the language of the body

greece

The morning I arrived in Athens, I took the train into the city, telling myself I was not only saving money, but also I would beat the jetlag if I was forced to stay up and alert on public transportation. After a 10 hour flight, I found a seat on the train, delirious with exhaustion. I asked the Greek man next to me if I was getting off at the right stop, pointing at a paper map an airport attendant had handed to me. He told me he would tell me when I should get out and I could go with him, since we had to transfer at the same spot.

He had just come back from visiting another Greek island, but lived in Athens. He kept his sunglasses on the entire time. His English was a little shaky, but it was enough for us to have a basic conversation. I told him how I was meeting my friend in Athens now, and we were traveling together.

When it was time for our transfer, we left the train together. He asked to exchange Instagrams. “By the way, I know I do not speak good english, but I know the language of the body, and I could teach it to you.” I stared at him blankly. It was 10am. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? He continued: “I don’t know if your friend is interested, but I can share the language of the body with you and your friend together, or just with you if you prefer. You tell me.” Still, his sunglasses stayed on as this man insinuated having a threesome while we stood there in the athens train station. I started laughing, unsure of what else to do. “Uh, sure, I’ll let you know. Thanks for the help.” He nodded, and walked away towards his train.

After athens, we moved on to paros.

The rest of greece went a lot like this: we would have beautiful feta and tomatoes, and swim in clear blue water, and then, like clockwork, the greek men we met would ask me and my friend for a threesome. It was very strange, as if they had never just seen two friends traveling together before and didn’t know how to react.

one night, we were invited onto a greek man’s boat that was docked at the port. His friend was there too, but the double date would have been nicer if the boat was moving. I asked him if he would teach me how to fish, and even though it was past midnight, he got a rod and attached tuna to it. He was surprised I wanted to learn. “Of course,” I told him. “Teach a woman to fish, and she eats for life, etc” But I would leave the line in too long and all the bait would be gone when I brought it back up.

I left the boat hungry, but then a man offered me free gelato from his shop on my way home, so really, it all worked out.

italy

when I arrived in Polignano a Mare, I was incredibly sick. In fact, I was coughing so much on the plane there, that a stranger on the plane gave me her half-finished water bottle, and I just went for it because I was already sick anyway- what’s a few more germs?

I got there on a weekend, in the blazing heat. I soon learned that the pharmacies are closed both saturday and sunday, and also from 1-5pm for siesta time. Stumbling back to my airbnb to sit directly in front of a fan at high speed, I missed cvs and duane reade so deeply in that moment. they would be open for me, with welcome arms.

later that night, pretty confident I had a low-grade fever, I asked a pizza restaurant if I could take food to-go to eat in my room, since the idea of sitting outside, sick and in the heat felt like a nightmare. She looked at me like I was crazy. “No. You order food, you eat here. No take away.” I nodded, ordered the smallest pizza they had, and went back to my room.

when you visit a place and are feeling great, these small things don’t matter. But when you travel and feel like shit, you really start to miss cvs and being able to order take out.

Once I started feeling better, I met up with friends in Monopoli, a small town I visited last summer and fell in love with. It’s on the Adriatic sea, with bright white walls, and streets that let you get lost in a wonderful, tiny maze.

I was very excited to be back in italy, because I had been taking italian lessons for the past 3 months and wanted to test it out with the locals.

Over the next few days, there were several instances where I felt really proud of my Italian:

1. I got into a fight with a taxi driver for charging me 20 euros extra just because I was a tourtist, so I told them I’d rather get out, and they left me on the side of the road. while it was stressful, I thought, hey, that was all in italian!

2. At a music festival I went to called Polifonic, my friend and I met a man there, who she decided was very creepy. While he intended to spend the rest of the night at the festival with us, she told me he kept trying to touch her, so I told her I’d take care of it. She went to the bathroom, and I told him she was uncomfortable with how he was touching her, and we just wanted to spend the festival together without him. He didn’t understand. So, I was forced to try in broken italian: “Il mio amico è triste e vuole solo stare con me stasera, scusa.” which probably sounded like, “my friend is sad and just wants to be with me tonight, sorry.” Somehow, he understood, and respectfully left! He did text me immediately asking to come back and join us, but still. progress.

   

3. I offended someone in italian with a joke! Usually, I am just used to doing this in English so this was a big step.

   Another man at the same festival, who also wanted to hang out with me and my friend, told us to wait with him and the rest of his friends would join momentarily. We agreed, got a drink and waited, and after about 20 minutes they still never came. As a joke, in Italian, I said, “Se non hai amici, va bene!” which translates to, “if you don’t really have friends, it’s ok!”

   He was deeply offended. My friend started laughing, and had to explain. “She’s just being sarcastic. She knows you have friends” He shook his head, upset. It was then I realized that while I love speaking Italian, my dry, sarcastic humor will always be a bit more french. and that’s ok.

One night in Monopoli, we were sitting outside at a bar in town, when a group of friends walked by as they were leaving a salsa class. One man had his arm in a cast, and he came over. I asked if I could sign his cast, and when he said yes, I got a pen. He told me he got into a motorcycle accident, and asked me to draw a motorcycle. I did my best, and wrote my number underneath the motorcycle.

The next day, he texted me asking me to go to dinner. While I spoke basic Italian and was starting to feel more comfortable, he spoke no English at all. He said a friend would join us for dinner, and that he spoke English very well. So, that night we drove twenty minutes outside of Monopoli to a restaurant where you pick out the meat with the butcher, and then they cook it for you. We sat around, speaking in fragmented Italian and English over different meats. I wasn’t sure what I was eating most the time, but was here for the ride.

His friend was obsessed with New York, and asked me questions like, “Is it true there are squirrels in Central Park?” After dinner, we drove home, speeding through the streets, blasting Rino Gaetano, and I thought, this is my favorite part of traveling. Or, being alive. Finding myself in these seemingly ordinary experiences, wondering how I ever got there in the first place, driving in a car in the countryside with two random Italian men because we started talking in the street. It was so simple, but also if all these other moments hadn’t happened, I’d never have had the chance to be there. And it made driving home that night feel special, somehow.

On one of my last nights in Monopoli, I had a religious experience. I made the questionable decision to go to a night club in a town in Ostuni, 30 minutes away from Monopoli, and taxis do not really exist there. Locals just call their friends to pick them up. So after dancing until about 3am, I was ready to go home. But this was not possible, so I stayed until sunrise, exhausted, until we somehow found a taxi around 5am. But on the way back, suddenly, the car broke down on the highway. The driver started hitting the wheel of the car, cursing in Italian, and kept re-starting the car. At that point, more tired than I’ve ever been in my life, as the sun came up, I prayed. I prayed that I would make it off this highway, back to my bed in Monopoli, away from this driver who was cursing in Italian while blasting techno music, and just then, the car started.

france

Still sick, but pushing along to the end of my journey, I made it to paris. I was there for my cousin’s bar mitzvah, which was a big deal. Most of the rest of my family lives in paris, so it always felt important to make it for special occasions.

The next morning, we piled into the car to the temple. My uncle drove me and my sister, along with my grandparents. It was an hour away, and we had some time to kill. “Have you been to this temple before?” I asked my grandmother. “Bien sûr. Nous nous y sommes mariés il y a 67 ans.” Of course. We were married there 67 years ago. I had no idea. Now I was even more invested to go to this place that was part of my family’s history. Next to me, my sister laughed and whispered in my ear. “6-7,” she giggled.

Once we got to the temple, we saw all our french family together in one place. I sat in the pew and loved watching the kids of my cousins all playing with each other. Once the bar mitzvah began, my grandmother noticed my grandfather was crying. But I understood. My grandfather escaped the holocaust, and here he was, being able to be openly jewish in france, and watch his great grandson get bar mitzvahed. How could he not cry? In a time when it often feels unsafe to sometimes even share you’re jewish, to be able to openly celebrate this milestone with all of my family in a place that’s been, well, historically pretty anti-semitic, felt really powerful.

The rest of the trip was filled with trying to find the best oeuf mayo in the city with my sister, reconnecting with friends, and spending more quality time with my grandparents.

One of my favorite nights there was spent going through an old photo album from my grandparent’s wedding at that same temple, and seeing all these past generations of my family there, together celebrating.

The one downside was that while the quality time was wonderful, my grandparents did not have AC, and it was nearly 100 degrees. While my grandparents seemed totally fine, when I looked over at my sister, she looked like she was about to pass out. A sign it was time to go.

new york

Finally back home, I dropped my bags off once I arrived from the airport, and headed right to cvs. Still sick two weeks later, I was excited to get the drugs that were deemed too harmful in europe, but would hopefully do the trick. I stepped in through the automatic doors, and immediately the rush of AC overwhelmed me. It was colder in that one cvs than in all of france, and in that moment, I knew I was home.