Three Cups of Mint Tea

As I stared down the hollow metal tube a few meters down the dirt path, the bright red wildflowers dancing around us and the low grown of mountain goats orchestrating some folk medley as ancient as the rocks surrounding us, memoires long forgotten and dreams still unfulfilled burst into focus with each heart beat: that one day when we chased a leprechaun through the snow, those ducks we named outside our hotel room in Disney, my younger brother holding my sister and I the night before my grandfather’s funeral. Moments, at their time, that seemed as insignificant as any other, and yet, that pastel color of Francesca’s jacked crouched in the snow beside me and the feel of my siblings tears on my skin were the only things I could think about. Movies make you believe that in near-death experiences the milestones of your life flash before you: my acceptance to Lehigh, or perhaps my high school graduation, even my Bat-Mitzvah would have sufficed. And yet, as I heard the boy cock the gun, all I could think of was how lackluster my final seconds would be: a gun pointed at my head and thoughts of George and Martha the ducks behind the target.

A week before I was jostled from my Hemmingway reading with a similar sound as the wing to my left prepared for the flight’s descent. Bright-eyed and eager about the adventures that lay before me in this desert land, I embraced the far too windy air outside the airport. Tangier, though only a few hours away from Switzerland, is truly a world apart. The city is cramped untidily with massive apartment and business towers adorned in deteriorating facades and soot gnawing at the once white paint of a once incredible place. Pollution liters the streets, as does the smell of rotting refuse. The city itself seems alive, wheezing in and out as its inhabitants fight through unbearable temperatures. Both men and women wear traditional attire: a long dress down to the ankles, pointed leather shoes, a veil for women, and a petit hat for men. Though I can hardly claim to have assimilated into the crowds of Istanbul or Yerevan, here with my increasingly red Irish skin, ripped jeans, and uncovered head I clearly stand out.

Within Tanger there are four distinct atmospheres: the central, chic part of town, the coastlines, the medina, and the outlying neighborhoods. In my first week I have been to all four. The main area of town, my home for the next four weeks, is filled with cafes where men old and young sip mint tea into the wee hours of the morning. Bakeries with delicious smelling breads and even more delectable tasting meat pastries, and a strangely disproportionate number of barbershops line the boulvards. Every so often a minaret juts above the building line or the cross to a church peaks its way out from behind the trees; there is also a synagogue in Tanger, though I have yet to find it. The most intriguing aspect of my neighborhood, however, are the international territories. In the mid 20^th Century Tanger was deemed an International City governed by multiple countries within the United Nations. Although it has long since been repatriated to the Kingdom of Morocco, legal territories of other states still remain. Behind high walls you find Spanish, French, and even Italian areas with their own hospitals, school systems, and consulates.

The oldest part of the city, the medina, lies to the west and is an even tighter design than the center. The cobblestone allies weave in and out of peddlers’ storefronts selling everything from carved leather to brass lamps reminiscent of those found in Aladian. The sook, or marketplace, is a vast labyrinth of every food one could imagine: fish the size of my body, goat’s heads hanging from strings, at least a dozen different types of dates, country eggs and cheese, and rows of fresh fruits and vegetables (never again will I buy an entire watermelon for myself, though the jam I made from a Kilo of fresh apricots will surely be recreated). While meandering through the medina, I visited the Kasbah Museum, which told the history of the town’s fortress. My visits to French, Spanish, and Moroccan art galleries, different religious cemeteries, and a Moroccan style ‘running of the bulls’ have all given me unique insights into distinctive life perspectives of those who call this city on the tip of Africa home.

The final two parts, the coast and the neighborhoods, create the physical boundaries of Tanger. Both the Mediteranian and the Atlantic make their shores here, allowing breathtaking views of both the sunrise and the sunset with horsemen, camel nomads, and crowds of muscular fishermen casting their nets as your only companions. On the other side, the poorer neighborhoods (where I work) are teeming with Sub-Saharan migrants, impoverished Moroccans, and in recent months calls for revolutions (which have been echoed in many protests during my short stay).

Getting my fill of Tanger I decided to take a weekend trip to Chefchouen, an enchanting mountain town three hours away by public transportation through winding dirt roads tucked away in the Riff Mountains, not far from where Hercules supposedly completed his twelve labors (for you OMers, there was no sign of a thirteenth labor). The captivating medina is painted entirely in white and pale blue, which stands starkly against both its red walled fortress and the austere rocky mountains above. The architecture and the local flavor have been deeply influenced by the Andalusian migrants form Spain in the 15^th Century. After a visit to their Kasbah Museum and a rousing but unfortunate soccer game (wherein I was the only person to adorn a Manchester United jersey), I took a path from behind the village’s waterfall and up through the mountain range, passing by spectacular views, hidden mosques, and fields of marijuana plantations.

 Upon my descent I met the boy, no more than twelve, with the dark barrel and unforgiving stare. In my first post five months ago I penned how grateful I was to have the opportunity to get on a plane and engulf myself in exotic cultures from around the world. Having nearly half a year’s worth of foreign experiences has given me wonderful memories that I will forever be appreciative of: I will always cherish the impressions of the first time trying Khatapouri in Georgia over a conversation on gay rights and the awe-inspiring atmosphere of the Haiga Sofia. But working with Sub-Saharans living in complete desolation and watching a hollow-cheeked boy raise a gun for a few dollars has made me even more grateful for what, and who, I have left behind an ocean away. Growing up with a loving family and food on the table every night, thoughts of begging or being sold into a trafficking network were not only unimaginable, but entirely unknown. My childhood and beyond has always been filled with friends and family who have done nothing but support me in my endeavors and shown nothing but the warmest of hearts. It would be a lie to say I have not suffered through hardships, but through everything, I have always had the support network and more than enough material necessities to get through. Making the decision to run, through my pounding heartbeats and steps kicking up lose dirt, I could not help but imagine the destitute that led that boy to where he stood behind me, his boney arm raised and extended into an ugly metal machine. Words cannot express my gratitude for my friends and family who have made my life beyond incredible; I am aware that a simple Thank-You could not possible be adequate to what you all have given to me, but for now it is all I have to give. Please know that the emotions behind that two word phrase are the most sincere I have ever felt.

In My Time

Hunched up against the cold windowpane of my midnight bus, I doze in and out of a restless sleep, watching the hills of the countryside lurched forward in the darkness. A few hours into the journey, a woman wakes me with heavy shakes and a flashlight (at first, I am almost certain that this is a drill from Arriel for our IPE exam and I am about to blurt out what the Stolper-Samuelson theorem is- thank you Professor Moon). Drowsily I find the energy to descend the bus, get my passport stamped at the border post, and await my arrival to Bulgaria as the sun pierces through the mellow blue pallet, relieving the dark storms that plagued the evening’s ride. After a three-week reprieve I am back in post-Soviet territory, and it becomes evident almost immediately. The mundane Soviet Realist monuments are disarrayed throughout the parks, the apartment blocs tower over the newly constructed businesses as an eerie reminder of time gone by, and the Slavic origins of the Bulgarian language seem much more reminiscent of Russian than Georgian or Armenian.  Unlike Turkey, the air in Bulgaria is still chilled and I wear a winter jacket as I stroll the streets in search of cultural discovery, which comes in the form of the Early Christian church of St George constructed as a rotunda in red brick in the 4^th Century, the much more extravagant Byzantium Hagia Sophia Church, which mimics its counterpart in Istanbul well with large onion domes and high vaulted ceilings, the National Gallery of Foreign Art where I marvel at countless masterpieces ranging from Italian Renaissance painters to immaculately naturalistic Russian colorists, and finally a conversation (or rather a monologue in Bulgarian) with an elderly woman on a park bench. Perhaps the most rewarding aspect of my time on this side of the Black Sea was my host, an Economics student, with whom I visited the rock-climbing wall, tried tea in a unique apartment-turned café, and traversed the rest of Studenski grad, a student section separate from the main part of town that houses over 40,000 university students.

En route to Zurich, I had a lengthy layover in Vienna where I quickly zipped through the suburbs to the center of the city via speed train. While there, I made my way to Mozart’s apartment, which has been renovated and turn into a museum. The baroque building consists of two portions: the first is strictly a museum stuccoed in white plaster and lined with display cases that illuminate the grand composer’s freemason activities, gambling, and social life (accompanied with an audioguide filled with Mozart’s monumentally baronial compositions). A few floors below lies a replica of the rather large apartment that Mozart lived in between 1784 to1787, which he shared with his wife, two children, at times his father, two servants, and a seemingly endless flow of guests. Being in the same room where masterpieces like The Marriage of Figaro were conceived was a truly inspirational experience and provoked a new appreciation for the scores that I have grown accustomed to from pop culture and choir rehearsals. Before racing back to the airport, I had time to visit St. Stephen’s Cathedral, or Stephansdom, a colossal combination of Romanesque and Gothic architectural aspects originally constructed in 1147. With its multi-color tiled roof, soaring towers embellished with elaborate floral patterns, and bas-relief depictions of apostles, it was fascinating to compare this cathedral with those of Byzantium that I stood in awe of just a week before.

Zurich itself is perhaps as different as can be to almost every other city I have visited; Tbilisi and Istanbul were muddled with insane drivers, a labyrinth of unlabeled streets, and covered with a sheer, undetectable layer of anarchy; Yerevan and Sofia were soaked in a dark undertone of their poor and oppressed history; the diversity found in Tel Aviv among Arabs and Jews and in Athens between Greeks and North African migrants created an uneasy tension that, though not acted upon, was undoubtedly a tangible sensation. Zurich is, in a word, perfect. The trains and trams run on schedule to the second, every pedestrian waits patiently at the crosswalk for the blinking green light (a nightmare for someone who grew up jaywalking on nearly every corner in New York), and even the ‘self-serve’ fountain drinks have a line on the cup where by customers meticulously measure out their Coke. Though crime rates are low and fairness is the rule of the land (save perchance for women’s equality), the city with its majestic bell tower, cobble stone bridges, and swans elegantly swimming in a nearby lake is too perfect that it seems more like a country in Epcot (Disney) rather than the real thing. Despite the fact that our visits to both the history museum and the art museum gave us some reprieve from the precision, after a few days the cleanliness and exactness was overbearing for someone who has spent the last month on couches in gritty sideally apartments. Taking refuge from Zurich, we went hiking through the vast countryside of Switzerland. Our trekking brought us up muddy mountain trails canopied by a thick layer of pines and leaves, through wide, open meadows of wildflowers and cows jingling happily with rusty bells, and even through a ferocious snow storm as we made our way up towards the summit of Jungfrau deep within the Alps. Thankfully our extensive hikes made up for the amount of decadent Swiss chocolate, fondue, and rochlette we feasted on throughout the week.

Six years ago was the first time I had left America on a plane bound for Europe with forty other high school students I had never met. Coming from a family that hasn’t left the East Coast, let alone the country, I would be lying if I claimed that I wasn’t terrified of what laid beyond the watery depths of the Atlantic as the rest of the travelers slept silently through that fateful journey. I like to remind myself of that trip more often than I probably should, of spending worry-free nights watching the sun set over an olive orchid in Spain, of frantically sprinting down the steps of the Eiffel Tower to catch our bus already half-way down the boulevard, of the conversations after our first concentration camp visit around a table in some long forgotten restaurant hidden in the forests of Germany, and, most importantly, of the inexplicable passion for exploration that those adventures ignited that I’m still yearning to feed so many years later. A few days into my time in Switzerland I traveled to the Rhine Falls, the largest plain waterfalls in Europe, with my companions.  I watched the water cascade over the mighty rocks, the streams of water avalanching in white surges of pure force to the melodic orchestra of crashes and plunges. Nothing had changed since the day my host family took me across the border to visit these falls six years ago. The water still pounded relentlessly downstream, the eroded rocks still stood sedate among the chaos, even the fish in the lake below resembled those I had fed bits of bread to with my younger home-stay brother as he dangled his hands over our boat, never quite reaching the watery mirror.  Back in Zurich the same jeans I wore at 15 are stuffed untidily into my canvas bag, and that passion for exploration still follows dutifully in my shadow as I venture onward.

 In a few weeks I turn 21, something seemingly unimaginable as I stood in the same spot as my 15-year-old self, looking out onto the falls as eternally unchanged as the Great Pyramids. Though my clothes and, grudgingly, height may be the same, I know that I am not like the water that forever flows below the austere stone castle perched high on its cliffs. Before boarding that plane in 2005 I had every intention to become a veterinarian, attend Cornel, and go on to work at some exotic zoo or conservation clinic. My fears were far and few in between, save for the occasional anxiety of being caught for our misconduct of playing Uno into the wee hours of the morning (Erica I hope remember that night of having to hide in the bathtub). Those memories now seem like someone else’s story as I begin my work with Sub-Saharan refugees in Morocco and talk with Erica about what will come of us after graduation next year. Boarding trains and busses so often I tend to, consciously or unconsciously, neglect the fact that I’m growing up; that I’m no longer afraid to immerse myself completely alone in a town where I know neither the language nor the customs. I am no longer terrified of what lays beyond the watery depths of the Atlantic like I was six years ago, but instead panic at the thought of what lays beyond the cap and gown a year from now. For one last moment I take in the view of the falls, feel of the mist in my tussled hair, smell the sent of earth and moisture intertwined: it all looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. In the end, I realize what’s changed is me.

The Turkish Letters

Covering my head and removing my shoes, I took refuge from the driving rains (once again) under the grandiose ceiling of the silently majestic Blue Mosque of Sultan Ahmed. Though awe-inspired as I approached the pious sanctuary by the exterior onion domes and lofty minarets rising into the somberly grey sky, the interior left me, if possible, more amazed. One large room stretched the entirety of the building, covered by an immense red carpet of intricately woven geometric shapes. The overpowering candle chandelier hung low to the ground, creating an intimate atmosphere for prayer despite its humbling size, and devout Muslims kneeled with bowed heads just below it’s arched metal arms as if it were shielding them from what lay beyond the tiled walls. Every surface of the mosque was embellished with brilliantly dramatic mosaics of blues, whites, and turquoise (which comes from the word ‘Turk’ for those who didn’t know). Though the decorations lacked any human or animal attributes, the swirls and flourishes of the mosaic came to life in one spectacular show projected onto white glazed tiles.

Like the colorful glass plates at the Blue Mosque, Turkey is a mosaic comprised of pieces from Europe and Asia, Christianity and Islam, Modern western skyscrapers and ancient civilization ruins. From porting at Kudasadai to my departure on a night bus from Istanbul my week exploring the diversely opulent palate of this montage has been one filled with some of the most aesthetically inspiring masterpieces and culturally astounding experiences I have encountered since my departure from New York in January. I began my orient adventure in the small city of Selcuk in southeastern Turkey drinking far too much apple tea with Persian carpet salesmen and trying rubbery Turkish ice cream in a hidden mountain village nearby. Almost immediately I was struck by how friendly and opened Turks were; looking past the abhorrent calls from merchants about low prices and the best quality, locals truly enjoy taking the time to sit down over a cup of complimentary tea or sweets to tell you about their brother in LA or their thoughts about the Korean tour group that passed through last week.  Leaving the gregarious waterpipe smoker behind in his dimly lit shop, I made my way to Ephesus, an ancient Greek and then Roman city on the port of the Agean Sea. At one point of the Roman Empire, Ephesus was the second largest city behind Rome in the world and included dozens of luxurious homes, a library, commercial center and the Temple of Artemis, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Although only one column still stands testament to this long destroyed ancient wonder, the Ephesus complex is perhaps the largest and most intact excavation site that I have meandered through thus far. Facing the still-standing façade of the Library of Celsus or crouching through the tunnels leading to the baths of Hadrian made me feel as if I were moments away from exploring 12,000 scrolls of classic literature or joining the city elite for a relaxing afternoon in the caldarium (thank you Roman Archeology class for recently proving your worth).  Before heading to the airport for a short ride north to Istanbul, I visited the Tomb of the Seven Sleepers- an ancient tomb where it is said seven young Christian men hid sleeping for 200 years to escape Roman persecution- and the ancient ruins of St. John’s church- who spent the last years of his life in Ephesus with the Virgin Mary after Christ’s crucifixion.

Leaving the warm weather in the south, I embraced the winding streets of my first Islamic capital with wide eyes and an open mind. Istanbul is an incredible city. Minarets and domed sanctuaries jut up above the old wooden buildings in the old part of town and dozens of Imams call prayer five times a day in one melodious orchestra of Allah. The streets hum with a constant hustle of veiled women and young boys carrying Turkish tea on wobbly treys. Merchants call out their products, doing, and saying, quite possibly anything to get you to pause a moment for their commercial attack. The streets twist and turn upwards, pausing for a patch of blooming red tulips or an entrance to another one of its jewels. Every turn seems to lead to a lesson of this once grand empire’s history through breathtaking architecture and monuments. The remainder of the city’s neighborhoods, and its 13 million inhabitants, follow the flow of the Bosporus River, which mimics the bustle of the streets as a watery highway.

My first day was spent jumping to and from mosques and churches seemingly more superlative than the last. The Mosque of Suleymaniye the Magnificent conceived by the most revered Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan, whose designs can be seen from Damascus to Baghdad, was an architectural masterpiece of massive arches and columns; the buttresses, usually flying or piers exposed in western churches, are hidden from view both on the exterior and interior through elaborate colonnaded galleries. The New Mosque (Yeni Camii) built in the 17^th Century, is topped with sixty-six domes, preceded by a courtyard, and flanked with the other expected buildings of an imperial mosque- madrese, public baths, a hospital, and a market. The Aya Sofia was, perchance expectedly, my favorite; the red-bricked exterior weathered from centuries beckons visitors into its splendors of Byzantium architecture- the inspiration for all those mosques and churches that would be erected for the next millennium. The church converted mosque converted museum is littered with innovative engineering feats, massive marble and granite columns, golden mosaics, and still vibrant frescos. Large black medallions with golden Arabic hang heavy on its four corners surrounded by golden encrusted frescos of archangels, epitomizing the vast and profound history of Byzantium Constantinople and Ottoman Istanbul.

Leaving crosses and half moons behind I ventured to two of the three imperial palaces of Ottoman rule. The first, Topkapi Palace, sits in the heart of the old city on the Golden Horn and stretches on for kilometers with velvety green grass and vibrant spring flowers dotted with kitchens, treasuries, mosques, thrown rooms, private chambers, and all else in between that is required by an Sultan ruling over three continents. This fortress, with its ornate woodwork and meandering tile designs seemed reminiscent of my visit to the Alhambra in Moorish Spain many years ago, while the latter Palace, the Dolmabahce Palace in use from 1856 until the final days of Ataturk and the birth of Modern Turkey, seemed more evocative of my memories of the Palace of Versailles with European Rococo styled crystal chandeliers, overly plush armchairs, and putti covered ceiling murals. Pulling myself away from the enchantment of the years years ago, I explored the halls of the Turkish and Islamic Art Museum where I marveled at illuminated Korans, Persian carpets, and calligraphic Arabic, cruised the shores of the Bosporus to see the restored wooden homes and stone fortresses further along its shores, attended a play in Turkish about modern relationships, got lost in the labyrinth of the Grand Bazaar, and feasted on far too much baklava, Alinazik Kebabs, and kofte.

As many of you know, rather than staying in hotels or hostels as I skip across countries I am lodging on local’s couches, which has afforded me the opportunity to see a side of these countries most tourists miss; it has also provided some of the most interesting and thought-provoking conversations covering everything from Keynesian economic policy in Bulgaria to the relationship between Israel and Turkey in an era of Islamic democratic revolution. One conversation with my host in Istanbul lingered a bit longer than the others in my mind, one about the individualism of the West in contrast to the communalism of the East. Though I have studied this observation from World Humanities my freshman year in high school to the trade policies of America and Japan in International Political Economy, I had never seen first hand what it meant to compare my individualistic, capitalist lifestyle with a way of life based on trust and community. Traveling for half a year alone certainly emphasizes my individualism, but it has also highlighted those communities that, though thousands of miles away, still play an integral role in my life. My videochats with family on a weekly basis, my e-mails to Green Action about solar panel petitions and legislation on water in Delaware, and my phone calls to friends talking about the latest episode of Glee have made me more conscious my own communities. Many of the people I meet from cultures rather different than ours in America comment negatively about the aspect of individualism, but perhaps we are not as self-focused as I once thought. Perhaps we are more like the magnificent mosaics of the Blue Mosque- each tile’s design independent of one another’s, able to stand as a self-sufficient work of art, but the true beauty lies in the pattern of the grand design when all of the singular tiles come together.

Now Bring Me that Horizon

Clutching hard onto the metal rail for just a moment longer, I braced myself for another punch from the far too furious sea. The taste of salt had crept into my tightly pursed lips and stung my nostrils despite the fresh water relief efforts from the rain. With squinted eyes and a wet face, I watched silently as ominously dark shapes passed not far from deck, veiled by the mist of the storm, turning islands into mythological monsters.  Soon an unseen voice would rise from the speakers above the clash of the thunder, ushering us overly audacious travelers back indoors, and I would walk back to my seat, being thrown by the weight of the boat every few steps into voyagers whose stomachs were less fortunate than mine. But for just a moment longer I had to grip onto that rusty bar and fight through the watery war that raged without sympathy.

Though rainclouds had replaced the Israeli sun here in Greece (perhaps an unsung blessing for my sun burn), my week was filled with all that it could physically hold.  After hauling my too heavy backpack to a flat somewhere south of the wonders of white marble I made my way towards the Acropolis. Athens is, simply, a labyrinth of urban jungle teeming with tourists at its core and slowly diluting the fanypacks and baseball hats as its spidery veins spread across the valley. The grime and grit of modernity is spotted every so often with the majestic beauty of time gone by, both as a memento of its extraordinary origins and as a reminder of how much industrialization and urbanization has changed this once sacred ground. Graffiti covers every conceivable inch of concrete, metal, and glass screaming personal tags, political slogans, and hurtful signs of the economic crisis. Walking towards the white columned beacon above, glancing from souvenir shop to Starbucks, I realized just how far a leap Europe is from where I’ve been.

Leaving the graffiti and anarchist posters behind, I hiked up the plateau towards the contemporary jewel of ancient civilization. The Acropolis is truly an awe-inspiring place. Overlooking expanse of our time’s Athens I wandered through the crowds to gaze upon the aesthetic might of eternally rawring lion heads and perfectly sculpted caryatids. The historical weight hangs heavy in the air on the archeological grounds as one sits in the amphitheatre of Dionysus or strolls along fluted columns fallen from grace. I think of how such minute fragments of ancient Greece have the immense power to inspire such emotion and can only fathom what the reaction would be if I could experience these temples in all their glory millennia ago.

Hoping to capture some of that lost magic I made my way to the Acropolis Museum, which housed replicas of what the buildings looked like before the disastrous bombing in 1687 or the centuries at the mercy of the elements. Leaving the statues of mythology and ceramics of everyday life behind I then ventured to the History of Athens Museum and the National History Museum to trace the progression of civilization here from the phidian drapery of maidens to the velvet military costumes of the fight for independence.  Through corroded pistols and discolored maps I learned all about this great nation through Byzantium, Ottoman rule, the struggle for independence and unification, and the folk culture that survived throughout all the turmoil. Perchance the most alluring exhibition of both museums was of historical paintings documenting the Acropolis throughout its history- as it became a church, a mosque, was bombed, fallen into disarray, and the first efforts of restoration. My final day led me to a jewelry museum that connected contemporary designers to their ancient inspirations by displaying works created thousands of years ago with pieces designed in two thousand ten.

 

Taking the first boat of many I voyaged from the ports of the mainland to Mykonos, and though drizzling, I was immediately taken by its splendor. The crystal clear water rushed against the sandy shores illuminated by what little sunlight my trip afforded, acting as a window into the depths of the sea. The isle rose above the deep blue in fits of mountains dense with just greening trees and raw, earthy rocks. The buildings, all with curved lines as if taken from a late le Courbusier design, of the main city (and all of the houses and buildings throughout the land) were painted an impossible white dotted with richly blue shutters and doorways- in earnest the scene looked as if it was a paradise taken from some Hollywood movie set. Due to the off-season, I was luckily able to enjoy getting lost in the winding alleyways of white walls and blue staircases without pressing against a crowd of Frenchmen fresh from a tour bus. Letting my hair toss in the wind as I motorcycled through the countryside or dangled my feet off the dock Mykonos felt dreamlike and very real all at once. While there, I took a day trip to Delos, the birthplace of Apollo, to visit the archeological site and museum of a once vibrant city before the burning by pirates. The site was magnificent. A row of lions stood somberly as bright red, purple, and yellow wildflowers danced in the breeze at its clawed feet to the music of distant waves. The history of the island, from hallowed sanctuary to the premier commercial center of the Aegean made me long to take an ancients course next semester. The site told both of private life through tiny stones of still in situ mosaics and of the public sphere through temples and monuments erected by Romans, Athenians, and Nexians to show the power and wealth of their states. Though much was lost in the plundering and smoldering, the enchantment of the isle is still very much alive.

My final stop in Greece was on the island Samos, the birthplace of Pythagoras. Though the natural terrain was reminiscent of Mykonos, the towns couldn’t be more different. The buildings lined the port in pastel blues, yellows, and pinks topped with red tiled roofs and twisting ornate metal balconies. Overhanging streetlamps reflected in the water below illuminated the stoned pathway, as if it yearned to be swept up and placed down on the French Riviera. Though I only had time for street wandering, an attempted (and failed) visit to the archeological museum, and a large helping of Greek food (yes Nina, I have eaten spinach pies, Greek yogurt, gyros, and everything else on your list of vicarious living and fully expect you to pay my gym bill this summer), the mild reprise from the storm on this beautiful island was pleasantly spent.

In truth, my first days in Athens were filled with a twitch of disappointment. My travels in Georgia and the Caucasus were absent of factory made magnets and snowglobes, and I nearly forgot what it was like to be in a tourist destination where people don’t look at you like medusa if you ask a question in English. I felt almost suffocated by a warped sense of what Athens was, seemingly more a gimmick for foreigners instead of the birthplace of civilization. But past the American fastfood stands and ‘I <3 Greece’ tee-shirts I was still able to quench my appetite for adventure. Discussing the philosophy of life and toil with my Sudanese host in a dimly lit café on a side street far removed from four star hotels I felt the presence of all those ancient philosophers from here we sat that paved the way for this conversation centuries into the future. Discovering an abandoned boat tied to a long forgotten port in Delos over a mountain and through an unmarked cave path I wondered how many, if any, had stumbled through the bramble to pause here before me. As I travel westward, I know that the number of tourists and grande frappichinos will increase exponentially, but that fleeting feeling of dissatisfaction from Athens has disappeared. Traveling, like anything else, is what you make of it, whether that be eating McDonalds French fries in Tbilisi or taking a chance and trying a doughy pouch of some unlabeled local filling. Just because more of my friends have heard of Athens compared to Tbilisi does not make it any more culturally enthralling or exotically delicious, and though my appetite for the path less traveled my prove to be a more difficult journey in the countries to come, I know that will make the venture all the more rewarding. And so, for just a moment longer as my fellow passengers closed their blinds and shielded their site from the storm, I slipped along the deck boards, watching my hair fall lose from my hood and fall victim to the waves, until I caught my first glimpse of the Turkish shore in the distance.