WanderLost

September 2007

I wonder what Greece will look like from the air. I’ve got a vague image of blue-blue water and rocky, green land, and white ruins on a hilltop overlooking a city.

***

I’m in Greece now! In the plane, I watched the scenery slide by— beautiful green islands covered with fluffy white clouds and surrounded by beautiful blue water. I couldn’t pick out the Acropolis from the air, unfortunately. Then I took a bus into the city, then a metro towards the hostel, then walked. Greece, or rather, Athens, is different than I expected. It reminds me more of Morocco (Tangiers) than anywhere else. It’s not a “pretty” city, it’s pretty dirty, but it has character. I’ve caught glimpses of the Acropolis on our walk to dinner. Very impressive ruins at the top of a hill. Can’t wait to see them later.

It’s very warm here. The hostel is on the corner of various ethnic areas of the city. There’s an open air food market nearby. The air smells of spices— just like it did in Morocco. Jen and I went looking for a grocery store down our small street, and soon it felt like we weren’t in Greece anymore! The signs were in an Asian language, then in Arabic. The streets, covered in trash, were filled with hordes of dark-skinned men shouting foreign languages, speaking together, etc. It felt crazy! Like we had entered another world. So the hostel’s in a very interesting place. I like it.

I just remember looking over Greece for the first time in awe— this is the infamous Greece! Home of Homer, of Achilles, of all those famous heroes I’ve read so much about. This was the fearsome nation– great naval armies once covered these seas. This was the birthplace of the Greek gods. It’s rather intimidating, plus all signs are in Greek, few in English. It’s the first country I’ve visited (aside from Morocco) not to use a Roman alphabet. I love it here so far.

Sept. 07

Flying above the ocean at night, there’s nothing to see outside my window except the occasional tiny cluster of lights indicating a lone ship. Instantly my mind descends, to the rough chuck-and-slap of water against the boat’s sides. The night watchman walks with soft feet, checking the bearings, the engines, the bilge, then up on deck clutching a warm mug of coffee and breathing slowly beneath the arching starred sky, the smell of the sea on the breeze, the soft rocking of the boat, the creaks in which it speaks. Nothing else is like nightwatch on a boat.

Next day, I wake up early and walk down to Casa Mitla to meet my friend. The sun is just rising, coloring the sky at the end of the street bright gold. The Casta Mitla looks like I remember it, calm and beautiful, like the waves it depicts. We sit and talk on a nearby bench for a while, have breakfast in a café, then take a walk, strolling along a new way to Plaza Catalunya. It’s colder today- windier.  We chat until the bus comes, then part casually, cheerfully.

I return to the metro and take the funicular back up to the Joan Miró Foundation, and spend an hour or two wandering the museum, admiring the exhibits.

In the temporary exhibit (Bodies Without Limits) there is a smallish Rodin sculpture. I  love his work, and like this piece even before I realize it is his. Entitled Man Walking, it’s a bare torso of a man, with strong muscled perfectly formed legs striding along, but there’s no head or arms, and the upper torso is sculpted more roughly than the lower part, so all attention rests on the perfect legs.

One of my favorite rooms has three main exhibits. The first has three blank white canvases, each painted with only a single line, entitled Drawings for the Cell of a Recluse. It brings to mind the life of a recluse– self-imposed exile, and how a recluse couldn’t stand any other portrait, just one line, just one life, unravelled from the tapestry and confusion and color of the others. Solitary and striking. The second is a white canvas with black dripping explosions called Fireworks, no other color, as though too much to represent, so it represents all– seen, known and imagined.
The third is three more paintings entitled The Hope of a Man Condemned to Death, each white with black lines, each portraying a different color: red, blue, yellow. Blue I see as tranquility, hope for heaven. Yellow as hope for heaven as well as hope for release and pardon. Red as anticipation of the event, memory of an evil deed, or the idea or thought of revenge.

The last room is my favorite– huge paintings. One of the most simplistic has the longest title, about a lark’s wing meeting a poppy in a field with diamonds. One is intense orange, but not the kind that offends my eyes– it is the opposite, my eyes wanted to drink it in, literally. It has some black lines, and is titled A Drop of Water on a Pink Shore. Another is green with orange splashes and glows– A Hair Being Chased by Two Planets. Vivid colors striking the eyes, drawing me in rather than repulsing.

Next, mind filled with art, stomach filled with lunch, I wander back over to the Olympic Stadium, snapping some daylight pictures. The wind is strong, whirling leaves, pushing me roughly as I walk.  I make my way toward the Telefonica communications tower– just as futuristic-looking in the daylight as at night, and walk round the odd square with its small banzai-type trees in raised concrete boxes, and tall cylindrical yellow light poles that make odd clapping sounds as the wind roared around them, as though whispering for the ghosts of the Olympic crowd. I cross the street to the Art Museum (sadly closed) and sit on the steps for a bit, looking out over the city, listening to a guy play the guitar, alone and content with my thoughts.

Finally, I retrace our steps from last night, walking all the way back to my hostel (lots of walking– my feet ache!). I gather my backpack, say goodbye to the nice girl at reception, then walk to the metro, and now I’m here in the train station, waiting to go back to Valencia.
As I was walking today, I pondered many things. It was nice, in a way, to be alone, though I definitely missed my friends. It was all right to be walking solo among the streets of Barcelona, especially along the trees and fall leaves lining the road at the top of the hill near the Foundation and the stadium. It’s good to have times alone, to yourself, especially in intriguing places like Barcelona. Then in the future, when I’m settled and comfortable and in good (yet perhaps crowded) company, I can say, “I walked the streets of Barcelona alone. I had my time.”  I will know that I have lived.

    Following a brisk walk to the train station at 4:30 am, past groups of revelers enjoying the holiday and planning to push their Friday/Saturday festivities into the late a.m., I arrive at the train station. I’m early, only to discover that the train, in true Spanish fashion, is scheduled to leave at least 20 minutes late. The place is empty in the middle, great floor polished and shining, with people clustered round the edges, in groups, pairs, or solitary. I sit down on a peripheral bench, and contemplate my upcoming trip.

Despite having ample amounts of time, I still feel on edge– that near-departure nervousness that only recedes once in one’s assigned seat. The thrum of a warmed up train vibrates through the air like electricity, and the girl at the end of my bench taps her foot nervously, sending more vibrations through me. I practice deep breathing techniques, then lean back to watch the station slowly begin to fill up, and the clock hands inch onward.

The train arrives at 5:30 am, hissing up to the platform. When I enter, the light in the car is muted, with that special almost-hush that hangs around groups of strangers sleeping together. I have a window seat, the other empty, and snuggle in by myself. Warm air comes from the vents– comfortable and soothing. At first I watch the scenery roll by in the gray dawn, but then the gentle rocking lulls me asleep. I half doze, and half contemplate– past, present, future.

Dawn breaks ahead of the train and I see pink sky and clouds. Small towns roll by, overlooked by stone castles on hills, some with towers crumbling, but all whispering back to a past of clanking armor and lute music. On the other side, the Mediterranean Sea spread sout in a flat silvery shiny sheet.

I get into Barcelona on time, despite the late start. In the metro, construction is holding up the line. Nearby, a group of English-speakers try to get information out of a nearby metro employee with little luck.
“Doesn’t anyone here speak English?” one asks in exasperation.
“I do,” I respond after a moment’s pause, stepping forward, and repeating their question to the woman. We begin a relay of words, English-Spanish-English, with me in the middle. The tourists, not wanting to wait for delays, argue among themselves and leave. The woman and I chat for a few moments, then the metro appears (almost as though mocking the impatient Americans). She says goodbye, making a light-hearted comment about wishing she spoke English, and warning me about pickpockets. I step inside with a smile on my face.

From the metro station I find my hostel, chatting with a nice girl from Peru at the desk. Walking back down the street, I recognize the architecture and realize I am in the immediate neighborhood of Gaudi’s Casa Mitla. Happy about that, and happy joining my friends a few blocks down.

We have coffee, then take a walk down Las Ramblas, chatting the whole while. It’s crowded, but just as I remember- people, street performers, and flowers flowers flowers. We stumble upon the Plaza de George Orwell, with a modern sculpture. Follow small streets to the front of the cathedral where large groups of Sardona dancers perform. Then twist through the crowd at the Christmas market. We find a restaurant, order a huge dish of delicious paella, and talk over it for hours.

We move on– the Sagrada Familia, Poble Espagna, the Joan Miro museum, the Olympic stadium. We marvel at the gorgeous view of orange sky and pink clouds over the bright city, a strip of the Mediterranean shining on the horizon, lampposts around us glowing in the darkening light. Later followed food, more talk, and ice cream under Christmas lights strung through pedestrian alleyways.

I realized as I sat on the tram last night that I would miss all this– the foreign babble surrounding me (at first scary and intimidating but now comfortable, familiar, like birds or the wind), the passing by of old buildings and famous monuments, the rumble of cobblestone streets. The memories will haunt me and won’t stop until I go back, until I start to travel again. I know this.

8-26-07
My last day in Prague. I don’t really feel compelled to do more sightseeing. I’ve been walking around a lot lately, and it feels like enough. The city is beautiful, I like it. This evening I went to the Letna beer garden (on the hill), looked out over the lights, shining under a full moon– a perfect summer night. It’s strange not knowing when I’ll be back, whether in 5 years or 10 or 50. I wonder if it will change much, and how.

8-27-07
Early morning, and I take a taxi to the airport. As we drive, I think about how different this ride is from my first taxi ride into the city. That was late at night, now it is early in the morning. Then, everything looked strange and new. Now it looks familiar– I recognize places I’ve been, tram routes I’ve ridden. A good transition.

So here I am at the Prague airport for possibly the last time– the last for a while, that is. On my way to Valencia, finally. This past week went by pretty slowly, but I guess I’m suddenly here, so not that slowly.

We rise up into the sky and slowly the landscape fades below me, into white clouds, as though in my memory as well, not forgotten, but far below, part of the past. My new horizon is a stretch of clouds beneath a torquoise sky– blue as only sky can be this high, deep fading to white where it touches the clouds.

I wonder if standing in my new apartment, surrounded by all my things, will feel the same as I’ve been imagining it. Will it look how I remember it? What will Spain do for me this time?

Today I watched Prague fade away below me as I rose among the clouds.
Now I roar through the air towards Valencia, a new city with new possibilities, new experiences awaiting me.
I could not have come to where I am today without Prague, yet I know it is time to move on.
I say farewell with fondness and few regrets. I look forward with excitement and joy.

Layer of pearly clouds above. To the east, dramatic peaks emphasized with snow. The rising sun turning the sky orange-pink behind them, sending streaming fingers of light to thread through the trees and houses below, stretching miniature shadows. The beams reach straight ahead too and touch us. I watch the ribboning river and roads, admire the tiny houses and think, “This is the world from 10,000 feet.”

Wrinkles of tree-rich hills below, a wealth of green marked by brown road necklaces. Ahead, a jagged mountain rises, cloaked in snow. A herd of clouds advances, hides it from view, keeping its secrets safe even from modern passengers of silver metal birds. My prying eyes will discover nothing- the price of a plane ticket not enough to earn it.

The clouds roll below, obscuring earth from view. We are now in-between people, in limbo between earth and sky, left to our own thoughts. False angels, strange birds.

Why would they not want to look out the window? It isn’t every day you become a bird.

1-18-07

On the tram I take the window seat, then turn to realize that the paper schedule covers most of the window on my side, except for a small corner. I look out anyways, watching the scenery to pass the time. As I sit there, I realize that this is the way I see Prague all the time— one eye open, one eye covered. I can only see what is on the surface, and what little distance I can scratch below the surface by living here for a few months. I will never see the deeper, inner Prague. I will never fully understand the country or its people. What I see is the castle, Wenceslas Square, the Czech Joe-schmoe on the streets. Consequently, they will never see me as anything but one eye and half a face from the corner of a tram window.

***

My tram stop approaches.
The car lurches, and
the homeless man sleeping in the nearby seat
rouses,
shakes his head like an old dog,
and hunkers down again.

Traveling to a country you’ve never visited before is a unique experience- a mixture of excitement, hope, and preconceived notions, the latter of which are usually instantly dissolved on arrival to make room for the real thing. I had been told less-than-savory things about Athens- mostly that it was an urban jungle and that its only positive attribute was the Acropolis- so I was wary and ready to hate it, but as I made my way through the city to my hostel, I found the feeling fading away, replaced with the usual awe and excitement of visiting a new city. My destination- the optimistically named Hostel Zeus- was near Monastiraki Square, near the Plaka district, and not far from the Acropolis itself. The streets were chaotic, filled with cars and people on bikes and signs in enigmatic Greek. A nearby open-air market gave the place a gritty, real-life feel that drew me in rather than repulsed me as expected. The air of the hostel’s street smelled strongly of spices, reminding me of a Moroccan spice shop I once visited, the pungence of saffron most notable.
Where I was pleasantly surprised by the city, however, I was amazed by the magnificent Acropolis. The manner of getting there- trekking uphill and through winding streets- felt like a pilgrimmage. Indeed, simply by looking at me one could easily guess my quest, and with the help of a friendly shopkeeper I arrived at the destination I sought. The climb up the hill offered small diversions- the Temple of Aesclypius, the Theater of Dionysus- appetizers to prepare one for the grand feast at the top, parts of which could already be glimpsed.
Though I arrived early, there was already a swarm of tourists- fellow pilgrims- making their way to the top. The line moved steadily, however, and soon I was in the shadow of the towering Propylaia, walking beneath its impressive columns and scaffolding, and at last emerging at the top of the Acropolis. There were no trees at the top- practically no vegetation at all- just dirt and ruins. But what ruins! True, the scaffolding kept my daydream-prone mind from wandering too quickly back to ancient times, but still- that was the Parthenon I was seeing, with my own eyes, its white columns impressive against the clear blue sky. I couldn’t help but feel a bit star-struck, especially when asking nearby tourists to take my picture in front of it. It felt like meeting a celebrity.
The nearby Erechtheion was just as interesting. Its most striking aspect is the Caryatid carvings. Everything on top of the Acropolis is tall smooth columns- except for the Caryatids, and for this they stand out even more. They are beautifully carved, the folds of their dresses falling at their feet, their faces, though time-scarred, expressive.
The top of the Acropolis also offers an amazing full-surround view of Athens, allowing one to appreciate the full immensity of the city- an ocean of white buildings from which a hill arises here and there, like the humps of sea serpent. Off to one side, something glints and sparkles- sunlight glancing off the Aegan Sea. Also visible from the top is the site of the Temple of Olympian Zeus- a patch of brown earth like a postage stamp among the modern buildings, the columns visible even from this distance.
It is difficult to descend from the Acropolis- not physically, but because it is so obvious and definite an end to your visit of the site. You have dallied in the place of the gods, among towering marble shrines, and now you must return to earth- to the dust and noise of the city below, to the reality of the tour bus and cruise ship, with only pictures to later remind you of the heights you momentarily attained, and even then could not appreciate fully.

Arriving in Prague was a whirlwind much like the taxi drive, long and lots of time to think yet it was all over so jumblequick, with only a few soft moments to myself to think and to admire the foreign consonant tangle of billboard words above old and cracked buildings announcing that I’m here in Eastern Europe and can’t escape and mostly don’t want to but am gaping like a tourist fish, the kind that migrates to places it’s never been before, drawn on by some strange urge having to do with winds or tides, wild crazy quickcolor dreams from childhood, or possibly the magnetic poles. Hip hop tip top up the stairs with my suitcase lumbering then back down and rush through the entire TEFL class course in one giant blur of bright lights and grammatical phrases, my new mantras that I chant to myself before going to sleep and dream of like giant white lilies of peace and wholeness, blending together harmoniously in streams of golden light. Migrate to the city next, downtown heart of the city, through the screaming metro tunnels of exposed cement, wires and artificial lights, crowds pressed in tight trying not to see each other while peering from the edges of their eyes. Snag a job and now I’m teaching, running up and down tram metro tram bus and heading into buildings with unfriendly secretaries who squint at my foreign words and call clients to come down for English lessons all the while eyeing me like I’m a genie who, misunderstood, might vaporize back into whatever exotic burnished lamp I crawled from — or sometimes they’re friendly the younger ones usually and they’ll talk and talk and tell me all about their boyfriends and school exams and cars and lives and hopes and dreams, they’ll bring me tea and show me pictures and always wave goodbye. Student faces in rows before me, whiteboard behind, and the panic the they’re-all-looking-at-me panic and realizing that they’re waiting now it’s quiet and everyone is waiting for someone to talk and realizing that it’s me. The power there is in ordering the classroom and the silly book lessons the absurd conversations and stilted topics to discuss over and over again, first in room 102 and then 109 210 415 etc. etc. row following row of students staring, wondering why I can’t get their hobscrabble consonant somewhat familiar yet entirely foreign names right, whispering to each other in their slick brumble tongue like I can’t hear it or don’t see it or won’t recognize the lickle trickle of syllables that surrounds me daily in the streets and separates me from the thought of the crowd like twisting strands of barbed wire. Close the books and run along home, dispersing into the night like shards of shattered glass, hop the tram and zombie-stare through dark windows until the fourth stop, run across the road play chicken with the traffic and make it (each time a triumph) to the fateful curb and over I go into the apartment, rattling red elevator pulling me up the levels one by painful slowly one until clang I’m here rattle keys and in through the door I go and the day is over, or at least it’s mine now, and that’s a comfort but is it really? Simmering stove pasta in its little bowl, same as every night, meanwhile waitreading Walden or Kerouac, admiring former’s simplistic lifestyle and latter’s hypnotic globetrotting, dreaming up halfway decent partway interesting tidbits about my own day and maybe writing them down or forgetting them in the softening of the pasta on the simmering stove strained from the pot with the spoon handle holding the noodles back as the boiled water rushes down the drain, then mix in some sauce and sit down at table book still held in one hand, immersing in soft saucy noodles and sweetdelicious words altogether combined with the spires-and-stone of Prague that makes this life bearable and in small bursts exquisitely wonderful.

A young man approaches me at the tram stop, cigarette dangling from his lips as he rambles at me in Czech. “Nemluvím cesky,” I say with an apologetic shrug of the shoulders. He pauses. “Nemluvite cesky,” he says, not a question so much as a doutful statement. His raised eyebrow suggests he doesn’t believe me, but it’s true. An old lady approached me in the metro but I couldn’t help her, nor could I answer the grocer’s rapid-fire question. “Nemluvím cesky,” I’m always saying. “I don’t speak Czech. I don’t speak —” I dream in Czech, people with blurry faces spitting out mangled sentences as over and over I repeat “I don’t speak your language. Nemluvím cesky. No, I don’t speak, not at all.” They shake their heads at me, gesture impatiently, stride away. I want to run after them, to hear again and understand. It seems important somehow.

Everything’s modernized, the tram passes the church, but not so completely modernized, I realize, as the man beside me crosses himself as we pass by.

Get off the tram, walk by the church. The cool green-smelling air hits you from the small garden-park around the stone church walls. The chirping of little holy church birds.
My apartment, I stand before open window, the green and lilac glory of the park below, the church spires above, and the fly-by birds at eye level.

9:30 pm, walking from work to tram stop:
The church, the tower, the fingernail crescent moon overflowing with deep indigo sky, its aching silverness as sharp against the sky as the throbbing gold numbers of the tower clock are against the must stone bricks. Every time, the sign pierces my heart (as though by the sickle-blade moon), blood drips out and the whole of Prague-at-night rushes in, and I can’t hate it here; the times when I did are unsteady memories, appearing false. I can’t resist a good night air, I have a weakness for it. One touch and I turn over, belly up in surrender, caressed by breezes soaking up the stars, scenting the air. I allow myself to be folded in the night’s embrace, giddy from its intoxicating elements, inhibitions as vanished as the sunlight. Night, as a lover, is a sable panther, with yellow moon eyes and silver whiskers. The rumble in his throat vibrates my heart and I nearly choke on the beauty of it all.