The White Mountains: September 22-25

Young and Old Olive Tree

We fled the tourists and escaped to Crete’s White Mountains, known for their olive oil and honey production.  I had pictured rural Greece to be a vista of soft, lush, rolling hills covered in olive orchards and vineyards.  I had not expected the hillsides a dusty brown and barren of trees.  The reality is that the mountains are covered in gray-green shrubs.  Every single plant and leaf is encased in a cage of prickles. 

Spines

I would not want to be a goat in this ecosystem.  From the car, the mountains slopes look fuzzy and soft.  However, I found out through trial and error that brushing against a plant means certain wounds and marks of battle. 

An Old Olive Orchard

There is one exception to this rule of thorns: the olive groves.  Olive trees are not thorny or covered in spines; instead they have incredibly tough leathery leaves and bark.  Spines are the plants’ adaption to living with grazers and the tough waxy leaves are an adaption preventing dehydration in the harsh sun.  On north facing slopes, especially in gullies, there is a profusion of trees, larger shrubs and greenery escaping the sun.

Old Walls

Everyone says that a car is necessary to explore Crete properly.  For us, the car means that we can meander through little mountain towns that would be inaccessible otherwise.  These towns, often called something with too many syllables, have been there for centuries.  The new houses blend with the old and often share exterior walls and lower stories.  Some of the smaller towns look like they have looked forever: stone houses, narrow cobbled streets, and olive trees everywhere.

A Small Town

“Town” is sometimes an exaggeration.  There may be only a handful of houses per “town” and minimal to no infrastructure for tourists—which was exactly what we were looking for.  The one common concession to tourism was the traditional tavernas, some more traditional than others.  It seemed that we would stop and eat at each town we drove through.  At one taverna, we were taken care of by a group of Greek grandmothers; and grandfathers—who spoke no English.  We thought we had ordered four small Calistunia (sweet cheese pastries) but instead got six each.  They were delighted however that we were enjoying their food so enthusiastically so we had to finish everything.  Georgie saved the day and ate most of my mum and dad’s portions.  Then we (yes, all of us) were given the customary raki (Cretan hard liquor) and fresh figs and grapes (yum).  By the end of our time in Crete, my mum and I had become rather fond of the raki, especially when mixed with large quantities of honey--rakomelo.  My dad however liked raki right from the start. 

As we were leaving the taverna, my mum dashed back inside to ask them an ethnobotanical question.  It had been raining, and we had heard that the rain would make the grapes explode.  So she asked, in fluent Greek, “Rain bad grape?” Oh, the look we got was priceless.  They all nodded their heads enthusiastically and acted like we had spoken great words of wisdom.  Clearly, they don’t see much intelligent tourists. 

From a cars view, the towns are set very close together.  Usually only a mountain separates the towns, which is only a five minute drive.  However, walking from village to village, carrying a load, would probably have taken 40 minutes to an hour.  I think that perhaps our modern view of distances is skewed—we can travel 100km in an hour and around the world in a day.  Distances that people would have made once in their life, if at all, we can drive in a relatively short amount of time. 

A Variety of Jarred Food

These mountain hamlets tend to be nestled against the north side of the mountains and along ravines.  Spreading out from the towns are the ancient olive orchards.  In some cases, the whole mountainside is covered in old and modern terraces filled with olive trees.  It amazes me that these mountains have been manicured for centuries and that even in the most remote places there are no unaltered landscapes.  Even the ecological reserves have goats grazing on them. 

A Traditional Olive Press in a Wall

Each family produces, and many sell to tourists, a variety of traditional food: honey (meli), maramlades, olives, olive oil, wine, nuts, raki, herbs, teas, juice concentrates and soap.  Each town seems to sell different, and better, kinds of olive oil and prepared olives.  My personal favorite combines these: olives cured in lemon olive oil.  Today, each family brings their ripe olives (in January) to the town’s mechanized olive press.  The ancient method of rolling an immense stone, and more recently concrete wheel across the olives is no longer used. 

The View From the Mountains

At the beginning of our Crete exploration, we were not optimistic about being able to fully immerse ourselves in Cretan culture.  We don’t speak Greek, except for phrases like “old stone to push olives”.  However, I feel like I have experienced the traditional culture of Crete.  I saw mountains covered with olives, terraces, and other traditional forms of agriculture.  In the little towns, I was able to interact with people who still distill their own raki.  Cretans are a warm, welcoming, and tough group of people who have learned to survive in one of the harshest landscapes I have ever seen. 

However, driving through the mountains, we also saw abandoned farms and olive orchards.  The alarming trend is that people are moving away from their farms towards the cities.  While they can support themselves with agriculture, they don’t have enough disposable income for electronics and the other measures of success in modern society.  Also, more and more Cretans are eating American food.  One person we talked to on Crete, said that Cretans are eating fried potatoes three times a day and are dying of heart failure and obesity in their 60’s.  I realized that the “traditional” Crete we, the tourists, want to see is becoming harder to find as the culture changes.  I wonder how the new Cretan culture will develop.

Χαυια: September 21, 22

The old city of Chania is a mix of medieval rock walls, touristy stores, and quiet, winding alleys.  The streets, too narrow for cars, are paved with cobblestones and packed with an international group of tourists.  Walking along, I could hear Hebrew, French, English, German and Spanish being spoken all around me. 

My family and I are more adventurous than most tourists and we would frequently duck into deserted side alleys to escape the crowd.  The noise of the main streets disappears and the walls lean in as if whispering secrets to each other.  The old walls are hung with purple bougainvilleas and grape arbors.  In one place, I stood in the middle of a street so narrow that I had both hands flat on opposite walls.  I learned later that it was the old gate to the Jewish quarter.  Through the cross streets I can catch glimpses of the sea—a glaring, harsh aqua-blue that stands out like a jewel against the dirty stone walls of the city.

Part of the Venetian Wall

Walking through Chania is like a constant history lesson.  The oldest walls in the city are relics from the Byzantine occupation of Crete, from 400 CE.  I was surprised that a wall could survive 1600 years, until I realized that people would have repaired the wall continually since then.  The city also has relicts of its long Venetian occupation.  The city is still dominated by stout walls from both the Byzantine and Venetian eras. Each wall, however, curves around different parts of the city, implying that the ruling civilizations shifting epicenter for the town.

The old medieval city, where we mostly hung out, was built by the Venetians starting in the 1200’s.  Looking back at the city from the lighthouse across the harbour, we all thought we could be looking at Venice.  The city was built right to the water’s edge and lined with tavernas and storefronts.  Many stores sold intricate glass creations and pottery a deep turquoise the colour of the ocean over sand.  The Venetians, and the Nazis, thought that Chania had a strategically important port for their expanding empires.  The Nazis in particular went to great lengths to secure the city of Chania. 

Looking Back at the Harbour Wall

Before leaving Chania in our rental car, there was one last sight we had to see.  The Etz Chayim synagogue is definitely the oldest synagogue with the most history in which I have ever stood.  The synagogue is classified as a museum in our guidebook, so I thought I would be weird to have our own culture on display as an extinct aspect of Chania’s history.  However, the reality of the experience was entirely the opposite. 

The synagogue is set back from a courtyard filled with tall grape vines and shrubs.  As I ducked through the door, I immediately got a sense of entering a sacred place.  The synagogue comes from the Romaniot tradition, which, as I learned, means many things.  In a purely physical sense, one of the more apparent differences is that all the benches face towards the center.  The other obvious change is that the bimah (podium) is on the opposite side of the sanctuary to the ark – unlike the “normal” pattern for most Synagogues around the world.

When we think of the Jewish subcultures, we tend to think of the Ashkenazy and Sephardic traditions.  The Ashkenazim are the Eastern European Jews with whom most people are familiar.  The Sephardim are descended from Jews who flourished in Spain when it was under Islamic rule, but were evicted during the inquisition.   However, there is a third group of people—the Romaniot, who lived in Greece from at least Byzantine times and identify with this areas culture and history.  This group of Jews had completely distinct teachings, traditions, and DNA from everyone else.  Unfortunately, since the second world war, few of these culturally distinct Jews are left. 

Etz Chayim is now the only Synagogue on Crete and has a permanent congregation of 12.  All the Jews of Crete were removed by the Nazis and most were drowned in a convoy on their way to Auschwitz.  This Jewish community had existed for 2400 years and was one of the oldest in Europe.  We had a remarkable conversation with Alex Phoundoulakis, who has been the guiding force behind rebuilding the synagogue and the community, on everything from Israeli politics, the loss of cultural diversity, and Jewish history.  It was truly inspiring. 

Olive Me, Why Don’t You Take Olive Me …

The German couple down the street, the group of French students, the Spanish honeymooners, and my family are all seeking the same thing.  We are searching for authentic Greek cuisine.  Here on Crete, our goal is more specific; we want to eat traditional Cretan food.  Unfortunately, the tavernas seem to have been notified of our quest, and each advertises “traditional Cretan food” of mousaka, spinach pie, and pizza. 

Traditional Cretan Dishes

Since we are absolute cretins when it comes to distinguishing the quality of tavernas, my mum did what she does best—she asked a local.  He recommended to us the place where he eats.  The food there was fresh and filled with entirely new flavours.  My favourite was the stuffed zucchini flowers, which I snatched from my mum even though she ordered them.  My dish, fresh dolmades (stuffed grape leaves), were served hot, and unlike those we get canned at home, weren’t uniform in shape. 

We have all experienced the Greek restaurants in Canada trying to create the “authentic Greek experience”.  They have pillars, whitewashed walls, photos of Greece, and fake vines.  They all fail at creating the ambience of the tavernas here.  The Greek tavernas in Greece have an easy atmosphere filled with laughter, a warm wind and happy people having fun with their food. 

An Open Air Market with Local Produce

Feta in North America is mostly an imposter.  We learned that feta, by definition, is made with 80% goat’s milk and 20% sheep’s milk.  If it is made with cow’s milk, then it is called by a different name: though it smells as sweet it is NOT Feta!  The taste and texture of feta here is varied and delightful.  In the supermarkets there are a plethora of Feta options, different brands, different styles, and different ages.  Each Greek salad I eat here has a large slab of Feta perched on the surface of the tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and onions.  Of course, the vegetables are almost swimming in a sea of olive oil.  Interestingly, Greek salad is still called “Greek salad” in Greece. 

Cretan Cheese

I came to Greece with the idea that olive oil would be used copiously on everything: breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  I was delighted to discover this is completely correct.  No one buys olive oil here; everyone seems to get it from friends or their own family farm.  At restaurants, the salt- and pepper-shakers are inconsequential.  Instead there are vials of olive oil and red wine vinegar dominating the table.  While, the olive oil in Vancouver can sometimes have a bitter aftertaste and be very heavy, all the olive oil I have tasted here is not only light, but each family’s has a distinct flavour.  We are all wildly dipping our bread in olive oil at every possible opportunity. 

It Really is Greek to Me

While in Athens, we are staying with a close friend.  Ευαγγελια (Evangelia) is a lovely person who is making our stay perfect—making us amazing diners and showing us aspects of her country that would otherwise be inaccessible to us. 

The View from Poseidon's Temple

I am struggling to learn even the most basic Greek and am asking Ευαγγελια frequent questions on pronunciations and on translations.  The Greek alphabet is full of foreign sounds and shapes.  There are four different letters for “i”.  “X” is an “h”, and “Δ” is “th”.  I never thought that calculus would be useful this year, but the algebraic variables in math are pulled entirely from the Greek alphabet.  As of today, I can read most words and am only struggling with four letters—the ones with the most fantastic squiggles (ϕ, φ, ξ, ζ). 

The history spills from the land in Greece and leaves impressions everywhere.  In Athens, most houses sit on five civilizations.  The Islamic Museum is carefully built around the old wall of Athens and has glass walled rooms for its viewing.  It seems that each Greek town has an archeological temple dedicated to some other deity.  While most Greeks don’t frequent the temples, their history is a cause of pride, much like the Statue of Liberty for the Americans, or Eiffel Tower for the French. 

On our second day in Greece, Ευαγγελια drove us to the Temple of Poseidon at the southern most point of Αττικα (Attica).  The columns of gleaming white marble are perched high on a high rocky point above the sea inside a semi-reconstructed fortress wall.  In ancient times, the temple had three functions: a refuge, a beacon across the water, and a sacred area that could be seen from kilometers away.  Boats used to take refuge there during storms and ask Poseidon for a safe journey.  There are other buildings in the area now, but Poseidon’s temple is still sits alone on a rocky hill dominating the landscape. 

 

I feel closer to this temple than the Acropolis; it feels purer and less touched by the passage of centuries.  It is easy to imagine this place inhabited by Poseidon, the divine spirit of the ocean.  Between the wind that almost pushed me over, the bright blue ocean, and the gleaming pillars of stone—one adorned with Lord Byron’s name—I can easily view the landscape as it was 2000 years ago. 

Αθήνα

A long time ago in the Greek myths, two deities had a contest to win the patronage of present day Athens.  Athena, goddess of wisdom, strategy, and chariots, gave the Greeks the olive.  Poseidon offered a salt-water spring.  Not surprisingly, the ancient Athenians favoured Athena’s gift and named their city for her.  The Parthenon, perched on a flat mountain with many natural springs, was a dedication to Athena. 

The Acropolis was built to inspire awe.  In it’s heyday, the rocky plateau was home to the gods.  Brilliant marble pillars, ornately carved reliefs, and kores (maidenly statues bearing offerings) adorned each temple.  The site has survived fire, pillaging, gunpowder, and overeager archaeologists for 2492 years. 

Wide marble steps line the path up to the acropolis and have been given a glassy polishing by tens of thousands of feet over thousands of years.  Even with the crowds, I found it easy to imagine the ancient Athenians carrying offerings, sitting in the amphitheater, and retreating to the plateau during a siege. 

Falling back on my Bio 11 vocabulary, there are form-function relationships in architecture dedicated to the Gods.  The Mayan pyramids are towering structures that dominate the landscape—much like the Acropolis.  However, the Mayan temples are steep sided structures that are perilous to ascend.  The stairs are so narrow, and the slope so great, that “to climb” is a better verb than “to walk”.  In Greece, the road to the Acropolis is wide, the slope gradual, and is easy to walk.  The difference between the two architectural styles is based on their function.  In the Mexico, the pyramids are only for the priests, the human sacrifices, and the Gods.  The Greek temples were a place where the community gathered.  The amphitheater is below the Parthenon—one of the biggest sacred sites in Greece. 

The modern city of Athens radiates out from the Acropolis in a haphazard manner.  From the air, the city appears like an amoeba, spreading its pseudopods around the hills, encroaching on every empty space.  Even though the hills are covered with a smoggy haze, Athens doesn’t feel like a dirty city.  The city does feel old, tired, and very stretched—like Bilbo Baggins.  Looking out at the endless sea of buildings, I can forget that I am in the city where the gods battled, and where Aristotle and Plato philosophized.  But then I realize that I am in the city that developed democracy… and I feel the connection across time.

The Dusseldorf Airport

Even though I knew intellectually that Europe has a very different culture from Canada, I was shocked by the obvious differences upon our arrival into the Dusseldorf airport.  Most of the European women wore stylish heels and skirts with an elegant blouse and scarf.  When I travel, I always look and feel as if I had slept in a gutter.  These people, however, looked pristine.  The men followed the same trend as the women, wearing crisp, unwrinkled shirts, nice pants, and shoes.  In my sensible travel clothes, I immediately felt shabby and underdressed.  This feeling intensified as the 6-hour lay over continued and I continued to see their clothes.  When we were continually addressed in English, my mother and I decided that our clothes gave away our Canadian identities. 

 

Another cultural disparity is the attitude of the border guards.  We’ve all experienced the surly, frowning, brusque, and angry men that stamp our passports in the States.  In Dusseldorf, they were friendly, joking amongst each other, and with us, and we were treated like actual humans—not like suspected terrorists.  A friend in Athens yesterday suggested that the Americans are over-alert because they are worried about their abilities and that the Germans are relaxed because they are confidant. 

From Wednesday, Sept. 14th

“Wal-Mart makes me appreciate Safeway,” said my father as we wondered through the megastore’s isles looking for any food that wasn’t zero fat and sugar free.  Thank goodness we are leaving the land of manicured landscapes, excessive air conditioning, and fast food.  We are flying to New York, where we will spend approximately 24 hours.  Then we will enter a country where spanakopita’s and feta are the “fast food”.

At the airport, whenever I see the van labeled “Sky Chefs” I always giggle to myself. Of course, these “chefs” only serve cheap peanuts or pretzels.  If we wanted anything “gourmet”, like a sandwich, we would have to pay an exorbitant fee. 

From above, the clouds look like puffs of spun cotton that have been artfully arranged by a sculptor.  There are soft peaks, spikes, and dark valleys.  Some of the clouds look like egg whites that have been liberated from the force of gravity: wispy bits seem to fly in improbable directions.  Amazing too, is how all the clouds appear to be magically suspended along a single plane.  Flying north along the Atlantic seaboard, the stark whites and greys of the clouds create contrast with the unvarying ocean below.  Their shadows give texture to the unforgiving blue that stretches on in all visible directions from my small window. 

Near the beginning of the flight, the seascape was not so uniform.  There were boats, islands, and a spectacular spectrum of oceanic coloration.  Dark blue faded into sapphire, which melded with turquoise as islands approached.  Even after we had passed the islands, the tropical ocean shade remained.  I fancied that I could see right through to the ocean floor and to formations in the sand.  

With so few landmarks, it was difficult to feel grounded in a sense of perspective.  The cloud shadows looked like islands; each different colour appeared as a change in elevation.  It was as if an imaginative child had colored in a topographical map, but they had bypassed the normal greens, and instead drawn with the blues. 

A Problem

There seems to be some difficulties with the “follow by email” system. Some people have reported irregular email notifications and others don’t get any notifications at all. My last post (about 9/11) was never even sent out—the program sent the correct title, but the wrong text. Unfortunately, the system is set up for dummies (like me), which also means that there are no places to fix mistakes. Even if there were, I don’t know if I would understand enough computer jargon to fix the problem. 

So, I am sorry for the inconsistencies, but there is not much I can do. I would recommend checking the actual blog sometimes to make sure that you are receiving the correct posts. Then you can also see my pretty formatting and leave cheerful, lovely comments. If you have any questions, please feel free to let me know via email.

Remembering

As the ten-year anniversary of 9/11 approached, the media was filled with frequent publicity announcements about the memorial at Ground Zero. As the broadcasts showed shots of the new trade tower and the waterfalls, we were repeatedly asked to think about where we were exactly ten years ago, on September 11th, 2001.

I was seven years old and on holiday in Florida visiting my great Aunt and Uncle. Ten years ago, I was sitting in precisely the same chair in the kitchen as I have been eating breakfast in for the last three days.  I was sitting in the same chair as I watched the memorial ceremony today. 

Of course, when I was seven, I barely understood what had occurred.  All I knew was that everyone around me was horrified, and that I got to spend an extra week with my family away from school.  My parents, aunt and uncle, could talk about nothing else—replaying the events and the aftermath.  Even though I have such a clear memory of where I was, I still don’t know the exact moment when I understood. 

I now understand, and am aghast at what we do to ourselves in the name of justice, revenge, and god.  But then, when I was in grade three, I couldn’t comprehend the enormity of what had occurred 1046 miles away.  Today, I feel immense sorrow for the surviving families, the passengers, and the heroes of 9/11.  However, this feeling is completely removed from my memory and what happened ten years ago.  This is of course different than my parents; they can remember the shock and the horror that they experienced then.  They have a multi-dimensional grief composed of remembered and current feelings.  I think that in future generations, as we become farther removed from the raw emotions of experiencing the actual event, we will need to remember in different ways. 

Irony

As everyone knows, traveling is about gaining new experiences.  So, this morning, I was watching the morning news as I was eating breakfast, which is something I never do.  Between weather reports (highs of 90, lows of 75) there were frequent advertisements on TV--who knew?  Some of them are incredibly silly, featuring talking cheese, and animated chocolate.  My favourite, however, was a commercial for tourism in the Gulf of Mexico.  There were images of fishing, swimming with dolphins, white sand beaches and luxury boat rides.  At the end a small footnote showed sponsorship by BP! 

 

Lets check the irony of this commercial. 

BP is sponsoring an ad for tourism in the Gulf—featuring lots of pristine, pure water.  Is this supposed to be some sort of guilty conscience thing?  In fact, it is.  As of 2010, the U.S. Travel Association wanted BP to establish a $500 million fund to promote tourism in the Gulf Coast region.  Its funny how issues are so short lived in the media; our culture has such short attention spans.  The BP oil fiasco, which I assume is still an ecological hazard, has completely vanished from mainstream media. 

Life in Florida

When most people think of Florida, they imagine Miami, the Florida Keys, or Disney World.  The reality, however, is quite different.  Let me explain…

When my aunt and uncle moved here 24 years ago, Boca Raton and Delray Beach were covered in farmland.  Mexican immigrants worked on the farms for a pittance and, says my aunt, lived in shacks by the side of the one lane road.  Now, gated communities and shopping centers fill both cities and Boca is “the” place to live. 

Many of the complexes here are situated on private golf courses and are filled almost entirely populated by part time residences.  The phenomenon is that retirees from colder climates buy condos and live in Florida during the colder part of the year.  These people are major assets to the economy, but full time residences tend to look at the “snowbirds” with disdain. 

Here is a parody I wrote two years ago for school about life in Southern Florida. 

Flighty white birds that travel in flocks  

Appear each year, with timing like clocks. 

In fact, these birds are obscenely pristine,

They always and always and always are clean.

Swathed in feathers glistening with health:

These birds love preening, showing off wealth,

And flaunting their feathers—flawless and fair—

These birds, it's said, have had facial repairs.

Because these birds, they’re not what they seem.

They live for pleasure with very few themes:

Fashion, gossip, and golf courses too, 

Pursuing their passions in only one hue.

Their lifestyle is rich, they feed off the land,

Acting in ways which should really be banned. 

These birds are common for birders to see.

Snowbirds are invasive, they’ll make others flee,

These birds shop at malls and fast food bars:

These birds, they're not birds! but some kin of ours. 

Today, as Estelle (my aunt) and I drove along a 4-lane highway in Boca, we saw people begging at each intersection.  I was told that the government discourages drivers from giving the beggars money because then they won’t go to a shelter to receive food or financial support.  I can’t imagine what they were going through, sitting outside experiencing the intensity of the tropical sun and heat. 

In Florida there is a mix of the very rich, the very poor and everyone in between.  This state has the fourth largest population, the 22^nd largest area and about 2/3 of the population was born in another state.  I, however, like Vancouver.  Even though we don’t get spectacular lightning storms like I was privy to tonight. 

Flying

In Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, an extraterrestrial confuses cars for Earth’s dominant life form.  So if cars are the dominant life forms, then airplanes are their cruel overlords. 

Carried in a “cruel overlord” 37 000 ft. above the ground, it seems as if the world is carved out of modeling clay.  The mountains are picture perfect with their sharp peaks covered by a light dusting of snow.  Only, since I am viewing them from above, I can also see how the streams drain off the mountains and coalesce into silvery serpentine rivers in the valleys. 

When I look out the window later, I see a patchwork quilt of fields.  There are green squares, brown squares, red squares, and yellow squares.  Each square has a different pattern: stripes, alternating colours and squiggles.  Some have a silvery strip of satin running through their perimeter.  This is the only way I have ever seen the prairie—from above. 

My Carry-On

For all my anxiety earlier, flying alone has been delightful.  People always seem to be happy when they are traveling.  In the Atlanta airport, waiting for my last flight to Ft. Lauderdale, I was struggling with a pay phone trying to call home.  I had written detailed instructions of how to call collect, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get a dial tone.  How hard could it be?  Eventually, I asked a fellow traveler for help.  However, even our combined efforts couldn’t make the phone work.  So, the nice lady lent me her cell phone for my long-distance call home.  

After a long day of traveling, I finally arrived in Florida.  As I walked out of the airport at ten pm, I could feel the heat and humidity push against me like a tangible pressure.  Welcome to Florida: land of the snowbirds, everglades, and golf courses. 

The Day Before Departure

Tomorrow, I am flying for the first time by myself.  First stop in the trip: Delray Beach, Florida to visit my great aunt and uncle.  Several months ago, when the trip seemed far away, I offered to fly to Florida before the rest of the family; I thought I would be ready to leave sooner.   So, I get to spend a lovely three days with my aunt and uncle just to myself.   My parents and Georgie will fly out to meet me in Florida on the tenth. 

 I have flown without my parents before, but I had always had airport personnel hold my hand and guide me from gate to gate.  Tomorrow, I will be changing planes twice and navigating four airports—three of which I am completely unfamiliar with. 

While I can’t wait for my adventure to start, I am apprehensive about the first step.  I am worried I will be unable to find my gates, although I have taken copious notes.  I am anxious that I will be hassled about traveling with my violin.  My nerves are also created in part because I have a fear of flying.  My theory is that this particular fear stems from my “dislike” of heights.  Even though I know everything will be fine, I am still apprehensive.

I think that perhaps the nervous butterflies are breeding with the excited butterflies to create a new breed of super bug that will fly from my stomach and out my nose. 

As I write this, the sun is streaming through the windows in my room.  There is nary a cloud in the sky—it is a brilliant azure.  Outside my window, the sunshine is giving the leaves a shimmering halo of golden light.  I can’t believe I am leaving my beautiful country in ~19 hours. 

Even though I am nervous and frazzled (is there anything I’ve forgotten?), I am filled with excitement about traveling.  As my friends start school today, I am congratulating myself on my choice of taking a gap year.  And I’m thrilled it’s finally starting.