I don't know how to start this post, but I'll keep it as short as possible, since I really don't feel like talking much about it.

Our dog Jessie was put to sleep today. If you've met her, you know that she has been blind for many years now. Over the past month, she developed some sort of health problem making her unable to concentrate her urine. She was constantly thirsty and dehydrated, and any water she got, she would quickly eliminate (often inside the house, which didn't make my mom very happy). In the past week she began to waste a bit and had lost a considerable amount of weight. I'm being told that putting her to sleep was was the right thing to do. She is being cremated, and we will keep her ashes.

I actually can't remember life before Jessie. I got her when I was in third grade, and she has been a constant companion. She was perhaps one of the most inteligent dog's I've ever met. She had such a strong personality. She was a character.

So, Jessie died today, at the age of 12 years, 9 months, and 16 days.

Following are a few photos of her from her younger years. I can't convey in words how much she is already missed.

Goodbye, Jessie.

Long then short, as always. Where to begin…that’s easy.

Yesterday I was walking in the Plaka. A man comes up to me and asks me if I have the time. I say no. He says do you speak English. Yes. Where are you from? New York City.  Oh, New York. I have relatives there for forty, fifty years. You here for holiday? No, I’m actually here doing a project for my iniversity. What kind project? (At this point I begin to wonder why this guy is so friendly, but I describe my project to him. Who knows, maybe he can help. Nope, he doesn’t seem to understand it). You in Athens long time? No, I’ve only been here 6 days, and I only have a few more. I have bar down the street. I give you card with my address. You come have first free drink in Athens (Ah ha! That’s why he’s being so nice. He’s trying to get me to come to his bar in the future. But hey, a free drink sounds good, I’ll accept his card) Alright. What bar is it? I give you card, follow me. (Why do I need to follow him to get his card. Maybe he has to get it from his bar. But why isn’t he at his bar if it’s open. I should probably kindly say I have to go, but no, I’m too nice, and that might hurt his feelings). I from Thesaloniki. I in Athens only for week. (How does he own this bar if he’s from Thesaloniki?) My hotel across the street. I give you card with my room number and my address in Thesaloniki, if you want come by. This bar good. Come I buy you beer. (Oh crap -- this man is trying to pick me up. At this point, he is in the bar, I am standing in the threshold, with, I’m sure, a panicked look in my eyes, and I begin to stammer) I – I –I –I don’t want any beer. But why not? You say you want free drink. (At this point, this is all I can come up with) You’re English isn’t good enough. I then turn around, leave, and walk as quickly as I can in any direction away from the bar, panicked. I meant to say to him that his English wasn’t good, and I didn’t understand that he was making advances at me. Instead, this man probably now thinks that I wouldn’t have a drink with him and go back to his hotel room because his English wasn’t good enough. Oh well. I could care less what he thinks. So in my panicked wandering, I decide I’ll head back up to Lykavitos. As I’m walking there, along a path I wouldn’t normally take because I’m not normally trying to walk as far away from creepy Greek men as possible, I stumble upon a store – The Komboloi Museum store…

KOMBOLOIA:

     Anyone who has been to Greece, or to a Greek neighborhood, or has a few Greek friends will have surely seen a komboloi. A komboloi is a string of beads which Greeks, (usually the older men, but now they’ve become very fashionable and women and many teenagers also have them), seem to incessantly flip about in their hands, counting the beads, and clanking them together methodically and skillfully, although without giving any thought to it. They somewhat resemble a rosary (although there is as much space on the string not covered by beads as there is covered), however to the Greeks they serve absolutely no religious purpose. We use them to idle away the time, to keep our minds off our worries, to entertain ourselves, and to comfort ourselves. Komboloia have become fashionable souveneirs for tourists as well, however these are made of metal and plastic, and are ugly imitations of the real thing. The real thing must be made out of something that was at one time living: seeds, wood, coral, but most prized and original, amber.

     There’s your brief story of the komboloi. I decided on this trip that I needed to have one. I bought one of the cheap imitations in metal fro 3 euro, thinking I wouldn’t need one of the real ones. This would be fine for me. I began playing with it in the proper way. After a day, I realized I didn’t like it. It’s not that I didn’t like the idea of the komboloi – I didn’t like this komboloi. It was cold, it was heavy, it grated on the hand, and worst of all, the noise the beads made when they clacked each other was unbearable. I decided I had to do some research. I began going into the Athenian jewelery stores, which is where high class amber and coral Komboloi are generally found. I asked if I could touch them, play with them, which I was allowed to do (as the experts say this is really the only way you can choose a komboloi – it has to appeal to all your senses (except taste)). The difference was amazing. I decided I needed an amber komboloi. I went into every jewellery store I could find – at least 20 – and compared prices, etc. Some were asking over 1000 euro for a strand. I went home and researched different kinds of amber, and decided that I needed genuine, natural amber – no compressed amber fillings for me…So here I am running away from the creepy Greek man, and I find a branch of the Komboloi museum, which I have heard so much about. I return the next day, when it is open, and am floored by the selection of komboloi that they have. I touch them all, use them all, and I narrow it down to two. I ask the shopkeeper which one she thinks is better. She looks at them both, looks at me, looks back at the komboloia. “For you, this one.” Done! I now have a pure amber komboloi, which I will have with me at all times. It’s going to become a part of me, so get used to the beautiful noise of softly clicking beads.

Here is my amber komboloi:

Ok, short entries:

I went to the Benaki museum, which pretty much covers all of Greek history, from the prehistoric to the present day. When I was walking through the part that contained painting from the Greek Revolution of 1821 against the Turks, I became very emotional. Looking at al those paintings, I literally had to struggle to hold back tears. I’d never had that experience from something like a painting. I guess now I know how Bobby feels when he watches cheesy credit card commercials.

Greek Funerary monument showing two deceased sisters from an upper-class family:

I found the best Souvlaki place, and its only 4 blocks north of my hotel. I had a feeling it was gonna be good. The translation of the name is “George’s Beauties.” George is the fat man who works the grill. His wife and daughter help him run the place. Both of these women are incredibly obese. In fact, they’re the only obese Greeks I’ve seen so far. Many of the older Greeks are overweight, but not by much. These women are large. And it’s not because the food is greasy, or anything like that. They just eat a lot of it. And with good reason – it’s delicious and incredibly cheap. A souvlaki (with vegetables, tzatziki and potatoes all wrapped in a pita) for 1.40 Euro. That’s nothing. I’ve been there twice, and now whenever I walk by the place, George, and his “beauties” – his large wife and daughter – wave hi to me. I love Greek hospitality.

Greek curse tablet and curse figurine found in an ancient Greek cemetery. This is almost all we discussed in one of my classes this semester. I finally get to see the real thing:

At George’s today I had my first wine of the trip. Wine is cheap, but it’s usually only economical if you have a few people to share the 1.5 liters they bring you. I had been settling for 0.5 liters of beer with many of my meals. George, however, offers 0.5 liters of wine for 2euro. Not the cheapest price, but not bad. So I consumed a half liter of wine in about 20 minutes with my meal after not having eaten much at all, and then proceeded to walk through the streets of Athens on the drunk side of tipsy. I’m surprised that with Greek drivers as crazy as they are I didn’t get hit.

On the food topic – I’m getting so used to eating good, delicious fruits and vegetables, that I don’t know what I’ll do back in the US. The vegetables here are such that a plain salad with just a splash of oil and vinegar is not only filling, but incredibly good. I could never settle for just a salad for lunch back home, but here it’s easy to do.

I finally went to see the Acropolis. I think this is a record for me. 5 days in Athens before I saw it up close. Normally I go on the first day. Be warned, however: I went first on Saturday, and it was so packed with tourists I could barely get up the stairs through the main gate. I went again on Monday and it was practically empty. Here she is, the Parthenon:

Dr. Renberg and I spoke at length the other day about my project. He seemed to be happy with all the progress I have made. (I know based on these entries it seems like I do very little work. It’s just that nothing eventful happens when your photographing artifacts or snooping around churches). He’s going to Mykonos for a few days, a notorious party island. Not because he’s going to party, but because people are not allowed to stay on the island of Delos, which is where he is researching. In his own words, he’s going to spend 3 days on the most notorious party and beach island in Greece, and if his hotel doesn’t have a pool, he’s not even going to get wet.

Some more tamata for my project:

I’ve stopped showing up at the American School. There isn’t much more they can offer me. But as tomorrow is my last day, I’m gonna have to go and check out, or whatever it is you do there.

Greek priests are cool. They’re not like Priests in America. They always wear their robes and hats, so you know exactly who’s a priest and who’s not. They get a lot of respect from the Greeks. Traffic will stop for them, people move out of the priests way if they’re walking down the street. I’m thinking of dressing like a priest just so I can navigate through the streets of Athens more quickly.

St. Theodore frome a fresco from I believe the 1300’s in the Byantine museum:

If you’ve requested a postcard of me, I’ve sent it out by today. If you want one, but you haven’t requested one, you have to wait till August.

There was more, but I can’t remember it all.

A horse in the Acropolis museum:

So many things to talk about. Same disclaimer as before.

Today on my walk back from the American School, I encountered a huge mob of students proceeding along the route I had planned for myself to take me back to my hotel (yes, I plan my routes now. But at least I don’t need the map anymore). It was unreal. There were, literally, thousands of students, marching in protest, against what I wasn’t quite sure. They had taken over one of the main avenues, and were marching past the parliament building. The Greek police force, in full riot gear, was already there, blocking off the parliament and trying to keep everything under control. There were banners, flags, drums, megaphones, chants, human chains, everything you could imagine being used in a protest. Eventually the crowd got violent and began throwing things at the riot police. Nothing serious, sticks, water bottles, oranges (which the Greek government has growing in front of the parliament – I’m sure they regret that now), but there was enough commotion that a round of what looked like tear gas was fired at the assaulting students. Meanwhile, there I was, looking exactly like everyone else, taking pictures and video of the whole thing. I thought for sure I would be arrested in some horrible case of mistaken identity. Thankfully, no one was arrested, and the cops let the students have their relatively peaceful protest. After taking in the whole scene for about 20 minutes, I began walking along my planned route again, right along with the protesters. I was curious, so I asked a few of them what was going on. At that point, all I could tell was that one sign said “Children are not for sale,” and another one said “something something Universities!” Apparently, the students were protesting an initiative before the Greek parliament to privatize the public university system. This would result in something like “Pepsi College” or “Visa University.” That’s never good ………………………………… I was really moved by this. I seriously was. To see thousands of students (there were at least 5,000), which is a significant number in a country as small as Greece, all feel so strongly about something. And not just anything, but about education. What could you get American college student’s to protest? We’d protest legislation to change the formula of Coke, or maybe you could get a few students to demonstrate in front of the venue of one of Bush’s speeches. Both of these, meaningless. Here were students who knew what was happening in the world. They were looking out for themselves, and for future generations. If you told US students that Pizza Hut was going to buy their college, they’d probably be excited over the prospect of free pizza. People here in Greece and Europe in general aren’t numb and brain dead, they are active global and community citizens. It’s unfortunate that America (and perhaps China and India in the future) is really the only place where the students have opportunity. The American dream is the right dream for the wrong people. The most you can hope for as a poor student attending public university in Greece is, if you’re lucky, a bureaucratic government job. I was filled with so many emotions at that protest, and I just can’t even begin to capture any of them in this post.

Ok, one more long one, then the fun short ones. On the topic of strange experiences. Yesterday as I was walking to the American School, a police officer kindly asked me to cross the road, saying that something was going to happen in the building behind him. I did as he asked, and joined the crowd gathering across the street from the indicated building. Everyone was murmuring, nothing that I could understand (especially since people have to speak loudly and slowly in Greek if I’m to get any of it). Suddenly the doors of the building burst open, and at exactly the same instant, an Army band, inside the building, begins playing some patriotic song. It’s so loud, it drowns out the hustle and bustle of the busy Athenian streets. A large, obese (but not in the fat American way, but in the dignified European royalty way) man comes out of the door, dressed in a fine tuxedo. First all that is visible is his stomach, upon which rests a huge gaudy medal of some sort. The rest of him slowly becomes visible. He’s followed by his retinue, and the people around me begin whispering “o Demarchos” “o Demoarchos” (that would be “the mayor”). Interesting, I think to myself. The Demarchos is coming out of a building labeled “DEMARCHEION” (It follows that that should mean “the mayors building”). It seems to me this must be a regular event. I wonder if there’s a marching band there every day for him, and I wonder if he always wears that medal.

The Acropolis from Philopapos Hill:

I had a run in with a nasty librarian the other day. Not the one whose ass I accidentally slapped. This one was a haggardly old Greek woman who thought she ruled the reading room in which she sat. This being my first time in this particular library, I politely asked her, in English, what the policies were concerning requesting books, making photocopies, etc. She didn’t respond, but simply scowled at me. I asked again, again in English, because when people make me uncomfortable, I become unable to speak Greek. She pointed at a book, told me, in Greek, to write my name, and then handed me a slip. I assumed she didn’t speak English, filled out the slip, and gave it to her. She snatched it out of my hand, sat down, and didn’t do anything for about 5 minutes. Then she got up to get my book. When she handed it to me, she said in perfect English “Here is the book. Give it back to me when you’re done.” Fine. I find the relevant pages and, since she wouldn’t tell me anything about the rules on photocopying, I figure I’ll use my digital camera to photograph the pages. I take out my camera. “NOOOOOO!!!” she screams, running towards my desk, disturbing the other dozen or so readers. As she shakes her finger in my face, like you would do to a dog, I ask her again if I can make photocopies. Her response is “Sit down!” which I am already doing. I stare at her blankly for about 20 seconds, hand her the book, and leave. It wasn’t very useful anyway. Sour grapes.

I think there’s a convention for Greek midgets and cripples in my hotel. I’m not kidding. Yesterday there were 3 midgets and 4 wheel chair bound people in the lobby, all talking to each other. I highly doubt they found each other by chance in the same hotel lobby.

A cat I encountered on one of my walks:

I’ve been doing so much walking. I google earthed it. Yesterday I walked about 15 miles. I’m probably averaging about 9 miles a day. My feet really hurt, and my left hamstring is sore. I ended up icing it. Thanks Joel (or should I say coach, even though I’m not addressing him, and he’ll never read this?).

I’ve become very good at not eating much for most of the day, and then gorging myself right before I go for my evening walk. Today all I ate was a cookie for breakfast and a tiny “sandwich” for lunch (this particular café’s idea of a sandwich was…unique). For dinner I had half a loaf of Italian bread, a Greek salad, some french-fries, some rice, a plate of tzatziki, a pork souvlaki, and half a liter of beer. I didn’t even think I could fit all that in my stomach. It’s a good thing the Greeks give you as long as you want to digest before you get up, or else I wouldn’t have been able to walk.

Philopapos hill. I really like this picture:

When foreigners ask me for directions, I pretend that I’m Greek, and respond in Greek. A not-so-bright British girl wasn’t understanding my very simple directions of “it’s right over there” in Greek followed by a very deliberate indication by means of my index finger, so I spoke to her in broken English with a Greek accent. On the flipside, when I know I’m going to be dealing with a Greek for anything more than 5 or 6 sentences, I use English.

Yesterday a Greek man in his 60’s stopped me on the street and began speaking very quickly in Greek. I responded in Greek “I don’t speak Greek very well. Can you speak more slowly?” You speak English? Yes. Where are you from. New York. I am from Houston! I work for the oil company. Oh. I’m here on vacation! I wan’t to buy small pop for the girls. (at this point I began to realize there was something wrong with this man) Excuse me? Small pop! Small pop! *gestures drinking* A soda pop? Yes yes soda pop! Where the girls? I saw some up at Omon… Beh!! They are ugly. They are all cops. (Now I begin to wonder how young the girls he’s talking about are) At the plaka there are always… No good! No good! (There is about 30 seconds of awkward silence) You go the night clubs? I haven’t been to any in Athens yet. They no good. They all cops. Where you go now? Back to my hotel. Where your hotel? (Now I’m scared) Oh, it’s North of Omonia. Novotel!? (Now I’m really scared. That’s my hotel) Yes… You going the wrong way! Oh, um, I’m going for a walk. Oh a walk. For a walk down to the... Ok bye. Then he walked away. I assume he went to buy a soda pop for the girls…

Geometric Period Pottery, my favorite kind:

I saw this statue at the museum and thought Lukasz might like it:

I snuck into a bunch more churches. Well, I didn’t sneak in, but I snuck the pictures of the tamata. Except for in one church where some old Greek women were holding some sort of church meeting/discussion group. One of the old Greek women came up to me. I asked her politely if I could take a picture of the tamata. She gladly responded yes. I was happily snapping away, when the leader of the pack of old women came up to me. In Grenglish “Can I help you?” I explained to her what I was doing. 30 minutes later I’m halfway through a lecture on why our church is the greatest church in the world. “On the rising (she meant Easter), the fire, it comes in tz-tz-tz-tz-jerusalem on the tomb of tz-tz-tz-jesus (she tried very hard to make that ‘j’ noise, and eventually succeeded) -but only for the Orthodox. I nod. I figure if I’m going to be talking to her, I might as well put her to use. I begin to pick her brain over the tamata, but she doesn’t quite seem to understand exactly what I’m asking her. To clarify, I bring up that the ancient Greeks had a similar practice. This offended her. How dare I compare our church to a pagan religion! I assured her that I wasn’t comparing the two… I was contrasting them? At least this afforded me the opportunity to thank her and to tell her I had to go. But I wasn’t allowed to leave before I accepted a card depicting the “Miraculous” icon from which all the tamata hung.

The miraculous icon, with its tamata:

A close up of the tamata. For those who are wondering, tamata are silver or gold offerings given to a saint or member of the holy family if you ask them to intervene on your behalf. Often times they depict a healed part of the body if you asked for a cure, or a representation of yourself:

The Greek’s have their own low-tech version of “Deal or no deal.” I’m addicted.

Here’s an inappropriate entry. Peter – remember when Criezis’s friend asked him what noise a Greek woman would make if she sprained her ankle, and he guessed correctly (agcch)? On one of my walks, I was going down a secluded road, and I passed by a car in which there were two people. All I could hear was the woman very loudly exclaiming agcch. She must have sprained her ankle real bad.

Today there was a little black girl dancing in the streets to the beat of the drums of the protest. I just thought that was special.

Here is a pygmy goat, like the one I think we should buy as a cre house pet:

Luckily, there aren’t too many tourists yet -- its not quite tourist season yet. And there are only very few Americans. I’ve only overheard American’s saying three things so far:

-I don’t know why they don’t have a liquor star like that back home.

-Do you think that will be enough food?

-The people here are so comfortable being themselves. They say whatever they want and wear whatever they want. I wish I could live like them (spoken by a morbidly obese woman. I hope she doesn’t “want” to wear a bikini.)

Wow – it sounds like I’ve become really anti-American. That’s not true. I love America. I just have some doubts about Americans.

The secretary of the secretary of the American school is taking a very long time to get me my museum pass. She says it’s the curriers fault. Yesterday he was sick, today he didn’t come in. I think she made him up.

A list of things I like about Greece:

- I’m not the darkest one here

- My voice is just a little deeper than the average male voice here

- People from the ages of 2-80 stay out from 9pm until at least 2am

- The streets are always crowded at night

- You can always find a café open

- The clink of backgammon pieces can be heard mixed it with the clink of glasses

- If you are older than 40, you can call anyone under the age of 40 “child” e.g. “Hello children”, “yes, my child”

- the food is amazing

- the sun is amazing

P.S. Rachel, I have footage of the changing of the guards. If I can figure out how to post it, I will.

Following are some random thoughts. It’s summer, so I know some of you need things to do, so you can read all three pages if you want. If you’re busy, you should probably just skim. There’s nothing too important…or is there?

I’ve becomes obsessed with creating panormas from the photos I’ve taken. Some will follow.

Greeks are different. Especially the younger ones. Girls between the ages of 14 and 28 all look like they stepped out of a Fanta commercial. The guys in that age range look like they should be heading to a gay bar (they, unfortunately, dress like they too just stepped out of a Fanta commercial…playing one of the Fantanas).

On a similar note, hair. I’ve mentioned this before, but I can’t take it. The new hair style in Greece (and I think most of southern Europe) is the gelled mullet. We’re talking a lot of gel, and a lot of mullet. (This style is only for the men, by the way – there are no Greek women with mullets…that I’ve seen)

I got yelled at today because I don’t speak Greek by the owner of a photoshop. Kyr. Nickos Papanickadapoulos (Kyr., or Kyrios, is the Greek for “Mr.” We also call God Kyrios), or whatever other generic Greek name he might have had, started quizzing me on my family history. Are your parents greek? Born in America. Are your grandparents Greek? One was born in America. *grunt*. He almost wouldn’t give me my photos. Then when I asked for a receipt, he got all indignant-like, because it was 1:30pm and it was his naptime (no joke, stores close for midafternoon so the proprietors can take naps). I swear, it’s harder to deal with the Greeks if you’re Greek than if you’re not (they feel bad about robbing you blind if you’re Greek, and it makes them unhappy)

Athens is beautifully dirty. It’s defiantly dirty, but in a really beautiful way. I don’t know how else to describe it. I’m sure many people wouldn’t find much beauty in Athens’s dirt, but I do. The abundant graffiti, the diesel fumes, it’s all so strangely appealing.

Athens by night from Lykavitos, the highest point in the city. The Acropolis is that blurry bright thing on the right.

The Greek restaurant hustlers, (that’s the only way I can think of describing them – they know how to say about 5 phrases in about 30 languages, and they stand outside the restaurant, guess your ethnicity, and try to seduce you into trying their food) they leave me alone because I look Greek enough. That’s good.

The tomatoes are so good. Soooooooooo good. (And the onions are incredibly sweet. Perhaps that’s why my Greek salads at home don’t quite work)

I bought Rachel a postcard. Two really. One is nice, the other is…naughty? But it’s OK – it’s classical art…of two people having sex. The potter wrote next to one of the characters “EROS KALOS,” which I believe can be loosely translated as “Sex is good.”

Lordi won the Eurovision 2006 contest, which was hosted in Athens. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, good, or else you’d be far too European for your own good.

Evzones look funny. Here are two of them guarding the tomb of the unknown soldier in front of the parliament. No, they don’t pose that way, they’re in the middle of changing the guard.

It’s hot here. But everyone is wearing pants. Except for me and a few Germans. To clarify that, the Germans and I are wearing shorts – we are not simply going around pantless.

I’m getting really good at finding my way around the city. Granted, there’s no grid at all, so I still need a map, but now I only need to discreetly glance down at it (I keep it in my pocket, folded to exactly where I need it) once every 10 minutes or so. I’ve perfected the technique of “wander in roughly the right direction, check map, make corrections.”

The ASCSA, or the American School of Classical Studies in Athens, has been more than welcoming. I’ve been given my own desk, access cards to the library, free admission to all the museums, etc. I even ran into Dr. Renberg from Hopkins there (to be fare, I knew he was gonna be in Athens, but it was still a surprise to see him there).

Here's the Panathenian stadium, the renovated ancient panathenian stadium from circa whenever BC, still in use today (and during the alympics. Go panormas!

In one of my wanderings, I ended up in the middle of what must have been “Little Middle-east.” It was nothing like an American “Little Italy” or “Chinatown,” though. The streets were packed, everyone was talking in an Arabic-like (probably Arabic) language, there was the smell of Middle Eastern cooking, people had the sidewalks blocked off with blankets covered in clothes they were selling. Hmm, that sounds a lot like a description of Chinatown. The sensation was different though. When you’re in Chinatown, you know you’re still in America. When I was on this street, I felt like I was in the middle of a Pakistani Bazaar.

Of all the pictures I’ve taken so far, only two are relevant to my project. Damn those old women in the churches who make me feel guilty about taking pictures. I give them a Euro as a donation to the church, but they look directly at the camera in my hand, and then scowl at me. Granted, when I asked one of them once if I could take a picture (in perfect, formal Greek), she snapped back (in perfect, informal Greek) “make it snappy, boy,” and thus we have the two pictures which are relevant to my project. Perhaps I should try asking the old women more, even if I am scared of them. Following is one of the aforementioned pictures.

I’ve been eating like Josiah (crew reference, not biblical, or anything like that). My past three meals have consisted of some sort of spit roasted meat (“skewered, roasted flesh”), followed by a half-liter of beer. Doesn’t that sounds impressive, a half liter of beer? It’s only slightly more than a pint though. Strange.

On the beer note, – Lukasz – the Mythos beer we have at home is skunked, or something. The stuff I’ve had here is much better. I prefer the Alpha brand to Mythos, though, and I still have been unable to try the Zorbas. I think it must actually not exist.

Everything here is made of marble. I guess that makes sense. Where we would use concrete and asphalt, the Greeks use marble. The stairs, the sidewalks, even cheap restaurant tables are all made of marble.

There are a lot of Asian – I think mostly Chinese and Japanese – tourists for some reason. I’ve never seen so many.

I’ve done so much walking. I must walk at least 12 miles each day. Probably more, actually.

The librarian who gave me a 30 hour tour of the library today really took her job seriously. She had a nice little British accent. Or at least I thought she did, but she never raised her voice above the lowest whisper, so I had no idea what she sounded like, or what she said. Let’s just say I’ll be showing up at her desk with plenty of questions (I must of asked her to repeat herself at least 30 times). I don’t think it helped then when we were walking, she stopped abruptly, causing my hand to very sharply and loudly hit her in the ass. She pretended nothing had happened, although it was loud enough that someone at a desk nearby clearly heard it and looked up alarmed.

I didn’t know what time it was for all of yesterday because the TV said one thing, my cell phone, which is supposedly updated by the network, was off by an hour, and the clock in the room had an entirely different time. I went by my phone. Unfortunately, the TV was right.

My hotel is very nice, but it’s in a slum. It’s not too bad though.

Peter – I saw the Sheep commercial, only this time it wasn’t “trixes,” it was something else about cell phones. Arrgh! I can’t remember what it was. It was, hoever, incredibly funny.

On the topic of commercials, I just saw one that was pretty funny. “You love donuts! But who will make them? You will!” Haha. OK, it wasn’t that funny. The funny part was that everything was in Greek, except for “donuts.” S’aresei ta donuts! Alla pios tha fiaxan? (I think that Greek is right. I can understand, but not speak well, so give me a break).

Wouldn't it be cool if Hopkins looked like this. Here's one of the Athenian universities. I haven't quite finished editing the panorama yet, because it's 3am, so leave me alone. You have to use your imagination.

That is all.