Labyrinth, Minotaur, Crete oh my!

I wanted to go on this cruise as soon as my aunt and uncle mentioned it to me. Greece, Malta, Tunisia, Spain, Portugal, I thought "Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes." It wasn't until I got the itinerary that I learned we were going to Crete, and when I saw that we could tour King Minos' palace, I had to look twice. King Minos, as in the guy who built the labyrinth to house the Minotaur? Wasn't that just a myth?

For those of you who don't remember, King Minos was the guy who thought he could trick Poseidon, the sea god, by sacrificing not the bull Poseidon had sent him, which was exceptionally beautiful, but a substitute bull.

Apparently King Minos hadn't heard any other myths, because the gods always find out when you try to trick them, and they have very creative forms of revenge. In this case, Poseidon made Minos' wife fall in love with the bull, resulting in her bearing its child, a half-man, half-bull--the Minotaur.

Minos had his architect Daedalus construct a labyrinth to house the Minotaur. Wackiness ensued, including children regularly sacrificed to the Minotaur, until Theseus showed up from Athens to kill it. When Minos locked Daedalus and his son in the labyrinth as a punishment for helping Theseus, the clever architect designed wings from wax and feathers so they could escape. What child can forget the story of Icarus, who disobeyed his father, flew too close to the sun, which melted the wax on his wings and sent him plummeting to his death?

The stories swirled through my brain as we drove to Knossos, the archaeological site. The ruins themselves were, especially after the Parthenon, not very impressive--no labyrinth. But walking around the site of Europe's oldest civilization, with settlements dating from 7,000 B.C., I felt inspired as a storyteller, because long after the palaces came crashing down, the stories remained.




Above are recreated frescoes on the palace walls at Knossos.

Below, according to my tour guide, is the oldest road in Europe.



Sailing away from Crete. Pretty, huh?

The Isle of Rhodes

This is the boat. Sorry, the ship. The Vision of the Seas holds 2,000 passengers and 765 staff.



As a first-time cruiser I had two main concerns. My biggest fear was that I would arrive at a port, fall in love with it, and want to spend days, not just hours there. Having always traveled independently before, if I wanted to stay somewhere an extra day or two, I could make that happen. Although I enjoyed each of our stops, there was nowhere I felt heart-broken to leave after one day, with the notable exception of Lisbon, which I'll get to in a few posts. So worry number one was unnecessary (as so many worries are.)

My second fear was that I would feel crowded, like a sheep being herded from place to place. For this reason I resisted the "excursions" run by Royal Caribbean, thinking I would prefer to explore most places on my own without a big crowd and a bossy tour guide. Julie and I set off for Rhodes on our own, unencumbered by an annoying tour. The first thing we saw were these Medieval walls. I was instantly charmed.



This is an eight-foot tall poinsettia bush that blew our minds.



This is a pretty building and ruin. I'm sure a tour guide would have been able to tell us its significance.



Though we had a lovely day, at the end of it, I understood the wisdom of the organized tour. When I travel independently, I do research before leaving home, and have a guidebook with me to help me navigate a new place. For this trip, I hadn't done that. So Julie and I wandered around, not really knowing what we were looking at. We spent two hours looking at shards of pottery in the archeology museum before finding the amazing sculptures on the second floor. We got lost in some sketchy very-off-the-beaten-track alleys. For the rest of the trip, we signed up for tours. Sometimes a girl has to admit when she's wrong.

The Adventure Begins

Here is the first of a few posts about my recent two-week trip to the Mediterranean.

One of my favorite parts of any journey is the time after I walk out my door before I arrive at my destination. Filled with euphoria at having completed packing (my least favorite part of travel) I love that in-between time when I can anticipate the adventure ahead, read, listen to music, sleep.

On this trip, I took the train to the airport alone, wiled away a few hours there, met up with my cousin, aunt and uncle, boarded our flight, watched part of the new Harry Potter movie, read my Rick Steves Athens guidebook, slept for five hours. When I awoke, I slid open my plastic shutter and saw the run rising over Europe:



A little while later, we flew over the Alps, which may be the best thing I've ever seen from a plane window:



(Though flying out of Mexico City at night is also damn impressive.)

When our flight lands in Athens, the first thing I see is an Ikea. Our waiting driver chariots us off to our hotel where we have an early dinner and drop into bed by eight pm.

I wake up at 11 pm, and think it’s time to get up for the day. Eventually I drift off again, and fortunately when I wake up, my lack of sleep has not dampened my enthusiasm for Athens. Neither does the pouring rain, our difficulty finding a cab, or our driver taking us to the wrong place. I am under Athens’ spell.

Julie and I find a sweet café on a cobblestone street, get croissants and Cokes and huddle at a table under a large umbrella, watching Athenians pouring off the metro, wearing their Sunday Best. When the rain stops we decide to forgo the museum and go straight to the Acropolis, which graces the top of the nearby hill. We wander awhile, taking a circuitous route through the neighborhood, hitting a dead end, and doubling back before making our way up the hill, discovering ruined theaters, and spectacular city views.

At the top of the hill, I stand in awe of the Parthenon as people have for 2500 years. Even with the scaffolding, patches of new marble and crowds, it is magical.



After a lunch of Greek salad and chicken souvlaki, we walk toward the Olympic Stadium, which has held sporting events for 2,500 years and is built entirely of white marble. The Athens Classic Marathon was that day, run along the route taken by the messenger who ran from the town of Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 B.C. (the origin of modern marathons.) Julie and I arrive just in time to see this guy finishing the race, having run in a Spartan costume complete with helmet, sword and shield.



Our perfect Athenian day ends with wandering through the city center, over to the ancient agora, or marketplace, and dinner of mezzes--like tapas, but Greek food. The next day we boarded our ship, and I left Athens reluctantly, wishing I'd had just one or two more days to explore.

Momentum

As I’ve observed the momentum (or lack thereof) in my life over the past few weeks, I’ve decided that lack of momentum is why Monday is so hard, and why the first few days after vacation are brutal. Because by Wednesday, or a few days after your return, you’re like, “oh yeah, this is what my week is like,” and you’re just doing it—you have momentum. Working on the book is like that too. I can take one day off a week without breaking stride, but if I take two days off, the first day back is difficult, and if I take two months off, as I just did—yikes.

I needed a break from the book. I gave the manuscript to three astute readers, and wanted to hear their comments before I made any further changes. But beyond that, my mind and spirit needed to recover from the insane push to complete the manuscript, and to rest up for what I hope is the final push to actually finish the book. So I spent a month doing other things, then two weeks traveling in the Mediterranean, then a few days recovering from my trip, then enjoying Thanksgiving. They were beautiful, glorious months. But by last Saturday, Carl wanted answers. Trapped in a car with him driving home from North Jersey, he asked the dreaded question: “Why aren’t you working on the book?”

I’d been asking myself the same thing. I knew it was time to get back to work, but I couldn’t make myself do it. Partly I felt scared—of finishing the book, of what comes next—but mostly I think it was a complete lack of momentum—having been away from it for so long, I had no idea where or how to start.

Since reading the Twilight Saga, though perhaps justifiable as research, and certainly enjoyable, wasn’t going to finish the book, I had to try something else. So the next day, I used two of my best tricks: first, I left the house, with the computer—something about being in public forces me to work in a way being at home just doesn’t; second I completed the tiniest possible step I could imagine—I made a to-do list for the book. It’s not magic, I didn’t fall right back into writing, but I had taken that crucial first step, which in my experience, is often the hardest one to take.

While I had the computer out and caffeine coursing through my veins, I wrote a little about my trip, which helped to stretch out my writing muscles, prepare them for working out again. The next morning, I went back to the Corner Bakery, determined to have a work session. I sat down, looked at my to-do list, and picked one thing—addressing one of my reader’s comments. I created a new document, a “working” manuscript, and began editing with Chapter One.

Before I knew it I had edited three chapters, and felt better than I had in weeks. The rest of the week passed in a series of happy and productive work sessions, ticking off my reader’s concerns/questions one little thing at a time. With the momentum back, the working isn’t necessarily easy, but it’s happening. Perhaps now that I’ve written one blog post, I can get together the thoughts about my trip that have been rattling around my brain.

What are your tricks for starting something daunting?

A Face Only a Mother Could Love?

Somebody actually told me that Nalu has a face only a mother could love. I, of course, know this to be untrue, but take a look for yourself. Have you ever seen a cuter ladybug? The pictures start on Halloween and journey back in time to Nalu's first trip to Beak and Skiff, apple orchard extraordinaire in Central New York, her peeking over Aunt Nell's boots back in May, her first trip to the beach in April, and her first day with us, on April 12. For anyone who's considering getting a puppy, it is just as much work as everyone says, but it is also endless joy. The smiles on our faces are no coincidence--it's hard not to smile when I look at her. Try it, I dare you.









I'm off to Europe for two weeks on Friday, but will be back with lots of material after November 20. Bon voyage to me!

Step by Step

Four summers ago, on an afternoon when I was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, I sat down at my computer with an irresistible urge to write a story. I felt overwhelmed, because I knew that I wanted to write a novel, and it felt like an impossibly large task. But I heard the thought “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step,” and I took a deep breath and started writing.

Four years and a million pages later, I’m glad I didn’t know what writing the novel would require of me, because if I had known, I might not have started. This experience, and others, have taught me that taking the smallest possible step is often the best way for me to proceed, especially if I’m feeling paralyzed. It’s a trick, because often if I take even a tiny step, I build a little momentum, and can then take the next one and the next.

My most recent application of this trick is to my computer angst. The thought of anything technology-related overwhelms me, and my computer issues have recently become urgent and unmanageable. Most pressing at the moment is how unbearably slow my laptop has become, and when I tried to resolve this on my own, I made it worse, then avoided it for three weeks.

But yesterday when I inadvertently parked right by the Mac store I took it as a sign, walked in and made an appointment at the Genius Bar for today, figuring that might give me the push I needed. I hate the Mac store—all sleek, modern, and white with its tantalizing products, and its child employees who want to know things like “What kind of Mac do you have?” and “Which operating system?” I arrived late for my appointment, with a headache, and a teen with Frank Sinatra eyes and a fake Phillies tattoo on his forearm ran some tests, told me my hard drive wasn’t failing, scolded me for not having backed up sooner, and gave me a long list of things to do to resolve the problems. I left muttering to myself something about “kids today.”

After some coffee and some deep breathing, I’ve gained some perspective, and am proud of having taken the first step, which is often the hardest. In this case, I feared what might be asked of me, what it would cost, the stress and difficulty that could ensue, and also, admitting I’m not good at something (the horror!) But as with most things, the reality is better than the horrific possibilities my imagination creates. After thinking about what Old Blue Eyes said, my first step is to buy an external hard drive. That seems manageable. Then I’ll need to backup whatever I want to save from this one laptop. I can handle that. And after accomplishing those things, I’ll need to archive and reinstall the operating system, which sounds scary, but has written instructions, which I can generally follow. Three pretty small steps. I can do that. After I do, I can reevaluate what else, if anything, technological I need to do. Maybe nothing. And if I need to, I can always swallow my pride, go back to the Mac store, and try to resist my impulse to buy yet another overpriced Mac product that I won’t know how to use.

The Flyin' Narberthian

I learned to be a Phillies fan the way probably most kids in the Delaware Valley did—from my dad. So as the frenzy builds about our second World Series in two years, I’ve been thinking a lot about baseball and my dad, which are inextricable in my mind.

My dad played baseball from sunup to sundown every day of the summer when he was a kid, at the Narberth playground just down the road from where I live. He went on to play in high school, then in college at St. Joe’s, a Division 1 school, where he held the record for stolen bases until just a few years ago. He even appeared in Sports Illustrated. Baseball was his life.

He got married at twenty-two and had four kids in short order, and though he stopped playing baseball the love affair continued through coaching Little League, following his Phils, naming my brother after Richie Allen, and taking my brothers and I to games whenever possible, where we sat in the bleachers at the very top of The Vet. When in my eighth grade year my St. Bernadette’s varsity softball team lost our coach, my dad stepped in. He said he knew coaching girls would be different when we insisted on voting whether or not to get hats for the team, and decided not to because they messed up our hair.

My dad was a great coach, and under his leadership and the fantastic arm of our pitcher Katie Weinrich, we had a storybook season, making it to the playoffs and into the Archdiocesan Championship game. I had been sick with the chicken pox for the playoffs, but came back for the final game, no longer contagious but still pock covered. I was our starting first baseman, and hit fifth or sixth in the lineup—a solid, consistent hitter (at least in my memory.) Late in the game, we were within one run, with two outs and one runner on base, and I was up to bat. The pitch came, and I smacked a ball hard, that kind of contact that you know is a good hit as it happens, but my dream of being the team hero shattered as I looked up to see the shortstop snag it out of the air, ending the inning. I burst into tears, as a 13-year-old girl will, and threw my helmet, as an Owsik will, but my dad hugged me and said, “That was a great hit. You should be proud of yourself.”

We lost the game, by one. I didn’t know it at the time, but that season would be the pinnacle of my sporting career. And though it didn’t have a heroic Hollywood ending, it had something better--the knowledge that my dad loved me and was proud of me whether I won or not.

Thank you, Dad, for passing on your love of baseball to me, for taking me to games, for coaching my team, and for showing me in so many ways that I am your beloved daughter.

Go Phils!