Leaving Cyprus

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

Leaving Cyprus was not easy. I tried to sleep through my 2 a.m. pickup for the airport. At 2:10, however, I stumbled after the driver who hauled my three overweight suitcases down two flights of stairs. Dragging my backpack and carry-on bag, I climbed into the Mercedes, and we were off to Larnaka.

Airborne three hours later—after check-in, bus ride to the plane, and waiting, waiting—I would not look out the window. I refused to look down at the island, spread across its spot in the Mediterranean. I didn’t want to see the Troodos Mountains in the mist, or the curve of the harbor, or the distant valley beyond Nicosia. It really hurt too much to leave the place I had called home for six months.

I knew that I was over-reacting. I was, after all, just a visitor on Cyprus; I had no family there, no roots, no real reason to stay. My six months’ assignment with Fulbright was over.

Still, friendships connected me to Cyprus, and my heart was heavy to see those daily contacts end. I wanted to find solace in journal, and I began to write:

“Oh, where to begin and end. Ela, ela, Nancy.” But, the words wouldn’t come to describe the depth of friendships, Eva, Justine, Evi II, my students, Toulla, Ioli. . .the list continues. Whether brief, like Phivos and Popi, or long-term, like Alkis and Gül, I am forever changed because of their caring and generosity. Forever changed.

The trip from Cyprus to Heathrow was uneventful. In London, the connection was predictable and the plane, predictably late in leaving. The best news: I was bumped up to business class. I was the child in the candy store—“Do you mean the champagne is free?” “A choice of entrees? Steak or Chicken Diane? Wow.” “What’s in this bag?” Socks, a black-out mask, mints, tooth brush, lotion—it was my Christmas stocking in June! My travel partner, Jim Lemon from the Chicago area, was a joy. We started talking five miles from the airport and kept up the dialogue across the Atlantic: children, radio programs, software, Rwanda, global warming—one topic sparked another.

Landing in Chicago, I realized a glitch in the travel arrangements. I had only 45 minutes at O’Hare, one of the world’s busiest airports, to collect my luggage, go through customs, recheck the bags, find transportation to another terminal, check in through security again, and get on the plane. Problem was, it couldn’t happen. And, it didn’t. I missed that flight and, consequently, missed my connecting flight in Phoenix. Suddenly, I was stranded in Chicago. No working cell phone—the Cyprus sim card was defunct and my “so easy” minutes depleted. No helpful travel agent would change the tickets, and I had no idea what to do—spend the night in Chicago, fly out in the morning? Fly to Phoenix, rent a car and drive six hours to Long Beach? Mostly, I was tired--tired of suitcases and connections and hassles, and I was missing people so badly I was on the verge of tears.

Finally, after checking with two airlines in two terminals, and pleading my case of bad connections and missed flights, I was rerouted from Chicago to Los Angeles late that evening. Unfortunately, my suitcases didn’t get the message. They flew on to Phoenix.

I arrived at LAX, exhausted, after midnight, without most of my luggage, and without a ride home. I bribed the van driver to take me to Long Beach, despite his insistence that it was out of the way. At one thirty in the morning, 33 ½ hours after I left Nicosia, I was not about to stand in the shadows of the airport and wait for another van to arrive.

“Thirty minutes more, I thought to myself, thirty minutes more.” On the van, I chatted with a family, coming to the area with plans to visit Disneyland. They were headed for a hotel that night in the California town of Cypress. Odd coincidence. I smiled. What an adventure their seven-year-old would have with Mickey and friends. What adventures we all have when we move out of our comfort zones, away from the familiarity of home, and beyond the expected expectations for living.

At 2 a.m., thirty-four hours after I left my flat in Nicosia, I opened the door to my bungalow in California. My dogs greeted me wildly at the front door, first thinking I was the burglar returning; then the recognition! I fell into bed and slept, clothes on, for six hours, awaking groggy and jet lagged. No surprise.

The next evening, my sons and I had dinner at our favorite restaurant, the Belmont Brewery, perched above the white sand beach, with the blue Pacific stretched out endlessly from the Long Beach shore. It was lovely as the sun set over the ocean. But, it wasn’t Cyprus.

My first day home, I settled bank accounts, sorted through six months of mail, reconnected my cell phone, mailed a small package back to Cyprus, and tried to adjust to traffic flowing on the wrong side of the road.

Yesterday, I chatted with my department chair at CSULB. Registration, cutting courses from the schedules, over-enrollments, over budget, under staffed. She asked me to teach a grad seminar this fall. Of course, I will, no problem. (But, here I am with no books ordered yet, no syllabus, no thought to putting materials on reserve.) No panic. Yet.

On Wednesday, I board another plane, retrace my flight pattern east for five hours to Charlotte, N.C. and end up driving the last two hours to Lugoff, S.C. to see my daughter and her family, including 11-day old baby Walker and 17-month old Foster. Anyone for a babysitting gig for three weeks? I’m switching hats, changing personas, moving on through the calendar of life.

This isn’t my last blog about Cyprus. The “wrap up” will come when I have time to think about it all. . .what did it mean for me to be in Cyprus in Spring 2008? Whose life did I touch? How was my own changed? My photos and memories are bountiful. My thoughts, however, now are jumbled. Leaving Cyprus was not easy. All I really know is I want to go back--Some day. Some way. Some how—to Nicosia, to Larnaka, to Kyrenia, to Karpas, to Pafos, to Kourion, to friends.

Note: This posting is also listed on "sheleyviews.blogspot.com"

A Picture Is Worth 1000 Words

I am a lover of art. Not all art. Just those images that connect with a chord in my being. I can be moved by color, by design, by subject, by artist, by moment. It is unpredictable. I know what I like, and if it is at all within my power to possess that art, I will bring it into my own world, my home, my family.

From Cyprus, I am taking two paintings back to California. Both were purchased here. The first is a blue door. It was painted in 2007 by N. Petkova, an artist visiting Lemesos from a middle European country. It is beautiful, inviting, historic, memorable. I didn't see this door in Lemesos, but I found and photographed another version during a walk within a mile of my flat in Engomi.

A door means many things--an opening to an inner world, an exit to the world beyond, an invitation, a blockade. I like to think we choose our front doors carefully--to show our personalities, our desired relationship to others. For me, this painting represents Cyprus and my opportunity to go beyond the physical facade of a closed door, however beautiful, into the welcoming, family circles on both sides of this island.

The second painting, with totally a different style and impact, is one of a series completed in 2007, by Gïrne artist, İsmet Tatar. This painting will be part of her collection to be shown in Nicosia in September, when she participates in a month-long exhibition focused on thirty Cypriot artists. (One-artist-featured-each-day, I understand, at different locations around the city. What pleasure September will bring to those who love art in Cyprus!) I wrote about İsmet's art in an earlier blog. We are soulmates. I think I understand her work, and I certainly feel her emotions when she describes her paintings. This collage is a landscape of sorts. Imbedded are bits of architectural drawings, notes about ownership, covered with a thin layer of color--shades of yellow, for hope, she says. İsmet's subject, here, is property dispute in Cyprus, the issue that is key to resolution of the Cyprus problem. Not only does this painting represent the trauma of the Divide, but it offers possibilities for resolution, reflected through color and design. Hope and possibilities for Cyprus are my good thoughts, too.

Trekkin' in Troodos

I recently spent three days in Cyprus’ Troodos Mountains, with the intent to enjoy the cool air, the hiking trails, the change of scenery, and an opportunity to visit many of the small painted churches in the area. My art historian friend, Justine, planned the tour, highlighted by ten structures now designated with UNESCO World Heritage status. Dating from the 11th-16th century, these village churches are time capsules from the past—some beautifully restored, showcasing colorful frescoes on all wall and ceiling space and beautiful icons on the altar front; others are worn and empty, with only echoes of the Greek Orthodox religious traditions of spiritual suasion through painted Biblical scenes, images of saints and bishops, and gilded icons.

Justine, the Honda, and I drove around the twists and turns of the Troodos mountain tops and valleys, stopping often to doublecheck road signs with guidebooks, always looking for the brown signs pointing the way to heritage sites. Sometimes we made a wrong turn; only once or twice did we end up--obviously--on the wrong road! (Sometimes, it's better not to read the maps of Cyprus.)

To view a few of the churches, we had to locate
the keeper-of-the-key in the village. Always helpful, these Cypriots shared background
stories, travel advice, and even language lessons. Yassas. Efharisto. Parakalo. Almost always, they became the center of our photographs.

Some of the churches we visited are pictured along side this post. We also spent part of the day at the spectacular Kykkos Monastery and Museum. Built on the site of the original Holy Monastery of the Virgin of Kykkos, founded around the end of the 11th century, the current structure is impressive. Massive, colorful, imposing, it dominates the space. Its Museum houses icons, holy objects, woodcarvings, vestments, embroideries, manuscripts, pottery and more. It is one of the few museums I’ve entered where the background was filled with music (much like the low hum of 15th century monks praying). The lighting was very subdued. Precious exhibits were enclosed in Plexiglas. Outside, the bright sun radiated off the covered passageways, fully illustrated with more modern representations of Biblical stories.


Part of our self-planned Troodos tour was a trip to the top of Mt. Olympus. This 6400 ft. peak is the highest in the Troodos range. We edged up the paved highway, halfway expecting to find a temple to the gods at the top.

Instead, this Olympus is crowned with a British military outpost, complete with guard gate, barbed wire, several radio towers and other structures, including an enormous white dome that looked, from the valleys below, much like the world’s largest golf ball. Unlike Greece’s Olympus, legendary home of Zeus and his entourage, this Olympus houses the new, all-knowing gods: Communication, Security, and Surveillance.

Unshared Pairs Across the Divide

The blogging experience. . .what does it mean? Six months ago, as I contemplated my Fulbright “assignment” in Cyprus, I explored on this blogspace the concerns I had about “putting myself out there” to an unknown audience. I mused how difficult it was for me, as a teacher of writing, to craft a piece without knowing who would read it. I also realized that there would be sensitivity issues to face: I would be writing about two different cultures in a shared, divided country. This would be an international experience, and I was representing not just myself and the United States, but the Fulbright Commission, my university, my family, and my friends—old and new.

As I near the end of my stay in Cyprus, I am saddened by the thought that I’ve had little impact towards any form of real change. Who am I—a citizen of my country which has its own international issues—to face the “Cyprus Problem” and to offer solutions?

To say the least, keeping this blog has been both a joy and a struggle. Each posting is a process of self-censoring, rewriting, deleting, selecting, and approving. It has been challenging even to touch upon the political complexities which exist in Cyprus. I have made good friends on both sides of the Green Zone and would be mortified if I offended any of them. However, what I do know is this: In another time and place—away from here—my friends on both sides would like each other, too; they could share family histories, they could admire and respect each other’s perseverance, patriotism, and pride. I can see us all at a huge party, celebrating the joys of life.

Bringing friends together: it seems so simple, and yet the patterns of history work against naive solutions. At this time, Antonis will not speak to Abdul. Hatiçe can't share her teaching skills with Georgia. Nikos won't play his guitar in Çan’s rock band. Mehmet and Stephanos will forever look toward opposing resolutions. Yet, in another time and place—away from here, perhaps—all could be friends. Ah, if it were only that easy to make lasting peace.

And, so, I will leave Cyprus with compartmentalized memories—the north and the south, the Turkish Cypriots and the Greek Cypriots, Karpas beaches and Troodos Mountains, Orthodox churches and Muslim mosques, Kyrenia and Kourion. Just like conflict—active and implied—this list is endless. Unshared pairs.

But I have also been blessed on both sides of the Divide with memories of gracious hosts, exquisite moments, laughter, joys in family, friendship, and a shared love for this beautiful island. The Green Zone might exist as a fact of facts, but it has forever disappeared in my heart of hearts.

Honestly, It's Not All Play. . .

Browsing the Internet this afternoon, with the self-aggrandising act of "googling" myself, I located a news story that proves my work in Cyprus is actually being recorded by the American Embassy! Wow. This is the link: http://nicosia.usembassy.gov/EmbatWork/ACeducMay08.htm

The month of May was very busy, indeed, with this presentation on higher education at Near East University in Nicosia, a SPIKE lecture on the Rwandan Genocide at Eastern Mediterranean University in Famagusta, a short presentation on my research on conflict resolution at the Fulbright Board's monthly meeting, the conference paper in Athens on conflict/educational curricula, and a presentation at the University of Cyprus on the "cyber class" that my colleague Carol at CSULB and I taught this semester.

Since I returned from Athens, I've edited one paper for publication and am revising a conference paper, to be presented in November and published shortly thereafter.

Oh, yes. In my spare time, I continue to check my Cyprus road maps for trips planned in the next two weeks: to Kourion (for a Shakespearean play), to Aphrodite's Birthplace and Bath on the west coast; a return to artist Ismet Tatar's studio in Kyrenia, a couple of days in a mountain retreat in the Troodos--to hike and stay cool, and another two-day stay in a friend's new condo near the beach near Paphos/Polis.

I wonder, when the Cyprus Air plane leaves Larnaca at 5:00 in the morning of June 28, headed to Heathrow with connections to Long Beach, will I really. . .will I really be aboard?

Paros

There are times in life when all points come together, the vibes are in sync, past-present-future are one. . .it happened as soon as I stepped off the high-speed ferry in Parakia, Paros. I felt at home. Granted, I cannot speak the language, I am a registered alien in this part of the world, I would have no job, no house, no friends. But, at that moment, I wanted to spend the rest of my days in a small villa on the hillside, above the harbor, within steps of the restaurants, cafes, and beach chairs by the sea. I could envision myself spending my days, writing "the novel," pausing to glance out the open window at the fishing boats returning with the day's catch. I could taste the crisp, cold iciness of the local Mthos beer, frosting the glass at the table in the olive grove, by the beach. I could teach English; I could work in a souvenier shop. Hey, I could wait tables and live on leftover tomatoes, olives, and feta cheese.

Okay, okay. I'm dreaming. But, the combination of sun, small village, sand,peacefulness--and red motobikes to ride on the twisty, hilly roads to beaches and villages nearby--it was as near to paradise as I've come in my life! Kentucky Lake has memories; Hawaii has scenic beaches; Myrtle Beach has family. . .but Paros. . .I think it has my heart.

Note: Photo above, right: These are the bikes Jonathan and I rode all around Paros, now parked at Golden Beach by the cafe. The picture of me in the helmet just didn't make it past the blog editor.

Athens, Greece May 2008

Where to begin? Arriving in Athens for the 10th-Annual ATINER educational conference without a paper written and sketchy directions from the airport to the Metropolitan Hotel was disconcerting to say the least. However, the train from the airport to the center of the city was no problem, even with luggage. Finding the 126 Bus at Syntagma Square toward the hotel was a different story. And, waiting for it to arrive (not on schedule) for 90 minutes in the sun was another issue. The temperature in downtown Athens at 2:00 pm on May 25th was pretty warm. Trying to read the bus stops in Greek was also a challenge, but we located the hotel, settled in, and I moved into a panic mode for the paper.

For my presentation, I had only fifteen minutes to connect--through curriculum--the increasing violence in the States’ public schools, the Genocide in Rwanda, and the current “Cyprus Problem.” It was a miracle it ever came together—and I added a 48-slide Power Point to go with it the night before. Also, on the first day of the conference, when I glanced more closely at the program, I discovered that I was not just presenting the next day, but was also a chair for a two-hour session immediately thereafter. Talk about an overdose! Each session had six presenters!

All in all, the two-days of “academic work” were jam-packed with topics from teaching Latin in South Africa to Dewey’s philosophies, to tourism education in Dominique. After that, we enjoyed two days of Athens explorations: first, a typical Greek taverna dinner with dancing (held, however at the American Building, a high rise in Athens. The meal was a bit like a Chicago diner-doing-Greek-Buffet.) Afterwards, the combo played traditional songs and a few souls tried to negotiate the complicated footwork to the circle dances, stumbling over each other much of the time. In general, the Americans in the crowd (it was truly international—African, French, British, Bulgarians, Spaniards, Chechs, Swedes, etc.) were more adventuresome in their efforts—one guy did a solo gyration to a dance that was supposed to be a Greek lover’s elegant tribute to his lady fair. (True to form in my semi-elitist “I’m not a tourist; I live here” mode, I cringed. But, I also had stumbled around in the circle dance a few moments before!) The next day, we toured by bus to the village of Marathon, where the first 26 mile race was run (when Persia was defeated by the Athenians?), then to a burial site of the warriors. Although the purpose of the trip was less than overwhelming, the bus ride up and down the hillsides by the sea and the lunch in the village were very nice. After that trip, back in Athens, Jonathan and I toured Plaka and then climbed to the Acropolis (in 95+ degree heat) to see—for real—the architectural marvels only before viewed in textbooks. Amazing.

The second day of “fun” included a three-island cruise to Poros, Hydra, and Agenia. Mostly, the day was spent in the sun and sea glare, wondering if I was paying too much for the few souvenirs I purchased. The beaches were less than grand, but I smiled the whole day at the incredible fact that I was touring the Greek islands! Ohmygod. What a bonus to my life!

Today, we head to Paros, an island further away, hopefully a little less “touristy,” to find a quiet café, a lovely beach, and some motor scooters to rent. It’s been a long time since I drove my brother Peter’s Moped around our big lawn in Illinois, cutting it as close as possible to the oak trees, wearing a path in the grass, driving my mother crazy with the motor’s drone. I was only eleven or twelve—and a long way from my driver’s license. But, I learned then about speed and daring on that red Moped—and have the leg scar to prove it!

Traveling with my youngest son has been an unveiling of genetic transmissions. . .Sheley and Strow. Watching him, day in and day out, talking to him, seeing him as strangers view him. . .all has allowed me to see his relatives revealed in his looks and actions. Especially, my three brothers have appeared and reappeared. In Jonathan, I see: Joe Tom’s knock-out, movie-star-handsome good looks, when he was a deep, dark-tanned life guard at Black Hawk Beach in Ottawa; I also see Peter’s take-charge, don’t question, I-know-best attitude when I fail to make a decision; and Norm’s quick wit, shared sense of humor, and ready smile when something amuses us both. . .I see, too, my cousin Butch’s pleasure in sun and water; I recognize my other son’s down-home joy in sampling the Mthyos, Efes, or K.E.O. beers—and in bikini-watching on the beach. At sunset, looking out at sea, I see his father’s quiet reflection at the waves coming in, and my own free spirit wanting to set sail again.

A Peaceful Place May 22, 2008

Bellapais Abbey and Concert

Sitting at the pool while the Emeritus Chamber Orchestra from Israel above in the Bellapais Abbey rehearses Beethoven’s “Concerto for Violin, Cello, Piano and Orchestra in C Major, Op. 56” for this evening’s performance, I am entranced. The music filters down the hillside. A personal concert. Sun, sea, flowers of every color, lemon trees, pool, walled abbey built in the 1300s, Kyrenia seaport below our mountainside resort, Bellapais Gardens. Evi, Justine, Jonathan and I have the pool to ourselves. Can it get much better than this?

Last night we attended another concert in the series at the abbey: Haydn, a different Beethoven concerto, and Gluck’s “Overture to ‘Iphigenia at Aulis.” We shared the audience space with Mehmet Ali Tarat, the President of the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. I have seen both leaders—of both sides of this island--at wonderful musical events. Surely, on an island so small, they can find the common threads to bring peace to this land.

The morning sun is fierce upon my exposed back, but the pool—clear, cool, and inviting—in front of me reflects the blue sky’s cirrus clouds. To the right, through the visual spaces between red hibiscus blossoms, bougainvillea trailing in the trees, sago palms, and Cyprus trees, the Mediterranean Sea merges with the sky at a hazy blue-gray horizon.

The orchestra stops. Silence. A violin run begins again, repeating the phrase. Another pause. A musical note is played and instruments, one by one, join in to match the pitch. A tuning session in earnest to bring the group together. And now the swell—music for the ages, above Kyrenia, across the sea toward Turkey, and fully into my soul. Music is life itself.

What a perfect spot to breathe in the joy of “ being.” Bellapais—beautiful peace.

A Side Trip to Cairo

Egypt is so close. How could I not visit the Pyramids while I am in this part of the world?

With son Jonathan's visit as an excuse, I booked a four-day excursion to Cairo, doing the completely "tourist" things: see the Pyramids, check out the camels, tour the Egyptian Museum, navigate the Cairo Market, inhale essential oils at perfumery, dine on the Nile, have a Pharonic massage (Happy Mother's Day!), and bask by the pool of the Sheraton Cairo. How American of me.

Yet, that was the only sensible way to go. Traffic in Cairo cannot be explained in simple words like crazy, chaotic, maniacal, treacherous, terrifying, death-defying. We neeeded a driver wherever we went, and a personal guide eased us through crowded ticket booths and checkpoints. Thus, we had a little taste of Cairo, a relaxing time at a five-star hotel, and another bushel of memories. "Remember the hookah?" "Don't forget the Egyptian mango smoothie." "Was there really that constant cacophony of horns and engines and squeaking brakes? The Cairo Symphony, I call it." "Ah, the pool was nice."

Most noticeable was the extremely kind customer service and the genuine pleasure that we had in conversational exchanges. I spent several hours just talking to shopkeepers--no purchase necessary. Jonathan enjoyed his leisure time by the hotel pool. One of the pool waiters asked his advice to improve his pick up lines. "Can I say to a woman," he asked my son, "You are beautiful. . ." Jonathan started to nod, but the fellow continued "and you have a nice rack?"

Everywhere we went, Egyptians were pleased that we were enjoying ourselves, that we had selected Cairo for a holiday. Even if we were Americans. ("People are people," one man said, "not their governments.") A smile from us was met with the same response--from adults and children alike. It was a very positive experience.

Of course, it was rushed. Too little time and too many people at the Pyramids. Too little time and so much granduer at the Museum. Too many shops, too much confusion at the market. Too many bottles to sniff at the perfumery. And, did I say, "Too much traffic, everywhere?"

Cairo, at least the part we saw, was a contemporary mix of old and new, traditional and westernized, ancient construction and skyscrapers. Mosques, Coptic churches, government ministry buildings, armed police, few red stop lights.

Reflections: The pyraminds and Sphinx we saw seemed next door to the city (not isolated in the desert as I expected); the Muslim influence was ever-present but very tolerant and accommodating of us; Americans were in short supply--and that was O.K. Cairo was noisy and dusty, but progressive, too. There were far more parks and green spaces than I expected--and the U.S. influence was almost embarrassing: Kentucky Fried Chicken, Pizza Hut, McDonalds, Burger King, T.G.I. Friday's--the works.

Somedays, you just can't get fully away!

Cairo's 25 million inhabitants are spread across a mega-city and its environs. A trip to the airport from the Nile is over an hour--just in city traffic. On our return, we only saw three accidents--amazingly small number for the constant jockeying position on the streets. As Jonathan explained, "Yes, we have lots of traffic in California--five lanes, sometimes. But, we drive in the lines." At that point, we were on a narrow two-lane street: one car in the left lane, one in the right, and one straddling the center line, coming down the middle. Beep, beep, beep.

Thoughts about Safety

Imagine my surprise when I looked out my balcony window the first morning I was in Cyprus and saw a white car marked with the huge letters, U.N., on its roof! The only other time I had seen similarly marked vehicles was in the movie Hotel Rwanda. Then, to discover, that its owner, an official with the U.N., lived in the flat above me, I certainly felt I protected by the world. I have always honored the U.N. troops that are called to duty in crisis areas, who risk their lives to keep others safe. Unfortunately, I’ve seen another side of their lives.

I went to a bi-communal event (on U.N.-protected territory in the Green Zone) last night. It was a simple book launch of a text examining the history and growth of ethnic nationalism, written by two professors (one Greek, one Turk), called Tormented by History. It was sponsored by a peace group, PRIO. To get there, I had to send my name to a website. The event was held at an old hotel (Ledra Palace) that used to be the key meeting place for subversive groups before the U.N. took it over. Now, it’s used often for events. I expected a Hilton Hotel atmosphere even though it's surrounded with fences and rolls of barbed wire. What I found was something quite different. At the side entrance drive, a young military guy was there to let guests in. . .checking his list carefully. . .although he had no idea what he was checking the list for. I said, “I’m here for a book launch.” He said, “No, this is a U.N. event.” He checked the list anyway, and my name was there. He pointed down a side drive. I saw no way to enter the building, but there was a small enclave and a door about halfway to the back of the hotel. It’s a strange place. There is none of its past majesty, except the physical outline of the buildings. Currently, the Ledra Palace houses the U.N. troops who guard the Green Zone and keep us safe. Their personal items hang from the balconies outside; they chatter informally in the hallways; I felt like I was in the boys' locker room in middle school. It is their barracks, their home, so to speak. However, on the first floor there is a community meeting room. I had to guess which door to enter, listening for sounds of a social gathering. There were no signs.

Inside, it was a regular conference room, cookies, coffee, tea, juice before the presentation. After brief moments of social exchange, everyone sat, facing the long head table, complete with microphones. A moderator introduced the three speakers who gave their impressions of the book, Tormented by History. One was Yiannis Papadakis, who wrote the novel, Echoes from the Dead Zone, the book which prepared me for divided Cyprus. Once these three finished, three other speakers (including the two authors) spoke. After that, there were a few question (taken all at once) and the authors made closing remarks. Meeting adjourned. While most of the other guests (or PRIO members, mostly) talked among themselves, I decided to slip out. I only knew two people there, anyway, and one of them an angry man who thinks the solution will never happen. I didn’t want to have that discussion again—especially at that event, where there was a element of hope for change. I exited the way I came. It was dark outside and the gates at the end of the drive were padlocked. Oops! I backtracked and found a guy sitting outside smoking. He said, “Sometimes, we have to go another way, but we have to find the guard first.” He took me to an office where a U.N. soldier was playing games on his laptop. He fumbled around, got his keys, took me to the front gate, unlocked it, and I walked out onto an empty, dark street in the Green Zone (what I call a dead zone within the dead part of the old city). He locked the gate behind me. With nothing but a gentle breeze to keep me company, I walked to my car--about four blocks away, parked along the street by a series of deserted, crumbling buildings. No problem. But, it was so odd. Why are the U.N. troops living behind barbed wire, padlocks and protocol, and yet it's safe for them to send a single woman through the barriers to walk anywhere in Nicosia alone at night? Is the U.N. necessary in Cyprus after 40 years of occupation? Is it just habit? Is it economics? Strange questions, indeed.

The day before, I spent a full day at Eastern Mediterranean University, near the eastern shores of Cyprus. Driving home, as I approached the last checkpoint, I was tired. It’s forty-five minutes one-way, and it had rained, hard. Cypriot drivers are impatient anyway, and slick roads made the travel even more treacherous. Speed limits vary 50-100 km at random points; traffic control cameras are ready to snap infractions; roundabouts are strategically placed to control the traffic flow, so it is a challenge to know what to do when. I drive carefully and am always glad when I know I’m ending the trip. So, when I lined up at the checkpoint, got out with my passport to go to the window to have it stamped, waited in line a bit, returned to my car (in two lanes of autos in the same process), I was eager to merge toward the exit, back to the other side. Suddenly, a white truck cut in front of me. At the same time, a second white truck whizzed by us both. Both had the letters U.N. on the top of the cabs. I watched as these two trucks raced each other down the narrow lane to the final check point exit, slowed to be acknowledged by the Greek Cypriot police, then continued their joy ride into the streets of the city. I was appalled. They acted like teenagers, showing off, gunning the motors, weaving in and out recklessly.

This morning, considering both “events,” I find myself saying, a bit tongue-in-cheek, “Ah, thank you, U.N.; I feel so much safer now in Cyprus.”

Climbing to the Top of the World

The childhood story played in my head as each painful step forward was an excruciating step upward, "I think I can, I think I can, I think. . . ." But, in all honestly, the last phrase was, "I think I'm going to die." I'm not a mountain climber--I'm a flat-land walker. The idea of physically moving my body upwards to a spot 3083 ft. into the clouds was totally beyond my comprehension. Why would I do that? Just to see some castle ruins at Buffavento? Are you kidding me?

And, yet, I climbed. This is what Buffavento Castle looks like in the guidebooks: It is described as "one of three castles of the Kyrenia Range. . .the lofty fortress of the Buffavento is the one that plays hard to get." The guidebook continues, "This majestic castle, whose name means 'buffeted by the winds', perches precariously 940 m above the sea, overlooking the plain of the Mesarya to the south. It dates at least back to 1191 when Richard the Lionheart took it over from the Byzantine emperor Isaak Komninos."

This is what it looked like at the beginning of our climb: Honestly, you can't even see it in the upper left hand corner of the mountain top. From the "main" road, it was a 5 km, 15-minute drive along a dirt track to a small parking area below the base of the cliff. The "walk" up, under normal conditions, is supposed to take 40 minutes. I know my body was functioning under abnormal conditions.

This is what I saw looking down, halfway up: The cliffs were rocky and vegetated. Tiny lizards darted out across the path. Wild flowers clung to nooks and crannies. Pausing to look back at the panoramic scene below, stretching across Nicosia to the Troodos Mountain range beyond, was breath-taking. The air was a bit hazy, like Southern California smog. "It's Egypt dust," Evi my friend, colleague and guide confirmed. I might add at this point that Evi is Austrian and half mountain goat. This climb was a simple jaunt for her. But, she was kind, moved slowly, and was delighted to take photos of my success.

And this is me joyfully greeting the world from the top window of Buffavento Castle:

In one of the roofless castle "rooms," we paused to share a fresh orange and our water. My heart was racing. "I did it!" At first it was just the fact I climbed the mountain. Then, I realized those others who had been before, especially those who had constructed this magnificent structure! What a mighty effort that was, one stone at a time.

Ah, what a journey. Who knows? I might be bungee-jumping from the Pentadaktylos next.

Just kidding, family, just kidding.

What It's All About, Really

This morning I received another welcomed email from my sister-in-law in Illinois. She is a regular reader of my blog and I appreciate that--I need to stay connected to family. But, I was also reminded at how different our views of the world can be. I share the following because I have tried to explain to others (and to myself) the reason I am traveling at this stage in my life. To me, there is so much to learn about our world and the people who inhabit this global space.

She wrote:

Your brother and I have OFTEN said that we have absolutely no
desire to leave this wonderful United States of America.

There is nothing anywhere else that we want to do or
see. We have it all right here on Gentleman Road to
make us happy and content. God Bless the USA!

We do enjoy reading about your adventures!
Love,
J & N

I responded:
Hi all:

I can understand your desire not to leave, and I respect that. But, there's something very positive that occurs in going to other places as well--it's certainly not all negative--toilet paper and traffic. It's comforting to see the human side of the world--that people love their families, worship God in many ways, respect the earth and its beauty. And, it's a real joy to see that traditions mean something to cultures--dance, music, laughter, food, and friends.

I like knowing that everyone doesn't have to look just like me or to be just like me to have real value in this world.

It's not just the travel; it's the people I meet.

Tonight I'm having coffee with Tony Angastiniotis, aka Chief Tony Night Eagle Angastiniotis (Judge for the International Human Rights Tribunal into Genocide in Canada). His is a Greek Cypriot who works at a Turkish Cypriot University (very unusual) and is involved in peace efforts in Cyprus. He works to bring both sides together--starting with the admission that there were murders and mass graves (on both sides) in 1974. He was also part of the effort to expose the atrocities of the Church with Native American children in the residential schools in Canada. He is a Native American (Cherokee) from Canada with mixed ancestry from Cyprus. An interesting history. His website is http://fems.emu.edu.tr/tony/

Today, I'm off for a trip across the northern range of mountains in Cyprus, to visit a monastery, a castle, and a quaint restaurant tucked in the hills. It's a sunny day, 70 degrees. More SEA to SEE and roads to travel.

Love to all,
Nancy

Road Trips

In general, the roads in Cyprus are super. Wide, well marked motorways connect major cities--Paphos, Limessol, Larnaca, Agia Napa, Nicosia, Kyrenia, Famagusta. No problem, once you are able to do everything katywhompus--drive on the left side, remember the left lane is the slow lane, drive prudently over the posted speed limit to prevent tailgaters from blasting their horns, use the lever on the right to signal turns, not the windshield washer. Little things.

The problems occur when one believes the road maps. Friday, my friend Evi and I decided to take in the Rose factory in Agros, then drive to the lace-making villages of Lefkara, and then home. It was a four-hour trip that turned into eight. For our return home, the highway from Lefkara to the motorway looked simple enough, but we missed a turn. Immediately, Evi found the alternate route--a little longer, but truly, she assured me, it would be scenic. The problem was, the road started out paved, moved quickly to gravel, then to dirt, then to deep ruts and pot holes ground down to bare mountain craggy rock. And, it narrowed to one lane, most of which was shared by rock slides on the left and a cavernous drop off--without a barricade--on the right. Still, it was gorgeous. I was most interested in the colors of rock in the cliffs--always seeing the Kodak moment! In the photo to the left, we stopped to take the picture. Fear wasn't part of the experience because it wasn't till I saw the photo last evening that I would admit to myself what I really was driving on--or not on, as the case may be. Even 10 miles of this at 5 mph, it was a road trip for sure!

ΚΑΛΟ ΠAΣΧA !

Greek Orthodox Easter is April 27 in Cyprus. Last week, street decorations sprang up everywhere—huge eggs, rabbits, baskets—even street banners. This enormous ceramic basket with colored eggs sits in the middle of the round-about a few blocks from my apartment. In the background, please note the Papa John’s Pizza. Just like home. ΚΑΛΟ ΠAΣΧA. Happy Easter!

Walking down Ledra street

Recently, a colleague asked me if there were any "old" buildings left in Long Beach, California. How could I answer that? She is from Greece, we are living in Cyprus, and we are near to the birthplace of civilization. How could anything be considered "old" in California?

"Well," I stammered. "My house, a bungalow, was built in 1916."

"Wow," she said, "that is old!"

It's all relative, I suppose. A cathedral built in 1100s A.D., Kourion ruins from 11th-mid 6th century B.C., Aphrodite's birthplace in a cove at the edge of Cyprus and the sea. . .these are all moments recorded in myth and in time.

That sense of historic moment was with me yesterday, as I walked down Ledra street in Old Town Nicosia. Last week, mine fields in the U.N.-manned Green Zone were swept, barriers were torn down which had been erected 44 years ago, new checkpoint guards in Greek Cypriot and Turkish army uniforms were positioned at the representative borders, and the pedestrian crossing at Ledra street was opened, for the first time since the 1960s. The street, the main artery of commerce between the two communities in this divided old city, this divided capital, in this divided land of Cyprus was finally OPEN! All one had to do was wait in line, show a visa or passport, have a page stamped, and then, step into the future.

News agencies around the world proclaimed the opening of the divided capital as though all the facets of "The Cyprus Problem" had been resolved. They have not been. Unification talks are still being organized. In THE CYPRUS WEEKLY on Friday, another news story promised more mingling: The two presidents' wives (Mrs. Christofias of the Republic of Cyprus and Mrs. Talat of the Turkish Cypriot community) reportedly had tea, exchanged gifts (a potted lily for peace for Mrs. C and a traditional piece of delicate, Cypriot lacework from Lefkara for Mrs. T.) They promised, too, to do their part toward unification by facilitating social gatherings between the two communities.

What was the mood on Ledra street yesterday? Festive, I would say. People—families with children, tourists, Cypriots from both sides—walked the promenade, looking into store windows, buying ice cream cones, watching each other. Several balloon men fought with the wind, trying to keep huge metallic shapes and strings untangled. Ledra street was crowded. The checkpoint, however, still was ominous. Military uniforms in brown and blue were present. Guns were not hidden.

Interestingly, many pedestrians just walked to the border’s edge, stared at the "other" side, and turned back toward home, without crossing. Another day, perhaps. Another day, when “The Cyprus Problem” is solved and its resolution is simply, history.

İsmet Tatar, Artist

I was fortunate, indeed, to be invited into the life and art world of İsmet Tatar, Kyrenia, Cyprus. In a brief afternoon, I was profoundly touched by both the woman and her work. The reflections below are only a beginning of what I would like to know, to see, to feel about her ability to move life’s emotions into image.

That day, after an introduction to the numerous “series” she has already exhibited, Ismet explained her current work, which includes making her own paint colors and the paper for her news constructs.

First, the colors. Ismet has created and uses in her work forty-one different paint colors. All come from natural elements in Cyprus: rocks, shells, sand, earth, stone, and bark. She identifies the material, pulverizes bits of it, mixes it into paint, and uses it to bring the land, literally, into her art.

Next, the paper. Huge tubs of wire, with a liquid, white paper-maché-like mixture, bits of color and objects, drying racks, and butcher-paper, model forms cover most of the expanse of her airy studio. In process are additional works in her “paper” series. The largest, finished construction in her studio is a horizontal, three-dimensional collage of colored rolls of handmade paper tied with string, mounted side by side. Attached also by string to the bottom of each roll are pieces of old land deeds and parts of architectural drawings—both proof of property ownership. Even in the stillness of the studio, they seem to move in the wind. The official documents—deeds and drawings rent apart—symbolize the divided Cyprus and the loss of property experienced in 1974. To someone to whom the land is life itself, this ripping away from family homesteads, from ownership and the “land of my family” brings unending anguish and frustration—how can that loss be resolved? Her work inspired my own, in the poem below:

Artist’s Rendering April 4, 2008

Bits of string flutter in the breeze
Attached, torn remnants--titles, deeds
And architect’s dreams--
Move furtively
No rest, no resolution in the art.
Memories, too
Are buffeted by gusts and storms
And homes, once theirs, are lost
Refuge in a new land but not the same
Earth of many colors form the images
Giving shape to claims, dispute, and rights--
Hard copy for the bitter dream gone wrong.


Another painting in Ismet’s villa that moved me was Four Faces. It is a large oil painting, hanging above an antique wooden chest in her home. It is a portrait of four women from her village. It is almost haunting in its intensity, its reflection of these women, real women İsmet has known. Each has her own story—of grief, of despair, of madness, perhaps—but, too, of life as it is and will be—endured.

Vanity, Thy Name Is. . .Redux

It was bound to happen--something so major, so disastrous, such a reflection on me personally that I would feel a general ill will toward someone, if not the entire country. I have tried so hard to be the good tourist, the gentle ambassador, and now I want to pull my hair out by its roots—literally.

To be truthful, it all started with a really bad hair day. I thought I needed to have my hair cut, shaped—after two and a half months in Cyprus. Yes, I’m particular about my hair. I especially have two phobias—the dreaded “hair helmet” and over-peroxided, yellow hair. So, I conferred with everyone I know here and selected only the best salon in Nicosia. I booked with “the” person for flattering cuts. And then it happened. “Do you want highlights?” the receptionist asked. “Why not?” I thought. My blondish hair already stands out in this land of brunettes. A little lift couldn’t hurt.

I know, you’re ahead of me on this one, too. The colorist did a meticulous job, weaving bits to color, layering the foil just so. One hour later—voila! I looked in the mirror and did not recognize myself. Who was this red-faced person with canary yellow straw for hair? It was worse than a wig—it was really mine! Choking back hysteria, I said calmly, “I’ve never seen my hair so. . .so. . .blonde before. . .and it’s still wet!” The colorist, too, was shocked, but tried to pacify me. “Wait till it’s cut and blown dry,” she said, and rushed away to hide in the back room.

Ohmygosh. I sat in the chair while the stylist sliced and chopped, and hay-mowed my hair. A quick cut, dry, and finishing spray. She, the owner, hoped to whisk me out of the shop before I exploded. The rest of those moments are a blur. I know I said, “Thank you, but it is so. . .so. . .blonde!” The shop owner conferred with the colorist, “Is there anything you can do to make it right?” The colorist was befuddled. “I don’t want to ruin the highlights,” she said of her work. (“What highlights?” I shouted to myself. “My head is yellow platinum with whiter platinum streaks!”) But, to them, I was just babbling, once again, “I’ve never seen my hair so. . .so. . .blonde before!”

They offered to “work on it” and try something to give it a little more color back. (“Something basic, like a full and radical scalp transplant might work,” I thought.) The colorist said, “How soon could you come back in?” I looked at her, incredulous. “I don’t want to leave. I thought perhaps I could spend the night." She thought I was kidding. I simply couldn't envision myself out in public.

We agreed that I would come in the next day at 3:00. In the meantime, I had to go to the University (where one of my colleagues honestly failed to recognize me in the hall. “I had no idea that was you, Nancy,” she said). Worse, I had to teach my class. Cypriot students are so polite. Their eyes widened when they took in the yellow glow atop my head, but they didn’t say anything. No one shouted, “Dr. Sheley, what the hell happened?” But, I’m sure that was the collective question hovering in the air.

Oh, did I mention the bill? For this fiasco, a color, cut, style, and blow dry, Subtotal: 164 euros, 30 euro tip. Total: 194 euros. At today’s exchange, that’s food for a month. That’s a flight to and from London. That’s four tanks of petrol. In American dollars, it’s way too close to $300 to matter. Three hundred dollars??? Three hundred dollars??? And, it’s both a hair helmet and yellow straw!


When I turned off the lights and went to bed last night, I could still see my hair reflecting in the window glass. Reflecting is a calm word. The hair was radio-active. This afternoon, I’m returning to the shop. Hopefully, tomorrow brings a New Dawn. Or is that L’Oreal? At least, this time, I’m ready. I have a brown bag, with eye slits, in my purse.

Vanity, thy name is. . . .

For those of you who have wondered what effect this six-month "assignment" in Cyprus has had on me, I offer you this self-portrait, taken today in my home office. I was experimenting with my webcam and was surprised at the results. Yes, I'm happy. Yes, I'm tan. Yes, my hair is longer. And, I feel good.

Expectations and Realities of Israel

My seven-day side trip to Israel, March 24-31, was such an interesting experience, so different from what I expected. I thought Ben-Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv would be heavily armored and our midnight arrival scrutinized. It wasn’t. We passed through security, barely noticed. I thought Jerusalem would be dirt roads and camels, but it was very progressive—right down to the King David Construction company and the Sixt Schlomo rental car (Israel’s version of Thrifty), just like home. I thought Bethlehem would be a religiously peaceful village, but it was militarily walled and anxious. I thought driving to Nazareth would be scary; yet, it was like driving through rural California and Iowa combined. I thought the Nof Genosar kibbutz would be basic camp; instead, it was a lovely resort. I thought Akko would be the most “Westernized” beach resort. It was the most orthodox, controlled, intimidating, and isolating place we visited.

However, Akko, too, had its moments of fun, especially when we enjoyed watching a photographer arrange the scene with three kids, a parrot, and a boa constrictor! In general, Americans are outnumbered by German tourists and all are outnumbered by travelers with ever-expanding families of 2-3-4 children under five. In Israel, no matter what religion, raising a family is most important, and the love and commitment were always evident.

Still, although I expected to feel religiously moved by a visit to Israel, it had almost the same effect on me as Reverend Schuler’s ministry at the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove: I was impressed by the structures and the messages, but felt detached somehow. Perhaps, in Israel, I was disconnected because I was neither Jewish, Greek Orthodox, Roman Catholic, Armenian, nor Muslim. It was wonderful to be in the land where three religions began, and I value that. But, for a religious pilgrimage, I will always return to Mt. Carmel Methodist Church in Marshall County, Kentucky, to the small wooden church my great-great grandfather built and where my ancestors are buried. That is the religious center of my universe, although Israel holds its creation.

Another observation: Israel knows how to build fences—from the steel battleship wall around Bethlehem to the chain-link grill and barbed wire around the sea side resort at Akko, everything is marked and divided by barriers. Signs, not always in English, are stumbling blocks. A lack of directions is often unwelcoming. Barricades and roundabouts are deterrents to free-flowing traffic. Security guards everywhere, always with guns, are a reminder of ever-present violence simmering under the surface. Even in the market today in Akko, I saw a five or six-year-old boy, eying the candied treats, with his toy rifle on a strap, slung over his shoulder, looking just like his young adult male mentors who stroll about in public, nonchalantly, loaded with lead.

How Great Thou Art

Sitting in a white plastic beach chair on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, I watch a busload of tourists straggle down a long, rusty pier onto a boat that looks like an armored vehicle from Apocalypse Now. As they pull away from the shore, the recorded music begins. “Ohmygod,” I say to Justine. “They are playing the “Star Spangled Banner!” Sure enough, on the bow pole, the Stars and Stripes flutters in the holy breeze. “How bizarre,” we say simultaneously. She records the scene and the music on her video phone. I shake my head, almost embarrassed to witness this capitulation to the U.S. dollar. Perhaps, others see it as a welcoming gesture, but to me, it seemed colonizing to have the U.S. claiming its place on this space, this ancient sea.

We watch other rickety “cruise” ships dock, de-board, and reload. The parking lot at Nof Genosar is a tourist haven; huge busses come to Sea of Galilee and tourists from all points of the globe take a fifteen minute tour to soak up sun and sea and soul’s blessings.

Nof Genosar behind us is the kibbutz where we have spent the night. Its beach area is next to the dock. Several Jewish families have gathered, kids playing in the clear, shallow waters, fathers chasing after toddlers on the rocky sand, women chattering in clusters, all enjoying the sun. It is a peaceful place—despite the busses and boats which come and go.

Another cruise boat motors away from the dock; another song begins. This time, “How Great Thou Art” wafts across the waters, a tribute, perhaps, to Christian pilgrims aboard. My memory flashes back to the day before, in the walled city of Bethlehem. I was standing under the dome of the beautiful Church of the Shepherds when a Christian group, mixed African and Portuguese, entered and spontaneously began to sing "How Great Thou Art," same tune, different words: Então minha alma canta Ti, Senhor: Quão grande es tu! That was a holy moment. My response then, as now, was to hum, “Surely, the presence of the Lord is in this place,” the hymn that often closes worship in many Methodist churches I’ve attended over the years.

That reflective mood is momentary. As one of the ships returns to dock, its speakers are blaring a rock tune. The young captain has done his job, and his musical choices for 2008 reverberate across the waves.

Awestruck in Israel

As I stood with my feet cooling in the shallow waters at the shore of the Sea of Galilee, last Wednesday, I was awestruck. Jesus was here, right here, calling to fishermen to be his disciples. This is the water on which he walked. This is the land where he was born. Israel. I was in Israel. Amazing.

For the last seven days, I toured the country with my art historian Fulbright friend, Justine—Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Akko, Haifa, and points in between, like the castle ruins at Belvoir and Kibbutz Nof Genosar. I have seen divided cities, security guards, check points, barbed wire, barricades, and chain link fences. I have also seen verdant valleys filled with fruit trees, olives, figs, and oranges--the desert, too, and rolling hills, the sea and the dry plains.

Justine’s purpose for the trip was to study Crusader architecture; I wanted to see first hand the divided communities and how Christians, Arabs, Muslims, Jews, Palestinians, and others live and work together; how they isolate their communities or how they blend the divisions between cultures.

Israel is a country of contradictions—modern and ancient cities meld into one; Muslims and Christians, Arabs and Palestinians, Jews and Armenians, Greek Orthodox and Anglican--churches, synagogues and mosques. There is poverty in Israel and incredible wealth. Parked by the roadside stores are camels and BMWs. Our taxi from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem at midnight careened up and down hills at top speed, with songs like “Besame Mucho” and “The Great Pretender” blaring from the cd player on the dash.

On the first full day in Jerusalem, we went to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, walked the twelve stations of the cross down Via Dolorosa, saw the Wailing Wall, visited St. Anne’s Church, garden, and ruins, got lost in the alleys of the underground market place by taking several wrong turns--several times, saw a woman in a berka and a man in a Palestinian head cover, and bumped into any number of other tourists—Americans, Germans, Nigerians, Australians, and Jewish pilgrims from across the globe.

Fashion, Folk Dancing, Friends

On Saturday, I drove to Girne/Kyrenia to join Gul and her mother at a fashion show for charity. What a treat! Held at the Dome, one of the beautiful seaside hotels, the show was sponsored by the Girne InnerWheel Kulubu, similar to the Assistance League or Junior League in the States. Featured were treasures from family wardrobes, women's clothing heirlooms from weddings, boudoir, and special occasions. Most of the clothing was worn by the granddaughters of the original owners--or perhaps the great-great granddaughters, as the first embroidered dress was from 1895. After the show, a group in costumes performed traditional Turkish Cypriot folk dances. Highlights were the water glass maneuvers. I was impressed when the young men did acrobatics with one glass of water on their heads. When the numbers kept mounting and one fearless guy waltzed around with five cups teetering, we were all amazed.

The air was clear in Kyrenia on Saturday. I stood, marveling at the sites, standing on the vast patio of the hotel, with the swimming pool glimmering in the bright sunshine. Across the sea we could see the stretched out shadow of Turkey, 40 miles away, tucked under the clouds. On one side of the hotel, the Saturday afternoon crowds gathered at restaurants and coffee shops or paraded down the narrow street in their automobiles, a ritual drive-by everywhere, it seems. However, next to the hotel on prime beach front property was the "military land" where the Turkish army is headquartered. Again, it was an ever-present reminder that fantasy and reality live side-by-side in Cyprus.

From Green Monday to Poke Salet Greens

Green Monday for Greek Cypriots is a happy day, one where families “go into the fields” (parks, mountains, back yards, beaches) to picnic. I was invited by my landlord to share the day with her family at their vacation home. It was a pleasurable event. A feast of fruits and vegetables, in Cyprus, is not a limited affair—our table in Protaras, by the sea, was bountiful, and the supply of food seemed never-ending. No meats or dairy products were served, as Green Monday begins the fifty-day fasting season for Greek Orthodox Easter. It was explained to me that the day is called “Green Monday” because of the vegetables (greens) we would eat and the idea of being out in the “greens fields” to do so. But, the original Greek term is also translated as “Clean Monday.”

Green/Clean Monday, in a religious sense, is a day to purify one’s mind, body, and spirit. In today’s terms, it would be “to rid one’s self of toxins” that destroy good health—physical, mental, emotional—and yes, spiritual as well. When you feel good, everything about the world is a little better, a little brighter, a little more connected to the spirit.

As I thought about the rites of spring, about new growth, new opportunity,--sort of a “do over” every year--I had a flashback to a conversation I had last summer with one of the best cooks I know, my cousin Pam.

And, here (you were waiting?) is the connection between Cyprus Greens and Poke Salet, Sallit, Salad Greens.

In spring, in my ancestral home of western Kentucky, the new fresh shoots of poke (or polk) weed are a useful delicacy. Pam, who has lived there all her life, recalls her childhood saying, “Mother used to always cook up a mess of poke greens for us; it was a spring ritual; it cleaned out the body, so to speak.” Even today, my cousin adheres to the tradition, noting the poke grows wild in the woods. “You find polk around where land has been cleared the year before, especially around dozer piles of brush. It is good eating. I always wash mine several times, blanche it, pour off that water, then add more plus salt, a little sugar and good ole bacon grease. That's the southern way to cook them.” (Of course, I have to add, any vegetable is a little bit better with bacon grease and sugar. . .but that wouldn’t work for Cypriot Green Monday!)

Perhaps upon reflection, the religious connection here is missing between the traditions of Kentucky and Cyprus, but there certainly is a comparison to be made about eating what nature provides and living a good life.

Of course, I couldn’t leave the concept alone, so I headed to the internet and read recipes for cooking poke greens--and the warnings. It seems that poke weed and polk greens (one in the same) can be seriously toxic—especially the roots and the older plants that have gone to seed—and suddenly I was thinking of the film, Into the Wild. However, on the positive side, internet sites also refer to the healing powers of polk. Native Americans used poke weed to make a salve to treat boils and other skin problems, and to ease the pain of rheumatism. Today, bloggers comment that it’s a natural way to cleanse the body—best in spring when the plants are fresh and new. Many sites offer recipes, much like that of my cousin. And, for those who have trouble wandering in the wilderness looking for non-toxic plants, one website takes orders for poke greens, canned as "Poke Salet": http://www.wildpantry.com/wildgreens.htm
Bon appetite!

Lemesos, Traditional Street Singing, Family Moments

My friends and I went to Lemesos/Limessol on Saturday--about 75 minutes away--to hear the Street Singers perform last night for the last days of Carnivale. Groups of men (sometimes with women) troubadors (about 15-20 per group) in costume and with instruments, stroll down a parade route in Old Towne, singing traditional Cypriot folk songs. Families line the sides of the street, throw confetti, and cheer as the groups walk by. Sometimes, they fold in behind their favorite group as all move toward the public square. Kids (and some adults) are dressed in (Halloween) costumes. The Old Towne is decorated, even the municipal buildings join in the festivities! It was a very pleasant, fun evening. The weather was wonderful--70 ish. We ate dinner outside, drank Cypriot wine, laughed. It was a lovely day and evening.

Tomorrow is Green Monday and everyone following Greek Cypriot traditions "goes into the fields" for picnics of fruits and vegetables, juices, water, and wine (no meat or dairy products) in preparation for the Greek Orthodox Lenten season. My landlords have invited me to their beach house in Protaras. It is supposed to be beautiful there. We will have our "fields" meal at the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. How cool is that?

Ruins, Crannies, and Flying Nuts

On a return trip to Famagusta this week, I photographed churches, ruins, walls, and castles from many angles. It is spring here, and the flowers have taken root everywhere, even in the nooks and crannies of ancient history. Tennyson was with me with this image.

Flower, in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies.
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand.
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.



On another note, I am constantly aware of contradictions, the old and the new, the expected and the unexpected. Next to one of the ancient church structures is a new sign: "de Molay Café and Bar." The picture I captured of the sign on the church actually contains more contrast than you may be able to see. At the bottom are new concrete construction blocks and a large yellow dumpster. The narrow lane in front was being resurfaced with blacktop. In the distance, on the back balcony of a second story apartment, an older woman was hanging out clothes to dry in the sun, under the shadow of the satellite dish.


Last evening, I was a guest at one of the best fish restaurants in Nicosia. We had the seafood meze, a table full of food that never stopped. It was exquisite: squid, calamari, fresh anchovies, mussels, sardines, baby octopi, sea bass (of sorts) and other dishes I couldn’t identify. Of course, it was all accompanied by yogurt and cucumbers, humus, fried potatoes, salad, bread, and more. We ate for two and a half hours and talked for two hours more. My dining partner, a faculty member at the University of Cyprus, is a native of Greece who spent much of her childhood in the U.S. She is now back at UCY as a professor of literature. What I didn’t know about her is that her sense of humor matches mine. What happened at dessert was one of the most hilarious moments I’ve had in life. I call it, “Karidaki, the Flying Walnut.”

Glyko Karidaki is a special dessert, a “boiled sweet,” they say. Immature walnuts, complete with their outer shell are picked early and processed in a mixture, unknown to me, cooked, and served in a tasty syrup on a little dish. When the glyko karidaki arrived at the table, it looked like an enormous black olive in a spoonful of dark oil.

Still, my colleague anticipated its delightful taste and couldn’t wait to share it with me. Taking a fork and knife, she prepared to cut it open. The nut, however, (you know what's coming) refused to crack. In fact, the knife couldn’t penetrate the shell. Evy was puzzled. “It’s supposed to be softer,” she said and returned to its dissection. I watched the dish sliding a bit, to and fro, and the karidaki resisting all efforts. I sat mutely, thinking, “I hope that thing doesn’t slide off its plate and soil the white linen cloth.”

Not to worry. It didn’t do that. Instead, it launched itself into the air, with a dark stream of syrup trailing in its path. It ricocheted off Evy’s shoulder, pirouetted across the walk space, bounced under the table behind us, and came to rest at the feet of the four men, who never knew a thing. Evy looked at me. I looked at Evy. She arched an eyebrow. And, I lost it! I have never been so convulsed in a public place before. I simply could not stop the giggles. Then, afraid I had insulted my host, I looked at her through watery eyes and chortles. She was there, head turned, smothering her laughter behind her napkin. We couldn’t stop. She kept turning to look at karidaki (he had become a friend now, hiding under the table). The men thought we were rude, probably. And, then, the fits would begin again. I had to excuse myself, stumble red-faced into the W.C., hoping I’d chosen the right one in my haze of hysteria. I recovered, wiped the mascara off my face, returned to the table, only to start again.

I'm still chuckling as I write this. It was an historical moment. I will forever remember Cyprus, where even the walnuts bring joy.

Fear

It's a different mood today--reflective, vulnerable, fearful. My house in California was broken into while I am here, safe, in Cyprus. What feelings of helplessness that news brings. I can do nothing. And, yet my land, my possession, my other life has been maliciously intruded upon--changed forever. And, it can happen again and again. Random acts of violence, perpetrators with no sense of humanity, no shame.

In the larger scheme of things, this is only one small incident for the records of the Long Beach police; nothing of worth was taken. On a world scale, it is nothing, compared to loss of lives in war, displacement by earthquakes or tsunamis, years of political turmoil and indecision.

Yesterday, before this news, I had written a piece on Cyprus, trying to sort out the conflicting views I have heard from Cypriots on both sides of the Green Zone and from the histories I've read about the "Cyprus Problem." The issues here are complex, deeply rooted. I hesitate to share that essay publicly, as I do not want to offend any of my newly found friends, in case my interpretations seem erroneous, misguided, misstated, or biased, one way or the other. I am only one person, listening, reading, interpreting. It is impossible for me to know the "truth" about Cyprus. But, as a human being, I am constantly asking, "Why can the problem not be solved? What does it mean for the future?" There are no easy answers.

Today, after my news from home, I am angry. But I am also vulnerable, anxious, and fearful about the future. What can be done to guarantee that the past criminal actions won't happen again?

I have only lived with this feeling for a few hours.

Cypriots have lived with it for lifetimes.

Same As, Different Than

View from the Church of Saints Peter and Paul to the Sea

Yesterday was a study in contrasts. I drove from Nicosia/Lefkosha through the checkpoint on the Green Zone into the northern portion of Cyprus (the occupied, unrecognized territory--OR the TRNC, The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, depending upon who is labeling the area).

As I drove the motorway, I saw flatlands that reminded me of Illinois fields and the verdant Valley of California. Mountains off in the distance had crags like the Catskills in New York. The climate was Southern California, the scarcity of traffic like western Kansas. The checkpoint, however, with its concrete blockades, the barbed wire, the bureaucracy twice over-- where I had to get out of the car, show my passport, be registered for the day, show the Turkish insurance (not the Greek policy) that I have on the car, and where I was even more unknowing of the language--was not just disconcerting, but a reminder of how truly divided Cyprus is.

My visit to Eastern Mediterranean University or DAU (Dogu Akdeniz Universitesi) on the last day before classes are to begin was so familiar-feeling. The Facilities Office had decided to put new carpet down in the administrative offices of the Department Chairs and Staff—so everything was upended as last-minute students were panicking to register, faculty (like me) were demanding the details of their course assignments, and typical glitches were occurring in all procedures. My chair, Dr. Mehmet Erginel was gracious through all. The whole experience reminded me of my first trip to Fullerton College in the 80s—lots of apprehension about the freeways to get there, confusion about parking lots and buildings, and a positive reception as a “new” faculty person from all --welcome aboard!

My art history Fulbright friend Justine who traveled with me yesterday and I, along with her colleague, the chair of the Art History Department, Michael Walsch from Ireland, took a tour of old Famagusta/Gamagusta. We had access (thanks to keys Michael picked up at the Mayor’s Office) to a gothic church (not really called a cathedral), built in the mid-1300s. What an experience. Although the inside had been stripped (once converted to a mosque), the empty sanctuary devoid of any ornamentation was still flooded with holy light from the open windows. We climbed the narrow circular steps to the top level and walked out for a view of city--and another church in the distance, the sea (see photo), and the incredible layers of history of the Old City with its almost intact Venetian walls and the ghost city of Varosha (left as it was, deserted in the 1970s and inaccessible now, aged—but not changed—in over thirty years) still haunting the cityscape.

On our return to Nicosia, I was stopped by the Turkish police, flagged down on the motorway, actually. Nervous, I knew I had not been speeding, but had no clue why I had to stop. The policeman, who spoke no English except “driver’s license” checked my California card. He hesitated. Then handed it back with a wave of his hand. Justine said she thought he asked me if I were Swedish. I’ve been mistaken for German and for Dutch so far. All I know, I was glad I passed the test of privilege to drive!

Last evening, I attended the Cyprus Symphony Orchestra concert at the grand hall in Strovolos (Nicosia). The program was early Romantics: Mendelssohn’s Die Schone Melusin Overture, Op.32 and Violin Concerto, Op.64 in E minor, and Carl Von Weber, Symphony 1. My reaction to classical music, live, is always the same—my eyes well up and I sigh deeply, deeply, somewhere into the first movement. Filled with joy at the beauty of composition and performance, I am moved by the universal language of violins, oboes, tympanis, cellos, flutes, and brass. Quite different than most concerts I’ve attended, however, was the fact that this one concert also featured one of Nicosia’s own young composers (born in 1983), Andrias Skordis, and premiered his “Piece for Orchestra.” The symphony conductor (who wore elegant, gray long tails (with the jacket and tails lined in shocking pink) announced to the audience in English that the piece was a “challenge to play and a challenge to listen to.” He then asked the young composer (in jeans and a t-shirt) to explain what he was thinking when he wrote the piece. He did, but he did so in Greek. All I can say is that the music was nothing like Mendelssohn. And, how fortunate for this young man to be listed with the others on the program! I was impressed as well, that the community is so supportive of its own talent.

Tomorrow is the “Fancy Dress Party” with friends at an apartment in Town Centre Nicosia. I thought the invitation meant cocktail clothes, but no—it’s not the same. . .I’m headed to a Carnivale Costume Party. Do I dare post a picture of THAT?

Thelma and Louise

My office mate Evi and I took another road trip in Cyprus today. Less than two hours and we were at the southwestern end of the island, near Limmasol, at Kourion. We saw ruins—including Achilles’ House, the House of the Gladiators, the House of Eustolios, a Roman Agora and Public Baths, and an early Christian Episcopal Basilica built upon the then ruins of the Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods. Corinthian columns remained intact; walls, floors, and partial mosaics were evident in the restored areas. Most impressive, the open amphitheater there (facing the ocean--incredible views) is still used in summer for theatre productions. We were free to step among remains of structures that were at least 325-350 B.C. and imagine the events that took place on that windswept cliff overlooking a 180 degree panorama of the Mediterranean Sea. Above the top walls of the Kourion theatre were pipe structures with holes in them, situated so the wind played them like a flute--all the notes, oddly humming across the space--a haunting refrain of antiquity.

We had dinner (lunch) at the edge of the sea in a restaurant that would put to shame those at Malibu Beach. The prices were a lot less; food was fresher, and the local white wine, clear and crisp. Evi ate a little octopus; I opted for something more ordinary—a local version of fish and chips, followed by a tiny cup of Cyprus coffee (always served with a glass of water).

Coming back to Nicosia/Lefkosia, Evi (with the map) decided to take the back roads. We drove along the sea, past olive groves, a tree-lined lane, fields of wildflowers, fresh strawberries for sale at roadside stands, and breath-taking glimpses of the turquoise water, light blue, cloud-puffed sky, and brilliant, bright light from the sun.

Suddenly, we ran smack into a guard gate—a British army base—and were met by roadblocks and a machine-gunned guard. He asked us if we had car passes. Of course, we didn't, so we had to turn around. Rather than go back to Kourion, Evi found another road by the inland Salt Lake. It was a dirt rutted, pot-holed road at first (and it rained today). That was bad enough. Then it turned into a solid mud flat (much like the sand places in California where they test drive cars--no lines, no borders, and no directions--just a straight shot across an empty space.) All was going fine until I saw deep ruts in the mud ahead. OK for a 4-wheel drive--rather spicy in my Honda. We eventually made it across, sliding around more than a bit. Only then, could I exhale.

Other moments made today another in a series of never-forgets. When we returned from our two hour perusal of the ruins, I discovered the car key had fallen out of my pocket. How could we retrace our steps to find it? Surely, it must have happened at one of the forty-five photo ops when I hurriedly pulled the camera out of my jacket pocket. Surely, we could find it among the rocks and ruins. Surely, this didn’t really happen! Fortunately, before beginning a futile search, I asked an attendant. Sure enough, my key was there in his office—along with two other complete sets of lost keys found today! Must be a common occurrence.

More pleasant memories include a photo op of pelicans on an inland pond, our successful maintaining of speed posted at 100 on the motorway (that’s “kilometers” not “miles”), and seeing a double rainbow over the meadowland just before sunset. Ah, what memories we are collecting, day by day, moment by moment, road by road.

Waking Up from the Dreams

In the empty echoes of the night, I awaken. Was it a dream? An unexplained clink in the oil heater? The loneliness of too much space for me to breathe? Why am I awake in Cyprus in the dark, pre-dawn?

Then, I hear it—so far in the distance—the morning call to worship from the Muslim mosque, drifting to Engomi from Town Centre in the ‘north,” the other side of the Green Zone.

The voice of the imam drones the prayer and another responds; faint voices blend into the stillness across Nicosia. I am amazed. I’m living in the Greek Cypriot side of the island, the Greek Orthodox side, and yet, I am so close to the other that I can reach out and touch the sound—and, I can be moved by the promise of peace offered by public prayer.

I open my window and lean out into the chilled air, straining to hear the phrases, wanting more of the connection. My mind wanders to Rwanda, where our hotel in Kigali was next to a mosque’s loudspeakers which thundered into our rooms at five a.m., more of a physical shock than a spiritual blessing. This is different. This morning call is patient, persistent, calming, a gentle reminder that possibility floats easily across this divided island. If tolerance and understanding of others’ beliefs can exist—can be voiced and heard—then conflicting cultures can co-exist. Oh, that it would be that simple—a voice across the villages in early morning hours, asking us all to wake up and praise our God—and to hold each other close.

Life with Subtitles

I am ready for a universal, world language--it doesn't have to be English. I would struggle to learn anything--once. I'm not sure it should be Greek, however. Greek is difficult to master; the pronunciation of some sounds seems to be impossible for my tongue. Or, perhaps my brain has just been patterned too deeply. I have two lovely girls in my class. Both are named Georgia. Of course, those of us from the States know Atlanta, and we know how to say the state name. But here, it's Yee-or-yee-ah. Even knowing the word (its sound and its meaning) doesn't make it familiar when it appears on a class roll. Billboards and road signs, too, are mysteries of their own. Years ago, I learned the Greek alphabet (mispronouncing the names of the letters, of course). No one mentioned there were little letters that looked nothing like the big ones.

And television. I listen carefully to all conversations. So far, I've picked up "endoxie" (O.K.) and signomi (excuse me). The only thing I understand, mostly, are the commercials. Desperate Housewife Eva eating a chocolate was pretty obvious; it wasn't about headache remedies. I've watched a few English movies with subtitles. . .I listen for the dialogue and at the same time, I'm confused by the Greek letters in the subtitles. By that time, the action has moved on, with me still hanging on to a figment of ideas.

Perhaps, I need subtitles to keep my life in order. I could put one on my car's back bumper: Careful, driver signals turns with windshield wipers. Or, tatoo a phrase on my forehead: I'm American, but it's no excuse.

In time, things will fall into place. I'm going to learn numbers next. Then, I won't have to hand everyone a 20 euro bill everytime I purchase something, knowing I will get the correct change. People here are kind and helpful. And fair. But, my paying for a 50 cent paper every day with a 20 euro bill is really getting old to the woman in the news stand. Maybe the sticker for that would be: Make my day; make my change in two-cent pieces!