It's all Greek to Me

THE GREEKS 

in 1616 in Shakespeare's play Julius Caesar, as spoken by Servilius Casca to Cassius after a festival in which Caesar was offered a crown:

     CASSIUS: Did Cicero say any thing?
     CASCA: Ay, he spoke Greek.
     CASSIUS: To what effect?
     CASCA: Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.

      William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Julius Caesar (1599)

      Taken from the ever pragmatic and miraculous Wikipedia

wild rye, growing in a field
courtesy of Wikipedia

     Last Saturday, the fourteenth of April in the year two thousand and twelve, our motley crew left the abode around 11 o'clock in the evening, bound for the Greek Orthodox Church in Durban for the special, once-a-year midnight mass: the annual pascha service.  As it turns out, the Greek "pascha" correlates to the Latin "paschal," both referring to Christ's passion, crucifixion, and resurrection.  Essentially, this was the orthodox version of the Catholic Easter vigil.  A.k.a., everyone gets a candle!

note, the chandelier is composed of
tiny, golden crosses as well

     In between making sure the resident small people didn't light anything on fire, I split my time making awkward small talk to the Russian man who stood beside me at the back of the church and pretending to sing in Greek, which I'm apparently a natural at.  Afterwards, several people tried to greet me in Greek and were very confused when I told them I wasn't Greek or Russian or South African.  Language barriers + religious service + foreign country = GOOD TIMES.  I remember asking the Russian man if there was a name for the über sparkly crown the archbishop of South Africa was wearing.  I did mention that the Orthodox Archbishop of South Africa was there, right?  Maggie was very taken with [His Eminence Damaskinos Archbishop of Johannesburg and Pretoria], for whatever reason, haha.  I dare you to go look up his picture.  It'll definitely put this in perspective...  Anyways, Mr. Russia said, "Uh, no; I think it's just called a 'crown'" much to my disappointment.  But seriously guys, it was like one of those ginormous, slightly bulbous fabric pieces that looked like it had been through a bedazzler or two.

Natalie celebrates Pascha

     A few other pascha (pah-scuh) traditions I became privvy to included the dyeing of eggs with yellow onion skins (just cover a bunch of yellow onion skins with some water and boil for a long time over low heat and then set the hard boiled eggs in it and voilà! You have a deep, rust colored, protein-rich snack-- nom, nom, nom) and

the fam, post-Pascha (I still can't believe
Natty made it that long!)

--The Kissing of the Hand--
  ANECDOTE
     I'm at the back of the church.  The service has, for all intents and purposes, ended.  The congregation forms a languorous column to the archbishop to receive... what exactly?  I quietly decide to defer and linger inconspicuously near the final row of pews.
     A heavy-set, be-tweeded older woman totters down the side aisle, clutching five chunks of whole-wheat fresh bread and an egg, and inquires, "Aren't you going up?  You must!"  A nearby friend of Carina's, a sweet young lady from Zimbabwe (Melanie), joins in, "It's Easter, just go," smiling sweetly.  I reply with a string of paltry excuses, "No thanks... it's fine... I'm not orthodox..." after which I am unceremoniously shoved into the line, continuing to chat with the old woman.
     "What am I supposed to do?"  I whisper frantically.  "Don't I have to kiss something?"  
     "Heh?" she squawks.
As it turned out, I didn't really ever end up having to kiss anything.  At the front, there were two enormous woven baskets, one filled with the red eggs and the other with the tufts of brown bread my companion so glamorously sported earlier.  I made some sort of graceless bow and made off with my spoils, one chunk of holy grain and one sanctified egg.
     She is waiting for me.  What can I do, but go along with her, arm in arm, out of the church, down the hill, and to one of several ready-and-waiting tables for the middle-of-the-night feast (most of which I couldn't take part in, being vegetarian and all).  I ended up sitting next to her second son, a film and television studies lecturer at one of the local universities, while she ranted about how her first son and his wife left early.  During my brief time at the table, I learned that she's a half-Scottish migrant to South Africa and her husband is a minister from Greece (what the folks there call "the Greek connection;" this is also the reason everyone is very confused and disappointed when they learn we are in no way Greek).  Melanie also happened to be seated across from me at the table, alongside her husband.  While the gang slurped at their lamb and cream stew, I munched on part of a loaf of bread with the red eggs literally baked into the top.  Very strange, but very pretty.  
     Eventually, Ben and Carina and the small people come to a consensus: it is time to go.  After saying several lengthy goodbyes to people I barely know, and exchanging the traditional kisses on the cheeks, I was able to extricate myself from the gathering, go back up the hill, get another squashed lift back to the ranch, and fall into bed around quarter to four in the morning...

- - - - -

THE FRENCH

     Since my last post, I have achieved monumental success in the “finding-things-with-only-a-sub-par-excuse-for-the-internet” that we have in South Africa. Just apply whatever the standard for technology was ten years ago, or more, in the United States to ZA. Ergo, not everything is online. To this, I would normally resign with a snotty and sarcastic “le sigh,” a turn of phrase I co-opted from my boyfriend and has since become one of my favorite things to type. And speaking of sighs, [warning: you are about to diverge into tangential train of thought], the other day when I was in the kitchen with Maggie, I could have sworn a teenager had taken over her tiny, three-year-old form. I don't remember what it was, but essentially I had told her she couldn't have a treat until she finished her lunch, to which she deigned to reply with a lengthy, eye-rolling SIGH OF ETERNITY. I'm not going to bother trying to convey how difficult it was not to fall on the floor laughing.

     Anyways, back to my monumental success story! This past Wednesday marks my second ballet class in nearly five years. For the sake of time, here's my condensed dance history: [tap, jazz, hip-hop, minimal ballet: six years], [break], [primarily ballet, en pointe part-time: four years], [break], [musical theatre: three months], [break], [swing dancing: almost a full year -- casual ballroom dancing: less than a year]. When I left the U.S., I was dancing anywhere from 2-4 nights a week. Not dancing is like misplacing your reading glasses—it keeps things in perspective, in motion. After ruling out the existence of any true ballroom dance community here, it was onto the hunt for a prospective ballet school. From the time I started college, basically, I've been toying with the idea of getting back into ballet but haven't found the right time/studio/lack of excuses to do so. Now, after endless, fruitless google searches, I've stumbled upon a lovely instructor named Diana, a woman in her mid-sixties who teaches ballet out of her garage. The anticipation and nervous feelings melted away as soon as we started bar, like a calmness was being breathed back into me, slowly. I love swing. I love tap and jazz and hip-hop and hustle. But there is something different about ballet. A different aura, perhaps. Whatever it is, it is soothing.

image courtesy of justinday

     Other news related to the Frenchness in my life: I have somehow become a* Master of the Roux—not to be confused with Rue from the Hunger Games. Not only the roux, but also the gluten-free roux (I'm sure I've mentioned that Ben has Celiac disease). You dream it, I'll cream it! Lemon Parmesan sauce, a base for a creamy tomato basil soup, pesto cream sauce, a basic bechamel, and on and on. Suddenly, it was simple. I can't explain it. But there are many YouTube videos that can, I'm sure.

*the use of the indefinite article here is intentional; you can surely become a master, too :)

this is Abiquiu, hoping to celebrate Pascha

Thank You For Smoking(?)

     One of my favorite experiences while I was travelling in Spain happened in the early hours of evening, just as the twilight left the trees on the finca.  The farm my friends and I went to for a flamenco performance.  Imagine a half-sized amphitheater getting squashed flat by a waffle iron, and you've got the gist of the setup for the show.  The center of the ring was comprised of sandy, clay earth--our stage. Later, we would be privy to the wild beauty of the dancing horses, twirling skirts, and the desperate cries of the flamenco band's lead singer clanging through the night.  But, in the meantime, we were saving seats and chatting amiably as friends in the audience.
     Down the row of seats I was in, a few spots down, was a grizzled-looking, yellow old man.  Everything about him was yellow.  His stringy hair, his teeth, even the whites of his eyes.  Despite his mangy appearance, in his lap was a pampered pooch of a smallish nature.  Maybe it wasn't a dog; more likely some rodent posing as a dog.  Every half-a-minute or so, the yellow man would puff, puff on his crumpled cigarette.  And every half-a-minute, the pampered pooch would achoo, cough pathetically, engulfed in the cloud of smoke.
     Now I know every body smokes in Europe, and I know firsthand that every body smokes in Spain.  But something about this was different.  There was general anticipation for the show to start, but I was consumed by my anticipation for the man to finish.  "Just a few more puffs," I would tell myself.  "Then the dog will be fine."  At last, after what seemed an eternity, the cigarette was near gone.
     ...
     Then I got to see the etymology of chain-smoking in action.  He lit his next cigarette off the old one. And so the yellow man continued to puff, puff and the pampered pooch carried on achoo, cough -ing.  And so it goes.

Yes... perceptions of smoking certainly have changed in the world.
But it' not the same kind of change in every place...

     During the same trip, I spent a long weekend in Portugal, visiting various towns and spending a full day in the capital city Lisbon, or Lisboa.  Organized by the University of Salamanca, the trip included other students not from my immediate program: aka, tons of new friends to make!  But of course, as with most weekend excursions to foreign countries, our journey started off with the usual long, dull bus ride, leaving Salamanca at the crack of dawn, and speeding past mile after mile after mile of farmland and emptiness.  And of course, the natural result of all this nothing is to make something out of nothing.  Meaning that several of us not sleeping spent the majority of the ride deciding who was attractive.  You know, a rerun of the sixth grade girl mania.
     Anyways, one of our more interesting companions for the weekend was a guy who can only be described as follows:  a slightly taller version of a hobbit, with all of the hobbit folks' easy smiles and joviality, but with all the snobbery of a French fashionista.  So, good-looking enough to be a sweet-natured countryman, but annoying enough to avoid substantial conversation with.

the main entrance to the monastery in Lisbon

     It was during our group tour of the Jerónimos Monastery that we had our first verbal encounter. We were, of course, not the only people there, and so our group had to sidestep a bunch of old biddies on the front steps smoking, what I hope, was their first cig of the day.
     Okay, so here is where I have a confession to make: I am very lucky.  I had an idyllic childhood where secondhand smoke was a rarity and never present in my own home.  It never made sense to me as a kid, why people would do something that's not good for them.  And so, as a result, I am a total wuss when it comes to cigarette smoke.  I don't the smell and even if you're not smoking at the time, I'll be able to tell if you're a smoker or not.  That's what you get for having a good nose and limited exposure to smokers as a kid.
     So, there I am, passing by the old biddies, holding my breath and looking slightly uncomfortable, but not in a way that really draws attention.  After emerging from the cloud, who was I standing next to, but the hipster-wannabeFrench-hobbit-man.  He looked at me and, having no other basis for conversation (ya know, other than, "how are things in the Shire?") said, "Gee, everyone smokes here.  Pretty different than the States."  After his momentary surprise, it was my turn to be shocked.  "Yeah, but at least people here are better about it," he said.  I asked him to elaborate: "nobody here asks you to stop and makes a big scene about it.  So what if people smoke?  Man, people are so whiny in the U.S." I was too shocked to give him my "it's my air, too" rant, so I just let it go.  But even now, eons later, I can't believe it!  Don't I have a right to clean air?  Anybody can smoke, but they don't have to do it in my face.  It is absolutely possible to be a respectful smoker.  (Example:  I had a boyfriend that was rooming with two smokers his first year of college.  He was not a smoker, but his roommates knew that and respected it complete, going outside to smoke a good distance away from the dorm and never smoking inside.  Way to go, college kids!)

I'm Mr. Dapper-Owl, and I approve this message!

     So, why am I bringing all these ideas up now?  


     There's a café on the UKZN campus (University of KwaZulu-Natal) hidden inside the humanities ward.  In the center of the building is a courtyard overrun by huge wild ferns and snotty teenagers.  On the side, sits the café, probably still holding the record for longest line (or "queue," as they say here) and longest wait time.  I wouldn't know-- I've never had the time to order anything.  Throughout the courtyard, tiny rickety tables and chairs are strewn about haphazardly.  While classes are in session, it's almost a ghost town.  But as soon as passing period rolls around, it's a veritable watering hole where tea pours like a river and gossip flies like wildfire.
     Of course, in order to see all these things, you have to have super-vision (which I do; 20:15 baby!) to decipher anything through the smog of cigarette smoke.  And it's not just one "smoker group."  It's everybody: standing in line, writing an essay, reading a novel, sipping some tea, anything.  And it's simply astounding to me because I've never seen such a high percentage of people my age smoking.  My home university's rule is "no smoking within twenty-five feet of a university building."  So people still smoke, but at a way lower density.  Plus, it carries a negative connotation that it doesn't have in Spain nor, apparently, in South Africa.
     For the record, I like my negative connotations.  Go figure.


     Oh, and if you like bunnies, Happy Easter