Magic moments at the lighthouse

Greek kids love making out. They really do. Last September I took my friend from San Francisco to my hometown (Nafplio) and inevitably ended up taking him on a tour of the places I had made out when I was young.

"Take a look at this church – it's really neat because it's partially built into the hillside. Also I made out on the roof once."

"The walk around Acronafplia is so beautiful because you can see all the little villages twinkling across the bay at night. It's also a huge make-out spot."

"Here's the town square where I used to play soccer. I used to hide behind that statue and make out."

You get the picture.

The first of all these make-outs, though, occurred in a fishing village 15 minutes outside of Nafplio. My father was running a restaurant in Mili where I stayed with him for the summer and made friends with the village kids. One in particular put a twinkle in my twelve and a half year-old eye. Nikos Koutouzos.

He was a little over a year older than me and a total badass. He wore an acid washed jean jacket, smoked Marlboro reds and drove a motorcycle (or "scooter" if you will). His hair was very similar to Ethan Hawke's in Reality Bites (except less greasy) and I thought he was unbelievable hot.

One night he came by my dad's restaurant on his motor cycle. We sat outside drinking Sprite out of the bottle and chatting for a while. Around 2am my dad closed up the restaurant and I told him I'd be home soon. Nikos and I walked over to the pier and sat by the lighthouse. He chain smoked Marlboros while I watched him completely mesmerized. Around 5:30 am he *finally* went in for the kill. Best. Make-out. Ever.

I ran home afterward and woke up my sister. Where the dirt have you been, she asked. Nikos Koutouzos kissed me!, I said. She laughed for a while and told my dad first thing in the morning. Then he laughed too.

I ended up twelve year-old "dating" Nikos for a couple of weeks but pretty soon got bored with him and started making out with this other dude, Vasilis (church rooftop make-out) for the rest of the summer. He was in rehab for heroin addiction by the time he was sixteen and that's probably where my history of attraction to questionable people began!

Yikes, South American bus trips.

It's possible that the longest road trip I've taken was from Seattle, Washington to Chicago, Illinois. And I actually took that trip just a few months after traversing Patagonia. But. South American bus trips are far more interesting to write about… (ever driven through Nebraska? YUCK.)

My friends (Kim and Rose) and I flew down to Bariloche for a magical weekend of hiking in the mountains, biking around the lake, visiting volcanoes and eating criminal amounts of chocolate. When we were through we hopped a bus back to Buenos Aires.

We paid extra for the sleeper seats since we knew we'd be spending at least 26 consecutive hours on the bus. There was no such thing as a sleeper seat, however, so we just got ripped off and stuffed into the regular seats. Kim has a pathological fear of getting her luggage stolen so she was accompanied by her gigantic backpack.

During this bus trip several notable things occurred. First, I discovered that the movie "White Chicks" is fantastic. The bus driver played it once and I was literally begging him to play it again. If not fantastic, it was at least better than a Steven Seagal flick.

Next, after hour 11 on the bus, I discovered I was about to pee myself. Kim felt the same way. Upon seeing the disgusting state of the on-bus bathroom we decided it would probably be best (?) to both go in at the same time so we could cradle each other and avoid touching anything inside the bathroom. Somehow we were able to pull it off and did not get bus AIDS.

Although Rose and I got along swimmingly until this point, there came a time I did have to raise my voice at her. It was the middle of the night and she couldn't sleep and it was hot and she kept talking to me and poking me or gripping me arm every time she made a point. I looked at her and said "I need you to stop touching me for at least five minutes." It was the first time she saw rage on my face and she did keep her hands to herself and silent for the requested five minutes.

After the Rose poking incident, this fucking lady sat on top of me. I am serious. Some Argentine woman was getting ready for her stop and decided to wait right by my seat. She started off by placing her hindquarters, her ass, on my arm rest. Then she decided to essentially slide onto my lap. I was so tired and we'd been on the damn bus for so long and I couldn't breathe because a grown woman was sitting on me so I lost it. I started laughing hysterically and yelling "you're sitting on me! Are you serious, you're really sitting on top of me?!" She smiled at me and kept sitting there.

You'll thank me when you don't have salmonella.

Sure, I've received plenty of advice in my life. I definitely don't listen to all of it and some things I must learn on my own, the "hard way." One lesson I'm not willing to personally come upon is how awful foodborne illness can be. So while no one has explicitly said this to me, I've indirectly received the advice of where and what not to eat. The infallible rule that addresses both is chicken at transportation ports.

kebap sandwich by WhatCouldPossiblyGoWrong?

I find it extra wonderful that this photo is called "What Could Possibly Go Wrong?" because, I'll tell you what, there's plenty that can go wrong with a chicken kebab.

Ignore the ethnic man handling the kebab; he has nothing to do with the equation. The fact of the matter is chicken is a weird, dirty little poultry that, when undercooked, causes violent illness. That makes eating chicken anywhere less than ideal. Do you ever hear of chicken carpaccio? Or chicken tartare? No. That's because chicken can only be "done" one way. If you want to trust any random bus terminal worker with your chicken, that's your gamble.

Part 2 of the equation: transportation hubs. People who eat in/around transportation hubs are *desperate*. They've been traveling for lord knows how long, cramped in a small plane/train/automobile seat, with nothing but peanuts. Don't you dare think for a minute that proprietors aren't in the know. They bank on that very desperation. Have you ever seen locals go out to eat at a bus terminal? Or a train station? No. Because why in god's name would they? The food sucks and will make you barf for the 36 hours you're riding from Valparaiso into Bolivia. This is a fact.

And I'll take this opportunity – you're welcome – to shed light on border towns as well. Do not eat anything in border towns, especially not chicken. Ever seen a border town? Canada doesn't count.

Awww, my bedroom

Bonus points when:

* I've just washed my sheets

* The heater is not broken

* Walter did not go to the beach that day and therefore did not get sand all over my bed

by

My favorite room in my house is my bedroom. Why? Well, I am pretty constantly surrounded by people. Friends, family, hugs, hand holding. Sure, I'm tenderoni, but I still need my alone time.

I like my bedroom the best because I have dark curtains, so it's always dark. I can sleep in my comfortable bed until noon or 2pm or whenever the natural light that doesn't wake me up turns to dark again. I listen to my tunes and knit or read or… do Sudoku puzzles (don't make fun!). And most importantly, I share my cot with Walter every night. He is the most tenderoni of all. He always snuggles and holds hands, even if I've been gone all day liviing my social 22 year-old life. The end.

My fear of boredom

I am the type of person who needs to constantly be stimulated and challenged and throw fast balls. I like to be kept on my toes. And this is probably why I'm addicted to change and can't sit still for five minutes.

I am afraid of tons of other things, trust me. The dark, getting murdered, the Insane Clown Posse, mustard… the list goes on. But I am terrified that I will reach a point in my life that I'm bored. And for me that's synonymous with content. If I find myself perfectly content (unless I'm chilling on a Mexican beach with a margarita in hand) then I'm doing something wrong. I constantly want new and different and more and better.

This year, I’m thankful for meat ball

Italian meat-balls #1 by Mikhail Fludkov (FLOODkOFF)

My favorite term for the people I love is meatballs. I call my friends meatballs, I call my family meatballs and I call my dog/son Walter a meatball too. I adjust to veg ball or vegetarian meatball for my vegetarian friend(s) – hi, Kris!

So I’m quite thankful to have an abundance of meatballs in my life. I was lucky enough to have an early Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday with my cousins, their dad and Rikki Didi. I made a giant delectable turkey, squashes, green beans and potatoes. We went through a zillion cases of wine and, as we took each one down, the dinner appeared to be more and more of a success. Nothing quite like the drunk munchies.

For real Thanksgiving I’m having my bestie, my cousin and her friend over for dinner. I’m making a delicious mousaka, stuffed grape leaves and Greek salad. We’ll probably also eat a lot of cheese and drink wine. There’s a medium to high chance that I’ll get teary and repeatedly tell everyone how much I love them and how thankful I am. Depending on how much wine I drink, there’s at least a medium chance I’ll pass out in a pile of my own vomit.

I’ll get up for my second wind, obviously.

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My first job: landscaping

My goodness. Really nailing down my first job is quite a toughie. My Ba owned restaurants while I was growing up so I always ended up working in those. At the tender age of six or seven I started serving people mostly because I was really cute and the customers thought I was really cute so they left me giant tips. My main responsibility at that age was eating pieces of bread that I coated in whipped cream mounds. Mmmm… delicious. Later on, the restaurant job transformed into something more closely resembling child labor but who’s counting.

Officially my first job, though, was landscaping for my bff Heather’s dad, Bill. We would spread bark and weed during summers in middle school and high school. Let me tell you something about bark. That is one thick overwhelming smell when it’s hot outside. Big bark pile. Sometimes we would dig trenches too and build rock walls. But more than anything we’d make Bill go buy us cheeseburgers so we could sit in the bark pile looking like cute little hotties of summer and we’d flirt with his spry immigrant workers.

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Too legit to quit!

Old Bushmills Distillery by Damien du Toit (coda)

Realistically it’s partying that is my vice. But I think Bushmills is the main culprit in that department. Why? Because I love it. Whiskey is delicious and it’s deliciously fun. My friend Rikki and I bought a mini bottle of Bushmills on the way to the Outside Lands concert over the summer, put it in a brown paper bag and drank the whole thing (like complete piles of questionable loser) by the time we got to Golden Gate Park. We found our behavior to be so hilariously classless that we’ve rolled with it every since. Yesterday, for example, I received a text message from my cousin:”You are a person who drinks Steel Reserve out of a shit bag on a Sunday afternoon. That is who you are.”And it’s true. I was walking down Valencia in the middle of the day drinking the nastiest malt liquor on the planet. Because I didn’t have a paper bag to brown bag it, I had to put it in a compostable dog poo Bio Bag. Ha! I still find my habits to be hugely entertaining so I don’t imagine I’ll give it up anytime soon.

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I talk good. Me also talk pretty one day.

Corinna Psomadakis:
oh man, i just realized zipping things is SO much fast
er
shit, i go zip, then i share

doorind:
you have an incredible command of the english language

Yeah, Hilary Duff rulz.

Do you ever just wake up and think to yourself “fuck the sunshine?” I woke up this morning and wanted to look outside and see a grey sky, and drink a Greek mountain tea with some conifer honey and be cold. I mean, I don’t think I’m depressed, but I could really use pouring down rain. Maybe even a thunderstorm. I can sit inside my quiet apartment and snuggle with Walter and be miserable. And after all of that, or during the storm rather, I’d like to listen to the Hilary Duff song “Come Clean.” And I would like for that jam to make me feel like I’ve been rinsed of something so I can feel different.

I need a change real bad.