6four1-blog - Tumblr blog

6four1-blog · 7 years ago

Text

June 29th, 2017 (Kavousi, Crete, Greece)

When I resurfaced, my hands were treading through the turquoise waters of Agriomantra. I felt like a video game character whose eyelids were just opened, with only his hands and beach ahead of him. I saw five boats parked on the shore and nearly thirty people under the large olive tree. Even from out here, I could smell the scent of the aromatic oregano and the mouthwatering lamb that seemed to ebb and flow out towards the sea like the very waves themselves. In the periphery of my vision, I caught a glance of the young children attempting to climb the sheer, orange cliffs. They were climbing up the rock precipice that I had been on just a few moments ago, nearly twenty-five feet above sea level. The stones were jagged and sharp, unbothered by human use and wear. As I scanned the small bay, I realized it was encircled by a large rock protrusion that protected the little beach from the rough waves of the Aegean. The tiny rock peninsula reached out towards the west in the direction of Pachia Ammos and Agios Nikolaos, almost like the welcoming arms of St. Peter’s. This arm calmed the furious waves so that we could swim in the exotic waters and explore the dreamy cliffs. I could hear David yelling at James to stop being a μαλακα and to jump the cliff. I could hear Britney and Marissa giggling about some joke that seemed to fade into the gale, as every sound naturally did in Agriomantra. My vision paused as I found a narrow gap in the rocky extension. There was a cold gust that flowed through that crevice, inviting me as if Boreas, the Anemoi of the north wind, was whispering “ελα, Paul, ελα.” I subconsciously began swimming towards it, as Odysseus’ men must have when they heard the beautiful songs of Aglaope. Starting with David, my friends started following me as if we all found the same allure in the same chilly wind.

We approached the tunnel slowly like ships in the Bermuda triangle, incessantly afraid of the unseen projections below that could end our dig season in an instant. We climbed into the cave-like passage on all fours like Golum in Lord of the Rings, careful to watch for not only rocks but also sea urchins. The ledges were unembellished and sharp, utterly merciless towards mere mortals like us. Climbing through that cave either made you appreciate your life or ended it. Despite knowing that the rocks were slippery and each step may have been my last, something told me to continue, to see just a little more, and to dare to be more adventurous that I have ever been before. We were now facing north in this narrow strip of water. The landscape that surrounded us was like that of a miniature Argolid, as if we were perfectly nestled on the tapered cavity of a snake’s tongue. Out in the distance, we could see the island of Pseira and a few boats wayfaring the waters like lost nomads. But beyond the island and the vessels, there was nothing but vast ocean as far as the horizon could extend. Unlike Agriomantra, the waters here were a dark navy, glimmering with a depth and ferocity that pervaded your heart and stopped it for a second, making you question whether you could ever leave if you plunged into its abyss.

I jumped. Of course I did. I took a large gulp of the sea water on my way up, which was repulsively saline but enchantingly feral. Even after more than ten years of competitive swimming in my childhood and adolescence, I was not ready to conquer these waves without modern machinery. The cliffs towered over me and the waves thrashed me around like a rag doll. Bobbing up and down in this open cavern, surrounded by baleful scarps, reminded me how small I was in this big, magnificent world. The inaccessibility of this location is what kept it beautiful, looking the same as it would have been if Theseus took a detour to Eastern Crete thousands of years ago. It is inherently tragic that the beauty of a place, like Agriomantra, is its own curse. These Mediterranean gems invite us, human beings hopelessly obsessed with their grace, to explore them, to trample them, and to ruin them. Luckily, the village of Kavousi seems to have kept Agriomantra on the down-low, passing it on generation after generation like a village heirloom. I have never been to the fabled Santorini, but I think I can confidently say that I had a breathtaking and authentic experience that would have put the touristy island to shame.

I found my way back through the cave into the calm company of Agriomantra and started swimming back towards the beach. I watched each stroke as my arm slid into the crystal-clear water, again and again. The gentle waves were like Poseidon’s nudges of encouragement and the alternating warm and frosty currents were like physical manifestations of his wisdom, advising me that, no matter the hot or cold times, I should never take this beach, these friends, or this experience for granted.

As I approached the shoreline, I could see Katis in the distance feasting from a large glass bowl. Through the translucent stained-glass, one could easily see the red and green hazes and tell that it was a ginormous Greek salad. After I got out and dried myself, I scrambled away from the beach into the gorge looking for some relief. I found a small rock protrusion that offered me privacy from the beach party, but the goats swarmed the sides of the cliffs like archers around a battlefield. That day, I proceeded to #1 in front of nearly 20 goats on both sides watching me unwavering interest. It was a first, and I hope it is also the last. Shortly afterwards, I observed that the welcoming arms of Agriomantra could easily be climbed by scaling some rocks further inland. The cliffs were steep but I felt like I could finesse my way around some sharp corners, especially since I was now wearing my Adidas Ultraboosts. Here in Greece where most activities take place outdoors, I have felt a strong disposition for climbing natural scenery. By climbing these rocks, I was able to take a picture of Agriomantra from a bird’s eye point of view, the stereotypical beach picture which I am sure my friends and family would enjoy. As I turned around to face north, I faced the vast, deep navy, and windy Aegean. I sat on a rock and got completely lost in my thoughts as the wind inundated my face, wondering if Aegeus ever shared the same dumbfounded wonderment thousands of years ago when he waited for Theseus to return home from Crete.

In the middle of this week after a hot work day, I was hanging out with David in his room since Weston and I don’t have functional air conditioning. Just from my experiences and observations, the winds in North Eastern Crete seem to come from the north during the day and from the south at night. It’s an interesting phenomenon that I probably would never have noticed if not for our shitty air conditioner. So, before we sleep, we have to step outside to survey the wind and temperature, then specifically select certain windows to open for the night.

David proceeded to ask whether I would be down to sleep on Azoria for the night. With my current air conditioning crisis, I approved without hesitation. Not surprisingly, when we went to ask Weston ten minutes later, he jumped on the bandwagon. We went to the local supermarket to buy water and supplies. Keep in mind we had to buy enough water for three people, accounting for the night and the following seven-hour workday. We proceeded to buy two bottles of wine and 18 liters of water - that’s 20 liters of fluid that we had to take up to the mountain. It was about to be a dreadful hike until Jerry, a local Scottish man, offered us a ride up in his Jeep.

In hindsight, we picked a terrible location to pitch camp. Irini had started a new trench and the soil on the side seemed fresh and soft. We judged the book by its cover and did not realize that the soft silt layer was only about two centimeters thick. The rock hard cobble fill below was not an easy terrain to sleep on and I would find that out later on in the night. We took a few trash bags and ripped them open, creating tarps for each of us to sleep on. I even used a trash bag as a sleeping bag, which was warm but the terrible breathability made me reminisce my bed back at Tholos. Indeed, our setup was quite trashy (haha).

However, before we slept, we did two more things. First, we went to Haggis’ tree and gazed down at Mirabello Bay. Professor Haggis hangs his orange Arcteryx backpack under the same olive tree every day. It oversees the D trenches and is one of the only locations on site that has shade during lunch. The leaves’ green pigments were slowly darkening as the domesticated olive tree continued to turn feral over the centuries, a lengthy metamorphosis that I will never be able to fully witness in my lifetime. Sitting from that tree, I could see all of Kavousi, Pachia Ammos, and Agios Nikolaos. The lights of Kavousi and Agios Nikolaos glowed brightly like stars in the Sahara Desert on a clear night. The lights never stopped twinkling in red, blue, yellow, green, and all the colors you could imagine on a Byzantine mosaic. The night lights of Kavousi showed the outline of the tiny village and it stuck out in a sea of darkness like a complex constellation. The voices and music from Maria’s tavern drifted into the mountains and hazed into a comforting muffle, which I think is best described as the hum of civilization. Some freighters on the waters in the distance had flashing green lights as dim as a dying cigar. With my arms over the railings, I felt like Gatsby standing on West Egg, ogling at the lights from Daisy’s house. Apart from the outline of mid-Northern Lasithi, the waters seemed completely empty like an endless Tartarus. I could now see what frightened sailors for generations and gained a newfound appreciation for the ancients who had the courage to venture into the unknown. One can be lonely anywhere, whether that be a big city like New York or an ice field like Antarctica. If I go out to sea in the future, I have always pondered if the solitude and emptiness could possibly ever conceive a sense of peace and tranquility for me.

Second, we took some time to lie down on our tarps and stargaze. David often sleeps in the olive grove when he’s drunk, and he tells me: “Paul, you can see the Milky Way at night, so you should come sleep with me in the olive grove.” I didn’t believe him until I slept up on Azoria that night. As my pupils dilated and grew accustomed to the boundless darkness, more stars began to appear randomly on the black canvas. The Milky Way formed before my eyes. Constellations by Jack Johnson got stuck in my head. David was right, you could see it all. As an excavator helping Professor Haggis collect data and build a narrative for Azoria, I realized that, apart from pragmatic reasons why the Minoans might have settled on this hilltop, this was simply a really nice place to be both day and night; the view of the Bay of Mirabello during the day and the stars at night were hard to beat. I also saw my first shooting star that night.

Then, the next thing I knew, I woke up and the stars were gone. The deep black was replaced with a soothing light amaranth. I could hear the bees buzzing and, somewhere in the distance, a goat let out a loud bleat followed by the gentle chimes of its bells. I got up and sat next to David and Weston in silence, appreciating the morning view of Kavousi. On the slopes, the trench masters’ 6:30 a.m. truck swerved up the hill. Minutes later, when the engine stopped in the parking lot, I got up from my schist stone seat and trotted down the slope - back to the B trenches, back to reality.

2 notes · View notes

6four1-blog · 8 years ago

Text

June 20th, 2017 (Kavousi, Crete, Greece)

This week’s hours have been arduously long and I’ve been desperately trying to get more sleep without missing out on too much. The culture shock has been a bit overwhelming and the surplus of experiences is inundating my mental dam and overtaking my writing speed’s capacity. We had to work six days last week, which comprised of nine hours of physical labor everyday, seven hours on site and two hours in the gym. This crazy schedule is pushing my body to its limits but I am slowly growing accustomed to it. My mornings have become as rigid as a science experiment protocol. I unconsciously begin to take out $5.20 every morning at the bakery for my pastries. For these past six days, only three out of five trench members were on site, and the low numbers have blessed me with some extra digging practice and has allowed me to bond with a fewer number of people on a deeper level. There were rumors about negative drama pervading some trenches, and I really didn’t want my trench to develop that kind of culture. Thus, I attempted to make jokes in the morning as an effort to wake others up and lift the mood, even though I was dead exhausted inside. Alex and I have begun giving each other gifts every once in a while. Since Azoria is located in the mountains, any sea stone found on site must have climb there with some form of ancient human assistance. Because there’s no useful analytical data that could be obtained from these sea stones, they are the perfect, and only, ancient objects that we are allowed to keep. I would find a few round pebbles in the sieve every day and I would give them to Alex as presents. He keeps them all in the side pocket of cargo pants, which I find very cute. As the excavation progresses, I intend to build him a large collection; by the end of the trip, I hope he can look back on them as a metaphor for a wonderful third year at Azoria.

Before this week and due to the rain days, our longest streak of site work was three days. This week jumped to a dramatic six days of full-fledged plowing in 27 degrees Celsius weather. It was the physical equivalent of transitioning from Compsci 101 to Compsci 201. The sun literally cooks us like human-sized pieces of Kobe steak and our metal skaliskiris became so hot that our callouses were no less tender than sunny-side up eggs on a frying pan. Today, I woke up unable to completely close my hands, and it’s a miracle that I am still typing right now. I have probably consumed more than two grams of ibuprofen this week alone, a portion that would have probably lasted me a whole month of Ultimate Frisbee at Duke. But at some point in the middle of this week, a mental shell cracked and I entered a new state of mind about excavating, finding myself no longer afraid of the heat, the blisters, and the dirt. I was wearing work gloves for the previous two weeks but I have almost completely given up on them at this point. The clay surfaces and cobble packing require a lot of feeling and touch with certain tools, and while being able to discern certain layers of earth from others sounds like a fictitious ability, understand where clay floors exist is indeed an acquired skill and grasping it has been oddly gratifying. Since it was just Lexi, Kate, and I digging for a while, we have also begun to develop an affinity for certain skaliskiris. Tucker had marked his with the blue twist tie, I had marked mine with a black one, and I helped Lexi mark hers with a green-yellow one. In the end, interestingly, not only have I become attached to my team and the B-trenches, but I have also become clingy to the tools I work with.

On that note, I would like to emphasize I love working with the people in my trench. I love the atmosphere that we’re building, one filled with support, compliments, and, most importantly, sarcastic jokes. Even though Lexi sat behind me on the plane ride from Athens to Heraklion, I, until this week, never really had a full on conversation and quality time with her. She turned out to be a religiously committed volleyball player, practicing almost every day back at Trent University. That was something I could relate to very sincerely because I have lived, and I still continue to live, that lifestyle at Duke. Part of my conscience picked up on that aspect of her character from prior short interactions. There was a determination, sense of self, and mental toughness that is forged almost exclusively through intense participation in and commitment to a physical activity. I am just beginning to know Kate and talk to her more. She seems wholly wonderful like a book just waiting to be read. Later on in the week, she was really sick for a few days, and it was unfortunate that she couldn’t join me and Lexi on site. One of her fellow Iowa State friends’ grandmother passed away, and, even when she was getting sick, Kate sacrificed her entire night’s time and sleep to make sure that Jasmine booked the right flights and would have a safe and worry-free trip home. Her effort impressed me and after witnessing her concern and care, I will definitely make a conscious effort to talk to her more and get to know her better. Overall, in conclusion, working in Alex’s trench is truly a pleasure and I hope we continue to grow and maintain a positive culture for the remaining four weeks.

In addition to bonding with the people in my trench, I am slowly getting to know Alex a lot better as well. After long days on site, we have begun working out in this small makeshift garage gym owned by a local Greek man named Tosos. One can easily tell that Alex is a studious and incredibly kind man just by his demeanor, which radiated from the very timbre of his voice and the form in which he carries himself. However, there is an implacable beast in the man that awakens when the weights start clanking and the music starts beating. His rest intervals are short and he loves to pack his exercises into supersets, which, painfully, tore through all the ATP reserves I had in less than half an hour. His choices of lifts are forcefully dynamic and the pace is unforgivingly quick. The Cretan sun cooks the building we workout in, making it a furnace by the time we arrived at around 5:30 p.m. The oven pushes your exhaustion and blood flow to its absolute limit and every rep gave a pump I that was as novel to me as this island was itself. For the rest of the summer, I am going to put my trust in Alex and I will strive to continue following his workout regime. Having been an athlete all my life, I believe one’s attitude in athletics often translates to his or her work habits in other aspects of life. Now I have no doubt how hard he works at UNC, and I am super glad to have met a principled and persevering man like him.

If you didn’t know before, the two things in the world that I am the most afraid of and the worst at are dancing and singing. If I had to dance and sing in front of a large crowd alone on stage to save my life, I think I would prefer death. This past Tuesday was one of those days when I felt adventurous and bold. So, when David came downstairs and asked me to attend a traditional Cretan dance lesson with him, I said yes and walked out the door with slight hesitation.

The classroom was this mistakenly abandoned building that we’d walk by every day after excavating. The space was overwhelmingly green, and, in a mercurial flashback, I knew that my brother, whose favorite color is green, would have loved it here. The building was a large space converted into a classroom around fifteen or twenty years ago. Two bookshelves and blackboards were haphazardly placed on either sides of the room and both lengths had windows like that of a Gothic church. The blackboards seemed long out of use and parts of the chalk have been stuck on the board for so long that it could have easily juxtaposed some graffiti on a tunnel wall in Durham, North Carolina. One of the bookcases contained beautiful ancient tomes that consisted of, if I recall correctly, almost 20 volumes. The books seemed to be much older than the classroom, as if they were heirlooms of an old family of Kavousi that contained all of this villages’ ancient histories and bloodlines. The other bookshelf was a dramatic contrast, filled top to bottom with children’s books. David and I could not read the Greek, but the images were hilariously entertaining, depicting people of different cultures from around the world. Its depiction of Chinese people was this old, wise, Confucius doppelgänger, which is not a bad image of my people at all. We were halfway through exploring that bookshelf when the dance lesson started. The mid-age man taught us a six step dance that rotated in a circle. I was so nervous trying to learn and coordinate the steps that I grappled the shoulder of the people next to me as if I was hanging on for dear life. Afterwards, the Greek workman beside me, Stellos, introduced himself and apparently remarked to his friend that I was gripping his shoulder really tightly. The trench master Irini, who was on my other side, politely asked me to hold her hand with less anxiety and force.

Eventually, I did loosen up and really began to enjoy myself. Until then, the two indirect non-vocal ways I felt connected to someone was reading their writing and listening to their music. For me, reading another’s writing was both seeing the world from their point of view, as well as seeing into their soul with my own eyes; I get an opportunity to understand how their minds function and exploit a lucky occasion to imagine their perception of the world. Listening to their music connects me with their emotions, and I think one would be surprised by how much we can learn about each other from sharing playlists and songs. In my first revolutionary dance lesson, I discovered another way through which we feel connected to our peers. The beat of the song drowned out all of our howling cultural, academic, physical, and personality differences and served as an united pounding heart for everyone in the circle. Each of our feet were individual muscle fibers of this powerful beating organ, working together in unison with the rhythm and moving in absolute homogeneity and flowing grace. No one was the hero of the stage, and that was what I loved about this traditional Cretan dance. It was done as a group and was meant to connect you with others, rather than for you to show off and isolate yourself. Afterwards, as we walked back to Tholos, I thanked David for inviting me to dance. It was a barrier that I desperately needed to break, and I finally did it here on Crete.

Being confined in a small village allowed me, David, and Weston to grow very close in a short period of time. On a Thursday after working in sizzling conditions that put the Tuscan sun to shame, David, Weston, a bunch of the girls, and I trekked down to the Tholos beach villas. We attempted to check out an herb farm that, very unfortunately, was closed. David and I had worked on site that day and had grabbed a few beers before heading to the beach. After eating almost nothing up at Azoria, the alcohol flowed straight into our systems and had us tipsy in less than ten minutes. We proceeded to drink more beer as we walked and, by the time we found a table down at the beach café, the conversation was flowing like the Yangtze and words were just spilling out of our mouths. I always seem to express myself quite emotionally and very thoroughly every time I am tipsy. Being the only noticeable Asian person in this area, it was a time for me to reflect on what it meant to be a minority in the society that I live in. In the United States and Canada, I have always managed to find myself a bubble of friends who are also Asian and have the same values and life outlooks as I do. Being stuck in these bubbles curtains the fact that I am part of a minority and that, outside of these wealthy and educated spheres, being a minority plays a huge role in one’s identity. Among the local Greeks, I had to disprove the stereotype that all Asian people practice Kung Fu, since the main exposure that these Europeans have had to Asian culture is its popular Kung Fu movies. My physique didn’t really help prove my point; apparently, before they got to know me, they were referencing me as the “Karate Kid” in Greek.

As for my fellow Americans, I tried my best to explain the Asian-American experience. It was difficult because, previously, I never had to pry my mind and think so deeply about my Asian identity in America. I found my inspiration and preferred choice of diction in a Humans of New York post about a young African-American man and his experiences growing up in the suburbs of Miami. For Asian-Americans, oppression and inequality are not necessarily our biggest problems, and neither is socioeconomic status. Personally, I think the most pressing matter is a lack of recognition entrenchment in the collective American identity. For Asian-Americans, there is a barrier that makes it difficult for us to become the leaders and politicians of important institutions and almost anything to do with the general public. As a result, we resort to pursuing careers that either earn us the most money or the most respect. Our immigrant identity is still so young and fragile that we attempt to compensate by obtaining immense amounts of wealth and chasing after the most prestigious occupations, as if we are almost trying to bribe and prove our way into the collective melting pot. Being here in Greece lifted those weighty, ominous clouds off my back. It was as if Atlas had been finally freed from his eternal damnation, finally able to unwind and look upon this world with awe and appreciation for its beauty once again.

In my three short weeks here on Crete, I realized that the locals were always absolutely delighted to learn about my Asian background. They seemed to have had their fair share of American tourists and finally got the chance to spend time with someone who looks completely different. Instead of telling the Asian-American narrative that I have been building for the past twelve years, the anecdotes I shared and the mannerisms I described were as uniquely Chinese as possible, filled with experiences and memories that I pushed away and suppressed so that I could assimilate into Vancouver and fit in at Duke. Maria and I talked for two hours one night, and she told me to never forget where I came from. That “Chinese people, like Greeks, have a long history and a strong sense of ταυτότητα (taftótita; a rough Greek translation for ‘identity’).” As I rode back to the Tholos hotel in Katis’ car that night, I realized I had found myself in a community with an unapologetic and unconditional appreciation for my visible cultural diversity. I couldn’t help but beam as we sped down the road in the clear night. I looked out of the window at the faint outline of the Cretan mountains and at the constellations in the distant universe, finding the Big Dipper and the North Star. These constellations have guided ancient and modern sailors, both Greek and Chinese, away from and back to their homes for thousands of years. Staring at the North Star that night in the car, I decided that, after Crete and Austria, it was time to pay China a visit.

2 notes · View notes

6four1-blog · 8 years ago

Text

June 10th, 2017 (Kavousi, Crete, Greece)

I haven’t really been using my computer lately due to both inconvenience and pure exhaustion from the hard manual labor. I would like to write a few of these long entries that are separate from my journal as passages that are meant to be read by other people. If you were here in Kavousi with me, then you will (most likely) be reading this at the end of our excavation. If I am sharing this with you, it means I felt like we got decently close and I hope this serves as a reminder for the magical summer we shared, no matter how brief our interactions may have been. However, if you are family, a friend from home, a friend from Duke, or just someone who came across this blog, I hope you enjoy reading about my culture shock and taking a sneak peak into my train of thought. Now, it has been about two weeks, and the writer within me itches like a rough patch of eczema and being away from a keyboard is really tearing me inside out. I shall try my best to recall everything that has happened so far to the best of my ability.

I remember the very first day as clear as these oceans’ waters. I had arrived at the Heraklion airport full of anxiety and incredibly unsure if I made the right decision in coming to dig at Azoria. The airport itself was rather shabby and run-down; the lone building was tainted with a smudged layer of brown that can be found at all hot and humid countries. The same smother is visible on almost any old building in my home town Xiamen on the Southern Chinese coast. I remember stepping out of the airport to a beating sun that cooked me in my black Zumiez joggers as if I was a goat prepped for a Minoan feast. There were a few other students who were also part of the Azoria excavations and there were quite a few who I identified well before boarding the plane in Athens. I would soon discover that the majority of them are from Trent University and had already known each other. They seemed so well knit already that a part of me was deeply worried that this experience would be extremely lonely. Luckily for me, one of them had the courage to introduce himself to an Asian boy who clearly seemed out of place. His name was Alex and he would turn out to be my trench master for these upcoming seven weeks. The man had the build of an Ohio State linesman but the voice of a gentle scholar. His words were of something incredibly reassuring, that the people who worked on this project and even those who returned year after year were quirky and friendly in their own unique way.

The drive to Kavousi was quiet and lonely, as all the Trent University Canadians fell asleep in perfect sync. I, already exhausted from nearly 20 hours of non-stop travel, somehow couldn’t fall asleep as I observed the small Cretan villages that came and went as if I was scrolling through a stack of old photographs. The houses bore an uncanny resemblance to those that I found in my travels around rural China. Everything seemed to be built to just merely fulfill its purpose and most of the architecture was furnished just enough to get the job done, but not enough to be considered as beautiful pieces of art or as revelations in engineering. The highway itself was a project stuck in time, as if the construction workers finished just enough so that the rocky slopes wouldn’t collapse before leaving and returning to live their normal lives. The mountains here were sheer, steep, and dry like the ancient pottery of this land. The flora and fauna spawned across the land in a sporadic fashion much like Floridan shrubs back home in North America. The trees and bushes were never too tall to block one’s view of the island’s silhouette. Their pigments bore a much lighter shade of green compared to the Western white pine and red cedar from my home near the foot of the Northwest Rocky Mountains. Since the Northwest trees liberated a distinct aromatic smoke when burnt, later on, when these Greek trees were used as firewood in the local pizza ovens, the smell of the smoke was unfamiliar to me and my olfactory quaked with a nonnative affect that I simply cannot explain with words.

After what it seemed to be a life time of driving, Catherine finally pulled up at the Tholos hotel where I would be staying for the next seven weeks. I found myself in a triple with two much older guys, one from Chicago who goes to the University of Kentucky named Weston, and another who goes to the University of Iowa named Rick. Weston was 23 and Rick was 25, both of whom are substantially older than my meager 19. Our room was incredibly simple and plainly furnished with a few pieces of furniture and simple ornaments. The owners tried their best to decorate the room but, coming from Vancouver and Duke, the decorations simply did not exceed my expectations in any way.

It was then when Weston strolled into the room and introduced himself. He had an incredibly gregarious demeanor that struck me as someone who was exceptionally comfortable with talking to people and someone who was god damn confident in his ability to strike up a good conversation. In my heart, there was a flash of envy and awe, best summarized as an unique respect for someone who seemed to be very open to talking about different topics and very good at conversing with people of diverse cultures and backgrounds. He certainly had faith in his speech and strong personality that I always lack when I first meet people. Weston and I slowly trotted up to Maria’s taverna for a quick drink and bite of food. What we talked about on that walk up to Kavousi, and the countless walks many nights and days to follow, will be a subject for another discussion. On our walk back that night, we briefly met David. He was walking up to Maria’s from Tholos in a near pitch-black street lit with out-of-commission street lamps, making him look rather menacing and scary. In that moment, I had no idea that he would become one of my best friends here at Azoria.

It was either on the same day or the day after when I met the rest of the girls that would eventually become a good component of my friends here. A few gave such distinct first impressions that I will never forget. Alana, a girl from John Hopkins, seemed like the biggest goofball and happy-go-lucky daughter that a mother could ever ask for. Her constant commentary on her own actions and the world around her just brightened the crowd and could make you laugh any time, any day. She had a humor that could penetrate the barriers in society created by controversial issues surrounding socioeconomic status, race, and culture. Having her around in a discussion and in a group activity was an absolute pleasure and just made the times much merrier. Courtney was just so tall and impossible to miss, but what truly imprinted on me was her willingness to give you her undivided attention while you were talking. Her gaze into your eyes as you spoke was one of constant thought, careful never to miss a word and unwilling to let your voice go unheard in the large mob. Then there was Callie, who immediately rubbed in my face that UNC won the national NCAA title this year and attempted to marginalize Duke. However, after getting over the fact I am a Duke student and people from Duke are not all as bad as Grayson Allen, her expressions and mannerisms became that of close sister that I have never had. It was her who attempted to include me in group activities and she was more than often the first to ask how I was doing on the brutal 7 am work mornings. Somewhere in the dark I saw a spark for a friendship that can be maintained for many months and perhaps even years to come. There was also Nikki, the girl with probably the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. They were a bright light-blue that twinkled even better than even the dazzling constellations during a night in the middle of the Sahara. She had the smily eyes that only those who were deeply loved by their mother and the father would ever have.

The first few days, including the orientation, flew by as if I was driving down the Interstate 95 from Raleigh to Savannah. It took a few days for my body to adjust to the amount of heat and sunlight we had to constantly work in. I was imbibing more than a gallon of water in a span of just 12 hours and my body was still constantly screeching at me for more. Working with the skaliskiri was the forearm and wrist workout that I never bothered doing at Duke. After the first week, I swear there was a tendon in my right arm that was ready to just rupture and give in. The ibuprofen numbed it as it always does and my forearms eventually developed the endurance and strength they needed for a seven-hour work day. After this trip, I don’t think I will skip forearm day ever again. As of two weeks in, sieving seems to be my favorite activity up on site. At the sieve, I got the chance to bond with Kate, Marissa, Gabriela, and Lexi. We all loved to sieve and had many conversations about home, deep thoughts, and things greater than our own microcosms. The labor was physically tiring and mentally draining but every once in a while you find big shards of pottery or bone, and these little finds are what keeps you going and digging. That yes, maybe it sucks to be coated in dirt and constantly harassed by horseflies, but the possibility of finding a cool piece of goat bone with my next scarp kept me, and I assume the rest of my trench, going onwards and forwards. Our trench on the western slope is always blessed with a refreshing breeze that came from the Aegean up north. It was as if the old gods were constantly sending down their regards and encouragement in the most comforting and non-verbal way possible.

The few hours after work were probably the most defining moments so far. For the first week at least, the norm for us was to head down to the beach and go for a light swim. We found a little shop that recently opened and the owner is a Cypriot native and was once a professor in Athens for more years than I have been alive. He approached me on our very first encounter and asked me whether I was Japanese or Chinese. Perhaps it was then when I realized that I, being an Asian person in a small town that does not get its fair share of Asian tourism, not mention young Asian travelers, am literally an animal out of the zoo for most of the people here in Kavousi. It was during these afternoon strolls and beach talks when I started to appreciate Weston and David more and more. We had radically different upbringings; just to give an example, I didn’t recognize a single song that David showed me. My innate attitudes about socializing with different people started to morph as I came to the realization that our cultural and background differences were so easily overcome by similar senses of humor and topics of interest. It was remarkably satisfying to grow closer and begin to understand David. He had the shell of a tough guy who seemed to have seen and endured too much for someone his age. A part of those eyes burned like an aching scar that could easily tear open. I later found out that he had been terribly bullied in his adolescent years and, as a result, he carries himself with an aura of confidence and belligerence that utterly refuses to be hurt in the same way ever again. But underneath that stout façade, there was a young man who simply wanted to be listened to, understood, and trusted. I would be a very rich man if I could just get five euros whenever his and my humor clicked like the gears of a nice Swiss timepiece. Not only does the guy have a talent for talking and deep-thinking, but he would also become a very successful professional fly-swatter if he wanted to.

Later on in the second week, the Greek workmen started inviting the three of us to drink with them after work. In Chinese and Canadian society, and to some extent American society, workmen are not considered a great demographic to be associated with. Many were known to blow their small earnings on hedonistic pleasures such as prostitutes and drugs. However, these Greek workmen were some of the most down-to-earth people I have ever met. These were the video gamers, the big brothers, the fathers, and the engineering students who are native to Kavousi and enjoying meeting people from around the world. Maybe the most distinct workman I met was Giwrgos, whom refers to himself as Katis. Katis’ English was so impressive and his voice was one that reminded you of your best roommate. When he lent a helping hand, you could feel the care in his touch, the sincerity in his voice, and the simple desire to get to know you better and become your best friend. He once went out of his way to go to his house and fetch his car just to drive me, Weston, and David back to our hotel rooms. His kindness and comforting demeanour will take him so far if he ever chooses to leave Greece and work elsewhere, because I simply don’t see him not being able to fit in anywhere he goes.

2 notes · View notes