Dolce Vita

Photos by N. Exarhu

On migration and trash

In late August a few years ago, I fulfilled my life long desire to be a garbage man. 
When I was little I was interested in two professions that both were not considered proper: Street sweeper or shepard. Both were conducted outdoors, in motion, alone.
That summer thousands of middle eastern refugees were amassed at the train station of Eidomei, waiting for the borders to open and continue their way to the promised land of hope, the Northern Europe. But politics, government, rules and regulation had it so that thousands of desperate people, old and young, men and women, peaceful and trouble makers were all standing side to side waiting Uber’s the summer heat. 
So I hitched a ride and went  to Eidomeni to help out cleaning the uncontrollable mass of accumulated trash. I started working under the mid afternoon sun, with a big plastic bag in hand, bending over and picking up what the refugees had left behind. 
The earth near the train tracks was filled with green and blue bottle caps, plastic bottles, food wrappers, pill wrappers, stale bread left on the trees because it is a sin to leave it on the ground, socks, children's clothes, overcoats, papers written in Arabic, I found a torn pink ID card without a photo, issued by the greek government, a demolished smart phone, broken crates, a dead dog in a plastic bag, with flies buzzing around it, I managed to have it buried in a field, I found toy trucks , pieces of paper forms to fill out on both Greek and Arabic. I found clothes buried in the fields, plastic bags, lots of plastic around.
While I was hand picking all this trash, my mind went to other times when on the same spot at the train station of Eidomeni, two different groups of migrant people stopped.
In one of them were my grand parents with my mom as a toddler. They had come with the exchange of population between the Greeks and the Turks in 1923. They had come to a foreign land to start anew. Every time my grandmother was going to travel by train was in panic.
The other group were the Jews who were transported in freight trains to unknown destination, to their demise. My mom has always been talking about the water canteen that was left behind. It was given to her to fill it with water by a passenger on the death train. While she was filling the canteen the train started rolling on the tracks and the person she was trying to help was left without his metal bottle and without water. She tried to run and catch up unsuccessfully.
The trash those people were living behind was very different from what was was left by the Syrian refugees in Eidomeni. 
In the past they may have lost glass or metal bottles, handkerchives, head scarves, hair pins, keys. Today the trash that is left behind is wrapers and containers, 90% plastic. We consume a tremendous amount of petroleum to make products for a single use that end up in the landfills  destroying the Earth.
When I was collecting the clothes I found half buried in the ground, it felt like I was touching the souls of the people who left behind their empty shells.

Italian delights

 Delicious gelato

Yummy cupcakes

Murano glass

And unmistaken Italian canned Tuna and Anchovies.

Second call

The second time I heard El Camino calling me, was in Saintes-Maries-de-la-mere, in Camargue. My husband and I went to the South of France to visit a friend. On  a day trip we stopped at the little town of Saintes Maries de la mere, a small place where the french culture mingles with the Spanish, and the Gypsy. We went to visit the main church, Notre Dame de la Mer. A sanctuary that is one of most important departure points for Pelegrins who start from there their Camino to Santiago de Compostela. 
We visited the roof of Church, a real accomplishment for me, since I do not like climbing on roofs. My husband suggested I take my shoes off, so I could have better controll and balance. He was right. 
When we came down we saw at the church  courtyard a very beautiful piece of artwork, a big stain glass installation inspired by the Camino. On its surface it was written: l’amour est fort comme la mort. Love is as strong as Death! 
And somewhere near by there were photographs and information about the two thousand year old pilgrimage to Santiago. 
After I had conquered my fear of heights I felt drown to the challenge of walking from that very spot to Santiago de Compostela.
I asked my husband to accompany me. He was not that interested.
But I felt inside my heart the call to become a pilgrim. I knew that some day I was going to do what seemed almost impossible. Walk across Spain, walk towards a goal.

(to be continued)

Taking a walk to the end of the world.

Almost two years have past since my last elzevir entry.

Long months of skin change, a painful yet valuable phase.

Part of the new experience was a solo long walk of 30 days in Spain, following the path of El Camino Frances. 

As a young child I had read about El Camino, the over 2000 year old pilgrimage to Finisterra, that at the early years of the Christian era became a pilgrimage to the sacred remains of Apostle Jacob, in Santiago de Compostela, Spain. I was marveled and appalled by the long walkabout that seemed impossible to walk mile after mile, with the bare necessities carried on the pilgrim's back. I was in awe and fear of the strange figure of the bearded man with the tall walking stick, the long coat with the extra protection on the shoulders, and the wide brimmed hat with the big sea shell in the middle.

Little I knew, that was the first time the Camino called me.

(to be continued)

   

  

Iznik ceramic tiles

Tiles and vessels produced at Iznik during the 16th and 17th centuries are among the finest and most celebrated ceramics from the Middle East.

The careful undulating polychromatic forms, both vegetal and geometric, provide a stark contrast to the crisp white ground upon which they appear. 

These types of tiles were used to ornate the mosques and palaces of the Ottoman sultans and members of the court. The brilliant decoration of the individual tiles is impressive, but as part of a frieze or series of tiles along the wall of a mosque, their effect is sumptuous and magical.

Azuelos. Ceramic tiles in Lisbon

Boqueria, Barcelona

Shopping for sweets in Boqueria, Barcelona

Santiago de Compostela Windows

The Ceilings of the Burgos Cathedral

Turkish baths

I have spent the first seven years of my life living in the historical center of Thessaloniki, in an apartment that was surrounded by busy markets and old landmarks. Regardless of its prime location, the apartment lacked essential conveniences, such as hot water, a bathtub or a shower. For our daily ablutions we used the kitchen sink. More serious bathing was a nuisance that took place once a week.

Saturday was the day we got ready for Sunday, which meant cleaning the apartment, shopping for the elaborate Sunday meal, buying fresh flowers and decorating the dining table. It was also the day for taking a bath, so we would be ready for our Sunday best.

Taking a bath was a production that required planning and preparation. We had two options; to set it up in the kitchen where my mom and grandma boiled hot water, set the laundry basin in lieu of a bath tub and brought out all the necessary accoutrements: soap, sponges, combs, a big bucket for mixing hot and cold water, a pitcher for rinsing, towels, special wooden shoes to wear afterwards, clean clothes and, of course, a mop for cleaning up the spilled water. It was plain hard work and ceased to be a pleasure.

The other more delightful option was to walk a couple of city blocks up the street to the Hamam Paradisos, the Turkish Baths. In the mid 1950s there were at least five active Turkish Baths in Thessaloniki. The Hamam was not only a place for bathing, but also a place to socialize in a leisurely and sensual environment. We always went in a group, my mom, my grandmother, her sister whose body was beautiful like that of the Venus of Milo, plus the arms, my god mother, her mother in law, her sister in law and my god sister Mary. A happy party of eight. We walked to the Hamam carrying our bags with the clean clothes, towels, toiletries and the tasia, metal bowls with a concave middle that fit perfectly in the wet hands. We used these vessels for throwing warm water on our bodies and for rinsing our hair.

Sultan Murat II built the Hamam of our in 1444, at a time prior to the birth of Columbus. It was one of the first Turkish public buildings built in the newly conquered Thessaloniki. After over 500 years of continuous use as a public bath open to all, nowadays it has acquired a monument status. A public space used for art exhibitions and music concerts. My god sister Mary and I have recently visited Bey Hamam, as it is now officially called. We found it dry, cold and somewhat dead. We have a different impression of the place.

Upon entering the Moorish door of the building we could smell the sweet aroma of soap,  jasmine and rose oil, and feel the excitement of the anticipation of playing with the warm water. After taking our clothes off and leaving them in wooden lockers, we would walk on our little    special clogs into the first chamber, a bare place filled with sweet smelling steam that hid the naked bodies in a warm fog. From there passing through a small marble threshold we could finally enter a paradisiac room with marble alcoves and a round center under the big domed ceiling. Walking into that space the first thing we noticed was the sound of the water coming endlessly out of a dozen bronze faucets that kept the marble alcoves filled with warm water. A sound mixed with the murmuration of women’s voices. Steam was rising up to the dome with the star shaped windows. From there, shafts of light were penetrating the mist, creating a magical ambience. Mary and I always managed to escape the attention of our relatives and getting rid of our clogs run around splashing each other, dipping ourselves into the other bathers’ alcoves. We were often scolded, nevertheless we always managed to amuse ourselves.

There were two other adjacent rooms: one with extreme heat that I was never permitted to walk into. The other, small with a marble bed it it’s middle, was the domain of a big menacing looking woman with a mustache, who gave massages. We loved peeking through the threshold and getting ourselves scared watching her rubbing the big naked bodies till they would turn red and sometimes using a long brush made out of horse hair, she was flaying their skin to improve the circulation.

We stopped going to the Hamam once we moved to another apartment that finally had hot water and a bathroom. Now we could bathe whenever we wanted, but we were missing the fun and the magical atmosphere of the Turkish Baths. 

Koeln Windows