Sun and Showers, Thorns and Flowers: The Everyday, the Holiday, “Vacation,” and Escape

That’s Life (In Greece)

Ups and downs, naturally. Two weeks of Easter vacation for all Greek students are great for the kids, but not for the moms who are expected to do a considerable amount of holiday prep work on top of the extra childcare—unless grandmothers are available for that--whether or not they have paying jobs. Driving up to the supermarket to stock up on tissues and paper towels while they’re 40% cheaper than usual, I came up behind a pickup truck full of sheep that was following two other pickup trucks full of sheep—perhaps part of the same flock that blocked the road into our neighborhood as they were herded through the streets one evening. Heading back down the hill to build tissue and paper towel towers in my bedroom, I trailed a small, slow motorbike whose two passengers seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion or argument, judging by the expansive gestures that could be confused with frequent left and right turn signals and the way the helmeted driver kept turning his head back to look at his un-helmeted passenger. That’s driving in Greece for you.

On the “down” side: a light fixture hasn’t been working in one room; our new-ish dishwasher was broken for about two weeks, even after being “repaired” twice; a cat sprayed one balcony shutter and French door one day; ants invaded the kitchen floor another day; a cat climbed way up to a high kitchen window to spray right through that screen; a new army of ants attacked some juice spilled on the kitchen counter. “That’s life,” commented a Greek friend. Maybe too much “life” all at once. And then a week later our telephone land line stopped working, along with all the land lines on the whole Akrotiri Peninsula, if rumors can be believed. Although the early-morning problem wasn’t resolved until mid-afternoon, no one I asked knew what had caused it or when it might be fixed. That’s typical: generally, I can find no one in the neighborhood, and only a select few at the relevant offices, who know what's going on during water, electricity, internet, or phone outages, since almost no one else bothers to try to look into the problem or report it! D usually just feels too annoyed and busy to call about it, figuring it’ll be discovered and fixed eventually in any case, but he sometimes calls at my urging. If I'm desperate to make plans about when I’ll actually have electricity or internet again to prepare a meal or finish some work, I try calling myself, but I don't usually understand most of the response, which always comes in swiftly-spoken advanced Greek. 


On the “up” side: new flowers and fruits increase the rewards of foraging in the neighborhood. Since some fruit seemed to be dropping from my neighbor’s tree and spoiling, I asked if I might pick a few of her loquats, which are called DESpoless here and known elsewhere in Greece as MOOZmoola—a word I enjoy almost as much as karPOOzee, or watermelon. The yellowish or light orange loquats range from cherry to plum size, pear to plum shape, with a taste that combines apricot, peach, plum, and grape—a taste I’d never experienced before moving here. Kyria K responded to my request by inviting me into her yard, getting out her ladder, and encouraging me to pick all the fruit on the tree and give her just a little of it. So instead of a few minutes and a few loquats, I ended up with an hour’s activity and two large bags of fruit, one for us and one for her! I’ve also harvested even sweeter, larger loquats from a very productive tree in an unoccupied lot which doesn’t seem to interest anyone else. This is a fruit that is both expensive and much better when eaten fresh off the tree; then it can hold the sweet taste of the Cretan spring--and of Greek generosity.

 

Showers of Blossoms, Meadows of Thorns, Winds of Change

Multitudes of tiny olive blossoms fall on me in little showers of white if I bump a branch, landing on the ground like a light snowfall. It’s no longer so easy to search the field next to an olive grove for the wildflowers to which I'm addicted, since it’s more a matter of wading through tall, dry seeded grasses and cautiously picking my way between sharp and thorny plants than walking blithely through the shorter, greener grasses of our winter and early spring in search of a bouquet. Anyhow, there aren’t too many flowers left there aside from the treacherous purple thistle, now that a farmer has mown the grass, weeds, and flowers--even my favorite bright pink field gladiolas--that would otherwise draw nutrients away from the olive trees or prove a fire hazard in the dry summer. But while the ubiquitous color of abundant early spring is already being replaced by hardier, less friendly plants now that the sun has become stronger, some fragrant, brilliantly orange and yellow nasturtiums escaped from gardens, and the large lantana (or shrub verbena) bushes full of tiny pink, yellow, orange and white blossom clusters are flourishing now, along with the geraniums that bloom here year-round, adding color to the drama of partly cloudy skies on windy days. I still occasionally discover new species of wildflowers, as well, including strange flowers such as a dragon arum and another arum plant I can’t identify, which looks like an elongated candle flame protected by a large white, pointed hood edged with dark purple and shaded by huge leaves.

Strong island winds (22-34 mph, or more, at times) have kept us allergy sufferers inside a lot lately as olive branches wave wildly, and dust and pollens scatter. At least recent days have featured more westerly winds rather than the southerly gusts that bring African sand and an eerie semi-cloudiness that limits visibility and coats everything in light films of dirt. On one windy walk around the Old Port of Chania, we were treated to impressive shows of sea spray as waves crashed against rocks to the west of the port. With such strong winds, the weather can change suddenly. Just a little rain blew in to replace the earlier sun today (unlike

the serious spring showers of another week) before the clouds blew away to reveal the sun again—and then returned to hide it. During Holy Week, we had two or three days in the 80s, but as soon as I washed the winter coats my kids had barely worn since January, intending to retire them for the season, they were needed for a chilly Good Friday evening service. 

Greek Orthodox Easter Traditions  

Easter is by far the biggest holiday of the year in this predominantly Greek Orthodox country, considerably more important than Christmas, with at least as long a school vacation (2 weeks, just finished). A minority of Greeks fast during the entire 40 days of Lent (not eating animal products, including fish and dairy, with limits on oil and wine); most do not fast, or do so for shorter periods, such as one or two days before communion during Holy Week. Highlights of the holidays include Good Friday’s candle-lit processions around neighborhoods following a flower-covered bier that holds an icon depicting the preparation of Christ for burial and represents the tomb of Christ (epitaphios); the midnight celebration of the resurrection with its singing of “Christos anesti” (Christ is risen) and spreading of the symbolic eternal flame from candle to candle through the darkness, followed by dangerous fireworks and gunshots into the air outside some churches, and the burning of an effigy of Judas (clothes filled with dried grasses) near others. On Easter, it’s the custom to hit a red boiled egg against another’s egg, to see whose cracks last; lamb (or sometimes goat) is roasted on a spit as part of the Easter feast with friends and family. Greeks don’t just say “Happy Easter” or even “Hronia Polla,” their universal holiday wish for many years (of good health, presumably); on and after Easter, they first greet each other not by saying Kalimera (good morning, good day), but with “Christos anesti,” Christ is risen, and they respond to that with “Alithos anesti,” He is truly risen. It’s not all about chocolate bunnies and Easter eggs here; they’re part of the celebration, but less important than the fancily decorated candle (the lampada) that children receive from godparents and light during or after the celebration of the resurrection, and of course far less important than the resurrection itself.

After an Easter feast at the home of good friends, we left with another dozen or so fresh eggs from their hens to top off our collection of colorful boiled eggs. Last year, fed up with eating the questionable ingredients in commercial egg dyes that always stained egg whites, I vowed to try vegetable dyes this year. So I spent a whole afternoon experimenting with beets and purple cabbage (the biggest success, for a reddish color, and blue), red wine with balsamic vinegar (an interesting deep mottled rust color after a night dying in the fridge), spinach with green tea, and cumin (a waste of time). Although most Greeks still dye all their eggs (which are often brown, to begin with) the traditional bright red (reminiscent of the cloak of Christ when he was crucified, or a miraculous color transformation of some of Mary Magdalene’s eggs to convince a doubter that Christ had risen from the dead), some now use a variety of colors, as I always have. I think I’ll use the beets, purple cabbage, and something orange next year, since I couldn’t seem to make brown eggs turn green, let alone yellow. No green eggs OR ham here—red eggs and goat or lamb instead.

 

Rebirth from the Ashes, Escape from Care: The Botanical Park & Gardens of Crete

This is my favorite place to go to escape worries about the financial crisis, decreasing health insurance benefits, the health of my aging mother in law, the dumping of the remains of chemical weapons in the sea where we swim (which is strongly opposed on posters and in rallies), and my children’s education (given questionable policies, teaching methods, strikes, and occupations). I have not seen or heard of any evidence around here to support the government’s claim that the economy is improving. But at the Botanical Park, I can escape thoughts about the 27% of the population that’s still unemployed, the people without health insurance or any regular income, the immigrants facing increasing ethnocentrism and poverty, and even worse problems and deeper pain in such places as Syria, Korea, Washington state, and perhaps now parts of Ukraine. I keep reminding myself how fortunate I am to have the means, location, and ability to escape such worries, instead of being overcome and imprisoned by the grim reality that defines so many people’s lives.


About a half hour from Chania, driving toward Mt. Omalos through unremarkable villages until we reach expansive orange groves and approach the foothills of the mountains, we find the Botanical Park and Gardens of Crete. The park was conceived about a decade ago, after a wildfire destroyed all the olive groves and orange orchards in the area. Since then, acres of fire-ravaged hillside have been wonderfully transformed by a hard-working, knowledgeable, dedicated team of four brothers who decided to create an organic paradise of various microclimates below a hilltop restaurant that features windows and patios overlooking the foothills and gardens. As I’ve watched the fruit trees, orange groves, and grapevines grow during repeated visits over the years, I’ve found that the restaurant has also produced increasingly sophisticated and tasty dishes using organic produce from the gardens and orchards. Two dishes I’ve eaten there--one plate of pork tenderloin with figs and Metaxa brandy sauce and another of chicken with citrus sauce--were so strikingly ornamented (one with tzatziki and tropical fruits, another with rose petals and orange slices) that I couldn’t begin eating until I had photographed them.


But I really love to go there for the walk: starting with a view of hills and valleys dotted with neatly spaced olive trees, down the terraced hillsides with tropical fruit trees and exotic flowers, into the cool shade of chestnut and cherry trees, up again through fragrant herb gardens, around and down past the tadpole pond, the Japanese maples and calla lilies, the giant papyrus, the dogwood, and the only bamboo I’ve seen in Greece (flourishing, like almost everything else in those gardens!), down into the valley’s lush green of nut and plane trees, through the orange and tangerine groves to the large pond, around the pond and past the roaming peacocks to visit the Cretan goats (kri kri), the deer, and the donkey, then up the terraces on the far side of the hill, through nectarine and apricot orchards and a vineyard, walking on paths edged with colorful geraniums and magnificent rose bushes, meeting more surprises on the way.
 
Alongside common Greek herbs and flowers, we encounter exotic trees and unusual, showy blossoms, such as the striking bird of paradise and others I’d never seen anywhere. Every year, I notice that the four brothers have made improvements: added more informative signs (with one in Russian this year!), distributed more picturesque vessels, sculptures, tools, tables, rustic wooden seating, or antique farm equipment alongside the path, and this year expanded the parking lot, provided a canvas sun cover for the small amphitheater, and planted a terraced vegetable garden just below the restaurant. It’s still early in the season, so the restaurant wasn’t too busy when we ate there, but it gets very full some Sundays at midday, both in winter and summer. The adult admission price of 6 euros for the walk is worth paying, and so well used. Someone there—maybe Kostas, who studied organic agriculture, but says he’s still learning from experience—thinks of everything from the informative and philosophical (on signs scattered alongside the trail) to the amusing (a tree hung with gardening implements in an orchard). We often linger for two hours on a walk that could take half the time (with great discipline and far less curiosity and interest in flowers and photography). While our children may need reminders that we can feed the ducks and geese we often see near the pond, or rewards and incentives of dried fruits and chocolates on the long climb back up the hill, there is so much to observe that I don’t even notice that I’m walking until I reach the uphill switchback return through orchards and a vineyard spotted with daisies, geraniums, artichokes, and other flowers. I emerge from the path tired but rejuvenated: that’s an invigorating place to spend a spring (or fall) day.

 

Living in Greece All Summer Long

We Can't Beat the Heat--or at least we couldn't

Summer vacation started in mid June for elementary school students, but it hasn't started yet for many of their parents. At home and at work, summer in Greece is no vacation. As the temperature reached at least 102 F in Chania at the beginning of last  week, and the Acropolis closed early because of the heat in Athens, I decided we'd hit the days of serious summer. For me, this means housework in the heat (since we have no air conditioning, like many Greeks), experimenting with opening the windows, hoping to let in a breath of welcome air, or closing them to keep the sun's oven outside. (When I was childless, I had no clue how much more housework children would create....) Serious summer in Greece means the stink of garbage in neighborhood dumpsters and bathroom trash cans (since Greek plumbing isn't set up to handle toilet paper). It means errands with the kids on the run in the sun. (And yes, alliteration and rhyme help distract me so I feel better.) We do have air conditioning in the car, but the sharp contrast between a cool car and a draft of hot air hits us hard as we emerge into the sun en route to the cool shelter of the supermarket, pharmacy, or produce store. The big supermarkets are the most comfortable places to be these days, aside from a movie theater; since we have no malls in Crete--at least not on our end of the island--I've lingered over grocery lists in a more leisurely fashion than usual lately. I know how lucky I am not to have to sweep streets, empty dumpsters, operate bulldozers, or build houses these days. It's the immigrants from more impoverished parts of the world that suffer most in the heat.

I've given up taking walks during my kids' 10:15 swimming lesson; even on the days when it's only in the upper 80s by then, with the hot sun beating down on me and sending everyone else indoors who possibly can be, the exercise is too excruciating a chore. If I get out between 8:00

and 8:30, it's cool enough in the shade that I actually see neighbors outside, so I don't feel so isolated in a burning world full of rusting buses and scaffold supports, discarded lumber, overgrown lots, and unfinished buildings scattered among middle-class homes, bougainvillea, potted flowers, and pastel-painted apartment buildings. I've noticed one particularly interesting two-story building in Chania that must house a paliatzees--someone who collects and sells old things, or, one might say, a junk man. Parked outside, next to the dumpsters with their typical overflow of rubbish, is the standard ancient pickup truck. Strewn about the yard, old clothes are draped over boards, unidentifiable metal objects continue their rusting process, and boxes overflow with miscellaneous junk. I suspect the second floor of the boxy building looks the same, since its unwalled balcony is also filled with junk, and I sometimes see a youngish man maneuvering between boxes there. We see and hear the paliatzees frequently in our neighborhood--he's a fixture in Greek life, with his loudspeaker monotonously announcing his presence and his false promise to "clean up everything." If only they could, at the household level and the national level!

Last Monday, when the temperature was supposed to start dropping, it actually felt hotter and more humid, with a hot wind and a discouraging cloud that resembled the noxious "nefos" of pollution mixed with hot air that hangs over Athens during much of the summer. But after a sweat-soaked, exhausting week, the temperature dropped on Tuesday, and we were surprised by a few clouds in the sky--enough, in the morning, that I was puzzled by the change in the summer light. We see so few clouds here throughout the summer that we become unaccustomed to them.

 

Obstacle Courses:  Driving in Greece 

It often appears that Greeks can't tell the different between a lane of traffic and a parking space, so that even two-lane roads in the center of Chania frequently have one lane blocked by someone who just had to run into a shop. Of course, the definition of "two-lane road," like "two-way street," is unclear here. I dread driving on one main street in Chania because, with cars parked on both sides, two more can barely squeeze by each other. And then there are single-lane roads that allow two-way traffic. Those are fun. The problem with parking is often that there is no parking lot nearby, since most apartment buildings, stores, and restaurants are built without such trivial considerations. But sometimes the trouble is that the driver (even if young and able) prefers to block a lane rather than walking more than a few steps--or that the driver sees a friend and decides to stop in the road and chat.

I've long believed that Greek drivers must be highly skilled at the arcade games that involve swerving around suddenly-appearing obstructions, because driving around here generally feels like making my way through an obstacle course: car parked on the right, blocking half of the traffic lane; motorcycle veering toward me, over the center line, on the left, helmet hung over the driver's arm; car door opening into traffic on the right; motorcycle passing me in a no passing zone on the left, with cars approaching us in the left lane; dog lying in the middle of the road; cat running onto the road on the right; car stalled at the stoplight on the right, others passing it in the left turn lane that disappears. Walled yards and parked vehicles frequently obstruct drivers' views, making it necessary to pull part way into traffic in order to see what's around the corner. Traffic laws mean little: stop signs often seem to mandate a brief pause; double lines in the center of the road never apply to motorcycles, or to anyone with a slow moving vehicle to pass; speed limits are just suggestions; no parking signs are invalidated by flashers left on, or other cars parked nearby (unless the police decide it's time to crack down). Actually, it seems that no laws apply to motorcyclists--at least, that's how they drive. Last time I repeated my claim that all Greek economic problems would be solved if fines were collected from motorcyclists for every traffic violation, D suggested that most police have too much sympathy for daredevil drivers to care to stop them, however many lives they may endanger daily.

The First Major Electrical Outage of the Summer, and Other Bad News

 Last Tuesday, I awoke to the all too familiar sound of F16s roaring through my shuttered bedroom--or so it seemed--and no electricity to turn on a lamp. (Due to budget cuts, Greek F16 pilots practice only once or twice a week now--plenty for me.) I cursed the electric company, which had failed to post the usual announcements of planned electrical outages on utility poles in our neighborhood, just posting a few in the nearby town, without any information about the area to be affected. Although 5 out of 6 Greek neighbors surveyed had no advance knowledge of the 8:00 a.m. to 12:45 p.m outage in our neighborhood, and it wasn't even mentioned on a web site dedicated to such announcements, the electric company rep I talked to insisted that if I could read Greek I'd have seen (nonexistent!) announcements. Believe me, I've had adequate opportunity to learn that "thiakopee revmatos" means electrical outage! (That, along with "eepomonee"--patience--and "tee na kahnoume"--what can we do?--is basic, essential Greek for residents here. Lately, we've also heard a lot about "kourahio"--courage.) This outage--supposedly for maintenance--was announced only in the local paper most people don't read. So there was hot water in the bathrooms, but not in the kitchen, thanks to limited solar heating; I couldn't do laundry or cook as I'd planned.

 

Plans? No wonder Greeks don't plan ahead much; they never know what they can count on--electricity, water, school, internet, trash pickup, open stores, telephone service? Again, Thursday: "The number you are calling is temporarily out of service"--kindly translated into English for befuddled foreigners who actually expect phones to work when there are no electrical storms and bills are paid. I tried to explain to my friend that her home phone wasn't working, but her cell phone connection was interrupted before I could finish my sentence. Friday, our neighborhood's water supply was cut off, albeit only for an hour or two this time (unlike the days without it when I'd just brought home my first newborn child). This usually occurs courtesy of bulldozer operators who dig up water lines. And "due to serious problems in the power supply" at one of my favorite Greek metereological sites, Poseidon, that system has been down for a week or two. We've never had electrical outages for weeks, so I wonder if it's a matter of government funding disappearing. 

With one third to one half of all Greek income tax returns due to be filed last Monday, the government once again extended the deadline; after all, it only recently sent out statements for a real estate tax from 2009, so how could it be ready for a new onslaught of 1.8 million returns? The government claims that it will decrease bureaucracy and red tape, but so far we see extra paperwork for physicians who struggle with faulty new computer systems for prescription drugs, professors required to file research project reports with enough accounting to require a CPA, and taxpayers who are expected to save, add up, and submit all receipts for groceries, gasoline, restaurant meals, children's activities, and most other purchases all year long! No, no red tape or bureaucracy around here.... The goal is obviously to combat tax evasion and wasteful and illegal spending, but it certainly doesn't involve decreased bureaucracy. Meanwhile, we continue to suffer shortages of common medications. The Human Rights Watch recently published a report about the mistreatment of, and attacks on, many immigrants in Greece. The Council of Europe will send an investigator to check on alleged links between the neo-fascist Golden Dawn party and the police, and it is reported that half of the police voted for that neo-Nazi party. I just hope the Council of Europe will also acknowledge that Greece needs more help dealing with the large number of immigrants flooding into Europe across its borders.

As Nikos Konstandaras argues in Kathemerini newspaper's online English edition, "The government is struggling to find ways of cutting another 11.6 billion euros from the budget without triggering a revolt and our partners [the troika of Greece's lenders] are waiting for the magic number before releasing the next tranche [loan installment]. We forget that which should have been our priority: We need to make not only the state but the whole country more functional.... As long as citizens don’t see better services, their sacrifices are in vain. As long as they don’t see a more efficient state -- that collects taxes from all and punishes those who break laws -- the sense of injustice will grow" ("Make the state work first"). Hear, hear! But does anyone here hear? The news is not encouraging, as many expect additional job, salary, pension, and benefit cuts, even as the government says it will add no new austerity measures until next year--that is, none they didn't already pledge to enact in 2012. With no signs of sensitivity or sense from the troika, there's little hope of economic growth. Most Greeks want to renegotiate the bailout agreement, but the troika does not. 

But Ah! Those Summer Nights!

In spite of all the problems, Chania is one of the more popular tourist destinations in Greece these weeks, as the two cruise ships anchored just outside the Old Port confirmed last week. This is particularly obvious as the city cools off in the evening, and many apparently prosperous locals emerge from hiding to join the tourists who appear to be more tolerant of the heat. Venturing into the Old Port area on a weekend night with our children, we passed mime statues and immigrants selling junk for kids, threaded our way through crowds, and ran into two sets of friends. Seeking a more contained spot for the children on a Sunday night, we met with friends at the equally crowded MegaPlace, with its movie theater, bowling, cafes, and exciting play place (bouncing contraptions, kiddie pay rides, and playground). We received no more invitations to major events, but a hairdresser reported that she was busy preparing others for the weddings and baptisms that continue during Greek summer weekends, and we passed extended lines of cars parked on both sides of the road around 11:00 p.m. near a reception center in the middle of nowhere. Which is where we were, on the way back from a wonderful beach.

Some parents here take their kids to the beach daily. Others dislike sand and dread the effort involved in preparing young children and all their gear, keeping them safe in the sea and sand, and dealing with the aftermath of sandy, salty people, bathing suits, towels, and toys; these avoid the beach as much as possible. Then there are those in between, like us. When we can, D and I sneak off to the beach without the kids, one at a time, for a quick morning swim without all the hassle. But at least once a week we feel obligated to endure the whole exhausting production, which for me includes packing a picnic supper to eat on our beach blanket. Don't get me wrong: I know I am extremely privileged to live closer than I ever expected to some of the most beautiful spots in the world, and to have the ability and means to take the time, now and then, to enjoy them. I love relaxing on the beach as evening falls, and I do enjoy my swim and my view of the sea, the surrounding landscape, and my children's pure happiness as they frolic in and out of the water, dig in the sand, and begin to really swim in the sea. I appreciate the amazing views and the (sometimes) clear aquamarine waters. It's the preparation and especially the aftermath I find exhausting, especially when it ends around 1:30 a.m., as it did for me last weekend after a trip to a beach an hour away, on the western edge of Crete: Falasarna.

Substituting the catchier tunes of a Sesame Street CD for whining and are-we-there-yet complaints, passing gas stations charging as much as 1.84 euros per liter of their cheapest gas (up from a low of 1.68 two weeks ago in Chania), sinking into a deep pothole that extended right across the single-lane road through a village, we arrived at Falasarna. Each time I emerge from the village onto the road high above a valley dotted with greenhouses, I'm struck anew by the view of towering hills, dramatic cliffs, and wide-open sea. From several long, sandy beaches, we choose one with a natural shallow sea pool nearly surrounded by boulders. At times, that western sea is churned up by waves reminiscent of the Atlantic Ocean and the Delaware beaches of my childhood, but last weekend we could clearly see sand, seaweed, and new rocks on the bottom through its calm waters. While our daughter showed off her new endurance swimming abilities with D, my son and I dug a large pool and a wall to defend it against the sea's wavelets, bringing back nostalgic memories of my own childish battles against the Atlantic's greater onslaughts. As the sun lowered into the sea, spreading its sweet evening light on faces, water, and boulders with tidepools full of sea salt useful for our boiled eggs, we enjoyed our picnic on the beach. We didn't finish until after some campers had lit fires and torches near their tents under the trees, and I'd gazed long at the cliffs silhouetted against the afterglow. But my romantic appreciation was disturbed by concern about campfires and torches in such a wind, which so often spreads destructive wildfires across Greece in the summer heat.

On our way home, as the children fell asleep in the backseat, D and I listened to calls from Chicago, Brisbane, and Norway on a radio show for Greeks around the world. The host seemed ready to cut off the callers before they'd finished their nostalgic comments. I'd need to be much more concise than I have been to avoid the same. My own nostalgia is a complex mix: nostalgia for the privileged enclaves of America where I used to live, the types of places where gunmen now shoot crowds of innocent civilians as they used to do only in the urban slums that scared me, and premature nostalgia for the Greece I long to leave but know I'd miss. Greeks are often angry, and they can act crazy, but even the anarchists here warn people to leave buildings if they're going to burn them, and even the fascists beat people up rather than shooting them. In the aftermath of the latest horrifying shooting in Colorado, I wonder why 45% of American homes contain guns (according to a 2011 Gallup poll). I wonder if the U. S. A. is a safe place to take my children, and whether anyone will take meaningful action to make it a safer place for everyone's children. Would my kids be better off here in Greece, even with the economy in shambles, the infrastructure so faulty, the government and its services so inefficient, the repeated possibility of Greece leaving the euro zone, and the prime minister telling Bill Clinton the situation here now is comparable to the American Great Depression of the 1930s?