Live on a Beach

I came to Greece without too many intentions.  To settle a while, see old friends, get to know a place on an intimate level.  It was such an easy and natural choice that I jumped into it without hesitation.  I went to China to visit friends, and cross off an item on the list.  The list was in the forefront of my mind when I bought that ticket.  I thought that from Greece it would be much easier to make it to Spain and France, and so that plan came to light, two more checks from the list.  As for actually being in Greece, I didn't think the list would be involved, didn't see a way it would.  It was my mom who first mentioned it, "what about living on a beach? You are already doing that.".  I thought it over, and, technically I don't live on a beach.  Not on it.  But we discussed it.  I wake up and I see the sea.  I jump over the back wall and in 4 minutes I'm swimming in the Ionian.  I don't know, maybe I am stretching it a bit, but my family gave me the go ahead, and so I went.  And it's done.  

I woke early, wanting to spend the afternoon at the sea, contemplating the location and being in the sun.  Together Lo, Abbey and I walked through Pogonia with our instruments, up the hills and out and around the sides of the mountains, down the little dirt road, across a grass field and onto our favorite beach.  We sat on the rocks and watched the ocean lunge toward us at regular intervals.  The sun was out and we swam regularly to cool down our heated skin.  I had the ashes in my backpack, knowing I would spread them here, but not sure when. Or how I would go about it.  So we killed time playing our guitars.  The church behind us sat solitary in its grass field, watching our backs as we lounged, laughed, loved every note we played, and the fact that we were together.  I appreciated them coming with me, appreciated them for knowing me, knowing my dad.  For not passing judgement about what I was doing, not thinking it was strange, or morbid, like I often feel some people might, but just loving without hesitation. 

Enveloped in that girly roommate love, we let the afternoon pass us by.

When evening was creeping silently behind us, I figured I needed to get on with it.  We played one last song, to the air, the sea, the beach, the church, to my dad and to each other.  A song that seemed all too appropriate: "My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys" by Willie Nelson.  And with that we waded into the sea.  I held the small plastic container of ashes in my hand, and we told some stories of Papa Kaas.  Ones Abbey and I both knew, of concerts and dinners, him visiting California, first impressions and last impressions, and all the drinks and stories that regularly accompanied his visits.  We all took turns, emptying the container little by little into early evening's clear blue water, watching it soak in slowly, dissipating amongst the salt and the life that exists in the rhythmic ebb and flow of the Ionian.  He became a part of it.

And the interesting thing about this list is trying to decipher why these certain items made it on.  From what I remember about summer vacations with my parents to beach houses is my mom and I relaxing on the sand, content in swimming and sunbathing and reading all day.  What I remember from my dad is sheer boredom.  But I trust in his list, with the editing he did I don't think "live on a beach" would still be on there if he didn't want to someday actually do that.  Even if just for the romanticism of the whole idea, he wrote it, so I've done it.

Tonight I am leaving on a night ferry for Italy, then Spain, and lastly France.  Running of the bulls and Alpe d'Huez, two events that I can fully see papa Kaas partaking in without question.  I'll have some good stories coming soon.

So here it is, as it stands now, The List (or, the 7 remaining):

-Visit Denali State Park
- Visit the pyramids in Egypt
- Run with the bulls in Pamplona
- Visit Australia, and New Zealand
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail 
- Visit the great wall
- Go to France and ride the Alp D’Heuz
- Race in Ironman Hawaii in Kona
- Live on a beach.

Couldn't have done it without these ladies. Photo by Devin Hume.

 


Also,
I've been slacking on the blissful moment posts, so heres a quick synapsis of some amazing times that have been had:
    Watching the moon rise with Devin and Abbey on a whimsical night hike
    Singing "I'll Fly Away" in a small church beach with my roommates
    Yesterday jumping off a boat deck in the early dawn hours
    And, surely, the feeling of movement that will come from stepping on a ferry boat tonight.

loving TUL

We saw these stickers posted all over China from north to south and in the most random of locations.  "I love TUL".  And we all noticed them though none of us really mentioned it and I formed my own perception of what it must be, figuring it was a band or the initials of some dreamy Chinese actor.  Until one night laying in four small beds one of us glanced at the ceiling and there it was for the 100th time, "I love TUL" and I forget who, but one of us finally wondered out loud at what it could mean and a new member to our group answered quick and direct:

                            I love the unemployed life.

A light was shed on the mystery of the stickers and we smiled, all relating fully to this new meaning.  And today in a kitchen I counted the months and I've realized I haven't held any sort of regular job since September and I do love this life.  And sure I worked my ass of through college to make money that I blew as quick as it came on travels only to save again and I will be right back in that situation come fall time.  But for now I work slowly through the money I've got while relying on the odd jobs I find while avoiding routine and lets see how long I can keep this up.

And since I was last employed I have filled the open days with some serious explorations.  The places I've encountered and the people I've met have been some of the most incredible of my life and I am beyond thankful for every second.  Now a year has gone by since I've worked at the preschool, since I have had to do homework, since I maintained any sort of routine.  So because my blog needs more pictures, and because I am thinking about it, I'll take a look over some of the glorious moments during this year of TUL in highlights.  

thanksgiving came early

TIMING. you can wait for a ride for days but the moment you leave for beers here comes a pick up. But now we've got beers and a ride. Que rico.

camping on beaches.

camping in desserts.

 

"Lets see if we could get back by hopping on a train"

crazy farm. and a slight routine. and I miss it.

New years back from Mexico.  Road trips to Idaho mountains and the people that make me laugh harder than anyone else on this planet.

Funk faces and Spokane living rooms.

Chinese mountains and the opportunity to be with such incredible women.

Oh yeah. and NOW. I need to start taking more pictures to show this Greecy life of mine.

I'm fully thankful to have this time.  I realize this time in my life is fleeting and before I know it I will be back into a routine and that will feel good too.  A time and place for it all.  And while I sometimes feel useless and a little restless and like I should be working at something I remember that I am fortunate to have made this time for myself to learn new skills, to adventure and play so hard, to gather grass stains and new ideas from a constant influx of people.  To live in the now and the new.

Although I did my full share of working and saving to get to this point, of selling all my possessions but a few, I know that without the money I recieved when my dad died I never could have made China happen and it would have taken a lot longer to reach Greece.  I'm confident Papa Kaas would be in support of the way I am spending it.

And on that note, tomorrow is my dad's birthday.  A huge and well known reason for why I am in Europe is to cross off three of the nine remaining goals on his list.  Starting tomorrow, June 16th.  There's a beach down the road with a small church, and I have visited so much, I have written about it at length, and tomorrow I'll go for a candle, a swim, a hike, a read, and I'll leave another of those little vessels full of ashes there and cross off another line.

More to come on that.


My current career:

Making music with Lo and Abbey on street corners.

onions running music and... now.

I am cutting a yellow onion and it reminds me of something.  The smell.  Nevermind that I've probably cut over 100 yellow onions in my life, this one reminds me of something.  The smell.  And I read the news online, I am listening to Beirut on a cd from a friend and despite the headlines life is feeling pretty fantastic and yet this yellow onion is making me think of something.  Lentil soup. Potato salad.  Lila didi.  Crossword puzzles.  Rainy sunday afternoons, summer evenings barefoot with the fresh cut grass, Indian nights cooking with two others in such a simple kitchen, a snowy balcony.  It could be anything, but it reminds me of something.  I'll think on it. 

2nd annual Abbey Bekha half marathon went down a treat.  A year ago I shared that Eugene hotel bed with Abbey and Sarah, as Liam slept on the floor and we drank a little tequila and reminded ourselves how a good nights sleep is highly overrated, especially before race day.  This year I watched Blow and went to bed early.  Not quite as exciting.  Next year?  With limited expectations I fully expect us to be somewhere in Latin America salsa dancing the night away and again reminding ourselves not to fret about getting enough sleep.  But we'll see when the time comes.  This year - we started off casually making our way to the back of the pack.  Who needs to be trampled by anxious Greek runners for five minutes until people sort themselves out? Not us. So we lingered and we waited and we settled in nicely.  Until all at once and without any warning the entire group of 600 runners turned around in place.  Not only were we instantly in the front, we were in the front facing the wrong direction as the gun went off and chaos ensued.  2 hours and 20 minutes later we were barefoot drinking a beer with our fabulous support team chit chatting about this and that.  Overall the event was put together flawlessly, complete with those Grecian quirks that never get old... like handing out orange Fanta and Redbull instead of water.  Put that together with the fact that they forgot porta-potties and you've got a bit of a mess.  Loved every minute of it.

Fast forward to the next evening.  Lo, Abbey and I decided to busk for loose change in the Paleros square.  There was a rainbow in the mountains, a back drop for Lo and I as we strummed and sang as loud as we could, knowing our voices would dissipate into that night air before they had a chance to reach the ears of tourists in open restaurants nearby.  Playing for them but mostly for ourselves and beyond that for the air, the stars, the chance at outdoor practice.  We gathered a few fans, and came out ahead. Six euros 50 cents, 3 beers bought for us, and 3 chocolate eggs, (the kind that comes with toys - illegal in the states).  And after it was Skippers, for the usual good people, a fire show, beers on tap, dancing, and a lost wallet.

And when I look at it, living here is so easy, so slow and wonderful.  And my friends at home are asking for more writing in this blogg-o, but lately it's been hard as a routine develops here.  My days are full to the brim even though I don't have much to do.  What I do have: I have the most incredible roommates, and I am falling in love with this village.  The amount of tea I consume and the sun on my face reminds me the past year and how and when to recognize the growth and continuation of it.  More often than not I am cleaned by salt water instead of showers and willingly I jump, run, swing, climb, swim, thankful for this working body and wishing to do more of all that.  And here, when you least expect it, the clouds drop thunder and lightning creating nighttime electric energy you can feel and nevermind all the mosquitos, all the flies.  I have the opportunity to play music every minute should I choose.  To dive into the ocean, spin fire, spend 15 minutes watching this one fly perched on the corner of this computer screen.  It is still, and for that moment I forget how annoying they are, making room for admiration of their tiny bodies.  Every miniscule moment.  The kids in this town are now familiar and we've grown a family.  House wine is good and inexpensive and while I'm home and while I'm away I am able to think, to listen, to try and to learn and I am genuinely thankful for all the small things.

I finish with the onion and push it to one half of the cutting board still pondering what the something is that I am reminded off but in the end I shrug because what does it matter?  I know without needing to that from now on that something will be the memory of cutting a yellow onion at a white table in a living room in my house in Greece the day after I lost my wallet and the day before tomorrow.  No matter the memories that came before (onion oriented or not) the current moments relevancy is much easier to pinpoint than lingering in the past looking for a broad idea of what the current moment is causing you to remember.  I take the memories the smell creates and move them back a notch to make room for the now: for the steadily growing memory of what is.  

Bag of tools

More moments of bliss coming at me, full force...

I've been putting a lot out into the wind lately. Living with less money than I have had in years, in paradise, Abbey and the sun everyday.  I put intentions out there for what I hope to gain, learn, experience, and the world is returning them in more obvious ways than ever before.  For as long as I've been away from any sort of home, living in continual motion aided by the wanderlust, and even during the time I was with a home, house, routine... every person and experience has had an impact, a new lesson, idea, belief to agree or disagree with.  A new skill to teach.  I can't help but smile that smile of thanks for the small bag of tools that I keep in my back pocket, which is now expanding without warning.  I love it.

"Bag of tools" is an expression from my bass teacher, which he would use whenever I was struggling with a piece, school, or simply living where I was.  He would remind that even when I have nothing else, I have a bag of tools, and that it is chock full of everything I need and expands daily through interactions with the world/people/animals around me.  I have the resources already in place, but to recognize them, use them and always try for the expansion of them, is the hard part.  Then to open up the bag, share it, realize how to be a learner and teacher simultaneously every day no matter the interactions, is the goal.

Lately, for me, it has been more learning than teaching, at least in the bits I am recognizing.  I am accomplishing the goals I set myself on this year, (although the list is now moving slower than expected - but if nothing else, I have time).  But in regards to my other aspirations, good location and timing with the people I encounter has been more than ever so APPARENT in bringing me to where I want to be, and I am beyond thankful for that.  Letting intentions take to the wind like a kite, and seeing the ways in which they return.  Yesterday I went on my first open water scuba dive, the first step to the first goal I set for myself this year, in Bellingham, new years day, written on some random corner of an already filled in journal page.  Partnered with incredible teachers, 16 meters deep in the Ionian sea, I eventually felt beyond content within it. 
                            My eyes opened wide so as not to miss a moment. 
                                A window into a world I have many times attempted to imagine. 
                                    Weightlessness with the sun coming in lines through blue water, coral, rock, with the fish, sand, and all that strange underwater life. 

A new feeling, and a wonderful one; I so badly hope to explore this other world on as many occasions as I can manage.  I am feeling amazingly fortunate.  Adding it to the bag of tools, along with spinning poi, fixing bikes, the correct ways to dance with Albanians, and when an olive is ripe to pick.  Not to mention the mental shifts and enlightening moments too many to count.

Filling up the bag.  Slowly, but more importantly, steadily.  Day by day, siga siga.

moments of bliss

Sometimes when my mind drifts in circles as I lay on the couch or wash my hair or walk the dog or smell a flower...
I think of certain times that were absolutely blissful.

Last night I was laying in bed.  It was 9:00 and I was going to sleep until 11 when I was due to meet some friends at a bar for a solid night of drinks and dancing.

I started remembering a time when I was alone at my house in California, wind and rain against windows and I was wishing it would stop so I could ride my bike to Alex's and I remember I didn't have socks on.  I was making tea, boiling water in a green kettle that had long lost it's whistle and had been in my life for as long as I can remember.  As the water boiled I went for a mug, but there were none.  The kitchen was clean because I was living with Bethany, and it too was without any mugs.  Checked the living room, piano room, front porch, back porch.  For all we drink, it was remarkable to not find a single one.  I rounded the hall and climbed the stairs to my bedroom.  Ah, thought I.  The small table next to my bed had probably 5 mugs, 3 wine glasses and a few more cups. I grabbed the mugs, and before I went back down the hall peaked into the room where Lauren and Taylor slept.  I found there a collection of ten or so various items of drinking ware.  So I made some trips. Carried mine, then theirs.  On my second trip down, I figured, eh, since I am doing this, might as well see what Daniel has stocked up.  And he did.  Mostly water glasses, which I stacked precariously on my journey downstairs.  They clattered and shifted as I set the load on the counter, and looked down at the array of glasses, now more than 20.  The water was boiling, and would have been whistling if it had a whistle to whistle.  For a second I reflected on that whistle.  I think it had melted off or something.  I can't remember the exact story.  Maybe it was behind the oven with the cobwebs.  I'll never know. 

I set those glasses down, turned around and went into Spencer and Bethany's room.  And I just had to smile to think of those lovers that I love so well sharing that space as I collected 7 or so cups and made my way back to the kitchen.

And after the dishes were done, my tea was poured, I sat down on the kitchen floor, mug in hand, sipping tea and eating a cold artichoke.

And I was boiling over with love for my roommates.  If I had had a whistle, it surely would have blown pink clouds of gushy hearts and the like.  Davie D came in and sat on a stool and had some artichoke and I poured him a cup of tea and told him of the mugs and he said something like "yes you sure are slobs" and I said something like "slobs but we are all slobs and I love them for it for their glass hoarding tendencies and messy beds wet towels on the floor and it all."         

And maybe I was thinking too poetically but it seemed to me that in every one of those mugs there was a little story and most of the times that story was of us.  Cold mornings drinking tea, nights of wine at the bedside, bottles of whiskey poured into glasses, of Bethany bringing Spencer coffee in bed, of Lauren bringing me wine after a shower, of beer with Daniel, Lauren and I laying together in my blue room.  It's too sentimental now, but then and there on the floor with that mug in my hand listening to the rain and chatting with Dave I felt as blissful as could be.

I am thinking there will be more blissful posts to come.  A trend perhaps. 

And, my birthday.  9:30am, Greg and Abbey are still sleeping off last night but I couldn't sleep last night.  This village we live in is turning wild, with tourists and noise.  I danced until 3, my best partner a 50 year old English man who really did have moves.  The night went on with perfect timing the right songs and new faces French American Australian English Greek.  In the afternoon on my first day of my 23rd year and I've been on a bike ride jaunt, tried to help make flowers grow and am now drinking a Mythos as Greg makes spaghetti sauce, smelling boiling tomatoes garlic spices and our house is really quite warm and homey.  And a thunder storm in the night, lightning like I've never seen, the thunder rattled our windows as we stayed inside with cake, whiskey and blankets, the three of us and the end to a very good day.

And an even better year.  

Konitsa

Greg was visiting and our lazy lifestyles became even lazier.  A couple trips to town, one muddy romp, whiskey at bars and wine with dinner.  Work on sundays, maybe saturdays.  Not too much else, besides that occasional Ostrich egg and visits from the sheep.

So we jumped in a cab, following Greg's longing to visit Meteora, Greece, and monasteries built on clifftops.  That meter was going way too fast and we jumped right back out, and hitched a ride to Preveza with cigarette smoking gas station employees in a blue pick up who liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Abbey's eyes.  From there a bus to Ioannina, where we killed five hours through wine, free food, dice and a lakeside walk.  A night bus to Kalambaka so we could walk to Meteora where we stopped to shelter ourselves in a camp sight for a night.

Three of us in a tent build for one where we insisted on laughter to avoid hating each other during sleepless, uncomfortable hours.  A full moon provided an illusion of dawn which lasted through the night, as I lay anxious, awaiting that feeling of sun through tent walls.

In the morning we walked.  Fields of wildflowers, tall grass, and those rocks. It seemed as though we had been lifted, taken across the universe and deposited on some long lost planet where stone reached sky and color filled in the rest like Crayola streaks from a childhood hand.  I tried to imagine some daring monk who had first decided to build places of worship so precariously atop those cliffs.  Someone who understood a benefit in worshiping God and nature in the same sentence, perhaps.  Or just had a longing for the dangerous.  Whoever he was, and whatever the motivation, bravo.  We followed a cobblestone trail fading away to dirt, and marveled at the flowers, trees, stones.  Due to some impulse we pushed ourselves behind hanging ivy and between yellow rock following an internal notion of goodness and discovered a cave, which grew larger with every step and we rested awhile wondering about presences before us and shared space throughout time.

The day continued on in that fashion, admiring nature, architecture, art and faith and how it is the combination that creates the religion.

We had walked far, hard, and in such heat.  We needed food, drink, a good nights rest.  Hitched a ride to town with a German rock climber, grabbed our bags, a beer, lunch, and a bus ticket back to good ol' Ioannina with the hope of sleeping in our own beds later that night.  Arriving at the bus station the general feeling amongst us was so positive it radiated, pulsing, into all of those around us, for really, it had been a fantastic day.  We purchased our tickets to Vonitsa, and had time for coffee before our bus left.

On that bus, the last one of the trip, we drank Ouzo and played 21 questions, (Scooter, Lasagna, Sunset, Jon Bon Jovi, Castle...) and swam with a comfortable ease in the fact that we would soon be back to Vonitsa, a quick 20 minutes from our house, where our neighbor would give us a ride home, and the rest of the night would be filled with wine and love and good nights of sleep.

However, as it goes, it went a little differently. The bus stopped after an hour and a half, we glanced out the windows and, knowing it wasn't our stop, stayed cozy and content in our seats as the bus emptied.  Completely.  Eventually the driver came on, and yelled something in Greek the must have meant,

            "We're here, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get the hell off this bus. I've got a busy night and your three are slowing me way down."

So we stepped into the night, into an unfamiliar town, and man were we confused. 

            "Vonitsa?" We asked, to the general public. Yes, it replied, "Konitsa". 

Abbey looked at me. Greg looked at Abbey.  I looked... confused.  Konitsa.  It rang through our minds like the church bells of earlier.  Konitsa, Vonitsa.  Of course.

We took out our handy road map, and there it was, in small black writing.  The exact opposite direction of where we wanted to go, and only about 20 minutes from the Albanian border.  Lovely.

We ran through our options. Stay the night? All Lonely Planet had to say of the place was that it is "dangerous", so we decided to try our best to head out.  Too dark and far for hitchhiking, we resigned to getting on another bus, if one was running so late.  And, after only a little frustration, one angel of a cab driver, and some wonderful timing, we were on a bus back to Ioannina with our Ouzo and the memory of a trip to the border of Albania to look back on whenever we may need a good laugh.

The events that happened next seemed to occur in a rapid fast forward.  Backtracking is never enjoyable, but we tried our best at positivity.  There were only six of us onboard, and as we began chatting to the three boys sitting around us the conversation quickly grew interesting as we swapped answers to the question that is always asked first in the life of travel: "where are you from?".  Two boys from Afghanistan and one from Pakistan.  As we answered "America" we instantly became full to the brim with questions for one another, and in what seemed like 10 minutes, we were back at the station, in a city which, by now, we knew quite well.  Our 12 brown eyes took turns exchanging glances, as hands reached towards shakes, and eight of those eyes headed for Athens, Greg included. 

Abbey and I took our four to a cheap hotel, strange movies, comfy beds and new perspectives.

An Egg

And so we were gifted this Ostrich egg. Walking down the road, homeward, Abbey and Greg and myself.  We were hoping for a ride but none came so we continued foot after foot, slowly, patiently.  Stopped to say hi to Bert and Ernie, our Ostrich friends.  They didn't say much, as usual. Yet we walked away, proudly, with one shining egg.

An Ostrich egg has the equivalent to 24 hen eggs.  So we began thinking of what to do with it.  Make the biggest scramble ever? Feed a hungry village? Hard boil, and make 100 egg salad sandwiches?

So we got the thing home.  Set it on that shiny counter.  Poured some Ouzo.  And the events that followed... well...




We deserved another shot of ouzo.

What happened can be interpreted 3 ways.

The first:

Six hands, six eyes, three similes, two holes punctured on either side of one huge egg.  Simple, really. The process went much quicker than we thought...
A hammer and screwdriver were the useful tools to do the trick. As I delicately punctured the largest single cell known to mankind, patient faces stared back at me and I thought, "Alright, here we go.."
Yellow membrane and clear royal jelly escaping the shell. Spontaneous spurts of dancing accompanied by ouzo shots and laughter, what could be better than this experiment? Lights flashed and I was curious of the aftermath of the successful outcome...Fritatta? yes. Brownies? ok. Cookies? yep. All made and still, more egg left...
Looks like we're set for a week.

The second:

(and then this shit fucking happened, we were at this disco hanging out with Albanian drug lords and they were like, "Hey! Come on our yacht."  And we were like, "K."  Then on the way out this rival gang was waiting outside with a bunch of guns and dogs and hummers and rocket packs.  And they were like, "Bro you've crossed us one too many times."  Then this guy opened his shirt and had a dynamite vest on and was like, "This can go one of two ways Bro."  And the other guy was like, "Bro..."  Then, somebody threw a smoke bomb and we jumped on the back of a motorcycle and then next thing I remember I was on a yacht smoking cigars and being served by siamese twins from Myanmar).

The third:

Lost a week of my memory. An empty egg shell, but where did it come from? Ah, fuck it.  Lets paint it red, celebrate Easter, play soccer by the church.  Look at all these brownies, and cookies! Cookies for breakfast, but ah damn, we are out of milk.  Cookies and seltzer water.  The pools overflowing with rain.  Where do the sheep go to stay dry? Think I will stay inside today and read a book. 




And apart from all that, this past month has taught me many valuable lessons. For example, when you go dancing with Albanians, you should spin three times every time they spin you.  When you add ice to Ouzo, it turns a foggy gray color.  You cannot buy anything between the hours of 1 and 6, so you might as well sleep.  Don't leave laundry out in a windstorm, chances are it will fall in the pool.  Never turn your back on the kids near the church, they have tricks up every sleeve. And, that one Ostrich egg can produce a frittata, 20 cookies, a whole plate of brownies, and you will have egg-in-a-bowl for a left over.







*this (mostly fiction) post was written by three. without our combined recollections it could never have been made possible. special thanks.