the least. This casual reaction surprised me, and needs to be explained somewhat – explosives are commonly used in protests here, as is tear gas, loose rocks, bricks and police batons. In the three months that I have been in Athens, there have been at least three protests that have turned violent, and countless peaceful protests. There have also been multiple cases of fatal beatings (of immigrants) by police. I have tried to stay away from all of these protests, but living in the city center, it has been impossible. The whole center shuts down for large scheduled protests, and although there are usually warnings on television and radio of the places that have turned violent, I was once visiting a friend when her boyfriend staggered into the apartment coughing terribly. He had been walking home from work and making his way around a protest, he was unlucky to be present when the police threw tear gas. After hearing this, I re-doubled my efforts to steer clear. So, although it was not quite a shock when I heard that the Embassy had been attacked, it caught me off guard and struck me deeply.

I have lived in many places both within the United States, and externally, and never have I felt threatened because of my nationality. Because of my gender, yes; because of my language, ok; because of my skin color, certainly; but never because of my nationality. When I heard that the Embassy was attacked, however irrational it might have been, I felt a twinge of vulnerability. Walking through the twisting streets of the city center, I suddenly began to wonder if people around me could tell that I was American. Most people can tell that I am not Greek, but how many know that I am American? I felt naked. I felt unjustifiably nervous and exposed. I looked at the faces around me. Then I looked harder, and felt ashamed of my thoughts. I was in an immigrant neighborhood; most of the faces around me were not of individuals who had chosen to come to Athens. They were faces of people who had fled war, poverty, and social persecution. They were faces hardened by weather and hard work and discrimination. Once again, I was made aware of all the privilege that comes bundled in the package of being an American. We are the ones who can leave our country as we like, and return as easily. As silly as it sounds when uttered, we have the luxury to say, “I am not American,” whether at home or abroad. We are blessed if only for what we do not have to think about daily, and for the simply fact that we are all told, whether it is true or not, that we can realize our dreams.

The attack on the Embassy made me think about my identity as and American. I realized that I am proud of who I am, and therefore where I come from. As hard as it can be, the more I learn about the difficulties of the past and the flawed present, the more I dream for the future. I am not ashamed that I am American, nor am I afraid to say that there are many things that I do not like about the country in which I was born. But rather than make a laundry list with balled fists and feelings of disillusionment, I choose to take the other route, one which I can only hope will more powerful in the end. I choose to take my privilege and hold hands with the children with whom I am working. I choose to ask questions of strangers and listen to their responses. I choose to hug and eat with and build memories together with people from all over the world who happen to be my friends. I must believe that in the end, the boundless intelligence, love and strength in each of us will outweigh the rest, as long as we aren’t afraid of it.

2007-01-11T17:20:00.000+02:00

It has been one month since I last posted anything on this site. Since then, too much has happened.

2006-12-14T01:34:00.000+02:00

The season finally seems to have changed, and so too has the flavor of my life. For the past two weeks, I have been frightfully sick, as has all of the staff at Schedia. While we dragged our bodies around on autopilot, the world, somewhat surprisingly, has kept moving, and it has been curious to see all that has transpired. I woke up this morning with the surprising realization that I have been in Greece for two months, and have another eight to go. I am still at the beginning of my time here, and although many days I feel as if I am treading water, I know that slowly I am drifting in a specific direction.

I say that I am moving, but from what to what? What do I do here, and what does Schedia do? I have been so caught up in the swirl of my life that I have neglected to write anything about the program on this page. This is partially because I am still learning about Schedia. I arrived in the middle of an extremely tumultuous time in the lives of those involved with the program, and things have not cooled off since. Also, the theme of the program, namely diversity, naturally touches upon the historical tender spot of ethnicity. I have learned that I must be careful because even when speaking casually with my colleagues, many of my questions bring up sticky issues that are difficult to explain, and that everyone has a slightly different take on.

As a foreigner arriving without having studied the history of the region, and particularly as an American foreigner, I do not fully understand the ethnic divides in Greece -- I cannot pick an Albanian out of a crowd, nor do I really care to. Any newcomer to Athens can tell you that this is an incredibly diverse city. By some accounts more than one of every ten people living here was born outside the country. As I myself am one of the foreign born residents, it seems quite natural that the city is composed in this way, and the huge numbers of non-Greeks make me feel a bit less like a fish out of water. Also, I admit, the diversity of the population gives the city a wonderful flavor that I find exciting. However, there are deep divides within the Greek population regarding the influx of foreign-born residents, and the tension that is impossible to miss. Even among those who consider themselves sympathetic, there are reactions that surprise me. When I have told Greek friends about being accosted by men on the street, the usual response is, “Where were you? Oh, there are a lot of foreigners around there.” Conversely, many of the foreigners that I meet and speak with tell me to be wary of my Greek friends. “Yes, they will show you a good time,” they say, “but then they will turn their back on you. You can be friends with them, but never forget that you will never be one of them.”

Here there is a distinct stigma against foreigners (from poor countries). Until 15 years ago, Greece had not received any substantial number of immigrants. However, after the former soviet block opened, there was a sudden flood, and the country was not equipped to deal with the many social issues that arise with an influx of poor, and often uneducated, immigrants. When the Albanians first began to arrive, the word ‘Albanian’ was used interchangeably with ‘unskilled laborer’ and it is a widely believed myth that Albanians brought with them a wave of serious crime that was previously unknown in Greece. However, attitudes towards Albanians are slowly changing. As children are born and grow up here, people say, “Yes, when they arrived it was bad. But now you can see a change. They are making efforts, and they are becoming Greek.” Perhaps that is where the difference lies. They are seen to be making efforts at assimilation. For the Turks who have been here for generations and somehow kept their language and maintained a distinct culture, it is not the same. For Africans and Pakistanis who arrive without papers, money, or knowledge of the Greek language, it is another matter entirely.

My upbringing in the United States, and subsequent experience abroad has added to my discomfort with many of the conversations that I have had regarding ethnicity. Of course, I also do not understand what it would be like for a city such as Athens to receive these great numbers foreign-born residents in the past 15 years. One cannot imagine such an influx to be easily folded into the general population. Nor necessarily should it. But what then should happen? How do the new residents make a space for themselves, and what about their children? As a child in the public school system in the United States, I was confusingly taught both not to see ethnic differences, and also to celebrate them. However, in Greece, it is a different story. Or at least, it used to be. Either you are Greek or you are not. Speaking with most Greeks, at first take, it is very easy to draw lines between insider and outsider. It is only when asked twice, that most admit how fuzzy the line can be, and the reasons for the blurring are complex. Depending on whom you ask, the beginnings date back for two thousand years.

The area that is now Greece is at a particularly strategic regional placement, and borders have never been and in some places still are not clear. Adding to the confusion, modern Greece was under foreign rule from what is now Turkey for 400 years (many Greeks and Irish feel a particular affinity towards each other), and this messy relationship made the line between Turks and Greeks thin and sharp, although the separation was based on religion and language rather than a nationalistic identity. Until 1922, there was a sizable Turkish population in Greece, and Greek population in Turkey.

I had assumed that most of the children with whom I am working were born outside of Greece. However, although Turkish is their mother tongue, and they are Muslim, most of their families have been in Greece for at least two generations. In 1922, there was a crisis, and subsequently, Greece and Turkey signed a treaty that would forcibly remove Christian Orthodox (Greek) individuals from Turkey, and Muslim (Turkish) individuals from Greece. However, the city of Alexandroupolis, in Greece, was exempt from this treaty, and there is still a large Turkish-speaking minority living there. Over time, families from this city, which is located in the extreme north, migrated south to Elefsina and one neighborhood in Athens. Caught between two cultures with a history of animosity, the families are trapped without a positive cultural identity; although Greece is the only home that they know, they are not seen or treated as Greeks would each other, but neither are they really Turkish. When I speak with people about this issue, the conversation usually stops here. No one knows what should come next.

Schedia, the organization for which I am working, is based in Athens. It is about 15 years old. In the past they have run arts programming for both minority and majority children in central Athens. The organization's intention is to bring together children who are both in and out of mainstream society, using art as both a means for self-expression and a tool for building relationships. Starting about three years ago, they began to focus their efforts on the creation of a community center in Elefsina, an industrial town about 30 km west of Athens. Schedia is now full-partners with the municipality in the running of this center. They offer programming every evening, and on weekends, ranging from workshops for parents and children to video/theater workshops for teenagers. I am involved with two of the classes. The first is the twice-weekly arts and theater workshop for children ages 4-10. The second is that in which parents and children work together on arts projects.

As it stands now, my job is to photograph the programs in Schedia that I am involved in. This means that three days a week, I go to the center, and make photographs. On the other days of the week, I edit these photographs, write, and try to meet and speak with people about what I see going on around me. I arrived in Greece with no previous knowledge of these intricately layered issues, and it is taking time to figure out not only what is going on, but also my place within it. Contrary to what I would have thought, this job is becoming more difficult as I go on. I have more questions that cannot be answered, and constantly feel that I am hovering just on the outside edge of doing good work. Adding to this feeling of frustration is the fact that I am working within and trying to learn about a culture where I do not, and probably will not, speak the language. The good part is that everyone with whom I am working is forgiving of my linguistic deficiency, and most also speak beautiful English or French, although this has not helped my motivation to study. I am confident that slowly something is developing, and I am curious to see how it develops. As challenging as it has sometimes been, I am fully aware that I am one of the lucky immigrants here, arriving with money, with a task, and most importantly, with a return ticket to the place I call home.

2006-11-26T15:29:00.000+02:00

Everyone is sick this week. Including me.

2006-11-18T21:19:00.000+02:00

Mondays and Fridays

The children smile as they come through the door. Their eyes are alive, and as they look around for one of their pictures from last week on the walls, they ask the animators about the evening’s program, they move to the table where paper and markers are out, waiting for their hands and minds. They feel safe, they are among friends, they are ready and willing to put themselves to the work of creating.

Most of the children come and go on a bus that they city of Elefsina has chartered for the Center. They arrive with a rush of energy, and suddenly the Center is buzzing with their movement and voices. The teachers swirl between one child and another, giving instruction, listening to questions, explaining, and negotiating. The children inspect at each other’s work as they go, offer suggestions, and sometimes work two or three on one image, each adding what they think the composition needs with color and imagination. Everyone is involved with everyone else, moving between their own work and that of those around them. Everyone has comments to make, and if they are not heard, they make them louder.

The task of working with so many small individuals is not easy. Many of them are not Greek, and even as children, they face stigma in the greater society. It is the oldest story. Historic cultural and religious differences are born again with each new generation, and children are the ones upon whom the burden is most fresh, and often most heavy. In the Center, Greek, Turkish, and Albanian children work together on art and theater projects. At its best, they are able to collaborate, putting their minds together in the creation something new. They work together, sharing responsibility and praise. When this happens, it seems that projects of this kind are the ultimate way to overcome preconceptions of other. However, the program can also spiral out of control, as the children arrive carrying the weight of their lives outside, they sometimes act out societies conceptions of them. I have seen both of these situations, and have re-affirmed to know that even in the midst of a crisis, there are moments of beauty, perhaps just beside a fight, or perhaps in the dealing of it afterward. Many of the children walk a dangerous line between going too far, and working within the group for everyone’s benefit. It is clear that many of the children are hauling enormous burdens, and at times everything comes out. Dealing with behavioral issues is especially difficult when there are so many children involved, each with their own needs and expecting a different kind of adult attention. The staff at the center are expert at diffusing potentially riotous situations, and during the classes, it seems that they have boundless energy. However, after the children leave, the price of the evening can be seen on their faces. They are tired, and no one one knows exactly how to take the events of the evening home with them, or where the boundary of their responsibility lies.

As an observer, I am caught between many things. Trying to grab ahold of what is happening both with my camera and with my mind, I often don’t know where to place myself. It has been two weeks since I began attending these sessions, and slowly I am finding my place among the children and the adults, although it is clear that I am not fully a member of either group. Sometimes I join in the activity, espically when I can hold the hand of a child who has come to inspect my camera rather than participate in the program. Ususally, however, I am to the side, watching and learning as the personalities of the children emerge.

2006-11-11T19:26:00.000+02:00

First impressions

2006-10-22T16:59:00.000+03:00

Athens is a city where history and modernity come to an awkward head, meeting exactly at the gates of the Acropolis where the winding streets of Monastiraki are lined with shops for tourists. Cafes with outdoor seating offer locals and visitors alike a view of this seam where ancient life and street life come together. Athens is a city built on a city, the modern structures superimposed onto a place of deep history. Seventy years ago, when it was decided to uncover the Roman center of town, 400 modern homes and shops were lost to the efforts. The question became not whether to do this, but where to stop. Any new construction can take years because of the complexity of what is encountered underground. As a visitor, it is easy to be distracted by the ruins, and rightfully so. They are not only beautiful, but they are literally the corner stones of Western civilization. However, life here today is something else entirely. It is a life of pushing and parading, speaking loudly and passionately, staying out late, and smoking many many cigarettes...

excerpted from The Hive, essay in progress.

2006-10-15T11:22:00.000+03:00

Some of Athens from the last 3 days (for Mom and Korine).

2006-10-10T18:51:00.000+03:00

Where you are. Where are you from?

“I haven’t been to Nigeria in 3 years. But I talk on the phone all the time. You can buy cards to talk – 60 minutes for 5 Euros.”
*
“When I get my papers, I will be able to go and come.”
*
“Where are you from?”
“Sudan.”
“Oh. Tough spot there now. Three Euro for the CD?”
*
“I was born in Athens. Unfortunately.”
*
“I am from this place - do you know Macedonia? I love Athens! It is busy and wonderful. I will never return to my home!”
“Of course he loves Athens. He is a villager from the mountains nowhere. I hate Athens. Athens is complete shit. I am from Crete – from Paradise! But there is no work there for the winter so I come here and work bullshit. It is like Hell to me.”
*
“Those visiting Athens, they see beauty, they love it so much. They cannot understand the daily struggle of living here.”
*
“There are no rules for anything. It is like everyone is trying to push and grab. Other European countries are not like this. We are European, but the Mediterranean affects us. It makes us crazy.”
*
“I buy the CDs from Someplace, 1 Euro 50. I sell them 4, 5 Euros. The CDs, DVDs is where the money is. Handbags are not so good. They are too big, and not much profit.”
*
“When the immigrants started coming, we didn’t change anything. Now they are so many here, and there is no support. Nothing.”
*
“I know all the guys in that Square. Mostly we are Nigerians, but there are some from Sudan, some from Senegal and Guinea. We have to run if we see the police. If they catch us, they will take our things. But just wait. Five minutes, and we will be back.”
*
“These Greeks are lazy. They love to enjoy life too much, but it makes them lazy. That is why I don’t like them.”
*
“You can’t trust them.”
*
“You will be learning Greek from many different accents.”
*
“I won’t learn Greek. You know, instead of Zed, they have Omega. I just don’t understand these people.”
*
“The teacher is Albanian, and the students complain to their parents that they can’t understand because she speaks in that way. She came here when she was two. She can speak proper Greek, but not like one of us, you know?”
*
“You have to be strong in yourself when you speak to the parents. If the parent is complaining about the foreign students, you have to be strong to defend those children.”
*
“I feel that I am suffocating in the classroom.”
*
“The teacher was hitting the student. I asked him how can he do that, but his reply was that some of the foreign children only respond to strength. What could I say? He was old, my father’s age.”
*
“There is a new law. If I pay 1,500 Euro, plus lawyer’s fees, I can have one-year residency permit. After one year, I pay again, and maybe get a two-year permit. If I have the permit, I can leave the country without fear of losing my life here.”
*
“The Municipal Office has to call the Prefectorial Office, and they will argue about who knows the correct rules. But they are both stupid and no one knows what is correct.”
*
“Look at this. Greece is a place where bureaucracy has won.”
*
“I told them you are American. That is why we don’t have to wait in the cue with the other foreigners. You see that line? Full of Pakistanis. We would be here for 3 days.”
*

2006-10-06T14:49:00.000+03:00

Stranger in a Strange Land

What can it mean to migrate? How does it feel trading one home for another, arriving in a new place, hopeful, excited, scared? In the past few years, it seems that I have spent much of my time away from the place where I grew up, and although I have often been an outsider, I have never been made to feel outside. I now find myself in Athens, Greece, a place that is pumped full of tourists everyday, but where immigrants live with enormous stigma. Although I not planning to stay forever, the 10 months I will be here has thrust me into a messy system built to handle the masses of individuals who come from outside.

This morning, I made my first visit to the immigration office to begin the application for a residence permit. At 7:30, as I made my way towards the address I had been given, the streets seemed quiet. I knew I was in trouble when I figured out that the address I had was actually an apartment building. Dimitra had reported that at the office I would see many immigrants, and that we would have to go into a basement to apply for the permit. Someone would speak English, she assured me, but I would most likely need papers that I did not have. There was, however, no way of knowing what I needed until I went there to find out, and that is how I found myself on a nearly deserted street standing in front of a row of run down apartments.

Looking up and down the street, I spotted a group of people milling around on the next block. Could these be the other immigrants? I made my way towards them, and saw that everyone was carrying passports, and documents, looking tired in the narrow street. Cars that tried to pass beeped their horns loudly for people to move. Suddenly an official came out and began yelling directions. People separated into two groups, and I tried to ask what was happening, but couldn't find anyone who could speak English. I joined the line that was being ushered inside, and was relieved when we were marched into a basement. We filed into rows of hard plastic chairs, which faced a long row of tables where tired and unhappy lookinofficialsls were preparing their stamps for the day. One by one, a guard pointed to one of us, said something, and flicked his head. That person went to the front, pulled out a blue slip of paper, and spoke with one of the officials, and the paper was either stamped or not. Soon, however, this system which had seem quite orderly erupted into chaos. People did not wait to be called, but began standing in lines in front of the officials. One woman fell to the floor cryinhystericallyly and making the sign of the cross. An official yelled at an old man who hung his head. I didn'’t know what to do. People were now budging in line, and despite the fact that I had wanted to wait to be called, it seemed that I needed to take action or else forfeit my day to the plastic chair and a drama that could not understand. I began asking if anyone spoke English, and if I was in the right place. Finally someone, a man who was escorting a diplomat to the front of the line, told me that he didn'’t know if I was in the right place, but that I should go upstairs to one of the woman with desks by the door. They could direct me. So back upstairs I went.

Backlit by the glass door, one of the women was on the telephone, but kept raising her eyebrows signaling for me to talk. I said my one perfect phrase, "“I don't understand Greek,"” and I was directed to the other womimmediatelyadiatly began yelling, "English? English??'” It took me a moment to realize that she was yelling at me, asking me what I wanted, why I was there. I explained to her, and she spread my papers over the desk. "I won't read these. I need them in Greek.” She took my passport and violently began flipping through until she came to my European Visa. Â“What? Why are you here? How long? Student? Why are you alone? Your visa is almost finished. It may be too late. Come back today with translations. Bring someone who can speak Greek. You must come back today." And I was pushed back outside along with an African who was yelling at one of the officials from downstairs. The official was yelling back, and they were both pointing down the block. The woman I had spoken with was already yelling on the phone, and outside, all of the immigrants, who had been pushing to get in 40 minutes before, were gone. An old man sat on a stoop smoking quietly. I called Dimitra, who said that she could go on Monday, but that it would be difficult, as she also had to go out to Elfessina, I had to begin Greek lessons, and we all had a meeting sometime during the day. So the saga of being legal here continues, throughout the weekend and onto Monday.

2006-10-06T14:33:00.000+03:00

Sight See Athens

I arrived in Athens tired, but ready, and oddly calm about this move. Yes, I was going to a place where I did not speak the language, to a job that was unspecified at an organization that I had only read a website about. No, I did not know anyone in Athens, I had only spoken to my contact three times on the phone. No, I did not know about my apartment. No, I did not know about my neighborhood. No, I did not really know anything. But when I got off the plane, finally having arrived after months of trying to figure out my Visa, everything seemed to feel surprisingly normal.

On the day I arrived, I was picked at the airport and brought to my apartment. My contact, Dimitra, showed me the basics of the neighborhood – bread store, dairy store, supermarket. I was told to buy vegetables from the large central market on Saturday, and meat from meat stores only. I was given a map, told that I was living in a very good area, that I would learn everything quickly, and that I would be meeting with everyone at Schedia next Monday. Until then, I should relax and spend my time getting situated.

So this week I am sightseeing and learning to find my way around. My apartment, a small studio on the third floor a quiet building, is a 10 minute walk from the downtown area and nestled between two large hills. Every day a different old man playing accordian has made his way up the street, and as he goes people come out to their balconies to listen. As I sit typing a man is playing on the corner.

Although I would not call Athens a beautiful city, it charming and utilitarian, both things that, I appriciate as a newcomer. It is a place with a massive history, which is kept alive by the attention it receives, and which, in turn churns the city. There is evidence of the ancient past everywhere. Walking in any neighborhood, there are holes in the ground 30 feet deep where they have excavated roads or tombs. Locals wearing large sunglasses walk by without notice and tourists stop to look and snap photos. These pocketed ruins are surprisingly wonderful windows into the past, but seem oddly fractured from the modern present, as if the city we are living in was superimposed onto an ancient site with little physical evidence of anything in between.

This week I have joined the ranks of tourists, dutifully packing around town with my camera bag, stopping only to rest, look, and then get lost again. Although it feels a bit silly at times, it is wonderful to be walking around ancient sites with people from all over the world. As I go, I have found that it is the other tourists more than the ruins that I find interesting. Listening in on conversations, joining Japanese guided tours, or just sitting and watching as people stroll through, exhausted from climbing, excited at the sites, hungry to pack in as much as they can in their four-day tour of the city. And by simply being there and available I have come across quite a few interesting people. This afternoon I met an old Italian dancer who said that he was worried about the way that I carried myself when I walked, and that if I did not work to open the pressure points in my neck, my metabolism would slow, and I could double in size within a year. I sat looking up at the Parthanon while he got to work, rubbing my head and neck and chatting about his houses in New York, Australia, and Tibet. When he decided that the pressure points had been opened he said goodbye and moved on. On my way home, I met a Nigerian selling bootleg CDs who took a long break from hussling to give me a tutorial on the political situation in Nigeria, the development of corruption there, and expounded a powerful argument for an independent Biaforian State. He had to run when a police car rolled by looking for people selling without a permit. I arrived home exhausted.

Next week I begin working in earnest, and am excited to learn more about the organization with which I am affiliated, but until then, I suppose that I will have more days of touring. Still up in the air is my residency permit, and subsequent visa extension, but hopefully all of this will soon be figured out. As for this evening, I am free to do as I like, and I believe that I will sit down and practice my ukulele. I hope the neighbors aren’t sleeping.

The view from my balcony

The Parthanon (under construction since 1983)

Changing of the guard outside Parliment

Just outside the National Gardens

Square at night