Does this Money Belt Make me Look Fat?

Why am I up at 5:45 in the morning? It's not the jet lag, I don't think. Last night was perfectly fine. Perhaps because the air conditioning was turned off... Dear Lord, I look at the tangle of cords and adaptors surrounding me and plugged in— computer, Flip Video camera, Canon Cybershot, Ipod, IPAD, PSP— and I think... what would I give up? So I'm not the most rustic of travelers. What else would I be doing at 5:45 in the morning? Yes, I could read that Henry Miller book I brought along... or As I Lay Dying... but how nice to arrange my photos bit by bit, instead of never doing it when I come crashing back at home.

A most edifying day, marred only slightly by children. Our tour guide Marguerita picked us up at the hotel at 8:30, and we proceeded to wend our way to the Acropolis. It can only be described in a word that we don't allow Benjamin to overuse in his essays but is entirely appropriate in this case: awesome. To look up at the fortified walls and imagine spears and arrows hurtling down; to climb up the path that Pheidippides, the heroic but expiring messenger might have taken (if only they'd known about electrolytes back then!); to marvel at the sheer longevity of it all. 

At the base of the Acropolis is the Theater of Dionysus, where, amazingly, they let you sit in. It used to be round but the Romans cut it in half for their games. There was a channel at the bottom where water could exit after they filled up the amphitheater for staged water battles. Take THAT, Cameron Macintosh! 

I sit amongst the ruins and imagine my friend and former Greek Theatre teacher, Linda Jenkins, conjuring up Sophocles and Euripides. I imagine my friend Denis O'Hare reciting his adaptation of "An Iliad" here. I think of the dramas I have seen, and how they all have their provenance here...

Oh dear. Some things never change, like me falling asleep during Act I...






Up to the walls and the gateway at the top, where visitors would be readied for the site of the sacred courtyard where the Parthenon stands. We walk on the weathered patches of pink and brown marble, still beautiful but sporadic, all of it worn into slipperiness from the millions of sandals, boots and sneakers that have trod onto it as we tourists swarm  like ants over the ruins. 

You pass by these enormous columns and then— there it is. The Parthenon. As grand as inspiring as you'd think it'd be. Even with the legions of tour groups battering at its steps, the monument refuses to be daunted, or sullied. After all it's been through— the conversions to church, and mosque, and artillery depot; the constant defilement from fires, explosives and Catholic zealots— a few thousand tacky T-shirts and crappy baseball caps aren't going to do it any harm. 

We walk around it, jaws forever lowering into idiotic gapes, and we also take in it's smaller but still impressive sister the Erechtheion, the temple and tomb where Poseidon & Athena were supposed to have vied for bragging rights over Athens, in whose foundation a snake protector was supposed to have been coiled. We want to linger and soak in the godly glow, but it's hard to be properly reverential when your son is running into Italian tour groups while swinging an imaginary light saber, and your niece is entirely over the whole event and demanding to be taken home.  Nothing like children to swing you back to the present.


Later, while Doug is resting and Benj is allowed his his own sacred time in front of his holy gaming device (believe me, he had to write an essay about what he saw first; screen time is no "gimme") I wonder through the streets of the Plaka region, getting happily lost. A rotund Greek man befriends me and accompanies me three blocks to the main square, also to his dark bistro where he invites me in to sit with his three special lady friends. Ah, what's Greek for "You're barking up the wrong tree"? I decline ("Ohi torra, efkharisto") and wend my way back to Xenodoheo Electra and a lovely meal of lamb with lemon sauce and fried potatoes. Everything is gloriously drenched in that miraculous olive oil. Tomorrow—Delphi!

Update: Dear God, it wasn't 5:45 when I woke up— I read the watch wrong. It was 3:45. Benj woke up too and later I roused Doug to eat breakfast at 7 only to find that I was 2 hours too early. Oops. Can one get late onset jet lag?

Dear God is that the Parthenon?

A brutal but well-timed 17 hour trip, from LAX to Heathrow London, and then on to Athens. Left in the afternoon, got to London in the morning and Greece in the evening. Time goes by in that strange airport way. Spent my time at Heathrow marveling at the Starbucks— like an American Starbucks, but not like! Look! They call the oatmeal "porridge!" Their paninis look better— could it be the ingredient restrictions in the US? Didn't get much sleep; an hour or so; spent my time watching "Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief" with Benj (nice to see you again, Uma) and listening to Greek conversation on tape. Upon landing, Greece was warm but not stultifying. Major meltdowns from both children upon arrival at the hotel (easy to understand; they didn't sleep much either) and then a meal at the taverna around the corner, where the olive oil tasted fantastic, mostly because I was eating it IN ATHENS. Had a glass of ouzo with water, many Metzas (little Greek dishes) and then everyone crashed at once. Still: look at the view from our balcony:

That's the Parthenon!!!!

Tomorrow we tour the Acropolis and other ancient relics. No, I'm not talking about you, Doug.

It's unreal. Must sleep. 

Lord Elgin's Marbles

*

Heard of 'em? Let me elaborate, let me pontificate about these priceless archeological artifacts. You see, Lord Elgin was a British ambassador who took these ancient marbles from the Parthenon in Greece. He had them removed to the British Museum. And now the Greeks want their marbles back. These marbles were intricately carved, small spheres, no doubt made from precious stones, like onyx, or jade. I imagine they were piled into a little pyramid for display. Perhaps they were used for ceremonial purposes, or maybe Greek youths played ancient shooting games with them—

—or perhaps I'm completely out of my depth.

Here I am, preparing for my upcoming trip to Greece, reading the literature, and it's today, TODAY, that I find out that Lord Elgin marbles are not, in fact, MARBLES. They are artifacts MADE OF MARBLE. The Elgin Marbles are friezes and sculptures that were part of the Parthenon and which now reside at the British Museum. 

Oh, Divine Stupidity. 

Well, at least I'm cultivating that "no-nothing mind," so useful for travel.


We're going to Athens and the island of Sifnos on Monday. Wish us luck and hopefully I'll post something during the trip. Maybe I'll find some marbles. And steal them.

Σας δείτε αργότερα, φίλοι!*

Adiosis!


*See you later, friends!




Update: Just twisted my ankle while packing. Ruh roh... Swallowing Arnica now.

The Shriveled Dumpling Horror

Son's last day of school. Potluck party in the 2nd Grade. I signed up to bring an entree-ish dish, and thought of chicken with cashews in a carved out pineapple (no, no, Doug, it's easy, really) but shopping for the ingredients at the grocery store Benj suddenly decided that he wanted me to make dumplings. Hmmm...  even though I had already done a fried wonton demonstration for their Chinese New Years unit (no, really, I'm not showing off, it was my civic DUTY) I thought it might be a nice dish, and easy to transport. After all, my younger sister Michelle whips up literally hundreds of dumplings on the spur of the moment, while simultaneously preparing a Powerpoint presentation and repainting her living room. How hard could it be? (yes, Doug, I know it's easier to "just buy something," but, really.) The teachers were very excited about what I was going to bring "this time," and I didn't want to disappoint. (I told you it's not a competition, Damnit! It's fun! It's FUN!)

Started working on them about 10 PM (damn you, Season 2 of The Shield, now available on DVD). For my last minute shopping, couldn't find the Chinese dumpling skins, so had to buy  the thinner-skinned gyoza wrappers (which Michelle disdains). Didn't let the filling really chill before I started in (oh, it'll be fine...) Listened to "Left Right and Center" and started folding. The dumplings felt a little... soft, malleable, in my hands, but they pleated nicely and I was able to shape them into the requisite crescent shapes. Covered the completed ones with a damp dishtowel, which may have been a wee bit heavy for the dumplings. When I lifted the towel, the half already made looked, oh, a little depressed. Not horribly so, more... disappointed. Their frills had drooped into their bodies. Still, they were crescent-y enough, and I finished the rest more mindfully, so they were perfectly formed. 1 AM. Wrapped them and put them into the refrigerator to cook the next morning. Wrapped them and put them into the refrigerator to cook the next morning.


This is something you should not do.

Michelle explained to me the next day, during my phone confessional, that one must freeze the dumplings if storing overnight. One could also boil the dumplings, then refrigerate them to fry the next morning. Ah. This would have been good to know.

Hot oil ready, both frying pans preheated, an hour to cook and transport them to the school. Only, the dumplings didn't want to go. They REALLY didn't want to go, and stuck to the parchment paper, stuck to each other, stuck to my fingers, stuck to the spatula. They had the solidity of underbeaten biscuit dough. I managed to fry them up anyway (Put that twenty away—I'm not calling PF Changs! NO!). They luckily still browned and didn't leak. Unfortunately, they looked like little lumps you might find sifting through your cat box. No, actually, they eerily resembled the bucket of live mealworms writhing in All-Bran that Benjamin brought home for a summer science project:

Larvae or Lunch? You decide.

I have brought shame upon my family. We may have to transfer schools.



Update: Yes, they were all eaten. Yes, they still tasted good. Still, must prepare banquet for 3rd Grade...

A Bite of "True Blood"

In Los Angeles, the wristband is king.  Encircled with the right color, your wrist can get you into anything. Doors will magically open for you; frowning, burly men in black with earphones snaking into their ears will step aside and let you past the metal barricades, where smiling women in sensible skirts and clipboards will direct you to where you want to go. Meanwhile, the hordes on the other side of the barricade, the ones in T-shirts and baseball caps, who will NOT be eating cake, are craning their necks to YOUR side, extending their cellphone camera'ed arms up and forward like a protest, like a collective question: where can WE get a band to adorn our sadly impoverished wrists?

My wristband last night was sparkly and blood red, with three magical letters that granted you wishes: H.B.O.

My friend Denis O'Hare is going to be a major character on this season of "True Blood" and he graciously invited Doug and me to the big-screen premier at the Mecca of all movie theatres: the Arclight Cinerama Dome. A two-episode viewing followed by a celebration at swank nightclub Boulevard 3. Now, this may sound like Nirvana to most normal, socially-adjusted vampire junkies. However, I have an almost pathological aversion to kind of party situation (Doug: "Almost"?). Shmoozing, mingling, working a room? Get Mamma her smelling salts. Remember, I'm the one who refused to walk across the room to be introduced to Ang Lee, who was WITH MY PARENTS at the time. I'm just no good at that kind of thing. I much prefer the Emily Dickinson method of social interaction, where I can talk to someone from behind a door, cracked open. Now that's a party!

So I had a certain amount of trepidation, but my love for True Blood, my loyalty to Denis and the threat of divorce won out. Our friend Maiya tsk-tsk'd over my wardrobe and got me into something suitable, even roped some silver around my protesting neck. Doug, of course, had no such sartorial timidity.

People spill a lot more popcorn when they're not paying for it.

Free drinks and popcorn in the lobby. Lots of schmoozie schmoozie going on. We're with Denis' hubby Hugo and I've had a margarita, so I'm okay. In the vast Cinerama Dome, a gi-hugic blue "HBO" shimmers on the screen, and we're shown to our reserved seats. There are, like, five ushers per person, each with seating chart. It's like a military operation. We're close to the screen in the tony section. In back of us is Werewolf Alicde (Joe Manganiello, woof) and across the aisle is Sookie, Tara, and Vampire Eric. I'm in this alternate reality, where the citizens of Bon Temps have lost their accents and have WAY better clothes. You really have to appreciate the illusion of movie making. Everyone is a lot smaller or a lot bigger than you'd expect, except for bar owner Sam Merlotte (Sam Trammel) who appears exactly as he is in the show, when he's not shifting, of course.

Tara's Mom (actress Adina Porter) looks almost as young as the woman who plays her daughter. "It shows you what a bad weave can do" she tells me.  We shake hands with Anna Paquin and Alexander Skarsgaard (who is, if possible, more sylphlike than on screen) We meet Deputy Sheriff Andy and that human who works at Fangtasia and screams a lot. Everyone is extraordinarily nice and friendly. Of course, we were under the aegis of the Vampire King of Mississippi, so that helps. And we have on our magic wristbands.



As far as the episodes go, they were pretty exciting. We'd been cramming 2 seasons worth of the show in a month so we were pretty stoked for more. What happens is... oh dear, I'm under a Vampire Glamour, and so cannot reveal any spoilers. You ordinary mortals will have to wait until Sunday to find out what happens. Suffice to say that there are a lot of new Fanged Ones, plus hunky hunky werewolves who manage to get nekkid very quickly. Denis is great, malevolent and quirky at the same time. I didn't think it was possible for him to be any paler than he already is, but he was. The show actually looks great on the big screen (hey, anything that makes Jason Stackhouse's biceps even bigger than they already are is a good thing)

Afterwards it's more enforced mingling, and then a car pulls up for Denis and we drive three very short blocks to the nightclub which is absolutely crammed packed. More metal barricades, more wristband flashing and we're in, milling next to a diorama of wolves and a huge True Blood display. O Positive Martinis and plenty of food. This is where things get very dicey for me. Too much hobbing and nobbing, as Doug calls it. Luckily, I find a very nice Vampire's wife to talk to and actually run into some friends there. I manage to stay for more than an hour  before tugging at Doug's sleeve and giving him the Sad Eye.

Our babysitters congratulate us on staying out past eleven.