Ta Nea

I wrote an article for Ta Nea, a political newspaper in Greece, recently. The link for the article in Greek and pictures is on the left side of this page.

But for most of you, here is what is sounds like in English:

The first time I lived in Athens I was 22 years old. One day I was living with my parents in my childhood home in Seattle, Washington, the next I was living alone in a foreign city where I didn’t speak the language, the taxi drivers were all on strike, and I got yelled at multiple times a day (sometimes by people that paid me, sometimes by old women at the supermarket). It was a confusing time.

And rightfully so. It was a period of my life ripe with changes and new experiences. My first step outside of North America was when I landed in Athens; I had my first real apartment in Ano Patissia. My first boyfriend after college was Greek and my first job as an adult was playing basketball in the Greek league. Athens holds many of my personal milestones

I can’t say that I didn’t like Athens in the beginning but I did find myself with misplaced emotions; blaming the city garbage strike on my feelings of loneliness; getting mad at errant drivers when really I just missed my family. Eventually I realized that the city garbage workers were not to blame for the fact that I didn’t have any close friends and that Greek drivers shouldn’t be held accountable for the fact that my family was 6,000 miles away. Hindsight is a protracted process however; it’s only taken me five years to realize my twisted ways.

My second year in Athens I swung the opposite direction. I fell into the stereotypical American expatriate mindset; namely that everything European is excellent while everything American is a terrible idea thought up by workaholic type A’s that have no passion for life. I even accepted smoking around me, mainly because I had no choice in the matter but despite the fact that its one of the stupidest things you can do.

For all the things that irritated me my first year, I learned to laugh about them during my second. Greeks became hilarious to me. I’d laugh when discussions about American politics turned into lectures; some old Greek man telling me all the things about our stupid former president that I already knew. I sat back and enjoyed when team meetings became shouting matches, my fiery teammates yelling at coaches and managers in a way one could never do on my side of the Atlantic. I’d shake my head in astonished amusement when gia gia’s would cut in front of me in line at the grocery store, seemingly oblivious to the concept of queuing. I even caught on to the driver’s right of way; rude driving is really much more fun.

My third year in Athens I found my inner Greek. Literally. Not only was I living like a local but some family history research had revealed that I had Greek ancestors from the 19th century. I finally had a reason why I’d kept coming back to Athens and evidence to support exactly how I felt: 1/32nd Greek. This revelation led Greek people to say entirely false comments with surety such as ‘you look Greek’ (I don’t), to ‘you should marry a Greek and live in Greece forever’ (probably not going to happen), to ‘you could get a Greek passport.’ (I wish). Mostly Greek people exhibited the trait I like the most, pride in their culture and excitement over my sudden inclusion.

It didn’t really matter that my lineage was negligible; I was considered an honorary Greek by the very fact that I understood and appreciated Greek culture. This was accomplished by fumbling over Greek words to the great amusement of everyone around me, eating kukoretsi (though I’m still questioning that decision), and not ordering decaf very often. I even went to Ephesus and cornered tour guides to ensure that the proper credit was given to the Greeks.

Don’t get me wrong, I still miss America but there are some things that I could do without; manufactured stress, bad fruit, and skim milk being among them. But other than that, it’s still my home country and the place I always want to return. So, I have a genius idea that I’m sure no one has every thought of. My plan is to merge the best of America with the best of Greece. I’ll combine long weekday hours drinking coffee in cafes with the salary of an overworked American; I’ll take the benefits of Greek nepotism when it comes but eschew the practice when it doesn’t work out in my favor; I’ll eat a simple, healthy, fresh Mediterranean diet but also enjoy the variety that comes from an unfocused palate; I’ll apply the sea la vie attitude when I need more time but utilize the American propensity for timeliness when I need someone to get something done for me; I’ll drive like a European behind the wheel but when I’m a pedestrian I’ll appreciate it if people drive like nice, law abiding Americans.

My plan is seemingly flawless and I like to tell myself that it will work. Call me crazy if you want but I’ll blame it on my 1/32nd Greek blood.

New York Times

Click on the left (under "Links) on "NY Times Blog Article" for my latest writing.

Russian again?

I hate Russia.

I know, hate is a strong word. I think its supposed to be reserved for referring to philandering ex's or foods that make your stomach turn. You aren't really supposed to hate entire countries. So, I take it back. Kind of.

My team advanced to play a team in Kursk, Russia for FIBA cup playoffs. I wasn’t ecstatic about returning to the land of Red but like most things in my life, figured at least I would get a good story out of the experience. If nothing else, it would break up the monotony of my idyllic life in Athens. I mean enough of this sunny weather, beautiful cafes, and views of the Aegean. It just gets boring after awhile.

Going from Greece to Russia is like spending an afternoon at a carnival with balloons and cotton candy and rides to visiting a nursing home later in the day. It’s a shock to the senses and the contrast makes the nursing home even more depressing. And maybe you even feel a little guilty knowing the people inside don’t get to go on carnival rides or watch kids with sticky fingers pick out sponge bob square pants balloons. No, they eat jello and play bingo.

I say all this knowing full well that I could possibly play for a team in Russia at some point. There are many teams in the country and the league is competitive and money is very good. Russian oligarch's like to spend ridiculous amounts of money on things that they themselves could never do (such as win basketball games). I suppose I’m getting a little old to make large life decisions based on basketball alone but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Plus, I tend to take it as a personal challenge to find the charm in unlikely places.

I think that’s what bothers me about Russia though: I find it very difficult to see the charm of the place. And maybe I’m getting a little impatient with having to make an effort. Greece is a tsunami of charm. There is charm in every waiter, every old woman that offers to cook for me, every taxi driver that tries to run me over on their way to buy cigarettes. Its not that everyone is nice all the time, its that they live life with an edge and a positive life force that is infectious. While I was kidding about the carnival, the square of my neighborhood sells balloons and every so often brings in giant play apparatuses for the kids (mainly so they can be occupied while their parents sit in the sun and drink coffee and smoke).

Our team’s original travel itinerary was a daunting task. We were scheduled to take an overnight train ride from Moscow to Kursk, arriving at 6 am on the morning of the game. Many times in international competitions, the home team takes care of the travel arrangement for the opposing team; which may or may not have been the case in this situation. That being said, it might explain why the Kursk team is known to play much better at home. Not only did I have the added anxiety of an overnight train in Russia (where our managers were joking about kidnapped players or waking up to find a kidney missing. Really funny.), but now I had to worry if I’d start the game and realize that I had left my legs on the train.

Eventually they realized that the itinerary had to be changed if we wanted to compete in the game. As a result, we would spend more time in Kursk, Russia than any person should have to endure.

There is a moment during every season (hopefully only one moment), when everything seem to go badly. It happens on every team, every year, everywhere in the world. It’s often a test of the depth and resiliency of teams; its a lot easier to overcome if a team has ten players that are potential starters for instance (this is not in reference to my team by the way). This period often coincides with losses, exhausting travel, injuries, large team meetings, deep introspective questions, and a loss of sleep for everyone involved. Its the time of year when you begin to wonder why any maniac would subject herself to a life of athletics.

The week began and so did my period. Like most women working in close proximity, player’s menstrual cycles had synchronized, which is obviously a fun phenomenon for coaches, male coaches in particular, who generally have no idea why one player is really tired, another has back pain, one is more stubborn than usual, and another is crying on the baseline in the middle of practice.


We were all complaining about our periods in the locker room. One girl was even at home since she never practices on the first day of her period. I could elaborate on my feelings regarding her absence but its safe to say that I think that unless you are in the hospital with menstrual cramps, get your ass to practice like the rest of us! Exercise helps.

Anyway, we walked out to the court and sat down for our usual prepractice ten minute monologue, listening as coach explained the practice plan. Then he asked how everyone was feeling. I respond with my requisite, ‘fine’. But our captain pipes in with a full medical report, listing off all of us that are menstruating. She’s saying all this in Greek but I’ve lived here long enough to know what’s going on. She says my name and I raise my hand, guilty as charged. Apparently my ovaries are a matter of public knowledge. My American teammate was a little surprised and possibly offended but I wasn’t at all, probably indicating that I’ve been in Europe too long.

Many times menstruation has been translated into Greeklish as ‘women’s circle’ which isn’t entirely incorrect but always makes me think that we are all joining a book club or something. This of course leads me to picture us sitting around trying to discuss the book but instead bitching at each other and craving chocolate. Regardless, I’m sure my coach was making mental notes on who to leave alone during practice. The menstrual period is not the time to start nitpicking women on screening angles or their shooting stance. Wait for another day.

Menstruation is the female trump card. I think in the great manual of men there are two universals: don’t hit a woman and don’t have any opinion at all on menstruation. The only thoughts, emotions or actions males can demonstrate regarding the event is nonverbal sympathy, absolute agreement on everything, and walking on eggshells even in their own house. At no time should a male exhibit empathy (don’t even try it), understanding (you don’t), or any attempts at minimizing the obvious trauma of the situation (its not traumatic, it just seems like it).

Which leaves male coaches in a precarious situation and explains why players can miss practice due to menstruation. There is absolutely nothing he can say to her. In fact, it would be easier for him to hit her than question her female trump card. Trust me. I’ve actually seen coaches hit players. Never have I seen them argue over menstration induced absences.

Obviously, the week was starting off well. Tuesday morning at 6 o’clock we boarded the bus to the airport and flew to Moscow on a nearly empty plane. It was glorious. We all stretched out on the seats and slept our way to Russia. Clearly, Greeks aren’t flocking north in February.

We arrived to snow and freezing weather and depressing landscape which is really all I ever notice when I land in Russia. Since our next flight was domestic, we had to change airports, which led us to schlep our bags through the snow, wait in a delapitated airport where drunk Russian men kept trying to give us chocolate (kind of ironic), and waste time looking at Russian dolls. Finally we got information that there was a restaurant nearby so we attempted to cross the parking lot, rolling our suitcases through the snow, and trying really hard not to fall on the ice. The upside was that I was traveling with Greek people who were joking and laughing most of the time. My kind of traveling companions.

The restaurant was actually really charming in an authentic and 'seriously where in the world are we' kind of way. The food was good, although the lamb looked like a burnt carcass, which might explain why it took so long to get it served. The man next to us was drunk and talking to himself before the restaurant proprietor picked him up and literally threw him out of the building. There were lots of vodka bottles being served. Not vodka drinks, vodka bottles.

The plane to Kursk was scary. After checking in, we drove through a plane graveyard; a tarmac of old planes that looked like they came there to die. Unfortunately for us, they were all still in operation. Finally we arrived at our vessel. We walked out to the plane, around to the side, under the wing, and threw our bags on. There was some wire hanging off the back and the gas hose was inserted into the tank, supervised only by us passengers. We walked up the step ladder into the oldest plane I’ve ever seen. It looked like an old boat, which sounds charming but really isn’t if it supposed to fly. It might have been better served on a movie set; like a TMC kind of movie.

We sat down and buckled up and prayed. I kissed my Buddha necklace, joined my Orthodox teammates crossing themselves three times, and for sure would have continued with a tribal dance if I knew one. The flight attendant did nothing but hand out carmels and I realized how much I missed the safety instructions.

I stopped paying attention to safety instructions a long time ago. Honestly most of the time I am asleep already and if I’m not I’m mostly only interested in watching the sign language to see how closely it resembles the flight attendants overly emphasized hand gestures. But I like the fact that someone cares enough about my safety to make up mandatory instructions, its nice to know that some type A person wanted standardized regulations, that there are multiple people employed only to ensure that I know to put my oxygen mask on first before helping others. Because in Russia, apparently, they don’t care if you pass out from oxygen deprivation while trying to get a mask on a kid. Not that there were oxygen masks. Or kids for that matter.

Its fine if they don’t tell me my seat floats, this is Russia and if there is water, it’s frozen. Its not that I want totally useless information but it would have been nice to have some pretense of safety. Oksana the flight attendant could have said some gibberish in Russian, pointed a couple of times and I would have had the assurance that someone had thought of something generally related to safety. The carmels didn’t give me piece of mind.

I didn’t think I would be able to sleep. The flight was a little bumpy and lets be honest, I was really wishing that we had taken the 8 hour overnight train ride instead of the flight. But I did sleep because the loud humming from the propellor caused me to have temporary narcolepsy. I woke to someone gagging in the seat across from me. A Russian woman was vomiting into her airsickness bag, right next to my teammate Ty. She looked like she had ebola. Ty went and sat in the back. I sat there with tissue handy in case she needed any.

The hotel was clean and modern. I was so happy about this fact that I hesitate to even criticize the rest. But I will. The whole place was a little eery to be honest, starting with the fact that when we got there, no one spoke English. Its not that I need English to be spoken everywhere in the world, it just says a lot about a destination if the biggest and best hotel in the city doesn’t have multiple English speakers. A little odd in my experience. It felt like Hotel California where people had come and never left. One guy was sitting in the lobby literally the whole entire time we were there (four days); one woman was wearing a wig with a fake flower and a sequin top. She looked like she was about eighty years old but may have only been forty. She was in charge of the coat check. There were five people at the hotel besides us. Our coats were in our room.

The bartender worked for twenty hours straight one time. I noticed this only because I bought Sprite for my teammate the morning of our game and realized the next morning as we were leaving that he was still there. I'd slept twice since he had started his shift, and played in a game, and eaten four meals.

Finally, at every meal there was live singing despite the fact that we were the only ones in the restaurant most of the time. The same young women in the same black backless dress would lip sync sappy Russian songs as we ate spagetti. For breakfast, a man was playing the accordian on the small stage as we discussed what he would do if our whole team up and left all at once. I couldn’t help wondering if it was all left over from communism; give everyone a job even if the job doesn’t need to be done. I guess its nice to have a purpose, even if it weirds everyone out.

The gym was strange as well. The bus dropped us off outside an old building where students were coming in and out. As we walked in, a woman asked me something in Russian, I responded with a 'dah', hoping that she was asking if we were the expected team and not if i wanted to renounce my American citizenship and become Russian. She remained seated and pointed down a dark corridor. Very helpful. We reluctantly started walking through the labrynith of hallways and rooms and stairways, totally unsure where we were going. The floors were peeling linoleum and the paint was faded yellow and it felt like an abandoned hospital. I half expected to open doors and find forgotten patients. No one seemed particularly concerned that we found our way so I started asking random people where the gym was; this was accomplished by pretending to shoot a basket, the international symbol for a gym. Finally we heard balls bouncing.

After practice it was back to the hotel. Remember that it was only Tuesday night at this point. We weren’t playing our game until 8 o’clock Thursday night and we weren’t leaving until Friday morning. Three more days in Kursk!

I had thought with a whole day to kill we might find something to do in Kursk, walk to the supermarket and stare at indiscernable Russian products, take a stroll through the center and look at communist statues, or stop in little shops and take bets on who could get the salesperson to smile. Unfortunately our hotel was out in the middle of nowhere, it was snowing outside, and I didn’t have any motivation at all to leave indoor heating.

However, seeing as we were in Kursk for four days, we did go back and forth from the gym quite a few times. The bus made its way through the outskirts of town, following the river and the WWII street car with foggy windows, by the wooden houses near the train tracks, and through the center of town. The red square had two nice buildings and a statue of Lenin. Then there was the memorial to the largest tank battle in WWII, Kursk, Russia’s claim to fame.

I know historical evidence tells us that Hilter was defeated by the Russians because of starvation and exposure but I’ve never heard the psychological affects mentioned. Namely, that the Germans might have wondered why they were fighting for landscape that has absolutely no appeal. I know Russia has lots of natural resources and all that but I think it’s worth mentioning that given two armies, the one that wants to win more will win. Kind of basic psychology. My point of course is that no one really goes to Russia, views the landscape and thinks to themselves that they would willfully die in exchange for places like Kursk. Trust me, I was there wondering why the Russians even defended the place.

Another thing I couldn’t help but thinking about is how soldiers will no doubt be a lot more willing to die if the life they lead off the battlefield is difficult. Reminds of things I’ve heard of the Spartans; that if you had to eat what they ate, you wouldn’t mind dying either. While the Germans had beer and bratwurst and soft salty pretzels, the Russians had cold and potatoes. I mean at some point I would think the Germans would have looked at each other and said, “ How do you feel about going back to the motherland and getting some snitzel?”

More on this later. I have a surprising amount of things to say on this subject given the fact that I know nothing at all about warfare. I’m going to write about it anyway, but I’ll save it for another blog.

The game was a disaster. Ty had not surprisingly come down with ebola (or stomach flu or food poisoning). She was throwing up all day, which was really unfun for her and slightly stressful for me seeing as she was my roommate. Luckily they gave me a new room and I avoided the virus. But still there remained the problem that our only true post player was unable to keep food down.

The doctor from the other team gave her about ten different drugs and a shot in the ass. Everyone kept saying that she couldn’t play because she hadn’t eaten anything. I, of course have the mentality that she should tape an asprin to her stomach, down some Sprite and saltines and give it a try. She was fine with this idea. Europeans tend to err on the side of safety, Americans tend to risk bodily harm in pursuit of playing time. Neither mentality is particularily healthy. However, according to my vast medical knowledge, playing through stomach flu symptoms is not going to cause lasting damage. If she’s tired and dehydrated, sub her out!

To add to the fun, the other team was extremely dirty and the referees seem to be watching the crowd instead of the game. One of my teammates got elbowed in the stomach so badly that she couldn’t play the rest of the game. Every single cut or screen was preceeded with a two arm body block, to which the referees had the nerve to not only fail to call a foul but comment that we were setting moving screens. As if I could help but move when someone shoves me in the back. After one such screen, my opponent looked at me, raised her elbow to my face and struck as hard as she could. I had a moment where everything slowed down as I contemplated whether I should hit her or not. I somehow decided that I should let her get kicked out of the game while I kept playing. So I coolly shot two free throws from the technical foul and continued playing. I still can’t believe I didn’t hit her. Must be the meditation.

The next day, while walking through the airport, we were quite a sight. I had a giant bruise on my cheek, Ty was still feeling sick, another teammate was now throwing up, from whatever virus was now being passed around our team, and the one who had been elbowed in the stomach was still feeling pain, hopefully not from internal bleeding.

Like I said, there is a moment in every season……

Lindsey the Greek

I learned a few years ago that I most likely have some Greek heritage. This came as no surprise to all my Greek friends; going for coffee for hours and loving feta cheese was the only evidence they needed to convince them that I’m Greek. In fact the lineage is so far back that it’s almost comical to mention. That being said, I feel more connected to my Greek roots that I do to my Swedish or Danish but that might have more to do with the fact that I haven’t visited the latter two places. I doubt it though.

My maternal grandmother’s maiden name was Rigos. My mother’s cousins of the same name traced the family back through my grandmother’s father who was a marble carver who immigrated to America by way of Austria but whose roots continued back to Greece, to a Cycladic island in the Aegean named Tinos.

Tinos is a very famous Greek island. You say the name to any Greek person and they immediately become nostalgic. It’s an important island in the Orthodox religion, the home of over 700 churches and monasteries and a famous icon of the Virgin Mary, known for its miraculous healing powers. Throngs of people make the pilgrimage to Tinos to crawl on their hands and knees to the Virgin to ask for miracles. What I’m saying is that I’m not from just ANY island.

As a result of my cousin’s research, I was put in contact with a Rigos in Athens who had traced the family lineage back to the 1700s. His name is Evangelis (Vagelis) Rigos and after many years of owning a shipping company in New York, he is now settled in his beach house a short drive from Athens. We exchanged emails and phone calls and he invited me to a large benefit dinner hosted by an international Hellenic association (AHEPA).

I got into a cab on the given night and attempted to give directions in Greek. The driver and I somehow understood each other and I was on my way to the Imperial Palace hotel. Halfway through the ride, the driver started speaking in nearly perfect English and we spent the rest of the ride trading stories while he chain-smoked. I had read in the English newspaper how the MPs of the country had proposed a smoking ban and the irony of the situation was that the parliament buildings would be the first to implement the ban. I broached the subject with the driver who responded that he would rather be put in prison than quit smoking. My personal opinion is that if Greek people aren’t lighting up cigarettes, they are going to find something else to light up, namely cars and buildings and police stations.

“The Captain” Vagelis Rigos was a little confused as to who I was and what I was doing in Greece, but in typical Greek fashion, was more than happy to include me. Originally he thought I was simply a friend of my mom’s cousin Jim, yet found this reason enough to invite me to a expensive charity dinner. To this day, I’m not sure he can really grasp that I am here playing basketball and someone actually pays me to do this. I completely understand this confusion; it throws me for a loop sometimes as well.

I met Vagelis as he was talking to a Greek foreign diplomat, a man who had clearly learned how to remain slightly neutral when discussing political issues with other Greeks. Greek people have a tendency to have an opinion on everything and can discuss any topic ad nauseam. A common term in Greek is “Let me tell you”, which can be followed by advice from anything from which socks you should wear to which café we should go to, to their opinion on foreign politics, generously offered to foreign diplomats who obviously need some instruction.

To make matters worse, the poor diplomat had the unfortunate distinction of having lived and worked in Ankara, Turkey which immediately opened up a can of worms best left undisturbed when Greeks are around. Having lived in Turkey myself, I know all too well how to best answer inquiries.

Greek people like to ask leading questions regarding Turkey. “Turkey is not good right?” “You know the Agia Sophia is Greek?” “You are aware that they are barbarians and that they stink right?” For all their hospitality, there is a reason xenophobia is a Greek word.

This inevitably places me in a conundrum. It’s like being stuck between two of your best friends that just so happen to hate each other. When you talk with one, they bitch about the other and expect you to agree. It’s a topic best avoided or skillfully dodged.

While I won’t say anything bad about Turkish people, I do agree that the Agia Sophia is a Greek Orthodox Church and that the large Arabic writing inside does look quite incongruous. This comment gets me huge bonus points with Greeks that pat me on the back and are once again assured that I am a good person. If asked however, I do tell them that Istanbul is an amazing city and that Turkish culture is very similar to Greek. This sometimes puts me back in the questionable moral character bracket but sometimes Greek people simply correct me, that Istanbul is in fact Constantinople, and they go back to their coffee.

The visceral reaction to Greeks does have a demographic variable. The older they are, the more likely the given Greek will devote excess amounts of time convincing me of the merits of Greek culture and the barbarianism of every single Turkish person on the planet. This is difficult to argue with especially when given some historical perspective; namely that among other things, Greece has faced Turkey in four wars in the last 110 years. I mean what can you say to that?

The irony of course is that Turkish people don’t waste half a breath discussing the Greeks. When I mentioned this to my coach he responded with the following: ‘It’s a lot easier to forget when you are the one doing the f-ing. It’s more difficult when you are the one that got f-ed. And if you weren’t even asked.” Sometimes there is pure genius in limited linguistic skills.

The nuances and subtleties of language are the last thing you learn. But occasionally this allows for much more truthful and accurate statements; such as the reason Turks don’t hate the Greeks as much as Greeks hate Turks. I’ve mentioned this in regards to weight and body type; they don’t say someone is heavy or thick or big boned but simply that they are fat. Period.

There’s very little grey area when talking to someone in a foreign language and if there is, even that needs some cultural context to fully understand. For example, in Greek if someone says things are esti k esti (so, so), you can take that to mean things are actually pretty bad. But they are a happy people so they generally won’t come out and say things are bad.

Lithuanians on the other hand have quite a different cultural prism with which they view the world. If you ask someone how they are in Lithuanian, they will probably respond with “not bad”. This actually means that things are great, life has never been better. If you ask them if a restaurant is good, they will say it isn’t bad. This means it’s the best food they have ever tasted. So if you take a Greek and a Lithuanian, ask them how they are and they respond somewhere in the grey area you can make very different conclusions. The Greek will actually be having a horrible day but will be intent on turning things around; the Lithuanian will in fact be having the time of their life but will be afraid to admit to being happy. On the other hand, in America, if someone asks how you are, you’ll reply, but they will have stopped listening because they didn’t really care about the answer in the first place. Cultures are weird obviously.

So back to the charity dinner. Vagelis and me and the foreign diplomat were having a discussion in the lobby as people poured into the ballroom. We decided a few things; Vagelis and I are obviously long lost cousins, I am definitely Greek, and that if possible the foreign diplomat will help me get a Greek passport. The evening was off to a good start.

To add to my amusement, I asked the diplomat if the government buildings were really going smoke free. I think the whole situation is comical. The very people that made the laws are going to be the first to try out the new ban. He responded with a, “are you serious?” and laughed. Clearly he doesn’t think it’s going to work nor did he seem too enthusiastic about sharing an office with people in nicotine detox.

Eventually we made our way inside to a table of interesting characters. Across from me was an old shipping businessman who speech was becoming more and more viscous as the night when on. On one side of me was a 97-year-old Greek woman who had been born in Izmir, Turkey before the Greeks fled. She doesn’t like to be reminded of this only because it assures people that she was borne before 1922, as if her age was a huge secret. She also refused to use a cane because then people might think that she was old. Halfway through the dinner I saw her eyeing my silver stilettos ankle boots. I’m certain she was wondering if she could fit in them.

The woman to my left could have been anywhere from 40 years old to 70, had bleach blonde hair, red fingernails and smoked cigars the whole night. She didn’t speak a word of English but I liked her immensely. Any woman that smokes cigars with red fingernails is good in my book.

Vagelis was definitely the captain of everything he was involved in. To start off the evening, Vagelis started distributing his homegrown pistachios and instructing people’s seating arrangements. He introduced me to everyone as his cousin and it wasn’t until halfway through the meal that the shipping guy across from me realized that Vagelis was only half kidding. He probably thought I was his mistress.

I felt like a giant at the event. I literally towered over almost everyone. I think they were all shrinking. Vagelis was about 5’4” so in my heels I felt like an amazon woman. The 97-year-old next to me, I could have thrown her over my shoulder in one quick movement; something I’m sure she would have enjoyed. Like most events like this in the world, the room was filled with rich, old, rounded men that looked like they might be important, or wanted to feel like they were. The only difference was in America, the men often look exactly like they are feeling, namely that the only reason they are there is that their wives made them attend. Greek men enjoy any occasion to socialize.

The meal started with a prayer from the Orthodox priest, followed by the Greek National Anthem. Surprisingly the Star Spangled Banner was then sung and I felt a surge of pride I hadn’t felt in awhile. Maybe it was the fact that Obama had just been inaugurated, maybe it was because I was in a foreign country, maybe it was simply because there are very few times outside of sporting events that I hear the song. Either way, it was a wonderful surprise to hear my national anthem sung in a room full of standing Greeks. Then ‘Oh Canada’ was sung and my feet started to hurt (sorry Bre).

Then the meal came out and the table of drinking Greek orthodox priests got served first every time. I only found this amusing because I wasn’t hungry. I realize that they might be closer to God but I was closer to the kitchen, which I mistakenly thought would count for something. I also had a time crunch. We had a big game the next day and I didn’t want to be out late. I was hoping to get to dessert fast so that I could make a respectable exit.

Between every course, Vagelis came over and talked to me. Each time he wanted to talk about Turkey and the more he drank the more intense he became about the subject. I could tell he was trying to convince himself that I was just naïve and not stupid or heartless. After all, the barbarians had murdered 4.5 million Christians and the way he made it sound, every single modern day Turkish person is not only to blame for this but is entirely capable of committing these atrocities themselves. It’s like going to Germany and bringing up the Holocaust. Its not that I don’t think its important, or that I disagree with the moral judgment, its just that I’d feel a little weird if someone blamed me for slavery. Not to be flippant but the only thing I can compare this hatred to is a deep seeded sports rivalry; the kind that is passed down through generations; the kind that grows exponentially over the years because of shared memories of victory and failure. That being said, I wouldn’t call University of Iowa fans barbarians. Stupid maybe. Or brainwashed. But not barbarians.

Now that I think about it though: maybe this is only because we usually beat Iowa. Like my coach says, “Its different when you are the one doing the f-ing.”

The Auction Block...

It’s sunny here. A lot. Most morning I look out my window and see bright blue sky and sunny weather. I sound surprised at this, which I shouldn’t be seeing as I’ve already lived in the Mediterranean for two years. But I forgot. I forgot how Spring comes early here, how come March I’ll be at the beach everyday and by the time I go home in April I’ll have a mid summer tan.

I’m currently whiling away a perfectly fine afternoon at a café in the square. It’s beautiful out today which is why I’m sitting outside despite the fact that I can hardly see what I’m writing. It’s just too sunny. My main concern of the day is whether my back will get burnt as I sit here.

I live in a fabulous neighborhood about ten minutes from the center of the city. The neighborhood is called Nea Smirni, which means literally New Smirni. The Greeks of Izmir (Smirni), Turkey fled the country in the 1920’s, came back to Athens and settled together in this neighborhood. They also brought their sports club; which explains the seemingly ridiculous devotion that some fans express.

But back to the sunny weather. Sun makes me think of oranges, which is appropriate seeing as the oranges in Greece are amazing. Every one tastes like a little bit of sunshine. I buy way more than is normal for one person. It’s not entirely my fault, however.

A fruit truck stops on a corner of my neighborhood, loaded up with all the colors of the rainbow. Just walking by it makes me happy. The problem is that if there are two things I can’t resist its fruit and the charm of old Greek men. The proprietor is just that, an old Greek man that talks continuously. I’m not exactly sure if he’s drunk or just fat and jolly. I have a hard time telling the two apart. Either way, he doesn’t at all listen to the portions or types of fruit I request. Instead he waddles around the truck, filling up bags at his own discretion. I’d blame it on my Greek but I’m fairly confident in my numbers and pointing abilities. So if I ask for 3 kilos of oranges, he gives me 5 (that would be 11 pounds). If I want one carton of strawberries, he’ll gives me two and tell me how sweet they are. If I tell him I don’t want a cantaloupe, which is the only fruit I dislike, he puts one in the bag. I spend 20 euros every time I stop, which I’m not even sure is accurate. But I pay him and he seems even more jolly. I really should stop going but I know I won’t; it’s far too entertaining.

Speaking of Greek men. There is a particular breed of Mediterranean men that exist. They have a kind of machismo that can be very attractive; they aren’t as fearful of rejection, they pursue women with a little more enthusiasm, they act like you’ve insulted their mother if you try to pay. And yet, sometimes this manifests itself in borderline stalker behavior. They have hard time taking no for an answer and they become obsessed entirely too quickly, with really little or no encouragement. The Turkish guy that called my 13 times in a row is of the same breed; as is the guy that followed me down the street in Athens until I yelled at him a few years ago.

I was walking down the street one sunny day last week. We had the day off, which means I guilted myself into wearing normal girl clothes instead of the usual team sweat pants that are two sizes too big. So I was looking like a bonafide woman; which is only notable because it’s rare. A man stopped me on the street; an overweight, older Greek man with a low, manly smokers voice. The following two minutes had me laughing continuously as he proceeded to profess his love for me. He introduced himself as an Onassis, which I mistakenly reacted to. I felt like telling him that if he was an Onassis, I was a Kennedy but then realized that was entirely the wrong famous American name to use.

He began by telling me how beautiful I am which, I’m not going lie, doesn’t feel entirely bad. The problem laying in the fact that most men that stop women on the street do so often and indiscriminately so its tough to feel too special. He continued by asking me what I am doing here, where I am living etc. and in typical Greek fashion, he started to ask me if there is anything I need. Whatever I need, I can have. An apartment? he says. ‘I have a big apartment near here with a view of the sea. You take it, you pay nothing.’ I have a house here, thanks though, I reply. Then he starts with boats, “I have many yachts, do you like boating? We will go.’ It doesn’t really matter what I responded with because he wasn’t listening anyway. And he was standing a little too close as well. But the whole situation was too amusing to cut short so I continued listening. “You need money? I give you 10,000 euros every month. You do nothing.” So now I’m a prostitute apparently .I’m standing in the middle of the street in Athens, thinking two things: why does this kind of stuff always happen to me? And, this guy is so full of shit that it’s actually entertaining. He kept on, asking me what I want so I blurted out that I need a passport. ‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I know the prime minister. We get married and you get passport.” By this time he has taken my phone out of my hand and put his number in it and called himself. Clearly I wasn’t paying attention to this and was too enveloped in the absolute gall of this guy. He was blurting out anything and everything he could think of. It was a blur of words from a Danielle Steele novel: wine, money, beautiful, love, blah blah. All I wanted from the day was some coffee with my friend and here I was being offered a trophy wife opportunity. What luck! And here I almost walked down a different street on my way for coffee.

Then he starts in with asking me my sign. I inform him that I am an Aries, which pretty much means I’m a bitch. ‘Oh no you are too sweet. You are very special. And you need man that is ten years older than you.’ Unfortunately, I wasn’t bitch enough to tell him that that statement rules him out.

Finally I escaped. We ended with a ‘don’t call me I’ll call you.’ After meeting with my friend Dimitra for coffee and relaying the story, I didn’t think much of it again.

My problem with stalkers is that I don’t get scared or nervous. My initial reaction is more of anger. I always feel like if they want to start the psycho game, that I can show them some psycho. This isn’t always the best reaction; though I have to say, that it’s worked well for me most of the time. I’d rather err on the side of being angry/potentially mentally disturbed that giving them any sense of timidity.

So when Mr. Onassis called later that night, I rejected the call and went back to talking on skype. But news to me, I have voicemail on my cell phone. So I casually checked my messages and heard the most disgusting monologue I’ve ever heard. The things he said should never be said, done, or thought of by a man of his age. Not to say anything of the fact that I am 30 years younger than him or that I just met him that day.

So I sent him a text message back saying something along the lines that I don’t ever want to hear a voicemail like that from him and that it was extremely offensive, don’t ever call me again etc. He calls. I don’t answer.

The next few days he called sporadically, mostly from a private number but didn’t say anything notable. Then Saturday night rolls around and I’m in bed as usual at 11, seeing as we have a game the following afternoon. Sometime around 6 in the morning, I hear my phone ring in the next room. I thought I was dreaming but then I rang again. I checked my voicemail, already sure who it was. Lo and behold. I was freaking livid! He got a quick sms back with a few choice words and more than one f-bomb.

My best friend told me I need to stop giving him attention. She’s probably right. But I am glad I was direct since he probably has had some luck in trying to buy women in the past. That or he is just a really slow learner, which hasn’t been ruled out. Either way, the angry/ignoring combo has worked so far and I’m not longer getting calls from him. Every once in awhile I’ll get a call from a private number, as if I don’t know that trick, but so far I haven’t gotten any inappropriate messages.


My thing with guys like that is this: it’s a little offensive. Its nice when older men tell you nice things, its even nice if they flirt with you. But only if they know it’s a game. Some of them just like to keep thinking that they still have it, which is fine. But its tongue and cheek; they don’t expect that anything is going to come of it. They might hope but they don’t really expect it. And, more importantly they don’t assume that I have no better offers. This guy treated me like I was on an auction block; ‘we’ve got a lovely, young, desperate woman with nothing going on in her life for sale today. Can we start the bidding at an apartment with a view…going one, going twice…. oh we got a yacht offer going once, anyone want to throw in some cold hard cash? Don’t be shy; seriously she’ll take anyone. Okay we got 10,000 euros from the fat guy in the back… Going once, going twice.

Seriously, I have a life.

Going with the flow....

So I’m back in Athens. This is not at all surprising to me. That I’m back in Athens to play basketball however, is.

To explain how I got here is complicated to anyone outside the pro basketball world; for those of us in it, it makes perfect sense.

To make a long story relatively short, I only had a three-month contract in Vilnius. They could have extended it for the remaining of the year but they chose to let me go at Christmas. Originally, I had thought and been told they would keep me on contract; we were doing well in Euroleague, I was the starting point guard, and I was playing well. But then we lost a few games and as a result, advanced to the round of 16 in Euroleague in position to play an extremely good team. Welcome to European basketball where sports really is a business. When teams believe they can win, they pump money into the team for new players; when they don’t believe they can win, they try to save money. To add to it, many of the Lithuanian teams were having financial difficulties anyway and the government was raising taxes on sports salaries so everyone was a little wary of the future.

Knowing this is how it works, it didn’t come as a complete surprise when I was unemployed and packing up my whole life once again on my way home for Christmas.
Luckily, I’ve done this gig before (well not moving teams in the middle of the season but at least moving a lot), and I have a solid European resume so I wasn’t at all worried about finding a new job. Mostly I was excited to spend Christmas at home.

And spend Christmas at home I did. Literally. I was sick and snowed in the whole first week and did absolutely nothing productive except walk to the store a few times. There is nothing quite like coming home for the holidays after living abroad. My mother goes into hyper nurturing mode meaning that on the day I arrive she wakes up super early and her mom instincts kick in; before she knows it she’s baking cinnamon rolls and cooking elaborate dinners, stocking the fridge with food and making my bed. She even had brand new pajamas waiting for me in my old bedroom, spotlessly clean and decorated for Xmas. I don’t even think its conscious; I think it’s like a stepford wives kind of reaction where she follows her genetic code, written for when a child returns to the nest.

I first got to Athens on a Sunday morning. Let me back up. I flew out of Seattle on the 2nd of January. My flight was leaving at around 8 am so I was up eating breakfast and watching my mom fix me a sandwich for the plane (There are benefits to coming home infrequently) when my team from Athens called me. Here we go, I’m thinking. My flight must be cancelled. Instead, my manager explains to me that there has been some confusion and that they are very sorry but I have to spend 24 hours in New York City before flying to Athens. I tried not to sound ecstatic but I was literally about to jump out of my skin. My manager was contrite, explaining to me that they will pay for a hotel, not to worry, just get on the plane this morning to JFK. I kept the call short so I could immediately call my best friend Emma in NYC and shriek into the phone. Then the text messaging started; Sam, the best social organizer in the world, rallied all the troops in Chelsea; Emma became my travel agent and booked a hotel; and I rested on the plane for a very impromptu and fun night out in New York City.

It was so unexpected to find myself in New York for a day. I mentally had already crossed the Atlantic and started practice, so to get an extra day of fun around some of my best friends, in one of my favorite places in the world, was an added holiday bonus. It was like being out at the bars when daylight savings kicks in and you suddenly get an extra hour to party.

I didn’t actually spend the whole time partying, partly because of my ten hour flight the following day, partly because I would be practicing as soon as I arrived in Athens, and partly because I wanted to be semi lucid to catch up with Emma the following day. But as usual, NYC did not disappoint.

We started off at the gay boys spot in Chelsea, Elmo, where every waiter knows Sam’s name and every bartender makes him free drinks. His group of friends include some of the most entertaining people I’ve ever met; listening to their conversations has one alternating between laughing and being totally disgusted and laughing. And all the boys were there. The news that I was coming had spread like wildfire over facebook and sms. But mostly they were there because it was a Friday night.

So we ate and drank and talked the night away. They had big plans to go to the clubs; I explained the Lindsey they usually know would be laying low tonight for the previous stated reasons. They looked at my like I had two heads; its difficult for them to fathom why anyone would refuse a night of techno music and male strippers. Instead I suggested karaoke, to which there were mixed reactions. Some people were excited, some people refused, and most agreed that they would go but not participate. Riiiiiiiight.

So we rallied and crammed the troops into various taxis. The karaoke bar was in the basement of a sushi restaurant; shocking I know. We found our room, and started orienting ourselves to the intricacies of the karaoke machine and warming up with a little Madonna. The boys started trickling in, most of who swore up and down they wouldn’t sing. But then the show tunes began, and if there is one thing gay guys can’t resist its show tunes. Soon I was singing ‘Big Momma’ from Chicago with Mikey (probably mostly because I was the only person in the room with breasts to shake). Then the Cher songs started up and every single person in the room was singing at the top of his lungs. I turned around and the boys were all standing on chairs and raising their arms in the air like they were at a rock concert. So much for them not singing.

Then Sam stole the show with his ‘meatloaf’ imitation. Seeing him play the air guitar to a rock song was far more incongruous than say if he had been singing Cindy Lauper. The last time I saw him perform like that was when we were in college and he was in full hooker drag, singing Britney Spears while we were in the first row putting one dollar bills in his skirt (errr, actually it was my skirt!).


The next day I spent with Emma. It was all I had hoped it would be. We seriously needed some girl time so we spent the morning talking over coffee and croissants, shopping for perfume, and perusing Chelsea market and sharing gelato.

I got on the plane happy as could be. Happy to have had time at home for some much needed r and r and quality time with family and friends; happy to have had a bonus day in NYC with my very good friends; and happy to be returning to a place and city that I love, filled with many friends and fun people.

I arrived in Athens on a Sunday morning, tired but much less so given that I usually fly from the west coast. The ten hours flight from JFK to Athens felt like nothing. I was excited to be back in Athens though it felt a little surreal. It had been three years since my last visit and I distinctly remember then how nice it was to be back but how sure I was that I didn’t want to return to the Greek league. This time though, I didn’t have those thoughts. It was just such a nice feeling to see the familiar.

I’ve moved around a lot. Part of the excitement of this life is the unknown. I talk to my agent, get some offers, sign a contract without really ever knowing too much except my salary and some particulars of the team. Beyond that, my tutorial on my new life comes from the Internet and travel books, which I devour like some people read pornography.

So I’m rather used to arriving in cities with wide-eyed wonderment, excited about new people, anticipating insights into a new culture. Arriving in Athens was a little anticlimactic in that sense; and yet totally exciting in another way, exciting the way it is to return home after a long absence. There were so many people I was looking forward to catching up with over coffee in the sun; so many tavernas that I couldn’t wait to eat at. I knew which neighborhood I was going to live in; I knew all the nearby coffee shops and restaurants.

My manager, Grigoris and I dropped my things off at my apartment and started walking around the neighborhood trying to find a supermarket open on a Sunday. Instead we found an old Greek man that decided to be our guide. He told me when and where the local outdoor market was and walked us to a small shop selling homemade yoghurt. And yes it was amazing and the owners were adorable old Greek people. The store had been in the family since the 1920s. It looked like the place hadn’t seen paint since then either. This is actually how I prefer my shops: to concentrate on doing one thing well, without fuss and bravado. They clearly spent their efforts making yoghurt and not on superfluous things like restocking freeze-dried coffee with stuff made in the 21st century or cleaning.

As I walked down the street with Grigoris, the 60-degree weather thawing out my body from the previous months of cold, I reflected on how happy I was, but more significantly, how happy everyone else around me was. I love the Mediterranean. People are so friendly. You walk down the street and say hello and good morning and people seem generally glad to see you.

Speaking of happy to see me. I hadn’t been in Athens for one hour when I ran into my good friends Jan and Stelios. She is an American, he’s a Greek; they met while she was on vacation 30 years ago and she never used her return ticket. They are involved with my club and are big supporters that I’ve known them since I last played for Panionios. Incidentally, they are now my neighbors. They were out in the sun, wheeling Stelio’s 91-year-old mother around the neighborhood. I got hugs and kisses and Jan had brownies waiting for me.

Later in the day I went to practice where I met my team. About half the girls I knew from playing in the Greek league, the other half was too young to have been playing when I was here last. I was so happy to see so many familiar faces. Its nice not having to start over sometimes. As we were waiting for our coach in the film room, a heated debate started. Before I knew it half my team was yelling at each other with passion and laughter. I just sat there, contemplating how none of my teammates in Lithuania or Slovakia would ever communicate with so much enthusiasm. It was hilarious in fact and I felt right at home with people vehemently defending their opinion with joyful hearts.

So the first few days I was high on life; I was out for coffee in the square, talking on the phone with old teammates and friends, and talking with fans I’d known years ago. I was definitely feeling the love.

Then we had a game and I felt a sense of uselessness that I hadn’t felt in awhile. It wasn’t that I didn’t play well, I scored twenty something points; it’s that I don’t really care about my own individual play anymore. I’ve gotten to a level with basketball that is so beyond the Greek league that its difficult to even feel like it’s the same sport. I knew this coming in of course but due to my selective memory and sanguine take on life, I avoided any and all previous feelings of being unproductive in Athens.

So I settled into depression for the night, went out for drinks with a group of American players and had not one ounce of fun. Not only was I wondering what I was doing playing basketball at this level again but I failed to relate to the people I was with on every single level.

The next day I woke up, determined to make some changes. Seeing as basketball would not be bringing me the sense of satisfaction I am accustomed to; I set about finding some other things to occupy myself. I decided I was not going to spend three months in the beautiful Mediterranean feeling sorry for myself and my unsatisfying job of playing basketball a few hours a day. I mean seriously, there are bigger problems in the world.

The logical thing to do would be to pick a project, one project, and use my free time to work on it. I wasn’t in a logical state of mind however. I was in maniac mode, which isn’t really like me at all. I started researching graduate programs, I decided to organize my writing into a book proposal, and I began to study Greek. This is of course on top of my other ongoing projects. Clearly I was feeling a little unproductive; experiencing a deep sense of uselessness.

So after deciding I would find some personal growth in the next few months, I settled down. I didn’t take me very long to adjust to the Greek lifestyle; it was just a shock to my system initially. I’m realizing of course that most of the ways in which I freak out come from my sense that life and basketball need to be difficult. I’m not at all used to things being easy, so when they are, I immediately think I am doing something wrong, or that I’m lazy or that I don’t deserve to have it so good. These are not good thoughts. It’s a difficult balance; being driven to succeed without making things more difficult than they need to be.

I started thinking though: so what if things are easy for a little while. The last few years have been difficult. Not difficult in a ‘I have two kids to feed and I make minimum wage’ way. More so that I’ve had to be really independent and self-reliant. In Slovakia, for instance, I felt like it was my full time job to be happy and make the most of my time there, which I did. In Lithuania, it took some time to make friends. I had to get out and make my way in a cold, dark city where everyone was bundled up in warm coats, walking with their heads down. In the end, I loved both those places, but it wasn’t easy.

So for life to be easy, well it feels a little strange. But I’m getting over it.

Now I go for coffee for three hours most days. I sit and talk and soak in the sun. And the best part is I don’t feel at all guilty about it.

g

Moscow Top Secret

Sorry this took forever for me to post. Life got a little busy in December and then I went home for Christmas. But here it is, finally....


There are some countries I dream about visiting for their beauty and culture and experiences waiting to be had: Thailand, Peru, China, India, Lebanon. I can think about fifty others offhand. All it really takes to pique my interest is overhearing a conversation, a NYtimes article or a fabulous commercial on CNN. (LOVE travel commercials. My most recent favorites are Uzbekistan and Slovakia. The former I’m guessing doesn’t look at all like the advertisements, the latter I know for a fact doesn’t). Then there are other countries that aren’t high on the to do list. I don’t dream about sightseeing there or picture myself sharing romantic dinners with foreign men. Even if given a convenient opportunity, like being on the same continent, these are places I might not even spend my own money to see. But if I’m really honest with myself, I do want to see them, preferably on someone else’s dime, albeit for one simple reason: I’m likely to read about them quite regularly over the course of my life and its fun to know what I’m reading about.

Russia is one of the latter destinations.

The vastness of Russian history in Europe, its language and political power spreads far and wide. You can feel the remnants of it, from the way people speak badly of their former occupiers, to the Russian swear words used all over the former block. Obviously, the Cold War is over, the Soviet Union failed yet Eastern Europe is forever scared by the memories of communism. It doesn’t take a genius to notice the vestiges of a society that us Westerners cannot quite fathom. Less than twenty years ago, my teammate’s lives resembled the antithesis of all we hold sacred in America: individual freedoms, choice, free markets. As well as other basic rights we take for granted: political punditry and humor, shopping malls and television. They couldn’t go out and buy jeans, the government decided where they would live, what car they would drive, what milk products were available at the store. This might make me sound like an ignoramus but all this sounds like a movie to me. About the time that I was forging cryptic notes regarding orthodontist visits and skipping class, members of my teammates families were being shipped off to Serbia for forced labor or restrained in the KGB torture prison down the street from my apartment in Vilnius. This really does sound like a movie.

If I think about the history of America in the last fifty years, there are events that have affected my life specifically but mostly through other members of my family. Of course, if you want to get philosophical about it, a butterfly flapping its wing in Asia will no doubt alter the course of history, mine and everyone else in the world. But, in all reality, America has been fairly sheltered from the rest of the world’s problem, some of it simply because of geography. Of course we’ve had our share of wars and tragedy and many people have had to sacrifice for the ills of the world. But, at least for my generation, everyday Americans have lived their lives with very little significant change. We’ve seen tragedy and terror but for most of us, sacrifice consisted mostly of longer lines at airport security and our water bottles being treated like dangerous weapons. Despite George Bush in office, our political system has maintained itself through trying times and while civil rights for all were a long time coming, our standards for equality far exceed the rest of the world.

From years and generations of believing in freedom and equality, Americans have gotten a little bit entitled. In many ways this is fabulous: the belief in oneself, the drive to make your life how you want it, the courage to decide your own fate are all wonderful qualities. But the right to buy gasoline at $1.50 while the rest of the world walks or builds public transportation infrastructure or drives small fuel efficient cars, is a direct result of entitlement going a bit too far. Its great to think your country is the best place in the world, it’s another thing to think that it’s the only great place in the world.

My teammates here don’t worship America but they have noticed some things that they envy and have told me so. They like that you can be who you want in America, that there is so much diversity and acceptance that you can dress how you want, listen to what you want, without feeling the need to conform. I made sure they realized that this is true to an extent. Another teammate commented on how relaxed we are, how we don’t worry so much what other people think. I told her that from the moment we are born, we are taught we are free and that we have rights and that ideologically at least, we are all equal. I’m not immersed in their culture enough to make broad generalizations about what Lithuanians are taught but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have anything to do with being entitled seeing as twenty years ago they couldn’t even travel outside their own country.

In my experience and with my tendency to vastly over generalize, Eastern Europeans are more stoic, less outgoing, dare I say colder in comparison to the rest of Europe. They don’t necessarily make small talk, they aren’t especially affectionate, and smiling and getting to know new people don’t seem high on their to do lists. This all sounds like a very cynical view on the whole region but I don’t mean it that way. It’s almost like shyness more than anything intentional. Because once you break the ice, they are extremely nice, hospitable people. They just aren’t very demonstrative about it. It’s quite understandable, however, once you hear what it was like to live under communism.

Its interesting how different cultures admire different behavior and therefore perpetuate these behaviors. For example, the idea of the individual in American culture is a strong one. From style to individual accountability, from a meritocracy to counterculture music and clothes, conformity is not en vogue. For example, Americans might say, the squeaky wheel gets the oil; in other countries they might say, “the tall reed gets cut down.” I have to say however, a KGB torture prison on the main street of town would make me think twice about being ‘a tall reed.”

Which brings me to the American mindset, which includes a distinction between rules and laws. In keeping with the theme of vast generalizations I would say that Americans respect laws but realize that rules are meant to be broken (i.e. school attendance). Some places I’ve been to lately seem to think the opposite; Rules are important, laws are not so much. Americans believe in justice, in following our constitution and laws (except when it comes to jaywalking or arcane laws like kissing in public on Sundays) but rules, rules are meant to be got around by whatever clever means necessary. It’s like a little game to exercise the corrupt part of all of us that gets suppressed in order to avoid jail. Maybe this comes from believing the government is of the people instead of against them. Because some places, they don’t want to break rules but when it comes to laws, you are always one bribe away from getting out of punishment.

So back to Russia. As I said earlier, Russia (aside from St. Petersburg) hasn’t been high on the travel list. However, I’ve have wanted to see it so that when I read Tolstoy or Dostoevsky I know what they are talking about.

We left Lithuania on a Wednesday afternoon on a direct flight to Moscow, anticipating a short flight but a long drive. Stories of Moscow traffic and Louis Vuitton stores, emanate all through eastern Europe like urban myths; the amount of gridlock and luxury stores growing exponentially each time the stories are passed on. I would soon see it for myself.

We arrived in Moscow, only to wait 30 minutes for the team bus, which was predictably stuck in traffic. An unidentified man had been traveling with us since Vilnius and after offering him some of my crackers, I asked my teammates who this guy was. In between, translating words like ‘money laundering’ and ‘shady’, I understood that this man is a friend of the owner of the team we are going to be playing. The team (Spartak Moscow Region) is the richest team in the world, notorious for its wealth and the suspicious rumors circulating around it. Its owner, whom I’ll call Mr. S, pays astronomical sums of money for players and apparently is a former Israeli and Latvian spy. He owns hotels and restaurants in Riga, got rich with oil money and has suspicious connections that no one can really explain. Apparently, he owes Lithuania favors because the government granted him a passport after he was a spy. I mean really. So this guy that is traveling with us, is not only the godfather of one my teammates, but he’s also a good friend of Mr. S. He apparently orchestrated an arrangement where Mr. S financed the Lithuanian national team (this is where the ‘money washing’ got translated). Five minutes into my trip to Moscow and I already felt like I was in a fusion of ‘the Godfather’ and ‘007.’

So the bus arrived and we settled into the lap of luxury. The Spartak team bus, to be distinguished from the Spartak team plane, met us with huge reclining seats and a cameraman who got important footage such as us loading and unloading our bags. This led me to comment that Mr. S just likes to think up ways to spend money. My teammate, Noel, who played for Spartak briefly, told me I had no idea.

We drove through the cold, dark Moscow night, with nothing much of interest until we passed the ubiquitous international McDonalds, with letters that looked like they were written by a dyslexic Greek. We sped along in our luxury bus, past snow covered trains whistling through the frigid night, smoke stacks billowing in the industrial area, and finally through the center where gorgeous elaborate buildings were lit up in the distance, mostly likely either parliament buildings or cathedrals. I really did feel like I was in a Russian novel. Then came the expected plethora of communist apartment buildings; this is one visual that I’ve exhausted. I’ve seen enough ugly Soviet buildings in Eastern Europe to last a lifetime.

I remember going to the Goodwill games in Seattle when I was about ten years old. My dad had suspected that I kind of liked basketball a bit, so he’d gotten us tickets to see the USA women play the Russian Women. I didn’t really understand the political ramifications of the competition, and if I’d heard the term ‘cold war’ had probably thought it had something to do with temperature. I did know that Russia was a long way away, if only because their expressions were sour and their jump shots were of the foreign looking variety. It’s safe to say, I never really contemplated that I would venture there someday, and probably never once thought that it would be for basketball.

These days, however, Russia is the top country in the world for women’s basketball. I’m not quite sure how this happened except I know the words, ‘oil’ and ‘mafia’, come up quite often. Some teams budgets would probably compare closer to the NBA teams than a WNBA one. Well maybe not that much. Maybe half of an NBA team. Still, that is saying a lot.

Hours later, we pulled up outside the posh hotel, also owned by Mr. S, and checked in to our $400/night hotel rooms. The hotel was nice but being fifteen miles outside of the center of the city, or 2 hours in traffic, it seemed a little expensive. Welcome to Moscow, where Starbucks is 8 dollars.

I settled in to eat in the hotel with a “Moscow Times”. I read about the Mayor of South Ossetia’s assassination, and about the murder trial of Anna Politichka, the author gunned down in the elevator of her apartment after writing about government corruption in the Kremlin. I don’t expect newspapers to be uplifting with stories of puppies and new borne babies but along with all the other weird stories circulating around me, lets just say, I wasn’t reading the paper with rose tinted glasses on.

To add to the weird Russian ambience, the other top team in Russia had folded the day before. Apparently the owner went bankrupt and fled the country, leaving all the players without a single payment for the year. My agent’s wife plays for this team and she had just left for the USA that morning.

My current coach had coached in Russia for a few years and really had nothing nice to say about the country. In fact, no one does. He says its all about money and totally corrupt. For so long, the rich of the country have literally had money flowing out of the ground. They would make large contracts with players, knowing that all they had to do was sell some oil. The money was never ending. Until now of course.

The game was ridiculous, meaning I don’t really want to talk about. The most notable part was that after the game, an MVP from each team got $500. Another way Mr. S has figured out how to spend money.

I went to eat with my agent after the game, catching up on news from Greece, talking about my team and career, and asking about life in Moscow. He talked about how corrupt Russia is (a continuing theme) and how everyone is out to screw everyone else all the time. Coming from a Greek, this is quite a statement.

All the players in Moscow have a personal driver so they don’t have to brave the crazy traffic alone. So while we are inside eating sushi, my agent’s driver is sitting outside in the car listening to sports radio. It felt really weird. I’m like ‘is he going to join us.” I’m not used to having people at my service.

Later I joined my teammates in the hotel room for girl talk. This consisted of more rumors and suspicious stories. Mostly the topic of discussion was who on the opposing team was a lesbian, who was dating whom within the team, and all the drama that surrounds these situations. Twelve women working in close proximity day after day promotes enough drama; it doesn’t help when some of them are sleeping together.

We also discussed passports. European teams generally have a limit on the number of foreign players they can employ. European Union country residents are not considered foreigners. So, generally the term applies to Americans, Canadians, and Australians. Most leagues limit foreign players to two. Spartak has six.

There are obviously a few ways around this rule. One is to get married to a European and apply for citizenship. This is not a popular option for a number of reasons. Another way is to drum up some European ancestry; the actual lineage is debatable depending on the individual countries restrictions. A third way is to have lots and lots of money and connections.

So one of our foreign players is actually Bulgarian. In addition to being black, she’s not at all Bulgarian. But she did play for Spartak last year and they didn’t want to count her as one of their two foreign players. So Mr. S went and bought her a Bulgarian passport, with the agreement that she will play for their national team. Now she is on loan to my team for the season. As a result, she isn’t supposed to play against Spartak. In the last game with them she played, but since we were winning, the Spartak coach looked over at the opposing bench and told my coach to take her out of the game. So weird.

The next morning we ate breakfast at the hotel. Us Americans were still a little bitter about the fact that we had missed Thanksgiving the day before, but really enjoying the fact that the hotel had American pancakes. Afterwards, we packed up and left the Moscow suburbs for the center of the city. There was very little snow left and I’m sure the temperature was uncommonly warm but we all bundled up for our day excursion: wandering around red square. But first we got a stern warning about keeping our bags close by; par for the course in every tourist stop in every city in the world. But then were also reminded to keep our passports handy at all times in case the KG…er, police stopped us.

We first stopped to take pictures by St. Basil’s cathedral, which reminded me of a gingerbread house that was besieged with Hershey’s kisses. It really is quite spectacular. The colors and magnificence and detail are a bit out of place in the drab surroundings of Moscow. It kind of reminded me of walking down the streets of Barcelona: building, building, building, oh shit there’s a Gaudi. But this was even more unexpected and exciting because I don’t think you are supposed to smile in this country much less create enjoyable architecture.

The Kremlin was cool to see, as was the tomb of Lenin but would have been cooler if I could have seen his embalmed body. We walked around a bit, took lots of pictures, tried to stay warm, and then finally gave in and went to the mall. If you want to know more about Red Square, there’s lots of info on Wikipedia. Shakira sang there once. Oh and the Nazis marched through…. But I mean really, where didn’t they?

I’m not a mall person. I generally try to avoid them in fact. I’m not sure if it’s the tarmac style parking lots or the food courts with a mandatory Orange Julius and Cinnabon. I think ultimately though, it’s the concept that gets me going. Like we need to build big monstrosities in the suburbs so that everyone has to drive. They are like Mecca for commercialism and play right into our increasingly lazy existence in America.

I’ve found malls to be nicer in Europe, but that might only be because obese people aren’t balancing plastic trays of 800 calorie cinnamon rolls and ventie frappuccinos. By the way, I love it when I hear people ordering things like ventie light mocha frappucinnos, or grande vanilla frappucinno with no whipped cream, sugar free carmel.

But I digress. I went into the mall in Red Square with low expectations obviously. I had heard good things about it. But to me, hearing good things about a mall is like hearing good things about a science fiction movie; I know some people that would appreciate it, I’m just not one of them.

At the very least, I was hoping to check out some mafia guys shopping with prostitutes, buying absurdly expensive jewelry and lingerie. No such luck. Kind of disappointing really. But the mall was impressive. In fact it was unbelievable. It was constructed from normal streets. The buildings had all been restored and painted a milky cream color. Above us was all glass windows that had enclose the street but left the natural light to stream through. It was beautifully decorated for Christmas and every store looked classy and simple and obviously out of my price range. I passed Gucci, and Chanel, and Louis Vitton before I got dizzy and quit counting the luxury stores.

After a few laps around the world center of opulence I checked out the bathrooms. Not quite up to par I’d have to say. On my international Richter scale of bathrooms, a ten being the Olympic Four Seasons with lotions and plush hand towels, a zero being Turkish toilets in almost every gym or gas station in Turkey, this was about a 5. Just nothing worth noting. No one handed me even a paper towel, I had to get it myself. But there was toilet paper. Writing about mediocrity is so boring.

Soon it was time to get back on our moving palace but since this is Moscow, we ended up waiting out in the freezing cold for thirty minutes while the driver was stuck in traffic and/or drinking vodka around the corner. As luck would have it, there were some limos with wedding parties parked along side the street in front of us. This happens every thirty seconds at Red square by the way; it’s THE place to go for pictures.

I know all this because I was reading an essay in my travel book on Russian weddings. Like I said, I like to read about the places I am going, will go to in the future, or will never see in my life. So I read about the myriad traditions that Russians employ over the course of a wedding week. Its sounds very complex, with lots of vodka drinking and something about stealing the bride and having the groom pay to get her back, real 21st century kind of stuff.

Anyway, the main point of the story was that wedding parties like to go to St. Basil’s cathedral for pictures and they like to drink vodka. As far as I could tell from the two groups beside me, huddling around the limo and passing around cups, the author got the traditions down pat.

Since we were still standing there in the freezing cold when one of the parties returned from pictures, the bride insisted on taking a picture with us. My teammates were ambivalent, which Lithuanians tend to be. I was jubilant, which I tend to be. This time I had a reason though, since I had just read the story, I thought having a picture would really tie the experience together. Plus we looked ridiculous in our bright orange adidas coats. The bride kind of did too though. I’m not sure what it is with Europe. They haven’t quite caught onto the classy bride trend. The dresses all look like giant doilies to me.

My American teammate came back from the mall with a Louis Vitton purse she had been eyeing. The $500 MVP cash from the night before was burning a hole in her pocket. Though the purse was $775, she drew the line at the attached keychain ($300). The shopping bag it came in was nicer quality than a lot of purses I own.

I don’t get the Louis Vuitton fascination. Its ugly. I wouldn’t use a bag from there if someone gave it to me. I’m not kidding. It reminds me of dog feces with baroque designs across it. And the white version is even worse. It looks like something that would come with a Rainbow Bright doll or a My Little Pony. I don’t know how the brand got to be so famous. (and yes I did just use Rainbow Brights and My Little Pony in the same sentence).

Finally the bus came and we thawed out on our way to the restaurant. I was told we were going to eat A@#$#^#^&%# food, so I nodded and replied with my requisite ‘great idea’. The establishment was another in Mr. S’s empire so we were shuffled through the restaurant, past the kitchen, and out the back door. Interesting.

Eventually we made our way through the literal forest in the back to a small gazebo. In fact, there were several such small buildings, each one catering to a group of people. Inside our hut was a feast of food in vibrant colors. My first thought was that this was WAY better than turkey and mashed potatoes. My second thought was that the people at the restaurant were smiling. Weird. We are still in Russia aren’t we?

We all crammed into the long table and began gorging ourselves on the buffet. My young teammates were fighting over the Soviet soda pop bottles from their childhood in fun flavors like tarragon (gross) and peach (manageable), while I kept gesturing to the godfather at the end of the table to please pass down the bottle of vodka. But because there are rare times when I actually show self-restraint and don’t do what I really want to do (get hammered on Russian vodka in Russia), I only had a few shots. So all my self-restraint was used up and there were piles of food in front of me. AND it was the day after Thanksgiving, which genetically predisposes me to over eat.

It got ugly. The food was so amazing and forthcoming that our whole team left the restaurant not wanting to ever see food again. It started out okay. There were huge displays of fruit in front of us, plates of cucumbers and lettuce and radishes, appetizers involving eggplant and beans. Then there were plates of cheeses and meats (ever tried horse meat?). But the real problem was two fold. First of all, the bread was unbelievably good. It was still warm from the oven and soft and fluffy and Frisbee sized. The second problem was that we were all full from appetizers.

But then the main course came which consisted of meat; lots and lots of meat. They only brought two platters to the table but the platters were each the size of a Smart car (small for a car, but big when discussing meat consumption). In fact, I think they might have brought two lambs to the table since each platter consisted of ribs and chops, kebab and liver. I tried everything except the organ that serves as the dust mop of the body. It was amazing.

Since I am really smart, I eventually figured out that we were eating food from Azerbaijan; the food is almost identical to Turkish cuisine, which explains everything on the table with the exception of the refreshments. This also explains why the people were smiling and relatively friendly.

I did smuggle out a shot glass. It was thrilling actually. In America, it’s just not that exciting to steal something from a restaurant. Its like built into their budget and no one really cares. What are they gonna do, arrest you? But Russia is a different story. Who knows what they would do. I’m not sure what got into me but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with all the corrupt stories I was hearing. I think I kind of wanted to get in on all the action. Too much talk of spies and mafia. It was my 007 moment.

All for now but I’ll write soon. FYI, I left my team in Vilnius and am now playing for my old team in Athens (Panionios).

Curiosity, Love, and Other Demons

Curiosity is a good trait, one that can pay dividends in unexpected ways. Its especially beneficial to shed that part of ourselves that thinks we know it all, and to be excited about the possibilities of learning something new, of looking at something from a different perspective, of gaining some insight into someone else’s life. It depends on my mood of course; days when I feel open to the world are followed by days when I close in on myself and recharge. Sometimes I am fascinated by people around me, other times I want to be left alone. For the most part, however, the extrovert in me wins out, because I am intrigue by other people’s stories.

I feel especially curious when I travel, since the likelihood of meeting someone with a drastically different life than my own is pretty high. Yet the fact remains that no matter where in the world I am, the people around me are the culmination of their experiences, not mine. Its just a lot easier to assume the people around you are similar when you are five minutes from your childhood home than when you are on the Eastern part of Turkey and women are wearing burkas, for instance.

All that being said, I know that when I am open to the world, the world opens up to me. Once I think I have things figured out, once I think life has settled into the familiar, I meet someone who shakes things up and I berate myself for ever having expectations about someone’s life, their experiences, or assuming I can know anything about them from a glance.

It’s of course not a phenomenon limited to traveling experiences. Assuming you understand people takes you into dangerous territories. I realized that a teammate that seemed quiet and unfriendly in the beginning was balancing two practices a day with twin two year old kids at home. Another teammate who doesn’t talk much is taking care of her mother sick with cancer. Without a doubt, there are some people that are just generally assholes but most people just have their moments when life gets overwhelming and stress boils over and strikes the undeserving. I react to other people, its difficult to control that urge to judge and take things personally but I’m attempting to have respect for other people’s stories, for their struggles, for the pieces of their lives that make up who they are.

One benefit to being curious is meeting random people. This can lead to finding yourself doing something completely unexpected like sitting in the fifth row center in the national Opera house in Vilnius watching your new friend, naked and covered with smeared pig’s blood, on stage singing at the top of her lungs. It’s just not something I do everyday.

As I mentioned before, Marisol was living the opera singers equivalent to a my life: living abroad most of the year, traveling around for performances and making money off her body, talents, and tolerance for long practice sessions. In the proverbial tree of passionate professions, ours were on opposite branches. We found ourselves, a couple of American expats in Vilnius, spending time together in restaurants, meeting on windy corners of the city, latching on to each other for the comfort of the familiar. As a result, she got free tickets to our basketball game; we got free tickets to the opera. (Actually I think all our Lithuanian league games are free. But so not the point.)

My teammates and I rushed back to Vilnius after a road win, arriving at the opera house midway through the first act. My dad was found, not surprisingly, at the bar, talking with random people while he waited for us. (Still a little unsure where I get the propensity for talking with strangers?) With drink in hand, he’d already made friends with the house director, who was running all over the building trying to find our misplaced tickets. We were guests of the lead singer after all. We walked around trying to act like this was a normal occurrence for us.

Intermission began as we sipped wine at the round bar and watched the theatregoers swarm towards the alcohol. One Lithuanian man came up, opened his program to the opera director’s picture and asked my dad for his autograph. I assured the guy that my dad was nobody important and certainly not the man in the picture.

We soon found our seats, which were exactly fifty seats closer than I’ve been for any significant performance, at any opera house in the world. I could smell the orchestra. I actually wish that I was embellishing that fact.

I didn’t know much about the opera, “Love and Other Demons” and soon realized that it’s based on the book by Gabrielle Garcia Marquez, an unbelievable author. The only conversation I’d had with Marisol about this specific opera was a discussion on whether or not she should do a nude scene. Being the prude that I am, I wanted to know if it fit in with the story and would therefore be considered art instead of simply nudity. She assured me that it did. I assured her that I would yell as well as applaud.

Then we moved on to exactly what the nudity entailed. Whether it would be the lower area as well as the upper, what kind of waxing that would necessitate, and how she’s not eating many carbs. The general consensus amongst the group (and by the group I mean me,) was 1. Go for it 2. Find a good waxer and 3. I wouldn’t be eating either if my job consisted of nudity.

The second act started with Marisol lying down in a negligee with men of the cloth singing around her. It was in English but the actual words were unintelligible. Luckily, I’d read the program and knew the basics of each scene. But to be honest, I was just waiting to see her naked.

The opera ended up being a mélange of passionate themes: love, religion, death, blood, tears, and fire. It was spectacular. The last scene consisted of Marisol’s exorcism on the crucifix while a nun cleansed her soul with pig’s blood on her naked breasts while hooded men tainted her with torches and nuns as masked pigs reached out in a futile effort to save her. To say it was dramatic is a tremendous understatement.

We kind of just sat there after the curtain call, too stunned to move too quickly. Soon the theater emptied and we made our way down to the reception area and roamed around, trying to figure out where we might wait for the woman of the hour.

My dad soon found a pimple faced 18-year-old boy to shepard us around. We then got a full tour of the magnificent opera house, hitting all the areas of the building we were most certainly not supposed to be. We went backstage where stagehands were working on lighting and sets, through the hallway in the back of the theatre, and finally down the stairs to the artists entrance. Once again we acted like this was perfectly normal for us. Going into the Knicks locker room after a game would have felt more familiar.

We found Marisol, along with others involved in the show, and took off for a nearby restaurant. All the foreigners in the production were leaving Vilnius the next day so everyone was anxious to party. We went to a small gothic building that looked like a former castle. The inside was mostly red and black, with chandeliers and dripping white candles. It felt like a vampire movie set and quite appropriate after our high-class night at the opera.

We started eating and drinking as cast members started flowing in. The men were on one end of the table, drinking beer and homemade vodka pulled from a backpack. Soon the conductor arrived, ready to celebrate before returning to his home in Buenos Aires the following morning. Then the other lead woman singer made an entrance with other opera friends from other shows. This woman, Jorvita had presence. Even when she spoke, her voice had depth and character that demanded attention in the subtlest way. Soon she found the piano and started playing, singing and organizing others to join in. She sang in Russian and Lithuanian throughout the night, each time I sat mesmerized, completely uninterested in anything else but listening to her sing. She had that aura, that beauty that isn’t necessarily aesthetic but draws you in, willingly and with optimism.

We closed down the first restaurant, far earlier than expected so made our way to old town where we huddled in a booth at a pub with wooden beamed ceilings. After a few drinks this place was closed as well so we moved on, staggering through the freezing cold of century old cobblestone streets to a cavernous French restaurant. We made our way through the main dining area to the back room where linen white couches and antique furniture contrasted with the dim candlelight and cold concrete walls. We sat and ate olives and cheese, while Jorvita organized music and dancing. It was amazing. We all relaxed after a long day, games and opera performances and spoke of life and travels. We invited them to see a game and promised to come to another opera.

Crystal and I walked home in the cold, as I reflected on another magical night and unforgettable experience in Europe. Just another evening at the Opera here in Vilnius.

Off to Moscow this afternoon. Happy Thanksgiving!

Turkey time

There’s nowhere quite like Istanbul. It was by far the coolest place I have ever lived and the place I always think about returning to. It’s a difficult place to describe because there is no place in America like it. I’d compare it to New York City because of the energy and bustle but the people and lifestyle are totally different. You’d have to take Wall Street executives and place them in small shops, and tell them to do nothing but drink tea, smoke cigarettes and socialize with every person they see. Park avenue princesses wouldn’t define themselves by their Jimmy Choos but by their kebab and baklava. And taxi drivers would be, well, exactly the same, except that normal people would be able to afford them.

We arrived in Istanbul on a Tuesday afternoon, flying right over my first apartment. For the first time at Ataturk airport, my luggage was actually waiting for me after I deplaned but unfortunately my very hot former coach was not.

I settled in on the bus and watched my old city go by. I forgot how big it is. It took us over two hours to cross over to the Asia side so I rested my head on the window, totally in awe of the sea of apartment buildings that continued as far as the eye could see or until an actual body of water sprouted up. The city just kept going. Then I realized my shock came mostly from the fact that Istanbul is about twice the size of the last two countries I have lived in combined. You could even throw Seattle into that mix and Istanbul still doubles it up.

It was great to be back. The chaos felt totally familiar and I got pangs of nostalgia when I saw cars off roading from the freeway, through construction sites and into oncoming traffic or when an old man was walking (faster than we were driving) along the shoulder of the highway. People were spilling out of buses and sidewalks, overfilling the city like ants.

Finally we arrived at our very beautiful hotel, too late to make it to practice but just in time for dinner. I inhaled fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, figs and sharp Turkish cheese. I abstained from chai given the hour but did have some milk pudding with fresh pistachios. I so have missed Turkish food. It made me excited for breakfast.

I had my own room, which my manager informed me as if he expected me to be disappointed. One of our younger players wanted to room with our trainer and since the other two Americans are younger, he wanted me to brave it on my own. It was fabulous. I’m hoping the room assignments remain for all our trips.

Our trainer, Migle is 28 years old so, despite the fact that she is 5’4”, she’s basically another player. She is absolutely fabulous. I love this woman, probably mostly because she kept me company that first week when I couldn’t practice. She told me stories, taught me how to count in Lithuanian and massaged my foot.

Migle’s father is the most famous athletic trainer in Lithuania. He works with one of the top men’s teams as well as the national team and has been at six Olympics. He also went to Portland with Arvydas Sabonis, the Lithuanian who played for the Trailblazers. Migle’s father is her height, Sabonis is nearly 7’. When people in America would ask Sabonis who this man traveling with him was, he would tell them it was his father from Lithuania. I love this story. Mostly because it makes me wonder if confused Americans were picturing Sabonis’ mother.

Migle also told me the story of how she met her husband, our sports marketing director, Jostas. Jostas and Migle lived in the same apartment building when they were 3 years old and they went to school together. They were each other’s first love. But Migle’s family moved away soon after preschool, she changed schools and Jostas became just a memory.

Fourteen years later, Migle started studying at the university. There she organized an event between her all girls’ class and another class, made up of all boys. In the middle of the party, a tall handsome man, ignoring all the other women, walked up to her. They began talking and he asked her name. She told him her name was Migle and he proceeded to tell her that he’d only known one Migle in his life, and it was his first love from preschool. She said, “Jostas?” They began dating and got married eight months later and now have two beautiful children. I love this story even more.

I’ve digressed. My trip to Istanbul continued in the normal fashion: shootaround, pregame meal, nap and game. We played a strong Fenerbahce team solid until midway through the fourth quarter and ended up losing by about 8. We only play about 7 or 8 players and they kept rotating in players constantly but I think we have some serious potential despite not really having had much time together yet.

After the game my friends from my former Turkish team were there. Rasim, our massage therapist was waiting for me near the locker room, and handed me a box of Turkish delight as I walked in for our post game talk. Afterwards I walked out and got kisses from three of my favorite former teammates: Gizam, Mehtap, and Deniz, as well as their friend Ismail. I was SO happy to see them and told them secretly how much I miss them and living in Istanbul. That being said, I LOVE LOVE playing Euroleague and serious basketball.

I spent some time with my Turkish friends in the gym while my teammate got drug tested by FIBA. Later they came to my hotel and Crystal and I drove through Istanbul with them. We stopped at my favorite hookah bar, underneath the Galata Bridge and stared at the mosques lit up at night over the water. The host I know was working and all the bars around were packed with Turkish men watching their national soccer team play on TV so it all felt very familiar. The bridge was bustling with soccer fans as we settled into our beanbag chairs, drank beer and looked out over the water, the fishing lines from above catching the light from the neon signs. It was a scene I’d known countless times when I’d lived in Istanbul but to return after a long absence and feel that comfort of good friends and a magical night made it even more special.

My year in Turkey was not particularly good from a basketball standpoint. Its not that I didn’t learn and grow as a player, its just that I wouldn’t count basketball as the main highlight of the year. That being said, I absolutely loved my team. My coaches were more like guy friends than authority figures; my fellow foreigners were fun and interesting and up for anything; and my Turkish teammates were really my family in Istanbul. They would come over to my house all the time, I’d cook for them and we’d watch television. The young players from downstairs would come up to my apartment and we’d give foreign language lessons. We’d walk all over the city, eating kebab on the street, acting stupid in overcrowded Istanbul discos, and wandering around magical booths during Ramadan.

I feel so lucky to have called Istanbul home. Turkish people are amazing, Turkish food is hard to beat, and the chaos of the city provides eternal stimulation to keep life interesting. I’m generalizing and romanticizing of course; I’m failing to mention the times I was felt up on the subway or molested by a police officer or the countless times I saw my life flash before my eyes while trying to cross the street or the asinine road trip itineraries. But nostalgia has a way of doing that. I always remember things in a positive light. I’m a little worried about it actually, when I finish playing and live a more settled life in Seattle, I will have to remember how hard and lonely this life can be at times. I probably won’t though. I’m stuck with my father’s eternal optimism.

On the plane ride back to the Baltic, I sat next to Dominik, a London based German music agent, headed to Vilnius for the weekend. We had a nice long chat about London and the music industry and things to do in Vilnius. He was going to spend time with his friend, a female American Opera singer so we decided we all had to meet up for a drink.

Dominik and Marisol came over to my apartment on Saturday night. Marisol was so glad to be around fellow Americans and in particular, to complain with Crystal about being stared at because they are black. It was intriguing to talk to someone else living just as a magnificent, difficult, challenging, and privileged life as ours. She had the same sense of awe and wonderment of our careers as we did of hers. We traded stories, compared businesses and lifestyles, and realized how similar opera singing is to playing basketball.

I’m not sure you could find two activities as ostensibly different as singing and sports. Not only can I not sing, but I don’t even really understand it. I love music but it’s purely superficial, with no appreciation for subtly or nuances. It’s like wine; I can like the taste and feel all warm and fuzzy inside without describing it as layered or earthy or even know what that means. Music can move me emotionally but my main description would be simply whether I like it or not.

Likewise, Marisol quickly disclosed that she likes basketball but really knows nothing about it. She was a little confused as to why and when someone dribbles, who gets the ball when it goes out of bounds, and how they determine fouls, the latter question we assured her is quite confusing to us as well. I realized she looks at basketball the way I look at music, a deep appreciation for the work and dedication required, an excitement and energy from witnessing something practiced and coordinated but entirely original, and the ability to recognize the beauty in something fluid and ephemeral.

So we continued with our comparisons, excited by the juxtapositions of our similar challenges. We talked of music critics and sports writers, opera directors and coaches, tryouts and auditions, dressing rooms and training rooms. She just recovered from vocal cord surgery brought on by ignoring too many small injuries; we know all about that. She has rest days when she can’t talk; our days off consist of resting our legs.

There are some differences of course, she wears beautiful gowns made of Chinese silk and generally feels like she has to maintain an image off the stage by wearing nice clothes. We perspire even through our uniforms and sometimes embarrass ourselves by wearing sweats constantly, even when unwarranted. She has makeup artists and hair stylists; I throw on some mascara and tie my hair up in a way that assures it won’t hit me in the eyes. She gets primped up before hitting the stage; I get flex all rubbed on by my trainer.

Her life is more transient and unpredictable. She travels through Europe and the world for individual jobs, which probably makes her career more like a professional track athlete. As a team sport, a little longevity is beneficial in basketball. Marisol, however, signs contracts for various amount of time. For example, she is in Vilnius for five weeks. She has rehearsal for four weeks to perform in two shows. That’s it. Oh, and she isn’t paid for rehearsal, her contract is solely for the performances. So if she gets sick or injured and can’t sing, she doesn’t get paid. Oh my.

After our trip to Turkey, we returned to Vilnius and played in the Lithuanian league on Saturday. What a joke that was. We won by 60. Then we relaxed a bit over the weekend and began preparing for Spartak Moscow on Monday morning.

It was going to be our first Euroleague home game so everyone was excited. We practiced all week in Siemens arena, which is the largest venue in Vilnius and our home court for Euroleague. The season opener was a huge success as we kicked Spartak’s ass. They are the reigning Euroleague champions; they have by far the biggest budget, employ five Americans, countless Olympians, and numerous WNBA players. They are arguably the best team in the world. We were up by 20 at half time and won by ten or so. The best part was that no one acted surprised. Its always fun beating teams that think they are invincible.

The next week we traveled to Montpellier, France for another Euroleague match. Unfortunately, I saw nothing but the hotel, the airport and the gym. Kind of cool to say I was in Marseille France last week, driving through the Provence region but to be honest I don’t have much to report. We did win however, so the trip was great.

More soon.