Almost Time to Say Goodbye

It is perhaps telling that I have more unfinished drafts for this blog than I have posts. The days have been sliding by so fast that trying to grab and hang onto them gives me mental rope burn. As we've articulated in our goals for students, we too have been trying to be present where we are instead of mentally off somewhere else. And now we are preparing to not be present anymore. It's almost time to go.

Actually being here has meant just a little of getting to know our neighbors (in this case, the shopkeepers on the ground floor who work incredibly long hours). They see us coming, they see us going, with the kids and without the kids, early in the morning and late at night. 

Getting to know our neighbors means that I will miss much more than the view from our window. I will miss the people who have been the most beautiful part of Greece. We went to say goodbye to Sofia today, a woman the children befriended their second day here who always chats to us when we walk by...as we have been doing for weeks now. She had asked us to come by today to be sure she didn't miss us on our last day tomorrow. She gave each of the kids gifts and hugs, and me a powerful sense of the welcome we have received here. I could barely get out of there without weeping, which I later did leaning against the fence of the Acropolis Museum.

After watching the sunset from Mars Hill, we were at dinner and Charlie was reflecting on the people who have welcomed us. "People here love children so much!" was one comment. And then: "Mom, we should learn a bunch of other languages, so that when people from other countries come on Europe Semesters except for they come to the United States, we can make them feel welcome like people have done for us here. Don't you think so?" Bless him. Yes. And bless the Lord for the many kindnesses shown to us in this place at this time. After dinner, our hosts gave the kids balloons.

We will have more goodbyes to say tomorrow; the people at the bakery downstairs, for one (when we walked by early Sunday they checked about when we were leaving, and later slipped extra goodies for free into our purchase--a chocolate croissant for Meggie, no less, because they heard her asking for it.)

We'll see how tomorrow goes. Wherever we go, we will carry a piece of The Hellenic Republic in our hearts, as we have been carried in the open ones here. 

Agistri: Treasuring Photographs and Children

On Friday, we took the students out to Agistri--a small, unpretentious island with about a thousand permanent residents. Instead of booking a "3 Greek Islands in 1 Day" tour, we simply bought regular ferry tickets each way and figured everyone could explore. Most of us ate lunch locally and spent the rest of the day at the beach.

On the way over we took a conventional ferry, with the cars and motorcycles down below and fixed chairs on the top deck for people. It took us about an hour and a half to reach Agistri from Piraeus. For a solid chunk of that time Margaret snuggled with me next to the rail, and we watched the foaming water move down the side of the ship as we listened to a sound like roaring carbonation. The sun was shining. The water was turquoise. Margaret's little head was snuggled perfectly beneath my chin. I found myself longing for a camera to try to seize the moment, but even as I considered it I knew there was no way to fit everything in the frame. It defied capture and after a bit I decided to try to save it without any technological aid. We just sat together.

A few hours later, I was snorkeling with Carmen and on the way back into shore I had the same overwhelming desire to capture and own the moment so as to be able to return to it at will. There is no underwater camera that also records emotions or the taste of salt water or the actual presence of a person, though. So I swam back in with my eyes on Carmen and Charlie swimming ahead of me rather than watching the fish around me. And I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this time with them while already missing them when they are not small and 'ours' any longer.

I love our children. I do not always feel as affectionately toward them as I have been feeling the past few days. Lately I sometimes feel like I could just scoop them up and eat them. Maybe I'm a little emotionally raw because of the strain we've been under (I hear it now: "Yes, a real strain to have to go to a Greek island for the day!" In the context of fabulous circumstances, though, I have been working harder and have been more stretched than perhaps ever in my life, and we are in for about sixteen weeks of it.) I think perhaps there's more to it than that, though; I think that maybe a streak of Greek culture may be wearing off on me.

We have lived here for almost three weeks and we have NEVER gone out into town as a family without people interacting with our children and with us about our children. People feel free to comment on our children and the size of our family in ways we would never hear at home.



On the Metro and around town, Margaret usually hitches a ride in a backpack. Invariably in the crowd someone reaches out and strokes her cheek or shakes her hand--or even gives her a kiss. While this would have bugged me if she were my first little baby, I have come to love it here. William and Charlie get their hair tussled. Carmen gets engaged in conversation. Jesse and I get affirmed in ways that have never happened at home.

For example, when we walked into an art shop, the proprietor counted the kids in thickly accented English:"1-2-3-4..." then added, "...Fantastic!" (He also told us to not worry about the kids breaking anything). In the meat market a man walking by pointed to the four of them and then kisses his five fingers in the universal sign language for "delicious." The cook at the kebab counter asked how many children we have and then worked for the English to say "God bless you!...it is hard, but good." My personal favorite took place our first week here, when a woman stopped us on the street emphatically asking us something in Greek and waving at everyone. After a minute and some gestures, I realized she was asking whether they were all ours. When we gave the affirmative, she clapped. And shouted "Bravo!" at us as we walked away down the street. I am not making this up. This kind of thing happens every time we go out. It's almost enough to make me feel like a minor rock star.

The difference between the cultural view of children here and that in California is astonishing. While shopping in stores we have been working hard to keep the kids away from breakables and such--"Look with your eyes and not your hands!"--and recently I could feel the frustration of the shopkeepers growing. Finally I went to hold something for William so he could see it without touching. The keeper came over and took the carved olive wood item out of my hands--and handed it to William. She then engaged him in conversation about its uses, shape, etc. and encouraged him to try it himself. Turns out the frustration was with me and my hyper-controlling ways. Have I perhaps become a bit too culturally embedded and comfortable in my home country's view of children? I wouldn't have thought so, but it's a bit startling for strangers to outdo me in welcoming my children.

Here in Athens they are welcomed and somehow treasured--not because of who they are, but just because they are children. Parents who have lots of them are welcomed, encouraged and applauded by total strangers. This makes the contrast with home all the starker. No one is shouting "Bravo!" for children down the street at total strangers back where I come from. 

I have taken many photos while here--at Corinth, Delphi, Nafplio--but if I could take one piece of Greece back home with me to have captured in order to revisit and experience again and again--it would be this sense of welcome for the little ones entrusted to our care. It won't fit into any frame, but I'm hoping that I've captured some of it all the same.

Cape Sounio(n)

I didn't know what to expect about Athens; everywhere else we are going I have either already been or have formed an opinion of already. But as of our arrival, I didn't have clear expectations for Greece (except for ruins and a lot of marble statues). So perhaps it's more precise to say that the Athens of my imaginings was inanimate; a museum piece already.

We have only 10 days left in Athens, and that seems far too short. Athens has gone from being lifeless to being a city that I'm afraid will be my favorite.

So given that today Sunday has rolled around again, I thought I would use it to document a few of the things that I am grateful for here. The week has flown past on the wings of fascinating outings, very hard work, learning and teaching, and not-quite-enough sleep. One of those things has very little to do with Athens itself; yet it was such a gift that I'll give it its own space.

Last week, on the heels of days of outings, starting the program off, and the first day of class, we then boarded a coach bus to Cape Sounion in order to visit the Temple of Poseidon; this is also the location where King Aegeus threw himself to death in the sea upon seeing the black sail, giving his name to the Aegean (for those of you as into Greek mythology as our kids right now).

Maybe it's that we were tired. Maybe it's that it was so hot: "August is not the time to be in Athens," we have heard repeatedly. We had thought we would visit the site and perhaps later the beach down the hill; but by the time we got there it was unbearable up there on the rocks--and anyway, sunset's the time to visit the temple. So we headed down to the water for a few hours, giving ourselves time to get back in before sunset.

And we swam. And all took a collective sigh of relief. And swam, and floated, and played some more.

We all cooled off, physically and metaphysically,  and basked--not just in the water, but in delighted  astonishment that we were all here. The water was warm and extra saline, which made swimming that much more fun! And above us were the ruins and a promise of a spectacular sunset to come.

Jesse and I swam way out with a bunch of stduents; the water was clear but deep. We did not, however, join the group that went out to the rock. (No, not that rock--the other rock, with students on it)

 

Meggie spent almost the entire time finding another rock. And another. And another. And telling us about it. The beach was almost entirely rocks, so there was plenty of fodder for her "Mama! I found a rock!" game.

After being totally refreshed by the physical break from heat and mental break from work, we boarded the bus back up the hill to the ruins. William was beside himself with excitement. Over ruins...and, of course, the stories associated with them. We all know how vibrant stories are, and how they draw us in, but it was particularly clear to me on this day when our children were so excited to be there. I had come for the landscape, but appreciated the stories as well--including the story of how these columns were built according to an adjusted design that accounted for the wear and tear of sea and wind at their location.

We got our first family photo in Greece--both with our immediate family--

And our slightly larger one!

 As a postscript--Much of the lower part of the temple is covered with etched graffiti. One of the most famous names so inscribed is that of Lord Byron.  I looked for it for a long time, and finally had some help on which column to search. Lord Byron spent time in Greece and wrote a poem titled "The Isles of Greece" soon before the revolution where the Greeks threw off 400 years of Turkish occupation. The end references Sounion--

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,

         Where nothing, save the waves and I,

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die:

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine—

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!"

Last Friday, on the bus on the way to Delphi, Carmen also wrote a poem about Sounion. I leave you with it here. I will continue my gratitude list another time; it's late here now and we're early off to Corinth in the morning. Happy Sunday!

First Sunday

Today marks the first of three Sundays that we are spending in Athens. The timing is perfect. We welcomed the students on Friday evening, and yesterday put them (and us) through a bit of a wringer. An orientation meeting in the morning was followed by a hike up the highest hill in Athens; yesterday late afternoon we climbed onto a coach bus and headed to the ancient theater of Epidaurus.

The trip deserves a post of its own: we drove along the winding Greek coastline for the first time since

Road to Epidaurus

arriving, and I got a sense for how things could have worked for defensible city-states in ancient times:  the inland terrain was unsympathetically harsh and would leave regions separated from one another and almost inaccessible: but for the sea. We drove on modern roads built through tunnels and through deep cuts into rock and the earth. Not that those sorts of roads would have been beyond the ancient Greeks to build-- had they wanted to be accessible, I am convinced there would have been a flat, smooth highway running all 'round.

Because we were able to see some of their architectural prowess at the theater in Epidaurus--built out of massive stones in the 3-4th centuries BC, the outdoor amphitheater has nearly perfect acoustics. The limestone seats amplify high-frequency sounds--such as the actor's voices and the musical instruments--while muffling the low-frequency sounds (such as the like crowd noises).  Were you sitting at any spot in the theater, you could hear (unamplified) a match struck onstage. I had been very much looking forward to seeing Euripides' The Trojan Women performed in this theater.

As the play began, though, it was clear that it was going to be a slog. The actors sang, spoke and shouted--and we could hear every syllable, every trill of a flute. But they didn't move around much. There was no real "action" to follow. This heavy reliance on the spoken word coupled with our collective ignorance of Greek meant that the story was even more inaccessible to us than the Greek villages were to one another by land. When the collective sighs or laughter of the audience followed the story, we were shut outside.

The Romans added the second level of seats

This morning came early (we got back from the play past 2am; the children stayed behind with Maddie-the-hero). Part of my course asks students
to find a local congregation to worship with while in each city. We found ours a few minutes' walk from our apartment: First Evangelical Greek Church ("services simultaneously broadcast in English"). Minutes went by and we had our transmitter headphones on but no translation; I tried to follow what was going on even as I dreaded keeping the kids still and quiet when they could not follow the service at all. I despaired of a worship service that was a repeat of the play the night before.

However, even though we couldn't understand the words of the call to worship, invocation, prayers and scripture reading, the music and the very pattern of worship were making the Lord's service accessible to us in ways that had been prevented the night before by the missing action of the play. There were two sets of hymnals; one each in Greek and English. So I stumbled through the timing of singing words to familiar tunes alongside other people singing them in a Greek. When the sermon began, Behold! there was a visiting pastor preaching in English with a live translator into Greek. After the sermon, I switched to stumbling through the Greek words as we sang, feeling ever more united to the fellow Christ-followers in the room. And as we sang the very last hymn, Margaret started dancing--unprompted--just as she does during the closing song of the service at home. She also found the service accessible.

Carmen, Charlie and William chatted after the service with a girl Carmen's age who moved here from the States a year ago Thursday.

We were able to worship across language and distance, and found the Holy Spirit and Christ's church accessible, after all. And I was reminded of this from Ephesians 2:17-22:

"And he came and preached peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access in one Spirit to the Father. So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone, in whom the whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord. In him you also are being built together into a dwelling place for God by the Spirit."

And so, it was amazing to hear the Greek play in the theater at Epidaurus under the ancient stars just down the road from Ancient Corinth: but I am sensible of how much more astounding it is that we could share in worship and be welcomed and at home as aliens. As we sang this morning, "Αλληλούια!" (Alleluia!)

Arrival in Athens

After nearly 13 months of planning and preparation, we have arrived in Greece to begin our semester abroad. It is hard to believe that we are here; yet I have been poring over photos, itineraries, maps and plans for so long that it also seems almost normal.

When we first begin talking about the possibility of leading Europe Semester 2013, we were strongly attracted to the theme of pilgrimage and exploring what it means to be resident aliens. Now I am getting ready to teach my course on Christian Pilgrimage; and featured prominently on my syllabus is the quote from Martin Luther (on the upper right of the blog). So it's probably no surprise that as I thought about blogging the experience, I conceived of the experience as a developing story, a movement toward something--Someone.

And so, for the portion of our greater story that is bound within fall semester 2013, we have now been to the bookstore and bought the book (or, perhaps more modernly, the shippers of Amazon.com have delivered it) and it's all ready to read. We don't yet know what we will find within its pages, but trust that the One who wrote every one of our days in a book before we came to be will work out good things in the story and works he has created for us to walk in.

In spite of ourselves (and unlooked-for complications), we arrived safely and on-time in Athens on Tuesday morning (local time). It was perhaps for the best that our Monday was only 14 hours long. Navigating the train system from the airport to our apartment at the foot of the Acropolis (!) was an exercise in humility and an early window into the graciousness of strangers that has continued to be extended to us. Various people helped get suitcases off the Metro through the throng in the 20 seconds we had; woke Carmen up so that she wouldn't miss the stop; helped me strap Margaret on my back in a crowded train; and hefted our suitcases on the stairs.

When we emerged from the last Metro station, blinking in the sun and wondering which way to turn, it was only moments before I heard someone calling my name. I could not see her but I knew it was our host calling from the balcony of our apartment. As I looked for her from terrace to terrace, I was struck by how marvelous and comforting it felt to be in a foreign city, another world, and to be recognized and called by name. Called by name. And I gave thanks--ευχαριστώ--for a place to call home while on the road.