I've just returned from the Olympics torchlighting ceremony at the Athens Stadium. It was one of the most extraordinary experiences of my life. I huddled up with seven other people from the group, sitting in the 2500-year-old enormous marble arena among thousands of dark-haired Athenians waving Greek flags and cheering, looking down upon the marching band, the athletes dressed in blue and waving flags from all over the world, dancers in traditional greek garb, men and women dressed as high priestesses and playing weird instruments, and a flock of children running around the podium and waving olive branches. Then the runner appeared holding the flame, and everyone stood up and camera-lights flashed throughout the stadium and I felt so privileged to be here and see this and take part in something that this country is so proud of, that symbolizes something even a cantankerous old soul like me finds beautiful. We humans have some really nice rituals.

I have a really great excuse for not posting. In short: I packed up all my possessions and stuffed myself in a pressurized metal tube, which zoomed across the sky and finally landed somewhere in Switzerland. Then I got into another pressurized metal tube which magically transported me to the birthplace of Western Civilization! Ancient meets modern in Athens: I checked my e-mail yesterday in an internet cafe with a beautiful view of the Parthenon. Unfortunately, this one only has a view of a bakery called Snackers Place, but I can't complain.

I just left my roommates to return home and cook myself lunch to save a little money, forgetting that I had locked my keys in the apartment, so I'm stuck out here indefinitely with five euros that dwindle as I type. Now I'm hungry. Hungry, hungry, hungry. My two roommates and I all woke up at five a.m. this morning, which is actually four a.m. because in Greece daylight savings time began yesterday, which is actually eight p.m. Chicago time. Five hours later, everyone in the group climbed to the top of Mount Lykavittos, which was no casual stroll, lemme tell ya. We were escorted by six fat stray dogs who had joined us as we passed the Athens stadium, and who bounded in front of us with big grins as if to say, "HA HA, we're in better shape than you even though our stomachs are practically brushing against the ground!" Then, as we surrounded our professor on the top of the mountain and listened as he lectured about the history of Athens, the dogs collapsed at our feet and fell asleep.

Just to warn everyone, I'll be returning to America with hamstrings the size of California, because every single street here is on a slope, and I know it doesn't make any sense but it seems that the MAJORITY of the places I go are uphill. But maybe it'll help to work off all the food I've been eating. Greek food is sooooooooo good. Big chunky cheesy salads, grilled chicken, beef kebabs, and everyone's favorite: tzatziki, or yogurt-cucumber-garlic sauce. So simple, but oh, OH, so delicious. I bought the ingredients for it to try and make it at home but it's never as good when you make it yourself (Or maybe only when I make it myself.).

The twenty or so people in our group are really nice, and I love it here so far. My balcony has a view of the city, the Mediterranean, and the Acropolis, which isn't as exciting as it sounds because the city is hideously ugly, the Mediterranean has been veiled by fog, and the Acropolis is half covered by the elementary school next door. But despite the architectural diarrhea, the city has this strange charm, maybe because the people are so lively and friendly.

More later, because I can't hear my thoughts over my growling tummy.

E.M. Forster gets it!

"I believe in aristocracy, though - if that is the right word, and if a democrat may use it. Not an aristocracy of power, based upon rank and influence, but an aristocracy of the sensitive, the considerate and the plucky. Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet. They represent the true human tradition, the one permanent victory of our queer race over cruelty and chaos. Thousands of them perish in obscurity, a few are great names. They are sensitive for others as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke. I give no examples - it is risky to do that - but the reader may as well consider whether this is the type of person he would like to meet and to be, and whether (going further with me) he would prefer that this type should not be an ascetic one. I am against asceticism myself. I am with the old Scotsman who wanted less chastity and more delicacy. I do not feel that my aristocrats are a real aristocracy if they thwart their bodies, since bodies are the instruments through which we register and enjoy the world. Still, I do not insist. This is not a major point. It is clearly possible to be sensitive, considerate and plucky and yet be an ascetic too, and if anyone possesses the first three qualities I will let him in! On they go - an invincible army, yet not a victorious one. The aristocrats, the elect, the chosen, the Best People - all the words that describe them are false, and all attempts to organize them fail. Again and again Authority, seeing their value, has tried to net them and to utilize them as the Egyptian Priesthood or the Christian Church or the Chinese Civil Service or the Group Movement, or some other worthy stunt. But they slip through the net and are gone; when the door is shut, they are no longer in the room; their temple, as one of them remarked, is the holiness of the Heart's affections, and their kingdom, though they never possess it, is the wide-open world."

HAHAHAHAHA

Hanson covers "Dirrty"

This place looks like an old abandoned warehouse, empty and barren, just like my soul. Kidding, sort of. Speaking of old abandoned warehouses, I'm having a bitch of a time finding someone to live in my apartment for spring quarter. I keep betting on these people who flake out on me at the last minute, and I'm scrambling to e-mail everyone who ever showed the slightest interest in my place, only to have them all e-mail me back and cheerfully inform me that they just signed a lease two days ago, or yesterday, or this morning. FUCK!!!

In the textbook room of my high school, there was a faded poster of a zebra whose stripes were coming off. The caption said, "I think I'm feeling stress!" It never made any sense to me. And honey, I know stress.

I have a bottle of seltzer water on my desk and my cat is unsuccessfully trying to pounce on the bubbles.

Robert Stack says....
If you have any information on the whereabouts of someone who needs a studio apartment from March 25th until June 9th, one who doesn't mind lavender walls, a big kitchen, $530/m rent, and a gray-striped bundle of fur, e-mail this address: dhubbard@uchicago.edu.

Act now and I'll throw in a "friend" for free. Her name is Burcu, and she's a real pretty, tiny, Turkish girl. Very eager to please! Great wardrobe! Can fix anything with a screwdriver!

Important Service Announcement

This domain is up for renewal. Unfortunately, I'm broke, so I'll be moving just around the corner, back to granted.blogspot.com, within the next day or so. Stop by for tea and cucumber sandwiches!

Categorize Me, Please

I got exactly between these two, so flip a coin.

INFP - "Questor". High capacity for caring. Emotional face to the world. High sense of honor derived from internal values. 4.4% of total population.

Take Free Myers-Briggs Personality Test

INTP - "Architect". Greatest precision in thought and language. Can readily discern contradictions and inconsistencies. The world exists primarily to be understood. 3.3% of total population.

Take Free Myers-Briggs Personality Test

Two Random Memories, Or: Why I Hate Singing

1. In August 1997, right before I started high school, I went to Karaoke Night at Hudson's Grill with my crazy Christian friends and their family. Mortified by the very thought of participating, I refused and refused and refused, until reluctantly agreeing to sing "Wild Thing" with a few other people. Easy enough. I looked up the song in a big binder and carefully filled out a little card with its code. Several songs later, "Wild Thing" was announced, and we paraded onto the little stage. The song began. It sounded unfamiliar. That was because I had accidentally filled in the code for the "Wild Thing" by Tone Loc. In denial, we tried to mumble along with the first verse:

Workin' all week 9 to 5 for my money
So when the weekend comes I go get live with the honey
Rollin' down the street I saw this girl and she was pumpin'
I winked my eye she got into the ride went to a club was jumpin'
Introduce myself as Loc she said "You're a liar"
I said "I got it goin' on baby doll and I'm on fire"
Took her to the hotel she said "You're the king"
I said "Be my queen if you know what I mean and let us do the wild thing


...before finally conceding defeat and sitting back down in shame.

That was the last time I ever got near a karaoke machine.

2. In sixth grade, I was awarded the starring role in our class play, Little Red Rocking Hood, or Little Red Riding Hood, 1950's style. I got to wear a poodle skirt, lipstick and blue eyeshadow; my gigundo crush was playing the wolf, and we got to dance together; and best of all, I was the STAR. The STAR. A perfect scenario for my attention-whore eleven-year-old self. Unfortunately, I had only one line with which I could demonstrate my acting prowess: when my REAL grandma emerged from under the bed, she would exclaim, "Red!" to which I would reply, "Granny?!" But I tried my best to convey my shock, horror, and amusement on uncovering the wolf's malevolent plot to eat us both.

I also had a song. It went:

"I'm off to granny's,
I have basket,
I'm off to granny's,
A tisket-tasket,
I'm off to granny's
For fun and play-ay,
I'm off to granny's
We'll munch away,
I'm off the granny's
Granny lets it all hang ouuuuut!"

Then--I swear to God I'm not making this up--I would skip back and forth across the stage while three of my classmates, who were dressed up as trees, would echo in unison:

"She's off to granny's,
She has a basket,
She's off to granny's,
A tisket-tasket..." etc.

It was bad enough that I was an, er, early developer, so I had smartass boys following me around saying, "Yeah, let it all hang out Danielle!" and snickering as a skipped merrily above them. But then we were rehearsing one day at the junior high school, and I was skipping, as usual, back and forth, while the tree people waved their branches and sang, when *THUD* I tripped and fell on my face. And Oh My God, everyone was all breaking character, in hysterics, as I hurriedly picked myself up and stood there uncertainly, deciding whether or not to resume skipping. In class later that day, Cool Girl Bernice was sitting across the table from me when she started giggling. "What's so funny?" demanded my hippie teacher.
"I was just thinking about when Danielle fell," she said.
Hippie teacher replied ferociously, "HOW DO YOU THINK THAT MAKES HER FEEL?"