Prologue
On the longest journeys, when traveling alone, I tend to start
observing my surroundings in a more scrutinizing way, to gather
information from a new and strange environment; then the writing - and
contemplating process starts...
On airports, when flights are delayed (which is the situation too
often). Actually, flying is by far the worst way of traveling; the
only advantage is that the trip goes faster (except for all the
delays, also in terms of all the checking and controling) than with
any other kind of communication, but, then again; I am given these
moments in time that are not accounted for; between two destinations,
as being nowhere recognizable...
So; I am granted this time that I consider a gift. This affects my
brain and soul into different sets of thinking and experiencing
reality:"Why am I here? Where is this place? Who are all these people
and where are they all going?"
Everything is strange or strangely arranged according ty my standards.
My mind expands from these experiences; I am altered and it's up to me
to integrate it...
This being smaller, domestic airports though; big, international
airports are more standardized and boring; keeping the same kind of
shops, food and labels on whatever I consume, whether it's through the
ear, the eyes, the nose or the mouth...
When I first started to write this novel; I found my own coffee shop
in the middle of town, behind the main cathedral where a Mimosa were
flowering from June until October when it let its feather light seeds
shaped as a parachutes float through the air and into the guests
coffee and hair...
I fell for the whole place and scenario with its intimate atmosphere;
for the Mimosa and the cute chairs; the Director's chair type of
chairs with rough canvas seats and solid wooden frames...
On the corner, where I could watch all the pedestrians, whether they
were locals on their way to job or tourists flabbergasting their way
through the narrow alleys and the platias of the little Cretan town
which I once had chosen as my prefered base for some years of my
roaming life...
Another reason for choosing this cafe was that the owner, who actually
turned out to be a pain in the ass; I named him "L.A." on the spot,
tied up as he was in his prejudiced limitations and traditional Cretan
habits, but when it came to his choice of music; it was superb for me
as a Western European and with the chairs, the Mimosa and his salad
compositions, I was pulled in and stuck for years...
The salads stayed popular the first couple of years, but he wasn't
able to sense it when their popularity started descending. This is the
way it works in a place where style and fashion changed with every
summer season starting...
He was a tidy, as in pedantic - and tiny man; tiny in body, but also
in the sense that he wasn't able to look beyond his narrow limits and
his advanced ability of Cretan stubbornness and xenophobia.
He arrived some time around noon, oozing of Tsekoudia or Raki as the
common locals called their moonshine liquor.
From the first moment he stepped into the Cafe he started complaining
and scolding the girls working for him. He screamed at the top of his
voice.
Unforunately this is the way of Greek management; the patriarch on top
with the unlimited rights to spit out any insulting comments at his
employees or fire them at his own convenience. The smaller the
business, the harder the scolding and screaming, I assume...
After arriving and having finished his rows with the staff; because
Greek women know how to scream back; he starts working outside in a
frenetic manner. He sweeps the cobble stones in a wide area around his
legitimate property. Then the time has come for the great - balancing
of tables - act. He levels them with the uneven cobble stones. He
lifts, wriggles and pushes until the tables are stabilized.
Then, to my amazement; he starts scrubbing them. It's nice for me as a
customer, of course, but I always ask myself: "why does he do it after
the leveling?" Because then he starts the procedure of stabilizing the
tables again...
The transaction is performed to have all the alcohol from the night's
drinking evaporated...
After this session of labor he goes back inside and sits down by the
Heineken taps. He smokes a cigarette and seems relieved and calm;
satisfied with himself. After 10 minutes he leaves without a word.
Everyone is happy to see him wander off.
He never says "Kali Mera" to us foreigners, not even giving us a
glance of recognition; living up to his nickname, L.A.. To his Greek
customers he smiles and laughs while calling out his good morning
wishes to them; very Cretan in his attitude.
Xenophobia is not strange to these insulars, as to other insulars I
have met and stayed with on my long journeys around the world...
Is doesn't have to be an insular for that matter, but places where
isolation has been the natural state for years and millenia. Cretans
of various kinds have been living on this island for thousands of
years, being isolated from the world, just occupied by Minoans, Turks,
Venetians and during the 2nd world war, by the Germans and the allied
forces of Britain, Australia, New Zealand accompanied by the Greek
army; three nations of insulars who fought the Germans.
The latest occupants are us; the tourists and us foreigners who settle
down for years...
The Cretans have adapted to us all, but still reluctantly. They behave
well in the "cafeneions" and tavernas and restaurants because they
have to; so many of then involved in the tourist business. But
prejudice is lurking behind their smiling masks...
So... there, behind the cathedral in a small cafe called "Agio to
Kokkora" which means: "The Rooster's Egg" - the rooster being L.A. I
guess, I found my inspiration and courage to finally write my novel
(no in betweens via short stories).
Being late in my fifities and on a reasonable pension and disability
benefits, I could afford to stay and live quite comfortably in my
literal reality as I had chosen it to be...
"One needs to have purpose" was a phrase I often referred to those
days, to justify or compensate for my leisurely way of living as I saw
it by then, because the writing went slowly, following my drafts in
the shape of a diary written over a period of 6 months, and my
disability; I just had to be a slow writer; exhausted after two hours
of writing...
I soon slid into the ways of the internationals with lazy afternoons
on "cafeneions" and restaurants along the harbour, but away from the
tourist tracks; "we're not tourists!" we exclaimed when asked, as it
was a sort of contaminating disease.
The expression "Tourist" means that you are going for a tour and that
was what we were doing too. With the difference that our goals, though
often pronounced as a challenge to life and search for freedom, was
more vague any evasive than any genuine tourist would interpret it...
Something else that had a purpose, as I saw it at least, was bicycling...
I am a passionate cyclist. A bicycle is the most profound invention on
wheels man has ever performed; and in these days of a climatic crisis
showing its horrible scenarios one by one the latest years, it proves
its existence as the way of transporting our bodies into a cleaner and
healthier future, hopefully; I am not always optimistc when it comes
to my fellow humans' willingness to give up what is regarded as a good
life; shortsighted as we are, most of us
But cycling; when the wind is in your hair, fresh and mild air
caressing your body and with the lush rays of light shining through
the green canopies of the trees and flickering in your eyes and brain;
as it is the main source of light we can have, living in our
vulnerable and soft bodies for the speck of time we are given...
There I am on the road, following the sea and sensing its salty smell
and telling myself, between deep sighs of relief and pleasure, that
this is better than sex, as there is no stress or demands connected
with it, only clean plain pleasure; and I am free to have it any
time... and then the beauty of the sensation that this is for free, no
prices, no taxes only pure joy and satisfaction...
POSTED BY FIELD TRIP AT 12:30 AM 0 COMMENTS
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)
--
Charles Ekram Esteban Danzai-Roenning
On the longest journeys, when traveling alone, I tend to start
observing my surroundings in a more scrutinizing way, to gather
information from a new and strange environment; then the writing - and
contemplating process starts...
On airports, when flights are delayed (which is the situation too
often). Actually, flying is by far the worst way of traveling; the
only advantage is that the trip goes faster (except for all the
delays, also in terms of all the checking and controling) than with
any other kind of communication, but, then again; I am given these
moments in time that are not accounted for; between two destinations,
as being nowhere recognizable...
So; I am granted this time that I consider a gift. This affects my
brain and soul into different sets of thinking and experiencing
reality:"Why am I here? Where is this place? Who are all these people
and where are they all going?"
Everything is strange or strangely arranged according ty my standards.
My mind expands from these experiences; I am altered and it's up to me
to integrate it...
This being smaller, domestic airports though; big, international
airports are more standardized and boring; keeping the same kind of
shops, food and labels on whatever I consume, whether it's through the
ear, the eyes, the nose or the mouth...
When I first started to write this novel; I found my own coffee shop
in the middle of town, behind the main cathedral where a Mimosa were
flowering from June until October when it let its feather light seeds
shaped as a parachutes float through the air and into the guests
coffee and hair...
I fell for the whole place and scenario with its intimate atmosphere;
for the Mimosa and the cute chairs; the Director's chair type of
chairs with rough canvas seats and solid wooden frames...
On the corner, where I could watch all the pedestrians, whether they
were locals on their way to job or tourists flabbergasting their way
through the narrow alleys and the platias of the little Cretan town
which I once had chosen as my prefered base for some years of my
roaming life...
Another reason for choosing this cafe was that the owner, who actually
turned out to be a pain in the ass; I named him "L.A." on the spot,
tied up as he was in his prejudiced limitations and traditional Cretan
habits, but when it came to his choice of music; it was superb for me
as a Western European and with the chairs, the Mimosa and his salad
compositions, I was pulled in and stuck for years...
The salads stayed popular the first couple of years, but he wasn't
able to sense it when their popularity started descending. This is the
way it works in a place where style and fashion changed with every
summer season starting...
He was a tidy, as in pedantic - and tiny man; tiny in body, but also
in the sense that he wasn't able to look beyond his narrow limits and
his advanced ability of Cretan stubbornness and xenophobia.
He arrived some time around noon, oozing of Tsekoudia or Raki as the
common locals called their moonshine liquor.
From the first moment he stepped into the Cafe he started complaining
and scolding the girls working for him. He screamed at the top of his
voice.
Unforunately this is the way of Greek management; the patriarch on top
with the unlimited rights to spit out any insulting comments at his
employees or fire them at his own convenience. The smaller the
business, the harder the scolding and screaming, I assume...
After arriving and having finished his rows with the staff; because
Greek women know how to scream back; he starts working outside in a
frenetic manner. He sweeps the cobble stones in a wide area around his
legitimate property. Then the time has come for the great - balancing
of tables - act. He levels them with the uneven cobble stones. He
lifts, wriggles and pushes until the tables are stabilized.
Then, to my amazement; he starts scrubbing them. It's nice for me as a
customer, of course, but I always ask myself: "why does he do it after
the leveling?" Because then he starts the procedure of stabilizing the
tables again...
The transaction is performed to have all the alcohol from the night's
drinking evaporated...
After this session of labor he goes back inside and sits down by the
Heineken taps. He smokes a cigarette and seems relieved and calm;
satisfied with himself. After 10 minutes he leaves without a word.
Everyone is happy to see him wander off.
He never says "Kali Mera" to us foreigners, not even giving us a
glance of recognition; living up to his nickname, L.A.. To his Greek
customers he smiles and laughs while calling out his good morning
wishes to them; very Cretan in his attitude.
Xenophobia is not strange to these insulars, as to other insulars I
have met and stayed with on my long journeys around the world...
Is doesn't have to be an insular for that matter, but places where
isolation has been the natural state for years and millenia. Cretans
of various kinds have been living on this island for thousands of
years, being isolated from the world, just occupied by Minoans, Turks,
Venetians and during the 2nd world war, by the Germans and the allied
forces of Britain, Australia, New Zealand accompanied by the Greek
army; three nations of insulars who fought the Germans.
The latest occupants are us; the tourists and us foreigners who settle
down for years...
The Cretans have adapted to us all, but still reluctantly. They behave
well in the "cafeneions" and tavernas and restaurants because they
have to; so many of then involved in the tourist business. But
prejudice is lurking behind their smiling masks...
So... there, behind the cathedral in a small cafe called "Agio to
Kokkora" which means: "The Rooster's Egg" - the rooster being L.A. I
guess, I found my inspiration and courage to finally write my novel
(no in betweens via short stories).
Being late in my fifities and on a reasonable pension and disability
benefits, I could afford to stay and live quite comfortably in my
literal reality as I had chosen it to be...
"One needs to have purpose" was a phrase I often referred to those
days, to justify or compensate for my leisurely way of living as I saw
it by then, because the writing went slowly, following my drafts in
the shape of a diary written over a period of 6 months, and my
disability; I just had to be a slow writer; exhausted after two hours
of writing...
I soon slid into the ways of the internationals with lazy afternoons
on "cafeneions" and restaurants along the harbour, but away from the
tourist tracks; "we're not tourists!" we exclaimed when asked, as it
was a sort of contaminating disease.
The expression "Tourist" means that you are going for a tour and that
was what we were doing too. With the difference that our goals, though
often pronounced as a challenge to life and search for freedom, was
more vague any evasive than any genuine tourist would interpret it...
Something else that had a purpose, as I saw it at least, was bicycling...
I am a passionate cyclist. A bicycle is the most profound invention on
wheels man has ever performed; and in these days of a climatic crisis
showing its horrible scenarios one by one the latest years, it proves
its existence as the way of transporting our bodies into a cleaner and
healthier future, hopefully; I am not always optimistc when it comes
to my fellow humans' willingness to give up what is regarded as a good
life; shortsighted as we are, most of us
But cycling; when the wind is in your hair, fresh and mild air
caressing your body and with the lush rays of light shining through
the green canopies of the trees and flickering in your eyes and brain;
as it is the main source of light we can have, living in our
vulnerable and soft bodies for the speck of time we are given...
There I am on the road, following the sea and sensing its salty smell
and telling myself, between deep sighs of relief and pleasure, that
this is better than sex, as there is no stress or demands connected
with it, only clean plain pleasure; and I am free to have it any
time... and then the beauty of the sensation that this is for free, no
prices, no taxes only pure joy and satisfaction...
POSTED BY FIELD TRIP AT 12:30 AM 0 COMMENTS
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)
--
Charles Ekram Esteban Danzai-Roenning
crnning@gmail.com View my homepage: www.illioscoaching.com
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