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26.08.07
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What started as a Captain's Log has mutated into a Guestbook of sorts. Did you visit us last year? Did you write about it? Did you send it to us? Is it not here? Email will@atlantisbooks.org and reparations shall be made. 26.08.07 The Cowboy. Runs into unsuspecting Tourists who are too busy saying “Look at all the dogs, honey. They’re sleeping!” to see him bounding towards them with his head looking back over his shoulder at whatever dog is chasing him and most likely Mounting him soon. The Cowboy doesn’t mind. He swings his hinges left right, up down, and has been spotted (and relentlessly But like I said before, he don’t Mind. Oh, didn’t I mention that The Cowboy rolls with a mixed set? One black. One pink. Racially all inclusive. The black and white cookie. You think that stops him from licking in the middle of the square on a Sunday afternoon? Don’t you remember who we’re dealing with here? He’s young. Less than a year old. So he barks on occasion, and is always last to get involved in a territorial skirmish in the square. He remembers what it was like a few months when he was the new Kid with no name. Now he’s snagging books off of our front display and carrying them around town. Free advertising. A few torn pages and a lot of charm. Because now you see. He’s the mother f’in Cowboy, and if you don’t know, now you know. 19.07.05 Momma Cas read her poetry on the terrace with her friend Danae. Not her daughter Danae my dance partner on days when the Beatles come on. It’s different being here with no Craig Maria Will Lisa Athena. Of course it is. I don’t know. Boring stuff like Luke and I cleaning the back room and Hannah and Andrew mopping their love nest and brainstorming on how to better use the terrace and a slow day yesterday but a great one the day before. Had to buy a fan so Joel took the bus to Fira and ended up having to walk almost 3 km to the appliance store. For a week it was Hot like really hot, like no use taking a shower until after the sun has gone down hot. Not many people walking around in the middle of the day. Boring stuff. We repainted the terrace and there’s a set of saloon doors on the way. That’s right. I said it. Hannah and Andrew have successfully gained privacy out of the ‘den’ by Bamboo(!) and sewed curtains. Megan painted on the terrace wall. There’s Marita. She comes to Fira and the phone company with me and in exchange I bring her books at her shop. 6th (wo)man off the bench. Luke takes the morning shift so I wake up to the Blues. He claims he’s finished with the guitar forever but I catch him playing sometimes so I call him out on it. Summer’s moving around like a newlywed and when we’ve got a fire on the terrace, I’m on Luke ass to break out the harmonica because then Fransizka comes rolling back When the Saints Go Marching In and the month turns to August. Home Stretch. Then Maria gets back and We make Party. 11 April 2005 We would collect (or steal?) hundreds of pounds of marble without anything close to a plan of what to do with the marble. We knocked down a wall and then asked ourselves, “Why did we knock down this wall? And is the structure still sound?” Some would say this is irresponsible. I say it’s carefree. Then there were the dogs. I don’t know if I’d call either Tim or Maria “Pirate,” but they had a decent coterie of dogs following them nearly all the time. I had a brief affair with Athena. I still dream about her. Someday we will be reunited. I arrived with a giant bag full of treats for Craig and Chris. There was a nice pair of khakis, a tape of the Super Bowl, barbeque sauce, and other delights that are unavailable in Oia. Despite the size of the bag, I traveled with carry-on only. Craig was impressed. I learned all about Greek contracting. One doesn’t paint the walls. One puts asvesti on it. Similarly, a new floor isn’t a floor. It’s Patito. Finally, Craig Walzer translates to Greg Walters. Speaking of Walters, I saw his cock. It was a typical jew cock. And while the cock didn’t surprise me, the swimming naked caught me off guard initially. I finally got to meet Chris too. Boy do I know what he means. Anyway, back to 14 February 2005 When the night consists of sweeping the floors and baking bread and preparing With all of this time on our hands, there’s been plenty of reading, watching 1. If I was to open up a bar, it would be called The Black Tulip. You get the picture. I’ve read more books in one month than I ever dreamed possible. I don’t leave Lisa speaks English weller than I do, but won’t write a journal entry. If I were to comment on the kissy noises that Craig makes in his sleep, it You Damn Right. And Chapter Two. I’ve been writing to friends that I’m feeling fat and zen. Fat and zen. 2005 has always been one of my favorite years. It’s blatantly clear that this isn’t your grandpa’s Atlantis Books. No rewind-and-just-press-play. Take our winter digs, for example. Can you say hot water? Late Thursday night here. Chris is snoring from across the room. He has this high-pitched ‘wheee’ sound that fades into and out of the thunder. Rhythmic at least. Tim’s staying at Maria Viard’s, our Maria is at Elaine’s, Will is here but not for much longer. Where’s Oliver? Well, there’s Lisa, the gentle Amazon. We’ve been swimming in January, no doubt, but how long can her nervous energy hold its breath? For the love of god, somebody give that woman a paintbrush or a sledgehammer or something. We’re waking up, making breakfast, strolling around the ghost town. Bus to Fira – phone company, real estate agent, computer repairman, video rental, tax office, electric company. Bus back. Little bit of chess, little bit of Rilke, Rand, Rohinton Mistry. If we’re lucky Will bakes bread. Build the stocklist. Ship some books. Draw some pictures. E-mail some lawyers. Correspond. Movie night perhaps. Santo Wine no doubt. Slept on the beach last night and that must happen again soon. But tomorrow morning is Fira. And hopefully Chris, Lisa, Tim and Maria will get inside of the ?new building? and start some sweep sweep sweeping. Cue Nico’s “Fairest of the Seasons.” Amazing how these surreal moments continue to find us. And that’s what it is at this moment. For the first time in forever we have more time on our hands than we know how to spend. Hearts are spinning in neutral and it’s a deliberate, calm attitude that prevails. Maybe any group of monkeys could have landed on this town, flung around some cash and hosted the world’s greatest literaaati paaaty (thanks Karl) like we did last year. But can that same crew, more and less, with those memories in mind, come back and build again, with the gravitas of a 3, 6, 9 year plan in mind? Not beneath the castle but along the marble main street? With real common dirty warm human history oozing everywhere? Without the rush of the Big New? I like to think that this is actually the most interesting part, that here’s your story. Jim Jarmusch over Jerry Bruckheimer. But Jeff Goldblum asks: what human being doesn’t require two or three grand rationalizations just to make it through the day? Do your eyes glaze as you read this? Perhaps year one was prologue. Then again perhaps year two is epilogue. Bottom line: we’re close to getting a building. Tim’s drawings for the shop look spectacular. The book stock is going to be damn strong, stronger and sexier. We’ve got a level-headed rhythm to the admin and we’re on our way towards the Ella Wise plan of rotating management. Anybody want come and do some theatre? Is there a string quartet in the neighbourhood? If you’ve got the talent, we’ve got the terrace and if you’re lucky, perhaps even a firebowl. Business will be good enough to breathe easy, no doubt. And the best part about doing it again is that I get to be just as clueless about the future as I was a year ago. Come visit your old dirty hippie friends in Santorini, see what comes of it. I’ll bet five, no ten euros this crew can pull it off. It’s that time of year so I’m bringing back the numbers. To the naysayers: I don’t care what you say anymore, this is MY LIFE Mediocre films portraying the Turks as Barbarians: +2 14 August 2004 Throughout my visit to the land of the gods, I had the chance to observe how modern Greek people that I encountered still adhere themselves to this idea of xenia. Some corporate group used this term to name its chain of four-star hotels and restaurants (such that I saw in Delphi, Nafplio, and Epidaurus)—but that was not what xenia was all about, as it would deny other wandering strangers who knocked on their door but could not afford the form of reciprocity required. But in general, Greek people I met have been very kind and helpful towards this backpacking wanderer. The guy from Zeus hostel in Athens helped me to my room when I was too drunk to carry myself up the stairs. The Corinthians I met were nice enough to take me to the bus station when I was lost in the city. The bus driver and passengers in Athens supported my testimony to the police when I lost my ticket, and thus could not show it to him. Thanks to them, I escaped the 18(or 80?)-Euro fine. However, some people seemed to have forgotten this tradition, for example the taxi driver in Athens who tried to rip me off (I don’t speak Greek, my friend, but I do know how to read the meter); and few sketchy workers at Epidaurus who tried to ask me out. Interestingly, I received the warmest xenia from a group of youngsters in the caldera of Oia—a town in the island of Santorini, in the Cyclades. They were in the midst of building their own bookstore. They had as their base a cave-house right underneath the castle. And from their terrace once could admire the magnificent sight of Oia’s caldera and, of course, its world-famous sunset. I got to know about the bookstore by chance. I met Will in Fira’s bus station when about to leave for Oia. He seemed approachable and something about him told me that he would speak English. I have been traveling alone for a week, so I was excited to find someone to converse with. Will was very friendly and quite open, telling the activities he did with his friends, how he came to the island, what he had been doing, etc. All of which sounded exciting: climbing cliffs, teaching English, swimming in secluded lagoon, and the main event: starting up a bookstore. So Will showed me the shop, and I met the rest of the team: Craig, Maria, Tim, Oliver, a friend from England [I’m sorry I forgot your name], as well as Athina and Catty. And in no time, I was drawn into this… energy, this… whirlwind of enthusiasm, creativity, warmth, and hard work. Craig was building the racks, someone (Tim?) was continually taking pictures, classical music floated from the radio in the shop, books were scattered everywhere, papers, writings, sketches, designs… The vibes caught me so fast that I was truly impressed—especially after Will told me they were building the place from scrap, and my quick observation in the shop testified to that. I browsed the books while Craig was sawing, accompanied by classical music. It felt so peaceful, and I found Kundera’s Ignorance—one I was reading back home but forgot to bring in this trip! Maria offered me some coffee or tea, but I told her I was fine, and that I wanted to take a walk around, see Oia a bit. So I went to the castle above the shop, took some pictures, and read a couple of chapters from the Odyssey for my Greek mythology class. There were people enjoying the sights from there, as well as some students making sketch of the caldera. After that, I went exploring around, taking pictures, getting a glimpse of the lagoon, got lost. I eventually found my way back, but it was already time that I had to take my bus back to Fira, and then take another bus to Mesaria, to my hotel. I was running out of cash, for this was my last day, and I did not want to take a taxi. However, if I got in the bus, I could not stay for the sunset. Worried about the monetary situation, I got in the bus; even though my heart was screaming that I should stay for the sunset and spend more time at the shop. As the bus pulled away, I was getting restless. As we left Oia, I was on the verge of screaming, “Stop the Vehicle!” But it was too late. The bus already strolled away through the curvy roads leading back to Fira and refused to stop. The sun was hurrying away, as the West hemisphere opened its gates to receive the golden chariot. As soon as the bus stopped in Fira, I ran to where the taxis parked. I just knew I had to do this, or else I could never forgive myself—both for missing the sunset and for not returning to the shop as I said I would. “I want a taxi to Oia, to see the sunset, and then to return to my hotel in Mesaria.” I found a driver who was taking three other passengers to Oia, and then I tagged along. The second we got there, I stormed my way in direction to the castle, stopping to pick a lovely komboloi my sister at the jewelry shop on the way to the shop. There were hurls of tourists climbing to the castle, getting ready for the sunset. Instead, I went down to the shop—and met Craig on the way. “Mind if I see the sunset from your porch—to avoid the crowd?” “Not at all,” he said, making a gesture with his head to invite me in. So I came back, and said ‘hi’ to everyone. Some people gathered on the porch. They brought me tea, and I chatted with Oliver, a friend from London, and Sean. Originally from New Zealand, Sean knew where Indonesia was (my home country). Also, it turned out that Oliver graduated from Tufts, and he knew Wesleyan, my campus. Small world! We continued to chat while the sun performed its magnificent feat “just” for us. The sky turned pink, purplish, and bluish at the horizon. The sun’s golden circle was easily observable without having to shelter the eyes—and it descended and disappeared behind an islet, and finally beneath the sea. [An anecdote: Maria was cleaning the toilet and had her head stuck in the bowl all the while. When Helius was gone, she came out and complained, “I had my head stuck in the bowl the whole time!” To which Sean responded, “Yeah well, you know that thing is not meant to wash your hair!” / “I wasn’t washing my hair!” she shook her head in regret for missing the sunset. I told her she could still catch the next one. “I guess it’s true,” she said. And I wondered to myself, these people had been here for about two months then, and were still fascinated by this particular feat. It must be such a place to live in. It made one never want to leave, I said. Sean confirmed my statement, “Yes, this place has that effect.”] The sunset was stunning. The tea was nice. The conversation was inspiring. They offered me to stay for dinner. “Gosh, you don’t know how I would love to stay!” (Especially since I haven’t had a warm meal for a week by then.) But I knew my taxi was waiting, and I had to pack to leave the island the next morning. So I thanked them and excused myself. The Atlantis crew told me the address of the website, and asked if I would like to write a journal entry for them. I told them I would. And now I apologize for only doing this now… So I hopped into my taxi, which stole me to Fira, and then further away to Mesaria. I was smiling all the way—satisfied and happy, although still hungry. But it didn’t matter. As I packed my stuffs and got ready for bed, I concluded that my journey in Greece had been very successful, although not entirely. True, I didn’t get to see Olympia, Delos, or Crete. But I felt I saw enough for a two-week trip. True, I didn’t party the whole night as a climax of the trip, but it felt that stumbling into Atlantis Books was even better. I felt rewarded, and motivated. I couldn’t wait to get to Athens and to the US, to my campus, so I could get back to my own projects, my own studies, my own plans for all the things I’d always wanted to do. If this narrative sounds more about me rather than about the bookstore, I apologize; but what I want to convey is this: how captivating an “Atlantis experience” can be! The Atlantis crew has left a lasting impression in my mind, even in an encounter that was but pathetically brief. Here, million of miles away in the US, I can still feel the burst of creativity, enthusiasm, and willpower whenever I remember that evening in Oia, and whenever I visit the website. The radiation is indeed immense and far-reaching—and it never fails to inspire me. Perhaps, the Atlantis people had demonstrated the logic behind and the benefits of the almost forgotten concept of xenia: while extending welcome towards everyone, cooperation is earned, and as a collective, they have built something—driven by imagination and team work. 13 August 2004 I have been trying to write this journal entry since I left, and wracking my brain on how I can capture the indescribable feeling-spirit-energy of the place with anything other than "go there." but all I have are flashes of my time there: books read: 10 (although, I must admit that this includes "under the banner of heaven" which I didn't finish, but I read the bulk of it. mormons is crazy.) days spent entirely at the till: 3 I learned many things while I was in oia, but I like to leave you with these three:
it was excellent. thanks guys. 01 August 2004 7 August 2004 This place is a project; a creative collaboration which I know will live on and continue to grow, with more books, ideas and sand. To be standing in the bookshop talking to Craig as curious travellers, bold tourists and comforted locals tiptoed into the building created a feeling of something warm and insightful. So many people pass though, ask questions, interested in the project. To have created something that provokes so much interest made my constantly feel tingly and proud towards all these people. Excitement as new boxes of books arrived, the wails of glee at great works such as ‘Master and Margarita’, or ‘Oliver Sacks’ and many more works of fine literature reassumed my adamant to stay in touch with the shop, with its people and its shelves. Oia seemed timeless, three weeks visit initially, turned into seven. Every day passed with painting many coloured books onto the wall, or rehearing some impossible text, or watching with envy the power of the chess game between Chris and Craig. The knowledge of chess inside these guys baffled me, its interesting union between two men I think. I feel honoured to have been let into this community for such an extended time, to have cut the hair of many heads, to have sat up at the old castle and breathed in the night air, to be hugged and to have grown in a funny way. Picking lemons on a sparsely populated island called Thirasia with Will, battling against almost human cacti, morning swims in the blue sea and sleeping on cliffs so high above the ocean with Athena for company. All contributed to a time in Santorini that I shall never let fade, and I hope will fuel again some day…maybe in winter time, where more adventures will be waiting to be discovered. Takk Atlantis Books, this time was Superb.
18
July 2004 Watching the sun fill up with land Watching
the sun fill up with land 10th
July 2004 I’ve got less than a month left here. I’m not sure when I’ll be back and at the same time that this lack of knowledge worries me I am assured by my memories of January that set dates do little to add or take away from the sort of excitement that this place implants into your consciousness. In a game of chess the master will ride on the wave of singular victories en-route to a checkmate that has been in the works since the first successful attack. In this way the constant building and rearranging and detailing have transformed the bookshop of my earlier memories into a storefront that rivals any bookshop on the planet. The downstairs living area sleeps 12 comfortably with the second level that Tim and I put in just before the masses began to arrive, and since Quinn and Karisha have moved into the space and detailed it to their liking it has become a section of the compound with its own personality. It must be mentioned that the arrival and building expertise of Quinn has sparked a third major building phase, one that beautified and sectioned off the living area in a way that all can appreciate. The cubbies and shelves that Quinn built have made our floors less clogged and the office area of the downstairs back bedroom has been transformed from a mess of cables and computers into a functioning workspace that is safe from the deadly dust that has caused all electronic equipment great pain. The photographs on the walls outside leading to our stairway have sparked the curiosity of more than a few otherwise cautious tourists, and everything from the newspaper rack to the plants to the freshly painted benches with poems written on them make every visitor understand that this is meant to be a place where the casual browse is only the beginning. We have even devised a way of diverting their attention from what is obviously a bathroom, placing small book displays on the stairs to keep them from adding to our plumbing problems. The
store is a place that I feel drawn to from all corners of this small
village, including the downstairs living space. I find myself alone
in the back room at different times of day, on windy mornings before
the sun has risen or after midnight if the others are downstairs
watching a film, staring blankly at the massive icon that pulls
in unknowing costumers and leaves them gazing in wonderment at the
entirety of our living dream. The books of the back room, fiction
and drama, new and used, engulf the parameters of your sight whether
you like it or not, and I like to imagine the masses of words that
speak to each other when the lights are turned off, whispering so
as to not wake up Craig sleeping in the mezzanine. Of course, Craig
has probably just gone to sleep as the sun begins to rise, but the
all of the characters in all of our books, tattered or crisp, must
quiet themselves out of respect for the one that makes their shelf
life possible. Having known Craig as long as I’ve known anyone,
I can think of no one else that I would have followed out here as
blindly as I did. I didn’t know these people, I didn’t know this
place, and I didn’t know how much of a pampered baby I was before
coming here, but with one month to go in my first season here I
can safely say that coming here was no mistake. I sit in our bookshop
and remember the shelves as empty vessels waiting for knowledge
and magic and failure and triumph, stories about an anonymous turd
in a toilet and stories about bullfighting and California, plays
about nothing and Shakespeare plays that I’ve never wanted to read.
When I look at the shelves now as the people slowly duck their heads
in from the blinding light and staggering view, I feel a kinship
with each character in every book and I’m overwhelmed by the feeling
of wanting to walk around the shop with their wellbeing in mind,
handing books to travellers that might have only come down the stairs
to ask for directions or thinking we were the way down to the beach.
I want to sit them down and talk about their favourite books and
I want to invite them back. 9th
July 2004 One of the most vivid is my first morning. I stepped off the ferry with a few hours before daylight and looked around for Chris and Craig, I spotted Chris standing with a long-haired, heavily bearded kid that looked like John Lennon. As I approached I slowly recognized the Lennon kid as Craig, looking a little more ‘real’ than when I last saw him in the States. We said our hellos and made our way towards the van. After Chris had verified that I brought a large amount of Peanut Butter and BBQ sauce he unlocked the van door and we headed to the shop. As the van labored up the winding hill, all I could see in the night sky were distant clusters of lights and large black forms. I had no idea of the beauty that surrounded me. On the way home we stopped at a bakery that had just opened for the day and I bought an apple pastry (which would be the first of many, as I got in the habit of disappearing in the mornings to ‘get water’ and indulge some of Oia’s delicious pastry products). I remember getting to the shop, ducking through the wooden doors and throwing down my pack onto the sawdust covered floor in front of a wall of empty shelves. Chris and Craig wanted to finish up the last few shelves, so I figured I’d help them out for a few minutes and then watch the sun come up. The night began to fade; Craig suggested we go up on the castle and watch. As the morning light seeped out from behind the eastern part of the island the dark forms in front of me began to take on shades of color and I started to discern the beauty in front of me. I was standing on the top of a hillside overrun by wild daisies, with the ocean on three sides of me and a freakin’ castle behind me! Words can’t describe the excitement and awe I felt as the morning illuminating the Caldera. It was “ah-MAY-zing” as Tim might say. While Oia is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, the most enduring and important memory for me will be the people I met. The majesty of Oia, while unrivaled, affects you in a static, simple way. The experiences, cultures, lessons, perspectives, and ideas, I encountered in my stay with the Atlantis crew have and will continue to affect me in a much deeper more dynamic way. At the risk of cheesing this up too much, I grew as a person while I was there. I attribute this to a combination of the character and intelligence of the people I was surrounded by (the Atlantis crew foremost, but also the locals, and the passers-by), the emphasis on communal values, and a kind of contagious zest for ideas mysteriously floating around the shop. I feel very lucky to have stayed in the shop for the weeks that I did. When I arrived the village streets were empty, many of the village stores were still closed, and the shop was still taking form. In the weeks I was there the village and the shop were transformed. I watched the energy and passion everyone involved poured in and was quickly swept up in it. Day by day, with a new coat of paint, some new signs, the letters above the store, flyers, the shipment of books, this dingy cave on an island full of t-shirt shops was converted into a cultural oasis. I’m very thankful to the Atlantis crew for allowing me to be a small part (i.e. mostly jobs requiring height or heavy lifting . . . just like Boxer) of such a rewarding project. For brevity’s sake, some of my favorite recollections: chess on the terrace, chatting people up while working the till, Warschteiner, Tim’s fascination with flip-flops, making promenade, Edwin and Boschana at the Polski Locale, Nicos’ pizza, sunset sessions, and dinners at the big table. East
of Eden fans +1 28th
June 2004 Time, as it were, does not exist here like it does everywhere else. This goes double for those who are here for an extended period of time, but it sets in almost instantly even for travelers such as myself who are here for an all-too-short period. I think I've seen three or four watches since I've been here. I've used Chris' Ipod as a clock in the morning so I don't sleep until 2pm. But here's the thing: it wouldn't matter even if I did sleep until 2pm (which I did on my first morning, although I'll chalk that up to jetlag more than anything else). The days drag on and fly by at the same time. You go from exclaiming in disbelief ''It's already 5!'' to saying to yourself, ''Cool, it's only 5.'' You eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired, and the rest of time you spend doing whatever you want. A lot of reading, a lot of lounging about, helping around the bookstore. And we played bocce, and Craig and I shot some hoops at the local school (Games won in HORSE: Jason-2, Craigo-0). And I took the ferry to the volcano, a must-see. The only demarcation of time that matters is the sunset. I won't waste anyone's time feebly trying to describe the sunset as seen from the terrace of Atlantis Books. Check out the pictures on the website instead. But suffice it to say that it's special enough that everyone in town, from the locals to the tourists, make it a point to watch the sunset every single day. Santorini Time is so much more than all of that, but as usual words fail me. It's like trying to describe ''Football time in Tennessee''....you really just have to be here to fully understand what I mean. Now to the bookshop itself, and the community that has been built in and around it. Atlantis Books is not a Brentano's or a Borders. Atlantis Books is a true bookshop, a place that sells books, mostly in English, but also in Spanish, French, German, Italian, and a few other languages as well. But it's not just a place that sells books. You can tell when you can see the face of just about every customer that walks down the staircase and into the shop itself. A look that says, ''Wow, this is really cool'' or ''I didn't even know places like this even exist anymore'' What they mean is, and what I mean is, a place that's about books, and learning, and culture, for their own sake, not because someone's trying to make a buck. Listen to one of the team talk to a customer about a recommendation, and it's readily apparent that no one's selling anything to anyone. There's just a love for that particular book being conveyed from one person to another. For instance, I listened to Chris talked to a girl about Vonnegut for about 10 minutes, and then she happily bought a book (not Vonnegut) from his recommended list. I don't know that I've ever seen a customer more satisfied with a purchase. And there's violin on the terrace at sunset. And there's movie night on Sundays, with beautiful films (Chris) like Woody Allen's Crimes and Misdemeanors, Bonnie and Clyde, and Jeunet and Caro's Delicatessen. And on and on and on..... I'm
so happy that my mom has been here already, and that my dad will
be able to soon experience this for himself as well. If you're ever
in the area, drop into Atlantis Books and you'll most certainly
be welcomed with a smile. It's easy to find, right next to the castle,
and if you're there around sunset just follow the crowd. 14th
June 2004 A very good place. I stayed there for a week. I enjoyed working behind the till. It intimidated me a bit at first, scrolling error messages at me in Greek. but after a while I started to enjoy the hours flashing by, dosing off selling books thank you sir efharisto boli yeeeeeeees sir cigarettes cold water toothpaste newspaper, stamping the blue stamp on the books, staring at the shelves. Ne ne I enjoyed Athena the black clever dog. She is such a good beast. Once I started to examine her neurological system but Tim stopped me. He said I was making fun of her, and that I was treating her as an experiment. And the cat ah she is a lovely clever witch! One day someone will find a stash of philosophical writings under the woodpile where she sleeps. Only the cat could have written them.. Now the cat has two kittens. They look like giant leeches on the photograph on the website. Yesh
yesh I enjoyed many things; Tim diving deep into the sea and coming
up for air white and glistening.. amongst many things. Ach it eez
really a good place they have here. 8th
June 2004 "Where are those guys?" he says exhausted, to another guy who has met him on the path. I don't hear the other's response, but in a tounge smacking of the south, the first says, we "We've got a whole lot of boxes to get out of there." Curious
as to what sort of project is going on here. Why are there two Americans
on this odd cliffside town hauling unruly looking packages while
everyone one else seems to be hiding in their cliff wedged domiciles
or I wander over to the windmill, bumping into some sour and thourougly confused German tourists, then over to the castle. On my way back, I go down a short flight of steep steps, newly painted, take a left at a sign advertising books of all sorts in all languages and am enthusiastically greeted by a woman I recognize from earlier in the day when I saw her carrying an enourmous load of bannanas through the town rather hurredly. She introduces herself (with proper Brit accent) as Jenny and apologizes for the mess after indicating loads of disheveled boxes of books strewn around the floor of the shop. I notice a few made it up on the shelves. We talk for a bit and I find, to my surprise, that Atlantis Books is just opening. With the amount of advertising, I had assumed they had been wedged between the castle and cafes for ages. I hear exclamations of glee from the terrace where I go outside to find others reveling in the almost full collection of Sweet Valley High books they have just recived. I am introduced to Will, eagerly pawing through the book boxes and emerging with a true gem and exclaiming that yes, he had found the greatest self help book written by a motivational speaker in the 70s to go on the shop's shelves. I am also introduced to Andrew who announces that there are loads of identical boxes waiting in the van. Slowly, among witticisms, introductions, and exclaimations of disbelif, I gather that this is Atlantis Books' first big shipment of books and they did not recive exactly what they had wanted. Craig
shows up to tell me that they open tomorrow and cheerfully invites
me to see the rest of the little complex on the side of the hill.
Some go in and out eating bread spread with butter and... treacle?
These are true brits. Along
with standing up lunch there are questions of "what are we
going to do?" We return to the terrace where more boxes have
been dumped and still the quality looks hideaous and now starts
some real concern about Tim: "This is all shite!" It is decided they all need to meet. Somehow I am swept up in the tide and find myself seated at the sturdy wooden table in the cave below the bookstore after meeting the last member of the group, Maria, who has been away on errands. What to do? Tim looks forlorn as Craig speaks vengence on the woman who sold him 100,000 crap books, and the group, no longer gleeful at the absurdity of the situation, seems to be working over in their minds the painful logistics of sorting through the mass. Tasks are delegated: Hauling and sorting. A plan is worked out. Next
thing I know I am sitting hunched over what Tim disgustedly refers
to as "dross." Endless flinging aside of titles such as
P is for Peril, Summer on Periwinkle Beach, How to Enjoy Helping
Others, What is a Boy?, Insect Large
piles of full series of the Babysitters Club, Boxcar Children and
Beverly Clearly formed against the rock wall and spilled out into
the path, mixing with the Michael Chriton and Stephen King. Among
the "shite" some In addition to familiarizing me with the various characters in Oia (among them a particularly annoying teenager reffered to as DJ Snotnose), Chris tells me that it isn't too bad living in a place where the day revolves around the sunset. But today, being cloudy and hectic, revolves around tackling the mountain of boxes listing drunkenly by the wall on the north side of Oia. Preparations move closer to the shop as the sun goes down. Craig attempts to order the mess as Tim gets thouroughly involved in creating a heirarchy of "dross", separating them into self help, christian, kids books, hardcover crap, abomnible crap, pretty crappy crap, and boat books (tolerable-will-sell- but-cant-stand-to-have-them-in-the-shop-proper books that are exiled to the boat on the terrace). The decent, shelvable pile of books is almost too small to mention. I go
downstairs to see about dinner and am met with the challange of
cooking in a cauldron-like pot over an open fire. Ok. Chris makes
a fire and we put on orzo and a melange of vegatables provided by
various beneficiaries from around Oia. Jenny peels carrots and apples
for a salad while Craig crushes peppercorns between moves in a game
of chess with Andrew. Dinner heaves itself onto the table around
12 or 12:30am and we eat voraciously by Then back to work shelving and sorting. Around 3:30am, I become zombielike and head to bed. The Atlantis-ans, incredibly, perservere... 9:30am. I am awoken by Phish, live in Miami. The wind is howling outside. I am blasted going outside and upon seeing the menacingly dark underclouds, I have visions of 150 boxes of paperbacks getting drenched, expanding, splitting their boxes and creating a soggy spew that extends all the way down the cliff into the sea. But by the time everyone is roused, the dark clouds look like they have passed and we head out in the windstorm to sort more books. Around
4pm I have to leave to catch my ferry so I can eventually make it
back to Copenhagen, to class, and to finish my final studio project.
This is one of the last things I want to do. Goodbyes are said in
a rush, promises to Final accounting: 223
John Grisham paperbacks 7th
May 2004 There is Nikos the photographer who rented the space last year. His mother came to visit him and the poor guy came down with the chicken pox. With the Atlantis Van we helped Dimitrius the icon painter move a couple of marble slabs from his shop to his house. After the work was done, Tim, Will, and I sat in his studio beneath the watchful eyes of walls lined with paintings of gilded saints and apostles, each face a reflection of the same expressionless expression but somehow each was unique, all-knowing and comforting at the same time. A couple of nights later, Dimitrius had us over to his house for a barbecue. While pork was roasting on the firepit we all sat and talked with his family. Dimitrius’s family must be the most fantastically named group of people I’ve ever met. There is Dimitrius, who’s name comes from Demeter, his wife Athena, the older son Apollon, and the younger son Odysseus. Quite an assortment of names, to say the least. French Maria, Maria Villard, has a shop up the street from Atlantis. She has been on the island for 30 years and reckons that when she first arrived, over half of the buildings were in ruins from the last earthquake. She’s seen a lot of new businesses go up and I suppose knows a good one when she sees it. The crew stayed at her house for a little while before finalizing the contract on the current Atlantis building. Down the street from the post office is Edwin’s restaurant, The Polski Locale, makers of the best gyros and souvlakis anywhere and dispensers of delicious Warsteiner beer. Edwin’s is a staple of the island, the gathering point for the island’s sizable Polish community and everyone’s general meeting ground for a beer and a snack. There are others too, and these are only the people that I met in a couple of weeks at Atlantis. To “Make Promenade” through Oia is to go up into town, maybe to run an errand, maybe just to walk around, but it can not be done without running into 3-5 friends, chatting for a bit, stopping somewhere for a coffee, and be back in the shop an hour or so later. Stay in the bookshop for a while, any amount of time and you will find yourself talking about Atlantis in the first person plural. That is the most telling thing about the atmosphere and attitude there. It is not they who are sorting and stacking and selling books, it is us. WE are making a bookstore. That is the feeling at Atlantis. When I first arrived, a shipment of 10,000 books had just arrived from Portland, Oregon. While a significant number of the books were not what we were looking for, there were many gems, things which we would never have seen otherwise. Some of the books had been thrown up on the shelves in a semi-organized but mostly random fashion in order to not have bare shelves for the Easter Opening Party. There were still 25 boxes to be sifted through, alphabetized, and shelved. Everything still needed pricing. Over a period of days spent sorting and nights spent dreamwalking through the alphabet, an organized bookshop began to emerge. We now have a Greek section; a developed foreign section with titles in French, German, Spanish, Russian, even Swedish. There is a children’s section. Dr. Seuss, as well as Shakespeare, each has his own space. Short stories, essays, poetry, and plays each have their own place. In the back of the shop, from Angelou to Zola, the shelves are lined up by author. Athena the dog has a warm spot in the center beneath Proust. My first Sunday in the shop we kicked off the film season with Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colours Red, the third film in his Three Colours trilogy. My second Sunday was marked by the Coen Brothers’ The Man Who Wasn’t There. Next weekend the film screening will be attended by John Bailey, cinematographer for a movie currently being filmed on the island, and perhaps some of the rest of the crew. Most of the filming will take place in a house just down the hill from Atlantis. In fact, if the main character is ever standing on her balcony looking out, Atlantis Books will almost certainly be in the shot. Leaving Santorini is a difficult thing to do. Life on the island is as relaxed as can be, although that is sure to change as the tourist season picks up in a week or so. But even as things get busy, I think that the bookstore will remain something of a refuge, a place a little bit calmer, situated beneath the castle that juts out over the caldera and faces the sunset. The next door neighbour, an architect, stopped in one morning just as we were all opening the shop and having some morning coffee. She had just arrived from Athens, where she lives the rest of the year. You know, she said, whenever I come back to the island, I ask around what has changed. This year, everybody told me the bookstore, and they all said that it was the best thing to arrive in years. I have
been long-winded, but I have just one more thing to add. Family
and friends have asked me to describe the bookstore to them and
I have frequently come up at a loss of words, but I heard a description
the other day that was perfectly accurate. We were talking about
the shop and Will put it best. He called it an augmented tree house.
That is exactly what it is. Perched on the cliff there, it is a
private space that is open to the public. The books lining the walls
are the personal hobby of a few enterprising individuals. Come on
in, have a look around, chat for a minute, can I get you a cup of
tea or coffee? Feel free to sit out on the terrace, watch the sunset,
and pick yourself up a good book to enjoy. If you’d like a personal
suggestion…try East of Eden. 8th
April 2004 It's
about Ravens. It's about the 2 statements: These
statements are logically equivalent. So, the likelihood that all
ravens are black, p(all ravens are black), is equal to the likelihood
that all not-black things are not ravens, p(all not-black things
are not ravens). Everytym I see something that is not black and
not a raven, my belief that all not-black things are not ravens
increases. Lot's of shit is pretty colourful in santorini. It hurts your eyes. After 2 weeks Im have to be feeling much more confident in the assertion 'all ravens are black'. But. They ain't no ravens on Santorini, yeah? I haven't seen one in frikkin weeks. So how the frik can your observations have anything to do with your belief that they all got thems black asses. Point is, they do. so deal with it. The ouzo goes from colourless to milky-white. That just about DOES IT for the ravens as far as im concerned. There's
NO meaning. buy a book about serial killers, dial a 187 for the DJs muthafrickkin azz. and make sum shelves. and what about michael Jackson? checkmate. roll deep fo sheezy mah neezies... and give me the 411 on the contents of cat's intestine'. underbelies
of nature revealed by 'the cat': +3 13th
March 2004 One of the greatest times i have had on my whole two days, and i use whole because they have been filled, was wandering from town into maria's home. her home was lovely, shaded with compforting iteams everywhere and cats, lots of cats, rather i should say including cats,she had lots of compforting things including cats. there were so many and some so pregnant that you didn't want to sit or the chairs would pop out kittens, like surprize surprize puppy surprize, except this time with cats, some stuffed with babies. surprize. maria gave us tea which i was thankful for because i still thought that i was going to throw up after the long night on the boat, will finishe half of his. i knew that i would like will before i said hello, first impression i thought that craig was from boston because of the style of his beard and i knew that will had to be nice because of his slight inward frantic movements halling this gigantic bag allover the port. he had all this shit on him, a large suitcase, a backpack, a laptop, and craig had just the tinny single bag. at that time i still thought that they were traveling, so will obviously had to be insain. they were quite a dinamic dou as it were, one stumbling like a thrilled Lucky the other zipping about grabbing wiskey and tickets. the island is beaustiful, i have desided that it is a boy because it was formed with ruff housing and it is a rugged spew. we went swimming, one of tims favorit things to do, the water was clear, lovely. we then went scrambling up the side of the cliff. i was always drawn to water as a child, i would beg my parents on trips to england to stay on the cliffs so that we could watch the sea powerfully smash into them. we went to the white cliffs of dover as a result and i was absolutely disappointed. first of all my cliffs weren't white, they were dark and huge and strong, not crumbling and historic, they were magnificent and lonely. now surrounded by cliffs i realize i have become more accustomed to the land, i have spent my time outside running and climbing. the water was gorgious, but sneaking over the loose rocks and avoiding and then finially surrendering to steping on the wild flowers was engaging for me. there is a cat here, i love her, i love cats, if the letter hasn't revealled that already. Athena and i were looking at each other last night, Athena is the dog, after being with her for a day she trusted me to hold her head calmly that afternoon while chris picked a tick out of her ear, a nasty bug, very big with its ass sticking out of the poor girls skin. sucking away. In his words Chris had saved her life earlier in the day when he had bravely ripped a tick from her neck. when Athena and i were sharring our moment, she curled up on her pillow on the floor, i was struck by the randomness of the things that we are given to love. one of those look up at the star moments that strikes you every time by its magnificents. here was this once stray dog, like the many others that i had avoided in athens, although athenian dogs are a whole new breed of nasty, and here i was in so short a time loving this dog. the kitchen is small and compforting. maria when she came back from athens had brought bags of spices. this family on the island is so lovely because it is a celebration of each of them, a focus on very important things in a quest for happiness. brushing my fingers over the bags of spice was subtle and memerable. each character here is rapped in these same warm colors. wrapped in a revealing container because of the island and the situation of living on each other. every space here is small with ideas of an overall vastness, that could be assisted by tim's spirituality. we have to hike to "drop the kiddies off at the pool" and we wash our cups in craigs spit from brushing his teeth and it doesn't matter, none of it is a struggle, it is mearly a matter of how and where. the simplier question of where, disgussing openly with each other why because the whole of the progect is done off of instinct. it is a new way of explaining ones self that is truthful in its connection to action. there is less bullshit because of the consistancy of the physical. the building itself can not escape its natural beauty in its design. the shelves are a pridful creation, constructed out of found and given pieces of wood. much like the personality of the shop itself, founded out of given things and discoveries. i am painting a wave on the roof of the shop, last night we were laying down the stincel through the sunset and into the night. for a while tim was cutting, i was drawing and craig was tapping down. "what a good metahore" i thought chassing tim with my pincil, tim who is charging down creating a line that i the visiter in helping with the creation can only naturaly fallow and craig who grounds the project and the ideas pasting them quickly with scotch tape. i want to talk about each individually, i would rather talk aobut them than about anything else, really, they are the reason i am here. If i hadn't felt right about the couple on the dock i never would have said hello and the others happened to be great so i desided to stay. i should start off with oliver because i haven't talked about him yet and i haven't found a person that makes me as truely happy as he does in a while. Oliver was discribed to me as an all american strong boy who is terrible at Greek. ef-har-ees-sto. yes my friend, EF- har-eeeees-sto. he is a forward personality whos ease with himself and his openions makes every gesture ginuine and robust. from the very first night he would check up on how i was doing, an appreciated jesture in a new place. he also makes me laugh constantly beause of his truth, he is so funny. all that coupled with the face of a newly made carpenter, blond hair and red face. Chris is a compfortable character as well, he punctuates moments with rap lines and stays by the side in discussions, so we wisper to each other. i love wispering, it is sharring so privately. in ghana when you meet somebody you snap your fngers together, so the first time that you meet you are making noise togther. i tend to aproach meeting people with wispers escallating untill we pass by the rush of interaction until, with the vibrant few, we return together with a wisper. i feel at ease around chris, and he only jumps in cold water long enough to feel the pleasure of getting out again. Maria was not here on my first day. i slept in her bed and learned that she liked a warm compforter, so do i. the other night on the roof i wore her jumpper, it was warm too and it smelled nice. how she mannaged to smell good in an environment like this is beynd me, fortunately i enjoy natural human smells. it was the first time that my lower back had been covered and insulated since i have been on the island. i bring up these iteams because the whole house changed when she came back, she brought an energy and a warmth to the house that keeps things cohesive and alive. She holds her own in a house full of men, which i like, she seems sturdy. i also bring up cloth because i think of it as holding its own fimininity, winding and bunching and warm. it was harder for me to get to know Craig at first. On the ferry he was inviting but maintaining his own thing. After awhile he opened up more and became this wonderful caring person, peeking around to check on things before running away with the van. it has been good to stay here because i got to see more of him revealed. will, like i said at the top i desided to say hello because of the way that he walked, tumbling around with his feet. i appreciate the way he deals with his hair in hand and slept on the boat with his hands tucked between his legs. i think it is great how much he loves and appreciates music, that is generally a sign of good character. he hints at quite and is kind, he likes the cat, and experiencing together feels filled. he has a great charactiture, sucking on his pipe in a cordiroy jacket totally scruffy, but for my taste i am glad that the darker richer qualitys are ballaced nicely with a like of sweeter flavors, lighter tabacco, a bag of almonds, feeding on light and air. tim is also a character. the crab with big perswading claws, cuddiling with the masses before plunging into the sea. he is passionate and slides his conversations from talking into a high pitched tone whos range displaces making everything funny and assisted by his own wonderful laugh. it
was harder for me to get to know Craig at first. We know a lot of
the same people which is funny, it is unusual for that to happen
in Denver. Craig seems to take care of things. 12th
March 2004 Still I am obsessed with things. I don’t know if it is the island or the project or just a fetish that I have for imagining histories pertaining to inert objects. Every thing seems to take on meaning here. On an island where things are hard to come by they are valued. Maria came back from Athens with bags full of spices. When most of the building materials you use are found not bought, every piece of wood and every stone has value growing from the seed of the idea of how it might be used. Oliver saw our recently removed toilet bowl and exclaimed that we must use it as a flower pot for geraniums. Living communally as we do (Craig will not allow the idea that living communally is communism any more than I will allow the idea that selling books is capitalism) we must be highly sensitive to each others needs and moods. In order to keep afloat in this intensely complex sea of hidden values and ideas and feelings I hang on to things as bits of wood after a shipwreck. Chris built shelves in the kitchen. Strangers also take on meaning. Chrichton arrived out of nowhere and has been painting the roof. It’s good. Also on the table next to me when I woke was a book, Steinbeck’s Journal of a Novel; letters written to his dear friend and editor Pascal Covici during the writing of East of Eden, and my brown metal camping mug filled with cold tea, brewed lovingly (?) for me by Craig the night before and left with the Jasmine teabag still in it (a present from our friend Athina who took us Asparagus picking last Sunday, the icon painters wife who accidentally shares her name with our dog). I was so tired after dinner that I didn’t move. I just slipped into my sleeping bag on the bench couch where I sat. I was waiting for my tea to go cold enough to drink and without having read a word of my book which I had dug up specially, I fell asleep before the second sip. All of last night flooded into my mind as I saw these objects on rising and I lay for a few moments letting the patterns of the paint chips on the wall seep in by the light from a crack around the window, blue sky instead of orange candles marked a new day. I got up, drank the tea dressed in captains coat, slipped on shoes, pulled on hat, wound sarong scarf round my neck and accompanied Athina out to the castle on the roof to see where the sun was. She always urinates in the middle of the street whenever I take her anywhere. The cat (who may now be called Cathy or Kate) has taken to peeing on the floor of the shop or on my bed which I find less endearing still. Both are always hungry for leftovers. Cathy took immediately to William. She sits demurely on his shoulder. We have fun imagining a game of chess, on the clock, between her a tiny, lively black cat with magical green eyes and our huge docile black dog, eyes brown like Mars with human yearning. Athina pushes a pawn with a sniff, click she paws the clock. Cathy sits. Athina looks at the clock. Cathy sits. Athina looks at the board. Cathy sits. Slowly and without obviously being pushed, a bishop slides the length of the board taking Athina’s pawn. Athina sniffs. Cathy's clock winds itself backwards under her gaze. Athina pushes a pawn. We plan to make a short film of this scenario. We plan also a postcard series of local artists, an independent cinema, full moon exhibition openings, four or five plays to be written and performed on the castle at night with flaming torches, not to mention the thousands of books we are going to sell and the hundreds of shelves that I am going to have to continue building right after breakfast today. In my last diary entry I was building shelves. I don’t know if this is a testament to my dedication or incompetence (probably both) but I am still, a month later, building shelves. I probably will be for a month yet. And I love it. We are living a simple life of incredible beauty. Everything is in place. We have a lovely home peopled with a dedicated team of incredibly diverse talents and temperaments. We have a beautiful view and delicious food with entertaining guests. The sea is delicious for swimming. We have a dog and a cat. We have a big folding wooden table. We have mornings like this with a cup of coffee at the computer after sunrise at the castle. We have things everywhere that mean things. It’s time to feed the beasts. Burning
the candle at the other end. The world is a different place after
the last seventeen hours. I have just been imagining in the shop
again with Will talking about a little mezzanine to keep his bed
and things, Chris painting oil on shelves, and Craig sitting amongst
the books giggling to himself. I haven’t much energy left
to write. Just to say that. So much has happened. All in one day.
What it all was you’ll just have to find out when you get
here. 9th
March 2004 I went down to the Island of St. Nikolas yesterday morning for a swim. With Tim already submerged in the silvery blue sea, I stood alone naked on the rocks, gathering up the courage to dive into the water. Wind blows against my skin, provoking thousands of goosebumps to argue with impressive rhetoric to put on my damn clothes. But after a deep, diffident breath, I jump foward and out past the limits of solid Earth. Whoosh!!! I am in the water and it is cold. I yell. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Every inch of my skin burns with firey agitation and awakes with this incredible sensation. It hurts and feels wonderful at the same time. It is as though I have been dormantly numb for an immemorable period of time and I can finally feel. I put on the goggles and snorkel and peer down to the depths of the water. I see scores of tiny fish, archaic gnarly ropes which stretch between nautical caves and the ruins of a forgotten port. Tim soars beneath me in this sun-infused sea, effortlessly gliding like some otherworldly avian reptile. For a moment I peer up out of the water and catch a glance of the carcass of the volcano and the blood red cliffs that stand as haunting monument to the power of this incredible place. Sappy symbolism aside, the cat is annoying me to no end. I'm trying to eat some left over spaghetti and she cannot keep her pesky whiskers out of my bowl. I have been attempting to train her by throwing her longer and longer distances and although the revenge is sweet, it is unfortunatley not working. We have aptly renamed her Cathy, after the "monster" in Steinbeck's East of Eden which we have all (almost all) read. I much prefer Athina, our loyal and loving dog who is doing sun salutation yoga poses on the freshly painted terrace. Our home was used as a set in a French film! (Which is "pretty sweet" as Chris always, always says (sorry Chris)). After a coffee visit from Maria's French heart throb France (that's right, his name is France), we were asked if they could sweep into our place for an afternoon shoot. We agreed and to our good fortune, were paid. We were all very pleased with the introduction of the key grip, a Herculean man who introduced himself, "I am Vikus. I am Greek. I am from here." He approved of our project by exclaiming, "Fuck, that's a good idea" (Maria's translation). There are incredible possibilities here and little by little we are making progress. This past week, I have had the good fortune to learn the art of mixing lime stone white wash. Asvesti, as the Greeks call it, has quasi-religious status here in Oia. Plastic paint has become more and more popular because of its ease and longevity but those who are loyal to tradition and the environment swear by it. We have been a little worried about the blotchy appearance of our front room, but our dear friend Dmitri, the icon painter, has reassured us that it will actualize its whiteness when the warm, dry breezes of spring come. Other
than that, the place looks great. The terrace floor has a fresh
coat of a cool, blue-grey paint of which I am very, very pleased.
The bookshelves are spiraling their way to completion. We sold our
first book, "Notes From a Small Island"(England, not Santorini)
to an orthopaedic surgeon from Atlanta. Life is exciting and I feel
good. 11th
February 2004 I was drawn to Oia in northern Santrini because my book said the sunsets were incredible, and I wanted to stay with a friend of a friend there. One day I went wandering alone along the skinny, winding streets of the town where houses are built into the caldera, into the lava cliffs. I saw a spot in the distance perfect for viewing the sunset and went there. I started talking to a man about a dog, and Chris yelled “yasu!” which means “hello” in Greek. Chris invited me down to see their project. A house that is so old, it’s been there about as long as the castle ruins next store. It will be a book store where people need to watch their heads in the doorways if they are tall like me. It’s so old--the people were so small—that to complete the bookshop, the people need to give hand care to every inch. A place for people to Be and do their work: art, writing, whatever. I was amazed by their ambition, their creativity. Maybe
Tim saw it because he invited me to come and help clear out the
small patch of earth below the second deck. It may have been something
in the way Tim looked at me. Or the general aura of the house along
with their ambitious story, but they stayed on my mind. I had been
traveling for one and a half months and was actually missing being
able to work on something--anything real--and get lost in it. Like
the way you do when you write or run. You just go and don’t
have to think. So the idea of getting my hands in dirt and of helping
people prepare land that they will be using appealed to me. I returned
to the shop the next day to help Tim garden. He said if I wanted
to stay an extra day I could crash with them. They were having a
dinner party and inviting guests. It was a wonderful evening with
a variety of character. Beforehand we walked to a house that one
of the guests knew and asked for wine. Oh, amazing. You can tell
it’s all-natural when the wine is served in 1.5 liter water
and coke It was a win-win situation. I got to stay on the beautiful island for longer and they got an extra hand with the window panes. Just listen to Bjork and work! It was a learning experience, seeing all the teamwork these young people are doing. Still wish I got to see the boat in place on the deck…Simply taking care of everything, getting advice, asking questions, and making things happen. During parts of the day, everyone melted away; writing, drawing, reading, thinking, cleaning, and Tim playing the violin. The girls always entertained by the intensity of the boys playing chess. It’s a great place to Be because everyone is trying to become better. Learning Greek, reading, working, all of it. You can take a minute out of vacation to rebalance and smile. Help out. Buy a book or read one. Enjoy the company of good people, and watch the sunset. You won’t be here forever. I
guess through traveling you realize that it’s all just Life.
Nowhere perfect. But you appreciate what you see, the simple things,
and the people who show you different ways to live. Work. Find your
talent and run. If you can’t find it, dig a ditch. *Remember,
there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Be for yourself so
you can be for all the people. Be alone. When you go to Greece,
think of taking a moment—for the waves, for the wind, and
for spending time with the Sunset. Encore as long as you like. There’s
no rush. 10th
February 2004 Should I explain about the shop a bit? There are two levels. The top floor with balcony is going to be pristine so that it can house the bookshop. We have been gathering wood in our trusty van from all over. There seems to be a lot of it around together with chairs, tables, baskets, fishing nets, dogs. The things we can't find mostly we seem to be able to borrow. Nikos who used to run a photoshop gallery in our building last year has been particularly kind, somewhat sorrowfully parting with twenty odd beams of wood (twobyfours) and an electric sander. We keep getting fed every time we go to church, delicious fish caught by Petros this morning, so much that we feel almost guilty. Food for the rest is on a budget but amazing what Maria can do with beans and pulses. Chris misses spare ribs and meat generally though a gyros (donner kebab) is cheap and so good. Craig is cooking zukini pasta at this moment. The other two are apparently stuck in a very tight parking space with no fuel on the other side of town. I'm rambling. So
we have been discussing and gesticulating and testing and figuring
and cutting, drilling, bashing these bits of wood and some shelves
have emerged upstairs. The balcony awaits a painted fishing boat,
long past its sailing days, which, if by some Herculean effort we
manage to lug it the last 500 meters of steps and passages from
the road to the shop, will be filled with books and perhaps two
facing lounge seats for reading and smiling at each other in. This
boat was given to us incidentally by Manolis who makes shoes out
of rope. He invited Maria for coffee but she hasn't yet been as
she was advised by the women of the village strongly against doing
so. Down a cascade of steps from the balcony off the lower veranda
as it were, the bits of the building that we (and you when you come
to stay) live in are behind wooden doors with cracked red paint.
The front dining room has no lights yet, neither does the back bedroom.
The toilet shower place, which I am trying unsuccesfully to persuade
everyone to turn into a bedroom (one can always wash in the sea
afterall) is pretty smelly still but the kitchen however is spotlessly
clean having been thoroughly scrubbed by Maria with a toothbrush
yesterday. And then there is the big cave room opposite. Thats the
whole place apart from a lower level vegeatable patch where I plan
to keep chickens which Demitris the owner doesn't really want us
to use and the little upstairs loo with the sunset view where we
punched the wall out with a sledgehammer. We live amongst piles
of things. There are boxes upon boxes of books in the internet room
(a tiny alcove up a tiny stairway off the main shop next to the
other kitchen which I forgot to mention). There are tools, nails
and screws strewn everywhere, bottles of water, wine, whiskey, bits
of fruit, East of Eden, Brave New World, The AA guide to Cyprus
1994 edition, chess board, harmonica, biddies, leatherman, primus
cooking stoves, candles, crockery and the suitcase full of knives
that Lee, the chef at my last job gave me as a leaving present.
We all float between them wondering whether this idea of a magic
bookshop on the sunset cliff of Oia town is actually remotely practicable
in practise. It's daunting Shelves
that hold books +7 28th
January 2004 The sun is out to warm us up and show us how far our eyes can see and how blue the sea can shine. As I go about keeping home and keeping myself in wellness, I see how these beast dogs play on the terrace when we're all away. We have our first guests for dinner tonight and they are bringing us fine wine so I attempt to prepare equally fine feast foods. I've soaked and wiped and wrapped up vine leaves with a lot of love, time and rissotto; my beans they are a'soakin and cuccumber for tzatzkiki is chopped and draining. Three huge loaves of bread were baked in the oven when I awoke and so here i am in my kind of bliss. Having got our shop i get to calm down from the intensest three weeks in my role as translator - interpreteter. what a time. I am the Greek contigent of a team of foreigners on a Greek Island. I am doing something foreign to the locals 'my fellow Greeks', and in communing with them I am speaking someway foreign to my friends. When I am translating I must transport completely different worlds and ideas between two sides for whom the language barrier is a mere scratching on the surface of their differerences. I am in between. Lucky me. For both sides I am partly from elsewhere with elsewhere ideas but accessible and speaking the language that's needed to exist in both. So
what happens when these two need to meet each other? At a basic
level, they operate differently. At tax offices and town halls and
with potential landlords, the team here needs answers, constructive
meetings, functionality and information. But people are not so prone
in the way of uselfulness or efficiency, they don't keep to solid
time and given the choice, which they ensure to adopt, they'd rather
not do much at all. Most need a lot of chatter, a lot of loudness
, fodder for their small town gossip and there's often a good time
to be had feeding that. But many make little effort to interact
with people that don't speak their own language [unless there's
profit in it?] and even more frustating: many won't speak a languaue
outside of their given role and familiar terminology. We 'the team'
speak of ideas and ideals and community and concerts and cultural
spaces and in reply we mostly get talk of catching the tourists
in their one hour trips and providing good stationary supplies for
the town. thats good economic info no doubt, but demoralising when
thats all there is to their reaction. Can these two worlds meet
I wonder? Well it'd be a great comedy indeed. Our projects will
exist side by side because we will set up a business, which rings
familiar to the locals, allbeit with what seem alien and inconceivable
incentives. I am being too harsh and absolute though;i'm stereotyping-
things are never as black and white as when on typed screen. (while
I'm on that point, let me digress and protest at the caricatuaring
insinuations of this web journal and assure my fans that no smoking,
undressing, drinking, or shouting of the degree suggested occurs
on my part. It's not me miss, its those boys! Anyway, back to It took us meeting and living in a French woman's house for me to encounter the closest thing to my [deluded??] idea of Greek roots yet. Maria Viard has a home and a way about living in accordance to ourdependence on the earth and its beasts, a warmth and trusting comfort about her. Perhaps she just reminds me of my gran and the way she lives and hey, yiayia is |