Sugar and Spice, Sharp but Nice

I've been repeatedly asked to imagine what flavour I would be, and I can never come up with a satisfactory answer. Probably because flavour means food, but there's so much more to food than flavour.

Oatmeal Cinnamon Chip Cookies

I'm not a foodie snob, just someone who loves enjoying her food. There's flavour, but there's also smell, there's texture, there's temperature. All those can make a world of difference. So I decided to cheat a bit and figure out what kind of foodstuff I could be… and the choice just sprang up without me having to think about it at all.

If I identify with a food item, in a 'come back as X' way, that would have to be my mother's spice and orange cookies. They don't look like those up there in the photo; she prefers to twist the dough into little braids and shape them into sticks, crescents or rings. They are vegetarian, as there is no butter, milk or egg in the recipe; baking them would always ramp up big time during fasting periods, and the smell of cinnamon, clove and orange greeted people from the landing, without even having to open the door into the flat.

They're fluffy and comforting when eaten hot, just out of the oven, or even warm, although I've always preferred them cold, at least a couple of days old, when they feel more solid and the flavours have blended. And unlike so many other cookies that seem to be designed to be dunked in milk, these are extra yummy when dipped in orange juice, leaving some of their spiciness in the drink.

I'm not sure if I identify with them because they tick all the 'favourite foods' boxes or if I like them so much because I'm so like them, but there you have it. I'm solid, dependable, low maintenance, a generally wholesome influence; sweet but with a little core of pungency, an acquired taste. I want to believe I bring a bit of comfort, even with some crumbly rough edges, to the lives of the people I touch, and leave something of myself in them.

Powered by Plinky

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

I've never put much stock by dreams, mine or others'. I guess that came in handy when I pretty much stopped having any.

Bows (faux dreamcatcher)

I blame it all on that dreamcatcher. Not sure if it was handmade (it did look a bit too regular for that, though), but a beautiful piece, with a set of wind chimes hanging from it. I hung it at my balcony door and used to give the chimes a ring at least once a day. I'm picky with my chime sounds, and that set was more than nice. I thought I'd got a good bargain.

I didn't even realise for the longest time that I no longer dreamt of anything at all. I'm not very perceptive in the long run, unless I keep notes. I believe it was a few years later, probably after I had grown tired with the thing and got rid of it, that it dawned on me what had happened.

I had found a set of fabulous instructions on how to craft one's own dreamcatcher, and there it was mentioned that the centre of the web should be left open, like in the picture above, not closed with a bead, as is the case with most ready-made dreamcatchers. The lore behind the craft says that nightmares are supposed to get tangled in the web and stay trapped there until the morning light dissipates them, while good dreams find their way through the central opening to reach the sleeper. Blocking that opening can only stop the dreaming altogether. The tribal inventors of dreamcatchers would be appalled.

One way or another, my dream life dwindled away to nothing while the dreamcatcher was in place, and hasn't bounced back since. I'm not particularly sorry. I've always found the fact that dreams remain unfinished (because you can't remember it if you don't wake in its duration) frustrating. Remembering good dreams was also rare, while nightmares stayed with me much longer. Must be my natural glass-half-empty attitude. I wasn't sorry to see those go. Up until I got admitted to university, I'd be chased by Lovecraftian horrors, or falling endlessly, screaming my throat raw without any sound coming out, more nights than not. Enough was enough.

Mind you, I don't mean I don't have REM sleep or anything. I bet I do, or I'd have been a subject of medical study long ago. I just get only the utilitarian dreams, the ones I don't wake in the middle of. I've never had a significant-feeling dream in my life. The odd nightmare still slips in when the stress levels hit the red, but that's par for the course.

A superstition from my neck of the woods claims that when you dream of the dead, they want something from you. My father died unexpectedly when I was 17, before I acquired the dreamcatcher. To this day, I count the event as one of my most traumatic experiences. And yet, I've never dreamt of him, not in the shock of the first nights, not in the quieter grief that has accompanied me since. I take it that he's happy with me, wherever he is.

Powered by Plinky

The Best, for Less

Sandwich bars don't have a reputation for being posh eateries. Swing by an Everest, though (they're all over Greece), and you won't care about posh again. Too delicious for nitpicking.

Chachi’s Sandwich Bar

Everest redefined the tradition of the 'quickie bite', taking it from cheese and spinach pies and sausage rolls (greasy and occasionally dodgy) to full meals, with a lot of room to go healthy and with more than decent prices. Where else can you get a filling meal, a dessert and a drink, and still keep the bill in the single digits?

There are traditional-style pies and ready-made cold sandwiches, to be sure, but the great strength of Everest is the completely customisable toasted sandwiches. Basic white bread rolls, but the choice of fillings is entirely up to the customer's whim, and I all staff have had to deal with some pretty daft combinations. I'm not sure if I've ever had the exact same sandwich twice myself, and believe me, I've had hundreds. (Nothing better after a night of clubbing, to keep the post-drinking munchies at bay.)

In more recent years, they have introduced customisable salads as well – pick a (sealed) bowl of greens – spinach and rocket, or a medley – and add your choice of extras and dressing. I used to have a lot of such salads for dinner when I worked evenings. Spinach and rocket, with roast chicken fillet chunks and honey-mustard dressing, or with red beans, sweetcorn, diced peppers and a vinaigrette. If I was extra hungry or it had been a particularly nasty day, I could add a slice of carrot or marble cake. And their 'chococaramel con panna' (hot chocolate with caramel syrup and whipped cream) was comfort in a paper cup in any but the hottest weather.

My husband, who was not yet my husband at the time and enjoyed ping-ponging emails with me during the hours of low activity in the evenings, never stopped being bemused at how little I had to pay for my dinners, compared to how many things I piled into either my salad or my sandwich. All until he came to visit and had the experience himself. It is really the only way.

I miss Everest. I haven't been to one since August 2010, and I plan to indulge fully when I find myself in Athens again.

Powered by Plinky

Cunning Linguist

I already speak a few foreign languages (including the one I'm communicating in right now), but there's no such thing as knowing too many of those. As long as they don't get all mixed up.

Beach ball language activity

I learned English and French (starting at the ages of 6 and 10 respectively) to emulate my best friend. Never mind that I went much further than she ever had, in both – I'm a licenced teacher of both. Later I learned Latin at school, though I didn't go very far there, and shortly afterwards learned Spanish in a two-year, exhilaratingly accelerated course. My Italian is entirely self-taught, and still very basic, but the whole set of languages can still identify me as a Romance linguist of some skill.

I know I will never be able to learn all the other languages I'd like to, so, if forced to draw up a shortlist, it would have to include Gaelic, Russian and Turkish.

Gaelic is a bit of a cheat, because I'd love to focus on both the Irish and Scots varieties separately. Celtic culture has fascinated me for many years, and one simply can't understand a culture without understanding their language. That is something I instinctively knew from the beginning of my linguistic career. Not knowing the words of favourite songs isn't too much of an issue for me, but I'd still want to!

I had some Russian lessons as a child, through a televised course. Hard as it is, I enjoyed it immensely, and definitely want to pick it up again sometime. I find there is something particularly alluring about languages using different alphabets; as if using a different coding system is an extra challenge that I relish.

Turkish is a much more recent addition to the list, though it dates from before the onslaught of Turkish soap operas on Greek TV (which started long after I had left the country and my exposure was curtailed). When I was younger, in times of greater tension between the neighbouring countries, I heard the joke often: 'Learn the language, you'll need it to communicate sooner than later.' I don't know about needing it… but I do know the modern Greek language has borrowed a lot from Turkish and I'd like to learn the roots of the loans, properly.

Since none of these languages have classes anywhere near here, I guess I'll be making Linguaphone richer for years to come…

Powered by Plinky

Losing Touch

Friendship is not like romance. It is actually meant to last forever. Only all too often it doesn't.

Best Friends Forever

I've never been the social butterfly type, who makes friends within a couple of days of finding herself in a new setting, which means I've only had a handful of real friends in my life. Entirely my doing, of course, since I'm picky about who I consider a friend. Spending long periods of time sharing living or working space is not enough. Not if there's no actual communication beyond the contact, or sharing of appreciations.

Since I moved across the continent, naturally I lost touch with almost all my Greek friends and acquaintances. The internet is the only way I have to keep in touch now, and most are not particularly computer-literate. Some of those who really matter, though, are – I'm looking at you, Chris and Raven, and I love you both, guys.

Still, I've had my share of lost friendships even before circumstances made it mandatory. Few of my primary school friends went to the same secondary I did, and it's very hard to keep in touch with someone when you're 12 and school devours most of the day. The same happened when we graduated and moved to university. Some went to other cities, others stayed in Athens, but it's a big sprawling city with long commutes and university hours are even longer than school ones. And being the picky kind I am, in university itself, I gravitated towards people who had come in from other places and went back home after graduation, leaving me again with the thankless task of maintaining a long-distance friendship. It's harder and less rewarding than a long-distance relationship, and didn't last long.

There was only one friend that I lost without quite realising why. We never moved quite in the same circles. Her name was Evie and we lived in the same apartment building – four floors apart – where I grew up (between the ages of 4 and 16). She was six months older, one year ahead of me in school, and much richer and more cultured; her father was the engineer who had designed the building. We didn't go to the same school, and even though we learned English in the same institute, we usually ended up in different classes because our schools had different schedules. We just hung out together, in her room or mine, first playing, then talking and listening to music. Sometimes we went out riding our bikes, or saw the odd movie at the cinema her father partly owned. One summer, when I was 13 and my parents had to go back to their village to vote, I stayed with her family for a few days. She never missed my birthday parties, nor I hers. I was convinced we'd grow old together, sharing stories about work and kids the way we bitched about school.

As it turned out, forever was much shorter. After we moved, just three streets away, the visit exchange started to grow more irregular. A couple of years later, after my father's death, it had stopped altogether. We both were very busy in the transition from high school to university, but I can't help feeling that neither of us put too much effort into keeping our friendship alive. I don't even remember when the last time we saw each other was. My last visit to their home was sometime in our mid-20s, when her father died, and she wasn't even there at the time. My mother sees hers sometimes, but I'm not sure if I would recognise my erstwhile best friend in the street now.

It doesn't hurt, like it does when you 'are over' with someone over a fight, but I still miss my best friend, regardless.

Powered by Plinky

« Older entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.