Irony Tastes Like Salt Water

It’s October …

The wide-stemmed grape leaves between the tresses of our school porch are changing color. Nights are chilly, but not too cold for the occasional 2 a.m. plunge. A few more restaurants along the water are closed and all of the tourist shops tucked inside the winding Venetian walls of Parokia are holding ‘closing for the season’ sales this week.

It’s amazing how drastically the character of a place can change, or better yet, that I’ve been here long enough to notice.

Last Friday afternoon, we zoomed three hours across the Aegean on a Blue Star Ferry and bumped (not literally)into the rocky island of Santorini.

Lately, I’m most alive when I arrive in a new place.

From the ferry we loaded into buses and road up the mountain side, noses pressed against glass. The cities of Santorini are built thousands of feet above sea level, overlooking a volcano which erupted 1500 B.C. and caused the destruction of the Mycenaean civilization in Crete, the first civilization in Europe.

(It may have also caused the biblical plagues in Egypt and the parting of the Red Sea. The explosion was so loud, it would have been heard as far away as London.)

We stayed at the Kyklandonisia hostel. Five girls and myself shared a two-story room with a swimming pool ten steps outside our blue door and a mysterious hanging tree blossoming massive pink and white flowers.

With nothing except free time, we left our luggage and trekked into the city of Thera. Skirting around the tourist shops and their constant threat to my bank account we followed the steps of a monastery, up out of the busy streets, until we were at the edge of a walkway, watching the sunset over the sleeping volcano.


We wanted to buy drinks at a restaurant with a view of the water, but opted for a cheaper restaurant where the waiter gave us free bread and a discount on our meal. Dim lights and quite conversation with close friends, I sipped a cappuccino and reveled in the moment.

On Saturday afternoon, we took a ferry to the volcano and hiked to the top. I was less impressed with the volcano (still active, it erupted in 1950) and more awed by the view:

Before we left Sunday morning, I went with a group to a Gyro shop down the street from our hostel. We had two hours before our boat left and wanted lunch before the ride home. At a table across from us, I noticed a guy my age who looked really familiar. I kept stealing glances and finally he caught me looking. Our conversation went something like this:

Adnan: “Do I know you?”
Jolene: “I think … yeah! Do you go to CSB/SJU?”
Adnan: “Yeah … wait, what are you doing here?”
Jolene: “I’m with a traveling with a group from Paros. What are you doing here?”
Adnan: “I’m here with the school …”
Jolene: “WAIT … the Greco-Roman program is in Santorini THIS WEEKEND?”
Adnan: “Yeah, we came over on Friday and we’re leaving today.”
Jolene: “ME TOO!”

After we laughed about it, I said goodbye quickly because my group was leaving and promised to talk with him more on the boat ride home. Walking back to the hostel, my group poked into a tourist shop and as I turned a corner near a stand of postcards, I bumped into Sarah Stergois and Matt Lindeman (also Bennies and Jonnies).

IT WAS SO BIZZARE. I’m still in shock.

We laughed and asked each other about our experiences so far … astonished that the world could be so small.

On the boat, I sat with Jill Pyatt for two hours and we talked about everything we’ve done during the past month. It was a beautiful moment. The Blue Star goes from the islands of Santorini to Naxos to Paros to Athens, so pulling into Paros I pointed out the city where I live and where my apartment near the water.

And the next emotion that I felt stepping off the boat?

After an exhausting weekend in Santorini, staying up late, dancing, laughing, hiking, swimming, eating and sleeping … it felt really good to be home. Parokia is quieter, smaller and more graceful than Santorini. The lights along the beach glowed stronger, the trees seemed greener and leaving behind CSB/SJU students (who stayed on the ship and continued towards Athens I felt blessed to have such a strong connection between so many worlds.

I’ll be back in the States soon enough and meeting CSB/SJU students reminded me of the home I can look forward to next January, my little home in the Northwood and the home I’ve made here.

It’s my imperfect paradise. The freedom and unstructured atmosphere of H.I.S.A has challenged my system of learning, pushed me to think independently, and to really, really take writing seriously. It’s scary and yet, having the time to pursue art and take time to cook, talk and laugh is a godsend.

On Sunday night I talked with Suzanna and Brianna until 3 a.m. about why we choose H.I.S.A. and not a more academically structured program. Everybody had a different reason. Mine was simple: sanity. Last autumn I was overwhelmed by too much responsibility and not enough time. I knew coming here, the atmosphere would be different.

When I met the group of CSB/SJU students, one girl told me our group was “glowing” and I believe her. We’re not just learning about art, we’re learning how to live.

On Monday night, we drove up the mountain to Barry, our Philosophy teacher’s house. He’s spent twenty years building his home out of wood and stone from the island, chopping and shaping everything himself.

It was unbelievable.

We drank white wine, snaked on cheese and talked about what it means to live a “first class” life. Barry wants us to recognize, that the next few years will drastically shape who we’ll be for the rest of our lives. How do we want to live? How do we plan to accomplish our goals? What should we look for in a relationship?

Afterwards, my friend Suzanna and I stood outside Barry’s studio, which overlooks the entire city of Parokia.

The constellations are upside down here. The dark air salty. We looked at each other laughed, astonished to standing where we were, disco music playing in the background and so much life to live ...

In other news, John and I attempted a phone call on Wednesday which was botched by my not-able-to-reach-Madagascar phone card. I stood at a graffiti covered pay phone for over half an hour, punching numbers and hoping they would miraculously connect our worlds, if only briefly.

We’ll try again next week. He seems to have a plan. We’ve sustained so much just through a few e-mails, it’s beautiful, heartbreaking and strengthening our relationship.

At the end of this semester we’re meeting in Paris for a few days … something we joked about doing last November when we first started dating. He is so kind. From what I’ve heard his study abroad group is having a blast, but I’ll be glad to have my friend back in a few months. Until then we’re just riding the experience, figuring ourselves out and making a few jokes along the way.

And a few more shorts…

- this weekend we’re going to the island of Naxos for a daytrip.
- I’ll be in Turkey from the 13th - 25th of October
- I recommend the book “The Goddess vs. the Alphabet” by Leonard Shlain if you’re interested in mythology, human development or the history of literature. It’s a quick read.

Sending my love across the ocean, and a poem (thanks Brianna) ...

Words for Love by Ted Berrigan

for Sandy

Winter crisp and the brittleness of snow
as like make me tired as not. I go my
myriad ways blundering, bombastic, dragged
by a self that can never be still, pushed
by my surging blood, my reasoning mind.

I am in love with poetry. Every way I turn
this, my weakness, smites me. A glass
of chocolate milk, head of lettuce, dark-
ness of clouds at one o'clock obsess me.
I weep for all of these or laugh.

By day I sleep, an obscurantist, lost
in dreams of lists, compiled by my self
for reassurance. Jackson Pollock René Rilke
Benedict Arnold I watch my psyche,
smile, dream wet dreams, and sigh.

At night, awake, high on poems, or pills
or simple awe that loveliness exists, my lists
flow differently. Of words bright red
and black, and blue. Bosky. Oubliette. Dis-
severed. And O, alas

Time disturbs me. Always minute detail
fills me up. It is 12:10 in New York. In Houston
it is 2 pm. It is time to steal books. It's
time to go mad. It is the day of the apocalpyse
the year of parrot fever! What am I saying?

Only this. My poems do contain
wilde beestes. I write for my Lady
of the Lake. My god is immense, and lonely
but uncowed. I trust my sanity, and I am proud. If
I sometimes grow weary, and seem still, nevertheless

my heart still loves, will break.