Glory Ho

The Athens Classic Marathon isn’t just a marathon. It’s THE marathon. The closely related ancestor of this course was a cornerstone of the ancient Olympic Games held in the 5th century BC. This exact course was used in the original modern Olympic Games in 1896 and the most recent Olympics in 2004. According to legend, the Athenian messenger Pheidippides ran from the village of Marathon to Athens to bring news of a miraculous victory in battle over the Persians. “Nenikékamen!” he cried – we were victorious!. Tragically for Pheidippides, but fortunately for us, he died of exhaustion from his extraordinary efforts (at least in legend). If he hadn’t, there wouldn’t be a running event called a marathon. In fact, there would be no marathons of any sort. Not even Twilight Zone marathons or the Marathon candy bar.

The Athens Classic Marathon is a marathoner’s marathon. The course is challenging, compared to the fast, flat, marathons in Chicago and London. You will never see a marathon world record set on this course. The majority of the 26.2 mile route slopes upward, and the elevation isn’t given back until about mile 20, when the legs are no longer fully prepared to take advantage of the descending finish. To conquer this course, runners must bring their own spirit, because they won’t be impressed by the spectacular scenery. The course bores its way past strip malls, auto-repair garages, and furniture stores on a suburban highway linking the village of Marathon and Athens. Neither can runners summon energy from buzzing crowds. Supporters are few and far between until downtown Athens. And it isn’t until the last few minutes of the race that you see the gorgeous Panathinakin stadium, the only real scenic payoff of the event.

At bit like Pheidippides, I’ve been training for marathons, and hurting myself in the process, for three years. I’ve nearly died of frustration. My typical cycle goes like this: I’m feeling good, no aches or pains, so I start my marathon training program. As I gradually build my mileage and intensity, I can see exciting signs of progress in my speed, endurance, diet, energy level and attitude. I return to the house sweaty each morning and tell Andrea what a GREAAAAAT run I had! My successful training buoys my entire life, and I become annoyingly evangelical about running. Then, several months into training, when my weekend runs approach 20 miles, my left patella tendon (knee) becomes aggravated. The irritated patella takes weeks to heal, leaving me to unable to run the marathon for which I’ve planned. I get depressed. I get frustrated. I do some research, discuss the situation with my doctor, acupuncturist, chiropractor, and running coach; I come up with a preventative solution, give myself a chance to completely heal and begin the cycle all over again.

I’ve gone through a variant of this cycle FOUR times now. I am aware of how stubborn and potentially destructive this sounds to normal people. Plenty have suggested that I switch to the bike or the pool (as if this has never occurred to me). I have in fact come VERY close to hanging up the running shoes once and for all. But so far I’ve persisted because a new solution sounds promising. To prevent injury I’ve tried orthotic shoe inserts, patella straps, glucosymine/chondrodin supplements, and quad-strengthening cross-training and yoga. Over and over, I come back to marathon training, despite my set backs, because I love it.

I want others to love it, too.

When Andrea and I left for our Peace Corps assignment in August of 2005, the first place our cohort was taken was the Bulgarian ski town of Borovits. Even though we had been in country for only a couple of days, my new Peace Corps friend Thomas Parr and I began proselytizing to our class about running THE marathon in Greece, about one year later. Of the class of 50, no one had marathon experience except for Andrea and me, but we quickly found that Peace Corps volunteers are a daring and ambitious bunch. Immediately, about half the group was willing to entertain the idea. Thrilled with the prospect of so many potential converts, we gathered an organizational meeting, set up an online community (Yahoo Groups), delegated chairmen to travel, fund-raising and t-shirt committees, created training plans, encouraged group runs and sent out tips and encouragement. Peace Corps volunteers are just the type of people to embrace a challenge like this, and they didn’t need much encouragement once the idea took hold. About 17 of us tackled a marathon training program. Two were injured in the process and 15 made the trip to Athens, ready to run.

I am happy to report that I made it through my marathon training and finished THE original marathon! In addition to the preventative measures I listed above, I credit my lack of injury to my restful training schedule. I ran only three days per week this season. I’m even happier to report that I cut 16 minutes off my previous best (Boulder Back Roads, 2003). I finished in 3:19.03, only a few minutes shy of qualifying for Boston, which has always been my long term marathoning goal.

For me, running is a very individual experience. However, the camaraderie between the Peace Corps runners during the trip and during the months of preparation before the event made everything so much fun. We traveled together, we encouraged each other, we stayed together and we feasted together in celebration after all 15 of us conquered the challenging course. Thanks Team, and congratulations!

Nenikékamen!!!

We’d gone down too early.

Huddled in the lower deck of the ship, vibrations attacking from every angle, we stood waiting for the rope to move so the ramp could lower, so the chain could be opened so the people could push. We should have waited. It was too soon. What were we thinking? That Greece, a neighboring country, would be different? That there would be a line? That people might respect the rules? That there would be rules? A sense of order? A system???!!! I mean, what the hell is wrong with you people!!!

The ferries had changed little in 11 years. More coffee-dessert drinks. A non-smoking section. The same confusing blend of a public transportation attitude with white, Love Boat-like uniforms, railings and deck chairs. More spacious than a train, less bumpy than a bus, cinema-reminiscent food, a hotel-lobby-like air about the whole thing. The Aegean sea was blue and cold and prickly out our oval window, the mountains fake, like an old Elvis movie. Sleeping-dinosaur-like islands became smaller in our wake. We were mellow now. Michael on a high. Me prouder than ever.

I wandered around and chatted up a ferry worker to pass the time. Accustomed to grimacing faces and condescending comments about Bulgaria (one carpet seller in Tukey was going to tell my friend a joke, but when he found out we were living in Bulgaria, he said THAT was the joke) I was prepared. But this guy was full of pity.

He said it’s hard to get past all that oppression, that it takes generations to change, that Bulgaria and Greece are like cousins, the borders once much blurrier and Cyrillic simply an extension of the Greek alphabet. He claimed that the even Greeks only “think” they are free now. Sure, they can complain, but these comments are heard only by the walls that surround them.

But still, it’s important to speak up, I say.

But does it work? Are protests and rallies effective?

Yes, they make a difference, I said. They really do! And as I glanced to my right, a couple feet away was a mug on the counter that separated us. In blue, curly letters that mug said: Optimism.

But Nikolaus wanted to talk about Bush. Right now, I said, (it was November 9th) the Democrats might be taking over Congress. But he insisted that such a broad pendulum swing was seldom good news. After one duration of political extremity, a nation tends to veer too far in the other direction. He claimed it was dangerous. Michael said he was absolutely right.

Eventually, we did get off the BlueStar ferry, into the hands of apartment owners, winter rentals, all ready to reduce prices and make a dime in the offseason. Trying so hard to explain that it was now or never, that even with a business card, we would never find their place without help, because Mykonos is a maze, built specifically to confuse pirates and marauders who terrorized the Aegean sea throughout the centuries. There is one myth which tells of how the Tyrrhenian pirates once seized Dionysus, the god of wine and merriment, by mistake. He promptly changed them all into dolphins, sending each one splashing into the sea. Not such a terrible fate, I thought.

We’d been trained to ignore the port-pushers in Madagascar and Morocco. To go at our own pace, not be rushed into any decisions before unfolding the pavement of a new place with our own soles. We nodded as we walked, laminated photos across their arms. They were genuine. We were naïve. With Michael limping and me carrying twice the stuff I needed, this was the perfect time to let us be carried away, but at the top of the boat ramp, it was too late. They were all gone. A sunglassed woman with a ponytail and no brochure remained. This was Koula. She led us away.

The white was blinding. Like a field of cracked porcelain boxes against the furry foothills. Built to be reflective. To withstand the heat. This purity framed doors, staircases, shutters and deck tables—each a law-abiding shade of blue, creating the perfect circa 1965 photograph. Unlike the colorful, lion-mouthed-handled Georgian doors of Dublin, which were rebelliously and colorfully painted to end the mourning period for a lost queen, these doors were holding up tourism and beauty for its own sake. There was a connectedness, too, about Mykonos. because the white-washed walk flowed seamlessly into every wall. No creases for dirt collection. No change of materials. Like soft serve ice cream, everything melted together.

And what a comfort to waltz the walkways of a new land, feeling as if we were simply getting reacquainted with an old friend, one we’d seen on bathroom walls, coffee-table book covers and photography exhibits for years. This was Greece, just as we’d been promised. Even the tweed-coated, moustached men seemed to be posing for our pleasure.

We’d been warned that Mykonos was small and many shops would be closed now. A man at the Blue Star Ferry desk had suggested we spend a day here and then ferry to Santorini. But no, we liked the idea of settling in. Michael didn’t want to be on the move in his post-marathon state. We’d learned, too, that while locals could be helpful, they often saw their own life as boring, while we found it fascinating. In the same way, we theorized that although an American wouldn’t likely recommend, say, Kansas City, to a foreigner, this destination would be a perfect place to absorb the most typical American culture.

Our place was old and a little sticky, but nice enough, with a bedroom loft, full kitchen and large tiled living room. Framed needlepointed jockeys and women with cats hung a bit crooked. Those built-into-the-wall-coves where you might find a telephone and stack of take-out menus in an old campus apartment, held blankets and pillows for extra guests. The hum of the fridge was familiar and reminded me of a long time ago. The forks and spoons had history. I found lightbulbs and trays and plastic tablecloths in the drawers. Hangers hurriedly stuffed in a cupboard for future use. Mugs with company logos I’d never heard of. A half empty bottle of Campari above the cabinets. Olive oil, soy and vinegar in the counter corner. This concept has always allured me—ever since Eagle Ridge in the late 80s. Remember Mom? I am always looking for a story and perhaps these spaces with abandoned alcohol bottles and forgotten books were the best place to find one.

We spent a lot of time in the bedroom, partly because Michael couldn’t go up and down the stairs so easily. We read Stegner, Gladwell and Potts. Wrote about what was in front of us. There were baked beans and tuna and crackers for dinner and yogurt and hard-boiled eggs and tea for breakfast. I hadn’t eaten baked beans since some by-now-forgotten holiday. They were soft and salty and sweet in my mouth.

Last night we had a glory moment. Along the shore of Mykonos, facing tame, wing-spreading pelicans, rock-skipping little boys most often seen on Successories, church-bell-topped buildings and those primary-color painted boats, was a little restaurant with a couch. The shore was football-game-kind-of-cold, but this once-in-a-blue-moon Greek winter kept us in the moment, hearing and smelling the right now. Our dinner was laid out on a cherry-wood-door coffee table, previously a seafarer’s salt-dried entrance. My Mom was good like that, staining and stripping antiques in our Penny’s catalog-covered workshop at home, decades ago. I wish I knew how. There sat a tinny, spout-less carafe of cheap, yet tongue-popping wine. A red, green and white salad as exciting as Christmas. Kalamata olives all mashed up in tapenade. Salmon spread, gazpacho with cream, clams, crawfish and mussels, all soft and staring at our mouths. The sunset was coming. We were determining not what we should do in life, but what we wanted to do. .

We’re on our own balcony now. The sun has finally found our perch. Earlier, a donkey with burlap bags of flowers and fake-looking vegetables passed by below, his guide calling out in Greek. What is it about windows that open with a latch and no screen? What’s so bad about keeping out mosquitos, right? Because, somehow, a screen’s practicality is simply not associated with vacations. As usual, the sound of barking dogs is one to be relied on. Two potted yucca plants explode to my right. A cat appears from a nearby roof. Michael, my marathon-finishing, race-recovering husband is reading “Blink” in his Greek-blue zippie, Thailand trousers and argyle socks. I am writing this blog.

It was hard to believe.

When I first heard that our Habitat families, the ones my organization and hundreds of volunteers had built an eight-family house for over the past few years, were complaining, a lot, I was simply startled. Talk about a demotivator. I certainly didn’t want to believe it. Habitat helps poor people climb from the depths of poverty, right? They provide a hand-up instead of a hand-out. It is a successful and fast growing non-profit, breaking charitable ground to let donors experience physical labor, true volunteerism and meet the people they help. I mean, it’s a great organization, right?

Since that moment six months ago, it’s become apparent that what I heard was correct. Families have complained since day one. Both legitimately (“we have a leaky roof”, “there is mold growing in our living room”) and ungratefully (“why did you paint their side of the house first?” and “We wanted a fence. Where’s the fence?”). Through conversations and family visits, I have also learned that Habitat Sofia made a few building mistakes. That organization and project management were inefficient. That beneficiaries were not fully educated on the process of the loan, project duration or tax increase due to inflation. That Habitat’s reaction to their complaints has been slow-going.

But this is a realistic picture of “development”. Romantic dirt coating removed. This non-profit has good intentions. They’re doing their best to alleviate Bulgarian poverty. But they’re operating directly from the developing country they’re trying to help. I recently heard about a Sudanese non-profit, which is located in Kenya, because if they operated in the Sudan, they couldn’t function. Not surprising. Development is often messy. It’s best to keep efforts high and expectations low. Here in Bulgaria, shit’s getting done, but there’s plenty hitting the fan, too.

But even with this knowledge, I was somehow still appalled. How can these people complain? If you could see some of the hazardous one-room shacks where a family of five was living. . .I mean, aren’t they better off?

But I guess it’s hard to say why someone might feel the way they do, and unfair to make a judgment on those feelings. I am not in their shoes. Am I being selfish, thinking only of the gratification it would be nice to experience, if, for example, they expressed gratitude and thanks? Is it wrong to hope for this?

But they’re clearly unhappy and express that willfully and at length when we see them. And its possible that this is a reflection of the Bulgarian culture.

“I I think it is the Bulgarian way,” says my colleague, Bobi, in our round-table discussion at a Chinese restaurant near the office. “We have a tendency to see only the bad things. It’s part of our culture. We are also very superstitious. . .afraid to be happy, to admit life is good, for fear the bad energy will come back to get us.”

Plamen counters: “But in America, you say fine when you are not really fine. You smile when you are not really happy. This is fake.”

Before I can jump in, Nora says:

“But this works! I am typical Bulgarian, but I try to be different. I see results. I have been in America. After I return, I say “fine, thanks, how are you.” If I say I am fine, I begin to feel fine, instead of focusing on my problems. If you say it, you can make it to be true.”

Absolutely, I nod.

“This is why it’s helpful to have you and Lincoln (another volunteer) in the office,” says Bobi. “Really, we need your positive energy and smile.”

Ah, I wonder if she knows that I will live on this statement for weeks…

Like the holy water sprinkled across my forehead during services of yester-Sunday, these moments of gratification hit when I least expect them. Just as I open my eyes, thinking that the priest’s toss had missed me after all, a receive a small splash. And just like then, I will wipe my brow and remember that it only means something if I keep believing.

Even if our beneficiaries are complaining, we must press on with our mission. We must believe that we ARE making a difference. Perhaps we can even will it to be true.

What do you think?
Based on the little information that you know, as an objective outsider, who do you sympathize with? Habitat or the families they serve? Furthermore, do you feel an individual, a family, a nation can smile or laugh its way happy? Does that work? Or is it a recipe for repression?

My parents came to see us in Bulgaria awhile back. I was so psyched for them to see me in this world! We met them in Istanbul, our airport drama on a rooftop terrace overlooking the Blue Mosque instead of Sofia’s haphazard collection of hangars. My mom with her teary eyes, soft clothing and tan skin, my Dad with his shy smile and purposeful walk, so recognizable that I can could spot him or Dustin on a crowded playground from half a mile away. As always, they were healthy, interested and full of positive energy.

It was still hard to believe they were backpacking. Only one hotel reservation on their flimsy itinerary. Nowhere to store souvenir dishes, sweatshirts or semi-precious stones mined carefully from the soil of some exotic land. Space enough for two pair of shoes each. One to wear and one to spare.

But my dad was a planner. My mom a bit of a clothes-horse. They were definitely detail-oriented! In my thirty year experience with these two people whom I thought I knew, they’d always been fond of highlighted maintenance spreadsheets and gifts purchased days ahead of the party. I had been encouraged to “begin the application now”, carefully consider outfit selection so as to make the best impression, even when traveling (you never knew you might run into!) And here they were flying by the seat of their pants, pants they had been wearing for a week!

But they were my parents. I guess they figured it best to keep me safe and structured, with a back-up plan in place, assuming that life (or perhaps a husband, in my case) could always mellow me out later. And for years, I knew them primarily in this parental capacity.

I remember a specific post-college conversation, where I got a peek at something else. In response to a suggestion I made, my Mom cheerfully said “whatever”. It sounded so strange to me. I knew her voice, her words, her phrases better than anyone’s and this just wasn’t one of them. “I guess I’ve lightened up,” she said. Maybe this was a transformation from motherhood back to self. That was years ago. This trip was simply an extension of her genuine MO.

Yes, they seemed happy, undisturbed, light enough to fly. Stories ready to spill from their smiling face about the dimly-lit room with the concave bed after five pay-phone calls in rainy Rome, the once-in-a-life-or-death ride through never-again Naples, and how life is happening at home—my cousin Julie’s pregnancy, Dustin’s outdoor cats, Philip’s new job.

We saw the Blue Mosque that day, covering skin with scarf and shedding shoes to enter the candle-lit sanctuary, hearing the call to prayer, trying desperately to learn a bit more about this religion that had torn the world apart. My mom tasted the butter in the Baklava, but they both hated the buttermilk (otherwise known as Aryan) that Michael and I adore, and we realized that the Turkish “tea” although served beautifully in red-ringed, clear-glass little cups, was little more than warm Tang. They walked the Grand Bazaar, and as we glided across the fisherman-lined Galata bridge toward Beyoglu, I probed my Dad for advice on how to spend the rest of our life. I realize, now in my 30s, that he is only human and doesn’t have all the answers. And that’s okay.

They ferried to Asia while Michael and I played backgammon against the rough and rainy waves of the Bosphorous. My mom liked the soft aubergine salad and enjoyed her Turkish Bath. That night, we navigated a maze of dark, steep alleys on our way to the action. The Istanbul we remembered, thank goodness, with its beckoning men, ogling fish and lemon-sprinkled three-for-a-lira mussels were still there, just as we’d found it last April. We ordered Tuborg from a tiny O’Darby table, met Turkish men who had immigrated to Germany back in the 70s, chose free lilies and gerber daisies from memorial wreaths that men were loading into a garbage truck, and my mom and I had one of those animated bottle-clinking, heart-to-hearts amidst the comforting clamor of Turkey.

Like every traveler, my Mom and Dad were scouring for snippets of familiarity, scooping them up in the spirit of a scavenger hunt and storing them in a safe silo of their mind for future use. Everywhere, they initiated conversation with locals. With an exceptional skill for small talk, and an inherent interest in other’s lives, it appeared effortless. Scruffy street vendors were charmed. Taxi drivers pleased to help. Carpet sellers suddenly genuine. A common ground to dance on the consistent result. They would be excellent Peace Corps Volunteers. A picture of both immersion and inclusion. I don’t know how they do it.

We ventured forth into Bulgaria, where they survived bunk beds in Veliko Turnovo, a three AM border crossing, and a very crabby cabby before we made it to Sofia. In our kitchen, I served tuna, crackers and tomatoes while they inspected the doorlocks, bathroom fixtures and lack of appliances in our home. My dad immediately sat down and began cracking hazelnuts, something our friend Greg had recently collected from his long lost grandfather’s yard in a Greek village. He reminded me of Grandpa Enright, bumping his small fat fingers on the polished kitchen table and gazing out the window into his mind. We told them about Skype and RAM and set up a hotmail account.

Sure, I took them to see Habitat, where they were welcomed with chocolate cake, questions and astonished eyes. They shopped in Traditzia. My mom found a red bake-o-lite bracelet in the crazy, Russian-inspired flea-market. They tried apple banitza, met Alexander Nevsky in the dark and drank Becks in Oborishte park, where we taught them to say “cheers” in Bulgarian, explaining that “Nastrave” sounded like “Nice Driveway” which was a lot easier to remember. But it was the moments in our apartment that I remember best. There, they absorbed my life in Sofia.

There comes a point in every child’s life, I suppose, when a full picture of their parents, as people, emerges from a protective husk. This has been happening for years, now, the visit simply a milestone.

I knew they were tough. Always have been. But I was proud of something else. They had placed faith in the universe, relying on a force other than themselves. The universe is much better off for having met them.

Episode One
I was recently in a movie called Mega-Snake, a film made, once again, specifically for the Sci-Fi Channel. In the movie business it is often said that you work for free and you get paid to wait. So, around 2:00 on Monday I was dozing in a plastic chair with a puffy coat I’d been given to keep warm. Pancherevo Lake was behind me. A trailer stood to my right. Make-up kits, Kleenex and platters of bananas and apples, available for starving performers had been dropped around my chair. My plastic cup of tea had been kicked over in a recent rush to scene. My “kids” Derek and James (otherwise known as Noam and Asen) were attempting to sleep on either side of me, having grown weary of asking about Harry Potter, Pimp My Ride and Jackass, obviously America’s most popular exports among the younger set. About this time I struck up conversation with Jordo, a smiley guy who was loitering near our huddle. He was in charge of the pyrotechnics of Megasnake, keeping the grill lit, smoking and under control during the six hours it was taking us to film a camp scene where me, my husband and my two children are eaten by a thirty foot snake. After the usual pleasantries, he commented:

“I would rather live here than in America. They just have a fake democracy there, because you can’t do anything you want. Not really. You can’t smoke where you want, you have to wait until you’re 21 to buy alcohol. You have to follow all these rules.”

Hmmm. You know, he’s right. You also can’t light firecrackers wherever you want, can’t park on the sidewalk, can’t drink on the street, can’t bribe the cops. There’s quite a list. You can of course. But penalties exist. And unlike here, they are enforced.

Usually, I didn’t consider these rules detrimental to my existence. These laws, while restricting personal freedoms, come with the benefit of securing social order and public safety. I thought about it. Was the privilege of bringing a Corona to the park or getting out of a speeding ticket worth the regularity of twelve year-olds smokers and the danger of Bulgaria’s recklessly driven streets? Nope. Not a chance.

So I tried to explain to Jordo about the balance between personal freedom and social order. As personal freedoms increase, social order decreases. And vice versa. I hinted that, for example, Bulgaria’s lack of lines and safe crosswalks were good examples. I’m not sure if he really saw the difference, but he did make me think: Do Bulgarians really think life is better here?

Episode Two
Just two days after my conversation with Jordo, I was riding to a Toastmaster’s meeting with Habitat for Humanity Executive Director Eleonora. She was venting about her daughter, Ani’s, lack of interest in school and her schoolmate’s negative influence on her behavior. I sympathized.

“During communism, healthcare and education were wonderful,” she said. “Now nothing is wonderful. . .all my daughter’s high school friends skip class, smoke and drink all the time.”

I countered: “Well, this does happen in America, too.”

She insisted: “Yes, but in America, there is trouble for them. Here, the teachers are underpaid. They don’t care. Even if the kids get caught, nothing happens.”

There it was again. The argument between public order and personal freedom. This time, though, through a parent’s eyes. Her opinion was clear. If people were punished for breaking the rules, society, including her daughter, would be much better off.

What do you think? Is there some restrictive laws in America that you’d like reversed? Or do you enjoy the public sense of order produced by such rules? Have you ever visited a country, community, or even a family where too few rules were a good thing? Or maybe they were a bad thing?

This is a blog after all, it suppose to inspire debate! Talk to me!