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timerippleknowing how in spring i'm bewitched by you so
O the beauties of Spring! I spent a lovely morning wandering about looking at the trees and flowers and grass and being all peaceful, a rare state of mind these days. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that I had peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for breakfast. Possibly it was due to something else entirely. The point is, THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL AND SO IS LIFE.
I went to the Shakes production of Twelfth Night yestereve. Magnificent! Fabulous! Wibble! Squee! I may be guilty of being a Shakespeare fangirl. Is that bad?
One of the few good things about Titanic is that Alasdair Fraser was involved. The other good thing is that there is something that sounds suspiciously like a bagpipe in some of the tracks.
And now,
March 26, 2004
Athens
What am I to say about the Acropolis? Is it that there are no words, or that I have nothing to say? I don't know. There is nothing wrong with my fingers, yet they refuse to write anything either amusing or profound. The indignity of my chapped and peeling feet is somewhat soothed by the purchase of handmade leather sandals from the shop of Stavros Melissino, the "poet sandalmaker of Athens". Yesterday the Olympic torch was lighted at ancient Olympia; tomorrow I return to Wellesley to write about "ships and pots" and poets.
*what follows is heavily edited, with many details eliminated. If you wish to see the real, much more interesting version, ask me*
I stared at a chunk of carved marble today; a horse stared back at me, proud and perfect. In another room of the museum tucked away on one sloping corner of the Acropolis was a semicircle of women, carved for the glory of the gods, whose temple was destroyed when the Persians sacked Athens. They lay buried for well over two thousand years as the Erechtheum with its Porch of Maidens sprung up over their graves. I feel that these women are older than the Maidens; their smiles are wise and kindly.
It is late, and suddenly there is so much to say! Where am I to begin? Of course, at the same place as does any sensible person after a long morning's expedition: that is to say, at lunch. The three of us (Mum, my aunt, and I) toddled down to a smallish restaurant in the Plaka district. It boasted four lovely modern paintings which together depicted a temple, some ruins, and a large sculpture of a god (Hermes, according to the waiter). Aside from this attraction was "the best cappuccino" in sight (according to both the waiter and my coffee-snob mother). The real excitement began, however, when the food arrived. I was both astonished and amused to discover that "muffin pumpkin" was in fact the Greek equivalent of zucchini tempura.
My mother is growing impatient, so I will conclude with our Quest for the Statue of Lord Byron. The bus had passed it earlier that morning, and I was determined to get a better look. Mum and I crossed the Amalias Street, strolled through the park, and eventually attempted to interrogate a pair of policemen as to the monument's whereabouts. I remain convinced that they thought we were looking for a stadium; nonetheless, by following half of their directions and reversing the rest, we soon arrived at the statue. There was Lord Byron, staring adoringly up at a female personification of Greece, flinging one hand out dramatically and showing off his impressive boots to great advantage. Greece stared down at hm equally adoringly from her seat, while round the back of the statue one lone man half-lay, half-crouched, naked and dying. Who was he, I wonder? Byron himself, overcome by disease yet still striving to free Greece? Some other man, nameless, choking for freedom even as he died?
O the beauties of Spring! I spent a lovely morning wandering about looking at the trees and flowers and grass and being all peaceful, a rare state of mind these days. Possibly it had something to do with the fact that I had peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for breakfast. Possibly it was due to something else entirely. The point is, THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL AND SO IS LIFE.
I went to the Shakes production of Twelfth Night yestereve. Magnificent! Fabulous! Wibble! Squee! I may be guilty of being a Shakespeare fangirl. Is that bad?
One of the few good things about Titanic is that Alasdair Fraser was involved. The other good thing is that there is something that sounds suspiciously like a bagpipe in some of the tracks.
And now,
March 26, 2004
Athens
What am I to say about the Acropolis? Is it that there are no words, or that I have nothing to say? I don't know. There is nothing wrong with my fingers, yet they refuse to write anything either amusing or profound. The indignity of my chapped and peeling feet is somewhat soothed by the purchase of handmade leather sandals from the shop of Stavros Melissino, the "poet sandalmaker of Athens". Yesterday the Olympic torch was lighted at ancient Olympia; tomorrow I return to Wellesley to write about "ships and pots" and poets.
*what follows is heavily edited, with many details eliminated. If you wish to see the real, much more interesting version, ask me*
I stared at a chunk of carved marble today; a horse stared back at me, proud and perfect. In another room of the museum tucked away on one sloping corner of the Acropolis was a semicircle of women, carved for the glory of the gods, whose temple was destroyed when the Persians sacked Athens. They lay buried for well over two thousand years as the Erechtheum with its Porch of Maidens sprung up over their graves. I feel that these women are older than the Maidens; their smiles are wise and kindly.
It is late, and suddenly there is so much to say! Where am I to begin? Of course, at the same place as does any sensible person after a long morning's expedition: that is to say, at lunch. The three of us (Mum, my aunt, and I) toddled down to a smallish restaurant in the Plaka district. It boasted four lovely modern paintings which together depicted a temple, some ruins, and a large sculpture of a god (Hermes, according to the waiter). Aside from this attraction was "the best cappuccino" in sight (according to both the waiter and my coffee-snob mother). The real excitement began, however, when the food arrived. I was both astonished and amused to discover that "muffin pumpkin" was in fact the Greek equivalent of zucchini tempura.
My mother is growing impatient, so I will conclude with our Quest for the Statue of Lord Byron. The bus had passed it earlier that morning, and I was determined to get a better look. Mum and I crossed the Amalias Street, strolled through the park, and eventually attempted to interrogate a pair of policemen as to the monument's whereabouts. I remain convinced that they thought we were looking for a stadium; nonetheless, by following half of their directions and reversing the rest, we soon arrived at the statue. There was Lord Byron, staring adoringly up at a female personification of Greece, flinging one hand out dramatically and showing off his impressive boots to great advantage. Greece stared down at hm equally adoringly from her seat, while round the back of the statue one lone man half-lay, half-crouched, naked and dying. Who was he, I wonder? Byron himself, overcome by disease yet still striving to free Greece? Some other man, nameless, choking for freedom even as he died?
