Greece: A Feast for the Senses

There are two kinds of people – Greeks, and everyone else who wish they was Greek.   – Gus Portokalos

My journey to Greece started approximately twelve years ago at a Greek-food festival. While attempting to dig into an enormous piece of baklava, flakes of filo dough rained down from my mouth as I closed it around the plastic fork. As one does, I looked up to see if fortune had smiled upon me and allowed this transgression to go unnoticed. Alas, it had not. I met eyes with the elderly Greek man seated across from me, just as a wide smile spread across his face. “It’s good, no?” he laughed. “Mmhmm!”I nodded, mouth stuffed with syrup, walnuts, and oh-so-flaky filo dough.

My love affair with Greek food continued, bringing me again and again to falafel stands, gyro joints, and to any event or restaurant promising stuffed grape leaves.

So when a friend asked if I’d like to accompany her to Greece – despite the fact that I had decided to stay in Germany and pinch my pennies – I said yes. When it comes to true love, no price is too great, no shore (or airport) too far.

Santorini wine after a long hike. Could life be any finer?

Twelve or more years in the making, I set my feet on sacred soil. When the waiter set two squat glasses on the table along with a half-liter of wine, and I took my first bite of grilled feta, I knew I had arrived in the cradle of culinary perfection.

Between creamy eggplant, the rich warmth of Santorini’s white wine, the nutty smoothness of a double Greek coffee (medium sweet), and eating an obscene number of olives, my taste buds found what they had hoped for and more.

Greek yogurt and Greek coffee. The breakfast of Olympians.

But Greece, I discovered, was an indulgence for all the senses. Despite some spring gusts of wind and rain, the smell of freshly sprung flowers filled the air around Athens’ ruins. The scent of garlic and spices wafted from open windows in the early afternoon in Santorini. Greek music streamed from car radios and cellphones. In a restaurant window, people joined hands and danced. The sun shone sparingly, but warmly, and the water washed coolly over my feet.

As much as a table full of mezethes was a feast for the stomach, the landscape was a feast for the eyes. Stony hills sprouted with flowers, olive trees reached their twisting branches skyward. Red beaches gave way to turquoise water, and colorful towns crept over the cliff-sides of a crescent shaped island. Dark clouds rolled across blue skies, casting their shadows upon ruins that have persevered through millennia.

My only complaint about Greece, is that the time was too short. Athens and Santorini gave us just a glimpse of what the country has to offer – just a sampling of the delicious food, the magnificent nature, the engaging culture, and the generous people. Yet, even in the short span of seven days, there are moments I will never forget.

We made some four-legged friends on our hike.

We had the good fortune of being invited into a Greek home for a meal. Every time I buy olive oil, I will remember the large jug that our hostess pulled from underneath the sink while explaining that it came from her father’s village by the sea.

When someone references ancient Greek mythology, I’ll remember that same generous woman driving us to the Temple of Poseidon and, as we stood upon the cliffs above the Aegean sea, retelling the ancient myths of how Athena and Poseidon fought for the affections of the soon-to-be Athenians. Or how King Aegeus threw himself into the sea from that very place after thinking his son, Theseus, had succumbed to the Minotaur.

The next time I happen upon a donkey, I’ll remember walking up the winding stairs from Fira’s old port in Santorini and being passed by a portly man astride a donkey – with three more in tow – as he pointed at me, repeated something I had no hope of deciphering, and finally handed me his hat and motioned towards the top of the cliff. I carried that dusty hat up the 500+stairs, and will never know the reason why. But I have faith that the donkey-man eventually retrieved it from where I placed it at the top of the path.

 

And when I search for spare coins or hidden bills in an otherwise empty wallet, I’ll think of the man at his ice cream stand who laughed when my friend and I both discovered we had no money on us and said, “It happens to the best families!”

Greece, like creamy yogurt covered in a sticky layer of the best honey you’ve ever tasted, was an indulgence. And it was one that I hope to have the fortune of indulging in again. In the meantime, you can find me wherever the stuffed grape leaves are.

 

 

Snow in Black and White, an interlude

While skiing around Oberstdorf and struggling to capture the beauty and scale of the mountains, I discovered that some of my photos came out best in black and white. I’m no Ansel Adams, but I hope you enjoy these little snap shots as much as I enjoyed looking for them.

When in Doubt, Ski

In case you missed the memo: I love diving. Just over a year ago, I took my first plunge, and I was hooked. After debating with myself the various theories as to why I like diving so much, I’ve narrowed it down to the neat looking, technical gear and all the cool stuff that lives in the ocean. There’s just something about being literally over your head in nature while breathing from your personal tank of air. The clear, warm waters and blazing sunshine of Indonesia didn’t hurt.

Safe to say, it has been somewhat of a jolt to go from this…

…to this.

I love Hamburg and all it has to offer by way of diverse cultures, delicious food, friendly people, international commerce, and maritime charm. But for someone who has spent the past eight years much closer to the equator, it’s sometimes hard not to get down during the damp, cold, gray winter.

Not one to admit defeat, I considered my options.

Option one: diving near Hamburg. While this would satisfy my desire for wearing some neat dive-gear, the cold, dark waters in and around Hamburg weren’t so exciting. Also, this is expensive.

Option two: flying to Indonesia. This would make both neat gear and beautiful waters available, but (while cheaper than from the U.S.), tickets to Indonesia are wildly out of my price range.

Option three: find a new hobby that includes neat, technical looking gear, lots of time outside, and is within my price range.

Enter: Cross-country skiing in Oberstdorf.

The tickets were cheap, ski-rentals were cheaper, and I had a four-day weekend calling me to the Alps. All signs pointed towards the snowy south, so I took a chance and “dove” in.

I’ve been a down-hill skier since the tender age of four, and I used to love all things winter, but I have to admit that I was a little nervous as I set out. Could I handle the cold? Despite my down-hill experience, would I be totally incompetent?

Yes, and yes.

 

Cross-country skiing is hard! And I was slow. Very slow. Little old ladies and eight year olds were passing me kind of slow. By the end of each day, my legs were so sore that I could barely struggle up the hill to the youth hostel. But because of all my effort and exertion, I stayed nice and warm in my layers of flannel.

More importantly, I LOVED it.

To be outside, working hard, pushing myself to meet new challenges while surrounded in some of God’s most beautiful, mountainous creation! There were moments when I just had to stop – sweating and panting – look around myself, and sigh, “Wow.”

There has been a lot of turmoil in the world as of late, and one of the things I loved about diving into the ocean’s depths was the peace and tranquility of watching sea turtles and parrot fish floating by and munching away on coral – so undisturbed by the surface and yet so inseparably connected to all of us.

This weekend, I rediscovered that same calming communion in the mountains. It is in the leafless branches and the ground sleeping beneath its covering of snow. It is in the birds singing as the sun warms their frozen trees and in the tracks of rabbits that have scurried across the fields.

We can feel it tugging at something deep inside us – like the roots of our souls are somehow connected to the roots of those mountains. It is grounding, and it is transcendent.

I discovered that the hole I was feeling in my heart in the absence of diving, was the absence of this connection. The city is exciting and engaging, but – for me – there is always a lack, something fundamental that is missing. Something found in forests and mountains, fields of snow and ocean reefs. It is to feel and to begin to comprehend that we are all a part of something much bigger, something much more alive.

 

Wishing you light, joy, and a healthy heaping of hope…

I’m sitting on a train to Berlin, listening to Christmas carols (all the oldies from my childhood), and sipping a “Lebkuchen” (aka. Gingerbread) latte. It’s my favorite time of the year filled with all my favorite things – cue Julie Andrews – and all should be right with the world.

And yet…

This season of so much light, cheer, sugar, and spice has also been a reminder that all is not right in the world. Political, racial, and national divides paper my Facebook news feed. Bombs fall on Aleppo as young and old upload their final goodbyes to Youtube. And the news screens in the subway show images of a truck plowed into a Christmas market in Berlin. Homeless men and women huddle into sleeping bags under bridges and my migrant students’ phones and ID-cards are stolen from the locker room during gym class – their connection to the homes they’ve left behind and their new identities and claims to a new life in a new home.

In a time when we are singing about joy and peace, we desperately wish for the world to be well, to be whole. But the reality is staring us in the face – just behind the veil of crowded shopping malls, twinkling lights, and honeyed hams – the world is sick and broken.

So what do we do? Do we cancel Christmas? Unplug the lights, drag the tree to the curb, throw some mothballs on the Christmas sweaters, and unstuff the stockings?

As someone who spends the entire year looking forward to the holiday season and all its traditions, I don’t think that’s the answer.

But I do think we need to reorient our season on hope – not just finding it for ourselves, but embodying it for others.

The past few Decembers (and the other eleven months when I think no one is listening), I’ve become enamored by a particular Christmas song.

O come, o come Emanuel

And ransom captive Israel

Who morns in lonely exile here

Until the son of God appears

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emanuel

Shall come to thee, o Israel.

With it’s soft, minor harmonies, this song gets me right in the feels every time. It’s a song of solitude and yearning – a song of wandering in the darkness and looking for a light.

One of my neighbors down the street started putting a lantern with a large pillar candle out on their stoop a few weeks back. It reminds me of the ancient traditions throughout northern Europe of creating light as the nights got longer. It’s a little flickering reminder of the spirit of the yule log – light and warmth burning through the longest night. As a Christian, it reminds me of the light of a little child born in Bethlehem – a light in the darkness, a hope for healing, a savior for the lost. Life breathed into God-made-man, God-with-us – Emanuel.

And such is the challenge for all of us – not only during the holidays, but throughout the year. What are we doing to bring light and hope to the lives of others – our loved ones, friends, neighbors, and even our enemies?

As we sit with our families this Christmas, as we bask in the lights of our Christmas trees, and as we test the human limits of Christmas cookie consumption, think about those who are hurting in the world. Think of those who are alone, those who need someone to reach out to them. And then, reach out. Donate, visit, pray, write, call, embrace. Be aware – even if it’s painful – of those who need the warmth, light, and hope of this season, and explore how to embody that hope.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a hopeful year ahead.