Battle of Vetye

Tonight it is a national holiday in celebration of the Battle of Vertieres. I am sitting in a perfectly charming, if run down, hotel in Jacmel…alone. This feels like something straight out of an Ann Rice novel. Dark, distressed brick, stifling heat, tropical plants everywhere, white flowers drop from vines which wrap around tropical trees just outside of my room in the courtyard. Mosquito netted bed in the center of a room with numerous windows, no glass, just shutters. Truly a shame to be here alone.

As I sit in the dark bar/dining room, drinking my red wine and waiting for my poisson en sauce, I consciously avoid seeing rats scurrying inches from my feet in the dark. There are mice here too. It is a place of creatures. I am in their space.

An hour ago, a crowd of Haitians strolled through the hotel bar/dining/lobby area. Today is the celebration of the final battle before Haiti found their independence. It is wildly celebrated. I imagine the march through the hotel by dozens of people was a demonstration of defiance. No place is shut off to us. If this is not what it was, I don’t want to know. I want to think of these people rising and claiming what is theirs.

I thrilled to see them wander through. Women, men, children…all ages. They walked through totally without affect. No challenge was there. This is their space…that is all.

Just now a Ra Ra band marched through the street with a crowd following. The music was primarily drumbeats and earthy…horns and other instruments accompanied, but it is the drums that drive the Ra Ra bands. Beautiful and elemental. Scores of people followed behind, moving easily within the beats of the band. I stood envious watching them move so assuredly in their space. Tonight, they own their land. They are taking what is rightfully theirs. They are beautiful and magnetic. I don’t even want to join them in their dance. To join them would take away their power. This is their night and I celebrate who they are from the sidelines. I cannot be with them in this. I am separated by the chance of my heritage. Just as they are separated from me in mine.

I love that I had a chance to see them like this. Strong…beautiful…powerful and confident. No one seeking my approval, my money, my attention. Being with each other was enough. And watching them from the sidelines was enough for me.

As I am writing this, I Love My Life comes on the radio. It plays constantly here and surprised me when I first heard the Haitians singing it. I thought they must surely be joking. Fate has dealt them a bad hand. But I get it now. In many ways, they are better off than we are in the US. In many ways, I am jealous of what they have here. And that is my biggest surprise in my time here.

I want them to feel the strength they feel today every day. I want to fight on the sidelines for them. I want to do whatever I can to make every day a celebration of the Battle of Vetye.

Xo,

Kim

The Tap Tap and the Tent City

I’m lying in “bed” thanking to universe for the science behind wet+wind= cooling. I am thankful for a room to myself, indoors. I am thankful that we are not in the tent city tonight. Thankful for FaceTime…oh my God, I am thankful for FaceTime.

Today I worked for seven hours or so in the office. It felt good to be here working on stuff in my competency. Something calming about putting plans together and rounding up information. Felt routine almost, and routine is an amazing thing when you are this far outside of your element. And I am so far outside of my element that it feels fictional.

Late in the afternoon, Beth I was asked if I wanted to go tour the “camp” and if I had rain boots. We walked there down steep hills with gravely rocky roadways, and by structures that had various spray painted markings on them that I learned today indicates what state of disrepair they are in. It is sobering to walk by so many buildings with red spray paint markings, indicating that they are compromised even by Haiti building code standards, which, by all accounts, are woefully inadequate. We were soon to enter the tent city, and this would make those buildings look like bed and breakfast establishments.

The gate at the camp is flanked by men who look like they are casually guarding it. Like everyone here, they are friendly and gentle. We first pass by a tent that has been converted into a bar. We later get a beer here, will get to that. This is the first in a series of shops and restaurants set up to serve the people in the community. There appear to be more shops than actually homes, but I imagine they break down the shops and the tents are also their homes. The streets between the tents are so muddy that I am constantly sinking into it and then having to stop to pull my boot from the muck. I am so grateful for my boots. So grateful.

People and kids all around me are shoeless and the kids sometimes are unclothed in the rain...bathing. The tents are not tents in the way we think of them. Tarps mostly, supplemented with corrugated metal in places, burlap sacks in places and wood that has clearly been scavenged from somewhere. As we walk by, the kids shout out “Hey There!” the only thing they know in english, taught to them by the American military I am told. I respond with bonswa, and they giggle.

The Kreyol language is a bit of an adventure for me. As I hear things, I try and stop to see if I can connect it to something I know in French. Often I can…but not always. Bonswa, for instance, sounds just like bon soir in  French, but they take great pride in the spelling differentiation and having their own language. I am committed to learning.

I am stunned by how truly beautiful the people are. There are kids who could easily model in the United States. They are that beautiful and they are everywhere here.

On our way to the medical facility, we stop at the shop of an artist in the camp. She is a lovely woman, and her work is beautiful. The paintings are $25 dollars a piece, and are on canvas, but not mounted. I want to get some to bring home with me, of course. 

Through a heavily guarded gate is the climb up to the hospital. And it is quite the climb. I wonder how people who are truly ill can make it up this hill, but quickly check myself. This climb is hard from my perspective. From theirs, it is surely the least of their concerns. The hospital was formerly a relief hospital operated by the American military, at least I think that is what we were told. In any case, it did not work very well and was abandoned and donated to (organizaton). The reason it is so high on a hill was that it was next to the helicopter landing pad, which was in great use after the earthquake.

There is a canopy for triage, but this is not the first triage location. The first is before you even go through the gates to determine if you really need medical attention. This triage is to determine if you will be sent to the pharmacy, the hospital, the birthing dome or directly into the isolation tents if you are infectious. Only the birthing dome is fully contained without dirt floors.

We meet two very young boys there. One of them is chatty and clearly brilliant. He is curious, speaks English, French, creole and Portuguese and, while we are standing there, asks the woman with us from Pakistan for an urdu dictionary because he wants to learn this language as well. I am told later that he is indeed brilliant and quite adept at getting the other kids to do things for him. A bit of a scam artist apparently. This does not surprise me. He is quite charming. But it does make me a bit sad. I want to pluck him out of the mud and deliver him into some kind of apprenticeship. He is so incredible curious and resourceful.

The trees up here are native and wild, overhanging everything. 

As we turn to leave, a tap tap pulls up in front of the hospital and we can hear ferocious screaming coming from it. The midwife is emerging from the dome as our guide asks her “besoin d’aide?” and she apparently does need the help. She rushes over to help her…no scrub up, no gloves, there is no time. The woman has endured an arduous ride up an impossibly bumpy hill in the throes of extremely active labor, and the baby has crowned. As the woman screamed in agony, it occurred to me how removed we are from the birthing process in the states. I have never heard this. I was not even screaming during my births. Women give birth in my network all the time, and I have never heard this.

In any case, moments later, a very small, newly born girl, in a blanket, is carried to the birthing dome to be washed. The baby is screaming her beautiful head off, and I feel instant compassion for her to be born as she has been in such a dire environment. I know babies all scream, but this moment feels particularly poignant to me. This moment firms my resolve to do what I can to help this country build a different reality for her. I want her to have access to a different life. Her specifically. I want this for everyone…the two brilliant beautiful boys who are still standing just outside the emergency tent, the woman selling mangos in front of her tent in the camp, the little girl, wearing only a long shirt, walking through the muck of the roads after the rains. But this newly born baby fills me with a sense of urgency and hope at the same time. For her, life is not yet something to endure. Right now, nothing is defined. So, for her, things must be different.

On the way back to the house, we stop for a round of beers. Three citizens of the tent city are already in there and greet us warmly and are so friendly that I want to talk to them, despite the fact that I will have to crank out my rusty French. Fortunately, our guide knows one of them well and we begin chatting with him, in English. We are handed ice cold beers, colder than any I have been served in the states, and we pull three iron chairs around from the theater set up on the side of the tent (this bar also acts as a makeshift cinema on weekends at times, showing movies on a television screen that is about the same size as my laptop computer screen).

We talk with a man about the challenge in translating (he has done translating for the organization before), and that you must factor in the cultural relevance or much of the meaning can get lost. It is a truth one can only know if you speak more than one language and have spoken it in different areas, and this observation startles me here in the middle of this tent city, drowning in its own debris and muck. And this is what we need to know in the United States and everywhere where there is money. We need to know that there is a brilliance here that defies our “you must have gone through university educating in order to be valuable” mentality. Here in this primitive tent, with electricity stolen from the wires run above our heads, sits a man who has just communicated a concept that I have struggled to explain to college educated clients in high ranking corporate positions. He is not even aware that he has made this much of an impression on me. I carry that into my evening, however, and into my thinking. I later ask if anyone in the organization has ever seen anything written by this man, and she says she might have something.

I get back to the house and am just in time to get in on an impromptu trip to the grocery store. When we get into the store, I make a mental note that the volunteer materials need to be revamped. There is so much available here that I could have avoided packing into giant bags and bringing with me. I am thrilled to buy some rice and beans for the days when we are on our own for food. I meet a couple of the other volunteers who invite me to go hiking the next day…something I will not end up doing after all. Maybe another time.

Love,
Kim

Living Dangerously

“The voodoo priestess can kill you
And she does not even need to be anywhere near you.”
I am sitting in the back of a pick up truck
Against the tailgate
Because here I am in Haiti,

Living dangerously.

“It is hard for you to understand their magic.

Because you are not of here.”
The women with me in the back of the truck are American too.
They are skeptical.
We are always so skeptical of things we don’t understand.

“People in the rural areas,” his English perfect,

his accent perfectly Haitian, “they believe everything is voodoo.
But it is not everything.”
One of the women in the truck bed with us speaks up,
“Maybe they can kill people,
because people believe in it.”

Our young host looks down as if trying to find a connection

In the grooved floor of the truck bed.
There is none there either.
“You are probably safe,
you are not from here," he decides.

"But we are of this land,

This soil is in our bones.”

A car pulls up behind us and the headlights frame the dark outline of my head

And shoulders

Until my reflection in the back window of the truck

Looks like I am

The absence of light.

“Yes, you are probably safe.

Still

If you see a white woman on a horse

Or a black dog that is unusually large,

Do not go home.

Do not go to sleep.

Just in case.”

Arrival and the Haitian Flop

Hi Kimberley fans. It's Tina. With Kim's permission I am posting a few entries in the form of notes I have received from her. I am taking out any reference to famous people and the name of the organization to comply with the media agreement she had to sign. Kim sends lots of love. She is receiving your emails and good wishes. She doesn't have much time for personal correspondence. Being inspiring is apparently more than a full-time job. :-)

I am sitting in the large living room area in the headquarters. I am sitting here, in the middle of everything and everyone because the room I am going to be living in for the next three months is currently full of someone else’s stuff who has not quite moved out yet. I am not upset so much as I am overwhelmed. Trying to find the fun and adventure in this. Not quite there. I feel pretty certain that everyone here thinks I am deadly serious. Maybe I am.

My room is quite a luxurious set up compared to the other accommodations here. As a long term volunteer (most are here for two weeks or so) I get my own space. A giant room upstairs has been divided into two rooms but a wood frames and partial walls of plastic tarp. I almost cried with relief when I saw it. There is a light, two electrical outlets and a small window. There is a standard issue cot there, not sure if I get that. I have my fingers crossed. There is no door, but at this point, I could not begin to care less. It feels positively palatial. I wish I could move into it right now.

It rained like crazy this evening. Wild lightning and thunder torrential downpour type stuff. I put on my swim suit to go stand in it on the deck outside of my room. There are two tents on that deck…all space is occupied here. In any case, a guy saw me go out and showed me a little secret. He has a covered front area and a bucket sitting on the ground. When it rains, you can go out and dump the water from the cover into the bucket and then pour it over your head. It is freezing and wonderful. I have done it twice already. No one is up there, and it is dark. Heavenly. I needed that.

The drive here was wild. Reminded me so much of Nepal, with beat up streets running down into winding roads with houses and buildings all over the place.

Anyway, the streets are tragic. Things for sale everywhere. Art, drinks,  something that looks like it might be cleaner…not clear. In any case, the people seem extremely friendly, just desperate. The airport was insane.

The minute I am outside of immigration, I am in the middle of a sea of people who want to be the one to help me out to whatever form of transport I need to get to. In this sea of faces, I am supposed to pick out two that are in a picture that was sent to me…a small picture. Fortunately, One of them is holding a sign with my name on it.  I have six men literally surrounding me, and more waiting to jump in if a space opens up, when I see him through the crowd. He is completely mute, and not impressive in stature, but he effectively takes over my case…though the six continue to follow us to the parking lot and will end up asking me for a tip, even though I was clearly taken care of. I totally get it. They are just trying to earn a living in a country starving for work. But I have maxed out. I silently pray for the power to shut down mentally, but it does not come.

I have been praying this prayer all day. Wanting to shut down and just barrel through. It eludes me, except in very small moments. I almost lost it when it became clear that I would not only not be getting a phone, but I would also not be getting hooked up to the internet tonight. I am breathing into everything. Breathing. Into. Everything.

I met two Haitian boys on the plane today. Early twenties. They live in Boston now and are visiting for three days. They were sitting next to me and very sweet throughout the trip.

All around me in different rooms, people are laughing and joking and chatting away. I know I should join them. I don’t want to. I don’t want to act. I don’t want to pretend like everything is peachy. I just want to disappear and process. I have decided to count the days after all.

Thing is, the people seem like people we would like to hang out with, at least at first blush. I find myself wondering what brings all these people here. So many are here for over a year.

The house is giant, but not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination. The view is stunning, so it must have been magnificent once. There are many more than 20 people here, however. Many more.

As we drove to the house from the airport, I was told about a medical condition here called “the Haitian flop” by the medical team. Apparently, people are brought in without any physical issues at all, yet they are completely unresponsive to any kind of stimulation. They do not respond to anything the medical community knows how to do to rouse a passed out patient…pricks, shots, aromas…nothing. They have found the only way to revive them is by doing something to the nose. In any case, they have experienced trauma so extreme that they are complete and in all ways incapacitated. Have lost all feeling and are in some kind of emotional coma. This brought up a conversation about PTSD (the other person who arrived with me is a therapist)…to which I eventually replied, “when do you determine it is post trauma? Seems to me it would have to end for it to be PTSD.” This produced an interesting conversation. It feels really weird. This country is so relentlessly battered. It is impossible for me to fully comprehend what that must be like. The sheer relentlessness is mystifying. 

Love,

Kim

A Love Poem

I can feel you slipping away again.

Though I still cannot resist
And reach out every time I pass by you
To see
If we have another couple of days together.
And though I take you home
I am not fooled
You are not as sweet to me as you were even a month ago.

I am such a fool.
It’s not like this is the first time.
You always show up when it’s time to play,
And remind me of picnics,
And exotic holidays,
In far away places.
And every year, I am swept away.

I resent even the slightest suggestion that I share you with others.
You are here for such a short time.
And I have waited all year.
You make me feel like a child guarding her things.
So, I share.
And make sure no one takes too much
Of what is rightfully mine.

It is hard not to feel justified in this
Right now
As you become a paler version of yourself.

You will be totally gone soon.
Though pretenders will still appear
And try to convince me they are every bit as good as you.
But they are not.
I know this.
And I will wait.

I can wait for the next watermelon season.

xo,
Kimberley

Finally, a Personal Reason to Celebrate Independence Day.

I confess that I have not been a big fan of the Fourth of July celebration for the past decade or so.

I go through the motions. I sweat it out watching fireworks. I do the picnics. But my heart just has not been in it. I haven’t really given it that much thought until this year.

I love the fact that I live in the United States, the land of opportunity. I appreciate the freedoms we have and truly value those who have fought for them. Yesterday, I began to wonder why it is that I don’t feel connected to this holiday. Then I heard the cloying lyrics to “I’m Proud to be an American” bleating out of the speakers at the grocery store. Suddenly, it all became clear.

I have no problem at all with being proud of being an American…but I do take issue with sentiments that alienate us from everyone else. I have a problem with jingoism and national pride taken to the extreme. Those who would take our luck of the draw on being born under the government that we have been as some sort of indication of individual superiority. But there is something worth celebrating today. I had forgotten it.

235 years ago today, our founding fathers did something so wildly daring and extreme that it boggles the mind. They spoke on behalf of the colonies and said, to the most powerful government in the world at the time, “ENOUGH!” They announced their intent to separate from the oppressive rule of the British monarchy, even though we were clearly no match for their force. The odds were against us, but the colonies had the strength of their conviction. And that conviction was strong enough for them to commit to something that would certainly result in countless deaths and the likelihood of defeat. A betting man would not have picked the freshly united colonies to win this battle. But win they did. Although, the very act of writing and signing the Declaration of Independence, given those odds, is enough reason to for celebration.

So, today, I am celebrating that spirit. I celebrate the spirit of rising up and fighting for what is right, even though the odds are against you. I am celebrating those who made a pact to stand together in the face of almost certain defeat to defend their right, and each other’s, to have a voice in how they are governed. I am celebrating that union of brothers and sisters, who had so much faith in their mission that they were willing to cast aside the comfort of what they knew to pursue something more authentically representative of who they had become together. I salute those who recognized that “united we stand and divided we fall.” That is a sentiment that has the power to reach around the entire world to embrace everyone who faces tyranny of any kind.

And that is a sentiment worthy of fireworks.

Xo,

Kimberley

Strikes and Protests in Athens and Airport Delays

“Um, let’s find out where we need to check in.” I smiled sheepishly as Tina rolls her eyes.

“Uh, no coffee…no independent thinking.” I respond to her eye rolling. On two hours of sleep and no caffeine, my brain was parked. Tina had returned our rental car, and I had not moved from the place she had deposited us to wait. And, obediently (or cluelessly, depending on your perspective)adas parked. Tina was returninghavet of the world, to learn what a democracy as old as yours does with a challenge like this. I. . our motley crew, stood there still…three kids, five bags, sweaters, pillows and carry-ons.

I was thrilled to see that there were only four people in front of us in line at Cyprus Airways. In retrospect, I might have guessed that, at this time of year in Europe, this was not a good sign.

“Did no one contact you?” the woman at the counter looked incredulous. Somewhere in the blurred areas of my brain, I suddenly remembered an overheard conversation in a kiosk a couple of days ago about some kind of protests in Athens. The “what-are-you-doing-here?” look on the woman’s face was now making me nervous.

Over the next six hours, the kids surfed the internet, played games, read and bought giant packages of watermelon flavored gum (“they only had it in this size!”) while we called around and exhausted every single option available to us to make our way home.

“The very earliest flight I can get you on to Houston is July 1^st at 11:20,” the woman on the phone offered me, from the Delta offices in Turkey, the only Delta number I could reach. Hours later, Haley would say to me “I can’t believe there was no way for us to get home today.” I confess that, in this moment on the phone with someone offering me a less than ideal solution, I was feeling a little…um…American indignance. Damn it, we can make anything happen! Why am I still standing here? I caught myself. Not my proudest moment.

“Yeah, ok, book us for that flight.” I say, at least in this condensed version of the story. The various permutations and options were calculated for hours. In the end, we piled back into a rental car and drove the little beach in Voroklini (just outside Larnaka) and the kiosk with the Keos and Lountza Halloumi sandwiches…and recovered ourselves.

I should end it here. It is a much more dramatic ending than the one that follows, which is a secret I will tell you that is really not that much of a secret. I do wish I were home now. I am frazzled quite to the core. I am sad for the kids who, while totally awesome about the making the most of their additional time here, are truly homesick after more than three weeks and really did want to get back. But it would be a lie by omission for me not to add that I am just a little excited that our plans were disrupted by something as truly incredible as the world’s oldest democracy demonstrating its voice in this way. That three weeks ago, I took photos of the beginnings of this, without knowing what it was, makes my heart race a little.

Something momentous and world changing is taking place and we are close to it…disrupted by it…inconvenienced and made to stand still for it. It is really no hardship for us to stay three additional days in this lovely country with our incredible hosts…but I feel honored to have my activity halted by these groups of citizens in Athens, raising their voices…because they can. I am thrilled to have our flight cancelled in response to the activity of those who have been for the past 30 days, holding vigil in front of the Parliament to make it clear where they stand on this issue, and that they stand together on it. The fact that they are not asking for anything specific…the fact that the situation is complex and overwhelming is irrelevant. The people’s dedication to being heard on this issue is inspiring to me. And I say that as someone who lives in a country heading in the same financial direction as Greece. That this has happened here first is not really a surprise. In issues of politics, they have always gone first.

If it is possible, Athens, I would like to return to my home on Friday, July 1^st. But on this weekend before our own Independence Day, I don’t feel comfortable throwing about demands on this. If I am home on our holiday, however, I will be toasting you and your fight to keep the voice of the masses heard in the mix of parliamentary action.

And I will be watching, with the rest of the world, to learn what a democracy as old as yours does with a challenge like this.

Xo,

Kimberley

Soaking Wet in the Troodos Mountains

Twenty years ago, when Tina first visited the Troodos mountains with her family, the roads were unpaved and extremely narrow. Her Uncle Pete drives professionally, so they were in good hands, but I can’t help but think what a harrowing experience that must have been. Because twice this week, we have driven those same roads, only now they are paved…and there are guardrails everywhere. The roads are still narrow. In some places, the roads have hairpin turns with no visibility around the corner.  And those particular roads will sometimes truly only accommodate a single vehicle. And occasionally, they are still unpaved.

It is a testament to the villages, scenery and beauty of the ancient churches nestled throughout the Troodos that we make this trip, not once, but twice. I think I could spend months in those mountains before I was satisfied that I had a good sense of the place…another time perhaps.

The first day, we ended up driving mostly. The map we have is not very reliable, so we were just pointing our car in the general direction and crossing our fingers. We spent a good bit of time in Platres, a beautiful and comparatively large village in the Troodos. We stopped at the Chocolate Factory for three chocolate shakes and perfectly divine “Metrio” chocolates. This is a rather unassuming little place where chocolates are made by hand. And the flavors sound incredible. I wish I could figure out how to get some back to Houston, but that is unlikely. They would be eaten halfway through the flight, I feel certain.

We ate lunch at a gorgeous second floor café called To Anoi. I simply cannot imagine why anyone here would choose to dine at any place that does not look like it came out of a storybook. We sit in plastic chairs, but the deck is beautiful and the view is stunning. Again, the indoor area of the restaurant is fairly small…everywhere here, it is clear they understand the value of the atmosphere. It is possible I will never be able to enjoy dinner out in Houston again.

But the highlight of the day was the Kaledonia falls. We climbed through gorgeous unusual trees, on a stone strewn path, beside a river rushing over stones down the mountain we just navigated up. The signage is unclear and we keep thinking the small falls we are walking by may be all there are to the falls, and this is plenty. Even the small falls are incredible and worth the hike up. We are just about to turn around and descend when we hear Jesse and Grant, who have dashed ahead of us, say “Oh My God, we found the falls.”

The heat was stifling…which is probably what prompted Jesse to walk straight into the falls. Shoes, socks, clothes…everything.

Needless to say, we all ended up hiking down the mountain soaked from head to toe.

And happy.

The second trip up into the Troodos…coming soon.

Xo,

Kimberley

Food Perfection on the Beach in Oroklini

At almost 9pm, half of the welcoming party left. It was time for dinner.

Dinner at 6 is a laughable concept here. Or rather, it would be laughable if it were even considered at all. Not that we are ever given the opportunity to have even a moment of hunger. Our days have been filled with food…and I am afraid that is only going to be worse now that we have landed in the land of “Yea! Ellie is here!” I afraid we are going to be “hosted” into morbid obesity.

We pulled tables together at the beachside restaurant and looked over the menus. To be honest, I was only interested in trying a KEO, a Cypriot beer. But I ordered the fish and chips anyway. To be honest, I have no idea what the food was like…I was so tired and overstimulated. But the beer was wonderful.

Michaelis is a Greek-Cypriot, a composer, a teacher and choir director—probably in that order. He tells stories with his entire body and his face channels his passion for every detail. The storyteller in me wishes I spoke Greek so that I could hear them in his native tongue, which he insists is the most beautiful of languages.

“If only I could tell you these stories in Greek! So beautiful this language. Every word has its very own meaning.”

I am unaware in this moment that this snack bar of a place on the beach near our house will become such a favorite for me. You will never find it listed in any reviews of Cyprus or on Tripadvisor…though, I’d like to think I will figure out how to do this for this wonderful place. The only name I can discern for it is Kiosk, which is hopelessly generic here. Everything is a kiosk of some sort.

It is pretty unassuming really. A very small kitchen with a large outdoor patio. We end up eating multiple meals here…breakfasts, lunches and dinners. When we leave Larnaka, a week later, it is the place I will miss the most.

It is situated directly on the beach. While we wait for the food, or the check after the meal, the kids run in the surf and try to skip perfectly flat skipping stones into the ocean. There is no hurry to leave. In fact, you could be there for hours and no one will bring you a check unless you specifically ask for it. In the mornings, half of the tables are taken up by older men playing Tavli (a game played on a backgammon board) and drink their coffees. Some of their wives sit together at other tables chatting and laughing. No one appears to have anywhere to go.

On our third trip to the kiosk, we become regulars. We chat with the waitresses and the owner brings us small glasses of Cypriot wine after we have finished our meal. We sit peacefully drinking our metrio or greek wine, while the kids play on the beach. No schedule. No pressure. We are truly outside of time here.

It is here I try what will become my favorite find here in Cyprus…a village salad and a lountza and halloumi sandwich. The village salad is cucumbers, tomatoes, a little cabbage and feta. It seems crazy to describe it that way, however. I don’t think I have tasted vegetables this fresh since my dad grew a garden when I was still in elementary school. And the feta is different too, fresher and richer somehow. I eat it without any dressing at all. There is no need. And it is the best salad I have ever eaten. Period.

The lountza halloumi sandwich surprises me. I am not much of a meat eater…I avoid eating it if I can, which is easier to do in other countries I have found. But this sandwich is perfection. Lountza is a Cypriot meat, pork to be exact. It is a teeny bit like Canadian bacon, but I would not get carried away with that association. The meat and cheese are put into the bread (which is also beyond perfect here) and grilled. Then fresh cucumber and tomato are added. No spices. No condiments. And it is perfection. For the remainder of our time in Larnaka, I will order only this every time we go to the kiosk.

If you ever find yourself in Cyprus, this unassuming kiosk is worth a trip to Oroklini.

And tell them we said hello.

Xo,

Kimberley

Tonight, I learn a little something about rescues

There is something hypnotic about sitting in the middle of a conversation in a language you do not understand. Something about the familiar cadence and the unfamiliar words causes my brain to flicker in and out this afternoon...as if I were trying to fall asleep in self-defense. I watch Tina and wonder if it’s worse for her, because she understands enough of the Greek conversation surrounding us to follow it, having been exposed to the language her entire life, but not enough to truly participate. Her brain is grasping the edges of the conversation, so must be working very hard.

The topic of conversation is music. The people we sit with are professional musicians of one variety or another. If it weren’t for the fact that I am a stranger here, I would be of no interest at all in this room and I am lulled into a false sense of invisibility that one gains by being completely unable to comprehend anything that is going on. This does not last long. My heart races as I realize that Ellie is referring to me in something she says. My dull, glazed over look feels inappropriate when I am suddenly referred to. I can tell she is letting them know that I told her months ago about Kataklysmos, the festival in town...that she knew nothing of it until I told her about it. Her story is clearly charming and animated...I am clearly surrounded by storytellers actually...but still I can't follow. Though no one seems to notice, I find myself embarrassed by the fact that I am making the freshman traveller mistake of mirroring the movements and expressions of the people talking without understanding what they are saying. I feel a little like a bobble head doll.

Ellie's friend, Mary, has been scurrying around making sure the house is in perfect condition for us. Unnecessary, really, as it was beyond perfect when we walked in. Unexpectedly, she slides into the room beside me and asks me if perhaps we would like to go for a walk to see the beach. I dearly hope my rush for the door didn’t appear as desperate as it felt. I did not even want to take a moment to change into more comfortable shoes and risk the chance that the opportunity would pass. The people in the room with us were clearly so sweet and kind. But my brain ached from trying to remain awake. Plus, I wanted to see the beach.

Tina and I walked with Mary and she spoke to us in English. She was quite capable of communicating with us, but I felt bad that she had to make the effort, having just scrambled out the door to escape the challenge to my own brain.

Mary’s 21 year old son was studying in the states when he was diagnosed with cancer and told he must go to Houston to be treated. She took an eight month leave of absence from work and rented an apartment in Houston to be with him during the treatment. She was alone in a huge city where she knew no one, spending the few hours a day with her son, as she was allowed while in cancer treatment and then returning to her apartment alone. The thought of this truly dear woman enduring this time alone fills me with so much grief that I am grateful when the well of emotion running through her slows her to standing. Motion seemed inappropriate given the intensity of story. The story she shares runs so deep in her that I can literally feel the lonely ache of sitting by herself in an empty apartment counting the hours until she could be back with her son. And this is how I learn about Ellie.

I have known Ellie for years, of course. But today, standing along the beautiful beach as the sun sets, I really learn about her in a way that would be impossible except through the words of a woman like Mary.

Ellie received the call about Mary through the Cypriot network in Houston and sprung into action. Every day for eight months, Mary could count on Ellie’s call, a connection to something other than the fear and loneliness that filled her days. Ellie came often to pick Mary up from her apartment and take her shopping, to lunch or dinner, or to just sit amongst the noise and chaos of a house full of people somewhere. Mary was clearly not a charity case to Ellie, Mary was a sister…a sister who needed her.

Suddenly, the fuss over ensuring our comfort was understandable. I came thinking that Mary felt indebted to Ellie and was happy to have a chance to give back to her in some way. But this is not really it. Mary was inviting family into her home. She is proud to have us here. Having us stay somewhere else is unthinkable, not because she has a debt to pay but because she loves Ellie, and by extension, us. And she truly does.

I have always loved Ellie. She is easy to love. But as we walked back to the house this evening, I loved a part of her that I had not really known before. Ellie has a gift for making family of strangers. She gives where she is most needed. She loves those who most need her love.

I silently thank Mary for the fresh glimpse of Ellie.

Xo,

Kimberley

Manual Transmissions and Halloumi

I am sitting at an umbrellaed garden table in the small courtyard of the gorgeous summer house that has been loaned to us for the duration of our stay here in Oroklini, a small town just outside of Larnaka. I make a note to myself to always lay a feast for visitors when they come to stay with us. I sit here eating fresh watermelon and the salty, chewy Cypriot cheese, haloumi. It has been available in Houston for some time now, but I have never eaten it with watermelon. As many times as Tina's family has suggested it, I have resisted the pairing of salty and sweet...the contrast of textures. Today, I am wondering why. They are perfect together. It is watermelon season in Houston (probably everywhere). If I were there, I would make a feast of these two items and invite you over. All of you.

I can see, from where I am sitting, the car that I drove here from the airport. I was not expecting to drive at all, but the rental car reserved for us was too small to fit us AND our luggage. I realized half the way to the house that:

1. I have never driven in another country.
2. I am driving a manual transmission for the first time in over 25 years and
3. I have no way to contact anyone should I get separated from the three car convoy heading to a house I don't have any information on.

Despite this, I was actually relaxed for the entire thirty minute drive. But still I glance over to the car now, as if I need confirmation that I actually did that. And it makes me laugh. I'm glad I didn't know that this would be necessary.

The kids are immediately whisked away by Photos, the son of our hosts, for a tour of Larnaca and I am deeply grateful to him. He is an accomplished musician, about 30 years old and is currently in the process of writing a musical. As they walk out to the car the conversation moves to iPods and pop music. Had I wished for the perfect afternoon host for our gang, he could not have been more perfect than Photos. I lean back in my chair with a feast before me and Tina beside me, and melt into a perfect moment under flower vines and palm fronds.

Xo,

Kimberley

An Angry Old Greek Woman at the Top of the Hill (and Lycabettus)

This should really be a video post. A very old native Athenian at the top of the hill we were climbing becomes agitated and extremely vocal when Ellie asks for directions to Lycabettus. We can see the passion and ferocity of her expression, and she holds Ellie at attention for much too long for the simple directions we have asked for. Tina fumbles through the backpack for the video camera as I stand completely transfixed by the interaction. I am paralyzed by the unexpected intensity. Ellie nods periodically and says nothing. Her back is to me so I cannot see how she is faring with the angry words I can’t understand. I keep thinking it is about to end, but it doesn’t for a very long time. Finally, the woman dismisses us and we descend back down two blocks of the hill we have climbed. We don’t know what happened until we turn the corner and head to our destination.

But I am ahead of myself.

Today we head out to find out what is on the hill opposite the Parthenon. A metro ride…ten blocks along a busy road…and about the same number of blocks straight up, we are in range of what we are looking for…Lycabettus.

But before we can get there, we must ask no fewer than seven people if we are heading in the right direction. This incredible spot at the top of a hill, with a stunning vista, is maddeningly difficult to find. It seems bizarre that we can be climbing this long without even the slightest indication that we are heading in the right direction, but we keep getting affirmation that we are on the right track. So we continue to climb.

So, at the point we are about to begin losing oxygenated air (ok, I’m exaggerating a wee bit), Ellie asks the elderly woman we run across if we are still heading in the right direction. What we find out, as we turn the corner toward our destination after the interaction, is that the woman is completely and wildly infuriated with the government. They have paved the road to her house…which she confesses is wonderful, but they have done little else in a very long time and she is enraged. Enraged enough to monologue her displeasure to unwitting American tourists…winded and lost on the way to an elusive hilltop.

And Tina is as transfixed as I am. We did not get any of it on video. Fail.

But we did finally make it to this:

This alone was worth the climb. It is a bizarre contraption of a tram that pulls tourists up through a tunnel to the top of the mountain. It is a short ride. We have already climbed much more than this will eventually carry us. But the thing is irresistible. Come on. Can you imagine NOT getting on this thing?

But at the top…good lord, it is beautiful. We can see everything from here. A little church sits at the very top and vendors sell icons and keychains to visitors.

And this is where Meagan begins to totally drive Grant crazy.

Grant wants to look through the telescope, which costs two euros. Tina and I aren’t up for it…because it is really not the kind of place where a telescope is gonna add much to the experience frankly. But Meagan has two euros and she will give them to Grant in exchange for…a kiss on the cheek. (SPOILER ALERT: Meagan will leave after two weeks without a kiss from Grant, despite NUMEROUS attempts.)

I snap photos and try not to laugh and the silly interactions…because it is all very serious to Grant. I get some great shots. They are on Facebook, but here are a couple:

We had a much more pleasant walk back to the metro station…largely because we did not have to ask for any directions.

Xo,

Kimberley

GREEK COFFEE MAKES ME HAPPY!!!!!!!

“Greek coffee makes me really happy!”

That’s Jesse. Ellie taught Jesse and Meagan how to make Greek coffee this morning and Tina and I are being treated by the newly trained. Newly trained and caffienated to the point of extreme enthusiasm. It is heated in small, long-handled brass pot on a bed of fiery sand (we later feel this heat ourselves on the beach in Larnaka...but that is another story). Then you poor the boiling water directly over coffee grounds in the bottom of a small cup. The finely ground coffee remains in the bottom of the cup, so you must be careful as you drink at the end, or you will end up with the grounds in your mouth.

I drink them on purpose. I love them. That's not good, hunh?

Greek coffee, Cypriot coffee (Turkish coffee if you want to cause a fight around here), is wonderful. I know why it makes Jesse happy. Drinking it gives you super powers. I swear. It’s true. We generally order it "metrio", which means lightly sweetened. Perfection. Not sure how I am going to go back to drinking plain old filtered coffee.

Ellie’s family has been making it forever. Tina fondly remembers her Yia Yia making it for her on her first trip to Cyprus as an adult. She could go all day on that coffee. I can see why.

Today, we go to Lycabetta. This is the place we saw when we were at the Parthenon yesterday on the top of a neighboring hill. But first, as we are getting ready to go, Ellie’s friend Catharina calls and wants to take us to lunch at the Greek Officer’s club. We head our stuffed-to-the-gills-bodies back to our rooms and change into fancier duds…hoping that the walk to the club will give us the strength to eat again.

On the way, we sidetrack into the street with the government buildings. This beautiful street is lined with flowering trees and vines. At each of the government establishments, there is a little guard house outside the gate with a uniformed man on guard.

I took stop motion pictures of the changing of the guard...which I am going to attempt to turn into a video and upload later. It is truly bizarre and amazing so I am hoping I can figure it out.

We eat at the officer’s club and then head out for pastries, which was the real eating highlight of the moment, of course.

 More later on the trek up the hill. I need another metrio before I start that one.

xo,

Kimberley

Our Parthenon

Today, we take the metro.

Athens’ metro system is new and wildly easy to navigate. We buy 24 hour passes and off we go. Toward Demitrious on our way to the Acropolis and toward Antonios on our way home. Clean, fast and insanely efficient. No need for a car because the city is incredibly walkable.

The Parthenon is a temple to Athena, or not. That is how it is referred to, but archeologists document that the structure never hosted the cult of Athena, and was probably just a grand setting for statues, as well as the place for the treasury.

But this is not what it is for us.

For us, it is a discussion on how inconceivable it is that this marble was brought up the hill we just climbed. It is looking out over the city and understanding why this spot was chosen, you can see everything from here. It is looking out onto a neighboring hill and wondering what it is that stands atop that hill and deciding to figure out the next day. It is noticing that the structure is all marble, because we are having to choose our footing carefully and still we are sliding. It is hearing languages from all over the world swirl around us and through the crowd. It is watching men on scaffolding carefully tending and repairing this beloved monument. It is standing to one side, looking out over all that still remains and imagining it all as it once was.

I don’t know why I had always thought the Parthenon was stone. Well, marble is stone, of course, but this is not what I had expected…at all. And I guess that is why people stream into this gorgeous place. We stand incredulous. These walkways were once walked by people in togas and sandles. The people who constructed these columns that we would later name doric columns and the marble stairs that look like they might have been carved out of marble only yesterday…they could not have imagined what this would be like thousands of years later…people from all over the world walking their hallways. We are tourists here. This was a usable structure in their time.

At night, we walked through Plaka looking for a restaurant we had heard of that had a view of the Parthenon lit up at night. Each restaurant, with white linened tables lining the narrow streets, would have made for an impossibly romantic dining spot. The candles on the tables and lanterns on the wall on the exterior of the restaurant created a scene worthy of a Hollywood movie. Surprising to find it here though, these streets look like what I imagine in the streets of Venice or Rome.

We find the restaurant, and sit on a tree shaded deck with an incredible view of the dramatically lit Parthenon. They take great care here to light their history well.

There is a Greek flag flying to one side of the monument, a recent addition. Ellie explains that Athens was occupied and this pole flew the German flag. Two Greek men, incensed by the claiming of something so clearly belonging to Athens, snuck into the encampment and replaced the enemy flag with a Greek one. They were eventually caught and executed. Their story is proudly captured on a plaque next to the flag.

There is a long running joke that Greek people insist that everything was invented in Greece. “Give me a word and I will tell you the Greek word that it comes from,” says a character from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” But in this place, where the buildings themselves are centuries older than any construction back home, the point is well taken. Looking into the dark sky at the dramatic majesty of the Parthenon, I can feel the birth place of democracy. I can feel the stretching of the mind by Plato and Socrates. Sitting here, I believe in this moment, that everything was invented here.

Xo,

Kimberley