Miss You Bruv

It’s amazing how things that mean nothing to you back home can take on significance in an unfamiliar setting.

Back in the States something like a basketball court would just be a large slab of concrete, a place where I’m likely to embarrass myself. But here in Greece? It’s a cultural touchstone (another reminder that America’s cultural reach is everywhere), but more importantly a recurring symbol of my brother.

My younger brother – baby bruv – is a baller through and through. He lives and breathes basketball. If I’m being honest, I respect his commitment, but basketball doesn’t mean that much to me. However when I’m away from him – even if it’s just for a couple of weeks – a basketball court, that slab of concrete, becomes a nice  reminder of my little brother. His laugh, his “I’m playing dumb just to piss you off” behavior. It all comes rushing back when I see the basketball courts around here.

Of course I miss my whole family. But as I write this on a Sunday afternoon, it’s hard for me not to miss my youngest brother (sorry Mama Mello), who I’ve spent so many lazy Sundays with, playing games, grabbing ice cream at Crescent Ridge or just fucking around.

Miss you bruv. See ya soon.

“Obvious Metaphors and Fever Dream Thoughts” by An Overtired Grad Student

I realize I haven’t blogged for a while, but there’s so much swirling around in my head that I wanted to give it some thought before I committed anything to digital paper.

It’s been an interesting couple of days to say the least. I’ve spoken with a master guitar maker in his small, rural home and I’ve seen molotov cocktails, thrown by hooded anarchists, arc through the air before exploding on a police officer’s motorcycle. And that was just one day.

Honestly it all still seems like a dream. I’m not sure it really happened, but I’m just gonna roll with it and assume it really did happen.

Assuming those two things did happen and weren’t part of some fever dream brought on by too little sleep and too much spanakopita, that one day really represents the part of Greece that I respect the most: a creative, sometimes violent, spirit.

Giannis Paleodimopoulos, the classical guitar maker I interviewed for a character profile I’m writing, is a creative spirit in the traditional sense. He’s a craftsman. He works with his hands and channels aspects of himself into his creations in order to make something beautiful. He molds curved bodies out of Spanish cedar and helps musicians conjure luscious soundscapes out of nothing but wood and metal.

It was really an honor to see him work and play (even if it was just for a little while). It’s not often that you get to see someone who really enjoys their work, and it’s clear from the little time I spent with him that Paleodimopoulos enjoys his life and craft to the fullest. It also made feel so lucky to be on this trip. I’ve been able to hear great stories, talk with interesting people and work with other skilled journalists like Sydne and Gwen, both of whom did incredible work on this story.

The anarchists I’ve seen marching, protesting and meeting have that same creative spirit. It just comes out in a violent gush of outrage, not a carefully crafted ode to joy.

The anarchists are trying – and trying and trying – to create something new, a wholly new society that benefits everyone. They’re just creating it through conflict, struggle and sometimes violence.  Creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin in a lot of ways. There are some pretty unsubtle “phoenix will rise from the ashes” metaphors going on here, but they’re still actively trying to create something.

In an interview with an advisor to the mayor, he mentioned that there might just be an inherent anarchic spirit in Greece. I don’t know if that’s true, but there at least seems to be this drive to create something out of nothing, even if it first means turning something into nothing.

 

Facing Reporting Challenges Like a Champ

Not every trip can be sunshine and rainbows, especially when you’re working with anarchists.

After a full week of reporting, I’m still struggling to make progress on my anarchist story. I’ve hit dead end after dead end with people just refusing to talk or taking the time to point out how I’m part of an institution that flies in the face of their very beliefs. I’ve never heard the word “capitalist” spat out with such venom. It turns out anarchists don’t want to talk to a journalist or an America. Who knew?

I’ll be honest: I haven’t faced this challenge in the best way. I didn’t charge straight ahead, the “no’s” and rejections bouncing off my shoulders as I ran towards the truth. No, instead I furrowed my brow and acted like a child who was told he couldn’t have a cookie. Apologies to my friend who had to see me react that way (sorry, Bridget).

For a little bit I resented my story. Why couldn’t it be easy? Why did it have to be me that got this story? Then I realized how ridiculous those questions are.

Why should it be easy? Why shouldn’t it be me that got this story?

After pulling back and reassessing my strategy, I’m back out on the trail. I had an interview on a rooftop bar called Mikropolis with a political science professor yesterday. That was one of the more interesting moments I’ve had on this trip. I couldn’t find the bar for 15 minutes, but after asking three different people for directions I managed to locate it. I could hear the muffled squeals of electric guitar and the low rumbling of a drum set on the first floor, but I had to go up. All I had to do was walk up a narrow metal stairway that wrapped around a broken elevator shaft.

Up, up, up, each floor opening up to apartments with graffiti-covered doors or empty doorways leading into what I think were bathrooms (I don’t know what else to call a room with nothing but a sink). Eventually I reached the roof. There was minimal lighting, the bar was to the right and tables and chairs were set up opposite like any bar. It was pretty normal. I found my contact and sat down for a short and relatively uninformative interview.  I was pretty discouraged, but I ended up talking to a woman at the bar who said her sister, who was at Mikropolis, had worked as a journalist and was involved with some anarchists.

Long story long, I’m going to an assembly on Thursday to openly pitch my story to a group of anarchists (looking forward to more capitalist smack talk). The massive protest and demonstration tomorrow should also provide great opportunities for reporting too. The story’s not dead, it’s just evolving.

I don’t think this is anything new for a journalist; it’s not even new for me. But doing my work in a  foreign environment threw me for a loop more than I thought it would. It’s been a challenge and a strange adventure so far – and I still can’t even say I have faith it’ll work out. I guess it wouldn’t bother me as much if the chaos of my work wasn’t such an on-the-nose analogy for the anarchists themselves.

Never Stop Playing, Bradley

I’m sitting in my room, the sliding door slightly ajar, as the sweet, slightly longing sound of music hits me in my earholes. Melodica at 10:30pm?! Hell yes!

I can hear this invisible musician slowly finding a rhythm. I suddenly remembered that one of the other students on this trip, Bradley, brought along a melodica. Thank Yeezus he did. The high-pitched but melodious sound of Bradley’s playing reverberates off the walls of the nearby apartment. The instrument may be small, but the echo chamber and Bradley’s unbridled, unceasing passion sound like an orchestra.

It’s a sweet lullaby, call to arms and softly melancholic meditation on the nature of loneliness all at once. The perfect soundscape for the end of our first week. Thank you, Bradley. Keep on playing.

A Non-Drinker’s Account of a Greek Winery

For some reason it always surprises people when I say I don’t drink. I don’t know if that means that I look like an alcoholic or that it’s just strange for someone my age not to drink. At this point I’m not even that self-conscious about it. It also helps that I’ve been lucky enough to find friends who don’t pressure me or judge me for it.

Yet I consistently find myself drawn to countries – Ireland, South Africa, Greece – where drinking and the art of drinking is an important part of the culture. Opposites attract I guess.

This is a long way of saying that today I found myself in the cellar of a winery, staring down the open mouth of a wine glass, in the middle of a wine tasting. I turned my glass over – a simple move that was enough for our tour guide to realize I wasn’t interested – and sat back to observe my friends enjoying the experience.

To wine or not to wine

In a lot of ways, I admire and respect the ritual of drinking. Watching people enjoy a good drink is much more enjoyable than drinking for me. And in this overtly high class and particular kind of setting, every gesture and movement involved with drinking becomes part of the ritual. Smelling, swirling and “experiencing” the wine is all part of the process.

It’s easy to see how for some people, drinking and enjoying alcohol are an almost sacred experience. The countryside villa with a breathtaking view of Mount Olympus, the quiet, tranquil atmosphere and the sanctifying of corkscrews behind museum glass made the whole place seem less like a winery and more like a monastery.

Got 99 problems and a corkscrew ain’t one

There’s obviously a big difference between a wine tasting at a Greek winery and a rowdy bar in Cancun during spring break. But going to the winery made me appreciate and understand why some people do it and why I don’t.

 

Reading Way too Much into T-Shirts

I’ve already experience so many new and exciting things Thessaloniki, all of them blog-worthy. I could write about my time walking and talking with anarchist and communist protestors. I could write about the beautiful ruins that seem to rise out of the city’s depths.

But this is me so I’m going to write about the cultural implications of t-shirts in Greece. If you read that sentence and didn’t immediately close this page, thank you. Just stick with me here.

The first day we were here, we went on a wonderful tour of downtown Thessaloniki. With the witty, talkative charm I’ve seen in many Greeks, our tour guide Daphne gave us a fascinating historical rundown of many attractions in Thessaloniki. The Rotunda of Galerius, a church built in around 300 CE that was altered by each dominant culture in Thessaloniki after that time, was particularly amazing. But all I could focus on while I was in the domed church were the t-shirts that Greek teenagers were wearing.

Many of the teenagers, who seemed to be on a field trip, were wearing shirts that had familiar names on them: Bronx, Brooklyn, New York. It’s always amazing to me how omnipresent and powerful American culture is around the globe. I remember how a lot of people in South Africa also wore clothes that referenced America and, in particular, New York.

It’s a reminder that New York is a powerful symbol for all things American. Combine imagery like the Empire State Building and Brooklyn Bridge – both immortalized in film – with the city’s connection to hip hop culture and basketball and you have an intoxicating cultural symbol. New York, Brooklyn, the Bronx – these places define “cool.”

I doubt any of those teenagers at the Rotunda could point out the Bronx or Brooklyn on a map, but the actual place doesn’t really matter to them. It’s what New York represents to people – a certain attitude, way of life or energy – that’s way more powerful.

This isn’t an epiphany. But seeing “Brooklyn” or”New York” inscribed in bolded, black letters on the clothing of Greek teenagers was a reminder that even in the colossal shitstorm that is 2017, America means something important to people around the world. More so than most places, America and New York are ideas not just physical locations. It’s a beautifully disturbing example of nationalism and corporate branding coming together. Globalization at its finest.

Exploring Word Jungles

We finally arrived in Thessaloniki – Greece – after almost 12 hours of no sleep. So, understandably, our arrival was all a bit of a blur for me. I remember lots of screaming children, running from baggage carrousel to baggage carrousel like chickens with our heads cut off and then crashing in my barely made bed after dinner. I may have lost a little bit there.

I do remember something else actually: graffiti. Even in my sleep-deprived state of mind, I remember coming into Thessaloniki and seeing graffiti on almost every available surface. Storefront windows, garage doors, sidewalks – it’s everywhere.

I’m not completely sure why there’s so much – spray paint must be cheap – but I’m sure I’ll find out. Coming into this trip, I planned on writing a story about street art – murals, paintings or anything based in imagery – but graffiti has captured my imagination more than anything else so far.

It’s really shaped my perception of Thessaloniki. Every street corner is alive with some amount of color. Bubblegum pink letters definitely spice up the garage door near our apartments and the familiar “Fuck the police” gives a relatively plain building a tiny bit of anti-authority swag.

But even more than coloring the city, graffiti makes explicit the clash between modernity and antiquity in Thessaloniki. To the disappointment of our tour guide today, graffiti extended to the ancient ruins around the city. You can’t get more literal than that. While the ruins are falling apart – the city sometimes can’t spare the expense to restore them – graffiti has spread like a weed. Every attempt to paint over it or erase it from Thessaloniki’s urban landscape just results in more graffiti.

In the end, it seems like graffiti is making Thessaloniki into one large public message board. Anti-capitalist slogans mingle with personal tags. Anybody with spray paint and a message can make the city their own. That’s true in America too, but the culture around graffiti seems so much different here. Thessaloniki is definitely a city, but it seems like more than just a bunch of buildings. All the graffiti makes it clear that this is a city full of warring ideas and passionate people. It’s less a city and more a jungle of words. I just hope the magic and wonder I felt today  -rounding a corner to see another parade of color – doesn’t fade away.

A Pre-Departure Mind Should be Like an Empty Suitcase

No, I haven’t started packing yet. But my empty suitcase is, in many ways, the perfect symbol for my pre-departure state of mind. I haven’t travelled much, but I’ve travelled enough to know that possibilities become logistics and realities the moment you touch down at your destination. The same goes for packing. The moment I start putting things in that bag, this trip becomes less about all the possibilities and more about how much tooth paste I think I’ll need. That stuff is important and I would never advise going to another country without preparation or research. But I’ve learned that it’s just as important to enjoy the potential of a trip before my expectations face reality. Expectations will always change, and more often than not it’s better to go into an experience like this without expectations. My dreams of jamming with Greek musicians or writing a story about a nearly extinct language might be just that – dreams. Within moments of touching down on the tarmac, those dreams will change, but at the moment I’m still enjoying the possibilities.

So much room

That’s the beauty of an empty suitcase – the potential. Who knows what I’ll need? Anything could happen, right? That state of mind can really only exist for a little while. After all, I do need to pack at some point. And yes, this philosophy is an elaborate form of procrastination. But it’s also a way for me to relish the infinite possibilities of a trip like this before I inevitably get bogged down in the details.

The devil may be in the details, but the angels reside in an empty suitcase.

This is my first blog post, so if you want to know a little more about me click here. And if you want to see some of the stuff that’s come out of my crazy mind, feel free to go here.