Morning Walk
I slept deeply last night, but woke at 5 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep, so I took a walk around the hotel when I finally gave up at 5:45. We are literally across the street from Hadrian's arch. Andy says his sense of awe is not as strong this time, but mine is--I still find the arch breathtaking. I walked around the perimeter of the gated temple and down some side streets. There were already people heading to work, the air heavy with pollution. A few stray dogs begged me for food. Hardly anyone was walking on the streets--I saw only two women waiting for a bus, one runner (I think she was American), and a man who was in a hurry. Nobody makes eye contact in the city except the hotel workers and bartenders and shop owners. I am used to greeting everyone I see in Morris, whether or not I know them, but here, the women looked suspiciously at me when I greeted them, as did the man. I looked funny, I'm sure, with my long t-shirt and gym shorts, and as usual, I'm very conscious of my accent and my struggle with the language.
When I got back to the hotel, I did yoga for about a half hour, feeling every muscle giving in to the positions, stretching, stretching. I feel like I am letting go of grief and fear here, like part of this trip will be about facing those emotions squarely and moving forward and through. I sat on my balcony and drank some water. I am facing an apartment building, and two elderly women were out on their balconies, tending flowers and mopping the floor. One of them gave me a half-smile. I love how the old women here create gardens everywhere they go, even in the middle of this city, even on the ugly concrete balcony facing a hotel made for American tourists. One of the balconies has some artwork by someone named Leni. They appear to be carved concrete blocks with paint on them, but it's hard to tell. Leni signed each block in the corner and included the year, ranging from 1986 to 1989. Whoever she is, she is talented. I imagine she made these pieces for her yiayia or her mother, that she's my age now and did these pieces in her teens. I feel myself easing back into the writer's mindset. Maybe I'll actually get to work on the novel I drafted two years ago from my research. Being here has got to inspire a return to that piece, and I owe the women activists I interviewed, now old women living in apartments or homes in the Athens suburbs, a finished novel that witnesses to their roles in World War II and the Civil War, stories that, as one woman told me, "Americans need to understand."
The shops below me, along the street, are opening now. I can hear the men talking about last night's soccer game and about a sale one of them made yesterday to a blond American. (Last night, the "football" fans were loud, shouting and singing all night long, and I would wake occassionally and vaguely register their voices--Greek, Italian, another language I didn't recognize). The birds' songs are starting to fade into the background as the voices on the street grow clearer, but at 5 a.m., they were loud and insistent on my getting up, calling back and forth, back and forth.
It's almost time for breakfast, so I'm going to head downstairs. Today we go to the Acropolis and some other ancient sites in the cities, and then have our first class session in the late afternoon. I look forward to being there again and hope it's not too crowded...
When I got back to the hotel, I did yoga for about a half hour, feeling every muscle giving in to the positions, stretching, stretching. I feel like I am letting go of grief and fear here, like part of this trip will be about facing those emotions squarely and moving forward and through. I sat on my balcony and drank some water. I am facing an apartment building, and two elderly women were out on their balconies, tending flowers and mopping the floor. One of them gave me a half-smile. I love how the old women here create gardens everywhere they go, even in the middle of this city, even on the ugly concrete balcony facing a hotel made for American tourists. One of the balconies has some artwork by someone named Leni. They appear to be carved concrete blocks with paint on them, but it's hard to tell. Leni signed each block in the corner and included the year, ranging from 1986 to 1989. Whoever she is, she is talented. I imagine she made these pieces for her yiayia or her mother, that she's my age now and did these pieces in her teens. I feel myself easing back into the writer's mindset. Maybe I'll actually get to work on the novel I drafted two years ago from my research. Being here has got to inspire a return to that piece, and I owe the women activists I interviewed, now old women living in apartments or homes in the Athens suburbs, a finished novel that witnesses to their roles in World War II and the Civil War, stories that, as one woman told me, "Americans need to understand."
The shops below me, along the street, are opening now. I can hear the men talking about last night's soccer game and about a sale one of them made yesterday to a blond American. (Last night, the "football" fans were loud, shouting and singing all night long, and I would wake occassionally and vaguely register their voices--Greek, Italian, another language I didn't recognize). The birds' songs are starting to fade into the background as the voices on the street grow clearer, but at 5 a.m., they were loud and insistent on my getting up, calling back and forth, back and forth.
It's almost time for breakfast, so I'm going to head downstairs. Today we go to the Acropolis and some other ancient sites in the cities, and then have our first class session in the late afternoon. I look forward to being there again and hope it's not too crowded...
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