Guess who's back?

Hello my dearest readers -

I recognize that my silence has lasted long enough. I am breaking this trend and jumping back into blogging with an almost embarrassingly brief post.

Recently, I've updated my website, resume and approach to job hunting. I am Liz 2.0 with a fresh new haircut, updated wardrobe and a renewed feeling of self-empowerment. My hard work will pay off. There's no alternative for me. We might be living in a time of unending natural disasters, hate crimes an orange-tinted, poorly mannered, aesthetically displeasing dictatorship; however, the time of self-pity is over. It's time to make my mark. I will become what I know I am meant to become: a Video Editor. Because the only meaning of life is what we give to it. And this is the meaning I choose to give. Ambition and hard work.

I'm back, baby.

Contrast Conundrum City

Walking the narrow, winding streets, moving through space and time, removing the lens cap from my camera, only to lower the camera from my eye as I gaze up and up and up. The Acropolis, the Parthenon, the Hill of the Muses. Ancient architecture, modern graffiti, anarchist riots, the National Archaeological Museum. Athens: a city of ultimate contrasts and conundrums. The exhilaration, the sites my mind could never fully comprehend. I feel as though my eyes had been in the dark for so long that it was taking them more time than usual to adapt to the bright light of the city.

I saw the olive tree. The one Athena gifted to Athens. It’s situated in the Acropolis, next to the marble stone that Poseidon destroyed. Ok, not the actual tree or whatever but, at the end of the day, what does it matter? Walking through the city, I feel as though I’m walking through a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel. Athena, Poseidon, Zeus, Aphrodite and Ares were all just as real as figures from our histories: Abraham Lincoln, Golda Meir, Genghis Khan, Simon Bolivar. The gods were a living, breathing part of the city and their influence remains a vital part of what makes Athens breathtakingly beautiful.

To be perfectly clear, the city is far from perfect. It has its problems as every place tends to do. In Athens, the problems are relatively obvious and economic/financial in nature. Beautiful residential buildings, constructed before the economic crisis, remain uninhabited, lonely and deserted. Homeless men roam the streets, sleep on park benches. Walking through the Aristotelean prison which, ironically, is considered by historians to have been an ancient bathhouse and not a prison, I found a homeless man, barefoot and dirty sleeping next to the historical site. This is what I mean when I speak of contrasts. Riveting history and economic hardship are two Athenian qualities that immediately stand out to the stranger tourist’s eye.

Roaming the streets of Exharkia, a neighborhood in Athens, I stumbled on blocks and blocks of graffiti. Not “F*&$ the police” kind of graffiti (although there’s plenty of that… a universal sentiment, I s’pose) but gorgeous murals, significant and thrilling in their not-so-subtle qualities. A homeless man, depicted sleeping on a street, covers the entire façade of a building adjacent to a written quote which says “Dedicated to the poor and hungry, here and around the globe.” Not so subtle. Another mural, approximately 10 feet high portrays two clasped hands, down-turned, either in prayer or in handcuffs. You don’t have to look too hard to find the metaphors of the city, screaming at you, begging you to understand the struggle.

And I can’t. Despite my best efforts, I can’t empathize with the struggle because I’m a young American, swimming in student loans but with a bright future ahead of me. I can afford to travel Europe, work on my art, seek out adventure and say things like “I’m on a journey of self-discovery.”**** I’m privileged in many ways and I have never been so aware of this fact as I am now. I don’t feel an overwhelming sense of guilt that oftentimes accompanies such realizations but I do feel an obligation to take advantage and to bring as much as I can to the world through this privilege.

Thanks, Athens. Thanks for being your beautiful self. For continuing to inspire the present with the past, for bringing my childhood heroes Poseidon, Herakles, Aphrodite and, especially the bo$$ lady, Athena to life. I feel as though I’ve met a superhero and I can go home, happy in my knowledge that the city I’ve fallen in love with will remain protected by the wisest superlady to ever have existed.

I won’t continue gushing about the city but I’ll say one last thing: if you’ve never been to Athens (and even if you have), please do so. You won’t regret it, I promise.

****Not that I would ever do such a thing because I’m not a stupid idiot from a dumb movie but you get the point.

On a More Serious Note

Good morning/afternoon/evening my dearest compatriots –

As I sit in my dimly-lit, totally overpriced cabin on this gigantic rocking ferry (read: Titanic-esque cruise ship), I feel compelled to put down a few thoughts that have been rolling around in my head these past few days.

First, to start: I arrived in Lesvos, Tuesday morning. I spent the day getting acquainted with my surroundings. Mytilene, the capital is a beautiful tiny town that makes me think of all the “by the shore” towns I’ve visited in the past: a funky, graffitied combination of Nice/San Juan/Cinque Terre village with some of the most delicious food I’ve ever tasted (Gyros, people… gyros all day.) Tuesday evening, I met with my contact at Pikpa, a refugee camp just outside of Mytilene. When I arrived, I was greeted with a multitude of smiling faces, warm handshakes and a cup of tea.

Over the next few days I would meet people from all over the world: refugees from Syria, Afghanistan, the Congo, you name it. I would talk with people of all different ages about topics ranging from their own personal plights to “what is love?"

One conversation I had that really stuck with me was one I had with my contact at Pikpa, a man named Constantine (known as Dino to his friends in Lesvos) who left his life in Boston behind and, in his early 40’s came to Pikpa to brighten lives and to literally rescue refugees from possibly dire fates in the ocean. Dino volunteered in Pikpa and worked as a yoga instructor at the camps around Mytilene and in a yoga studio in the city itself. Last year, he and a number of other volunteers from Pikpa, joined the Coast Guard to rescue refugees from the middle of the ocean. These refugees had paddled shoddy boats through the ocean in order to escape their former home countries (typically by way of Turkey). Dino, with shaking hands recounted much of his experience. The all-night boat rides, searching for people in the dark, praying to find them alive. His account had led to a more philosophical discussion on the many reasons as to why outsiders such as Dino came to the camps to help. What drove people to drop their lives and help strangers in their time of need? Dino mentioned the word selfless in response to this question. According to him, the best volunteers, the ones who help the most are the ones who want only to bring fulfillment to others’ lives. The worst kinds of volunteers are those that arrive with the hope that a picture with a poor refugee here or a selfie there would bring them the kind of saintly self-promotion that many people desire and work hard to achieve.

Perhaps I’m a bit jaded. I don’t really believe in selflessness. In my, once again, humble opinion, everything that we do, everything that we are, is selfish. It’s important to understand the motives that drive each person but, at the end of the day, we all gain fulfillment and, in certain circumstances, self-actualization by doing whatever it is that makes us happy. I wish I could have stayed at Pikpa. I wish I could have done more than to ask questions and fill myself with the understanding of the reality facing its residents. I wish I could continue to see the smiling faces every day because, to me, there is nothing more beautiful than a face that smiles genuinely. That is what I saw at this camp. Having spoken to many volunteers and workers, it seems to me that my sentiments are experienced rather universally. Selfishly, we feel self-fulfilled at the idea that we make a difference in the lives of however many or few people we are able to influence. Granted, this type of selfish behavior differs from the kind that Dino described in those that use these smiling faces to promote themselves; however, whether we are promoting ourselves to the outside world or to our own egos, the fact remains that we all desire a reality in which we are the best versions of ourselves, however that is defined.

This blog post has turned out to be a rather monotonous monologue in which I have rambled about nothing outstandingly exceptional and perhaps have made myself seem a bit pretentious. I’ve discovered that blogging makes me rather self-conscious as I don’t feel I have anything very exciting to write about. I suppose I could write about the people I met during my time at Pikpa or at (karatipe) but that would feel wrong, I think; as though I were somehow exploiting the narratives of those that I had met and who had spent time with me. I hope that the film I am working on will do their stories and backgrounds justice.

I will emphasize one piece of the refugees’ stories that struck me the most: the impatience in their voices. Each individual that I met, that was kind enough to share his or her story with me was waiting to receive documents, allowing passage to other countries in Europe.  A lengthy and tedious process, one young gentleman told me that he had just undergone his third interview after which, he expected to receive documentation that would allow him to go with his family to his uncle in Germany. He had been waiting to receive these papers for 9 months, living in various refugee camps, with no right to work or study. His life was in limbo. A young boy, determined to learn and receive an education whose entire life rested on the eventual receipt of a piece of paper.

I am undergoing a very contrasting set of emotions at the moment. On the one hand, I am dreaming of the day I can return to Pikpa, to lend a hand, to see the smiling faces. On the other hand, I hope that very soon, the need for camps like Pikpa and volunteers like Dino will be eradicated. It even brings a little light to my heart to think that I may never see those smiling faces in Pikpa again, for perhaps that will mean that these beautiful people managed to make it to their ultimate destinations, build new homes for themselves and future generations in Germany, France, the United States, wherever they will be welcomed warmly. I hope that one day the impatience in these people’s voices will be replaced with hope and joy for their bright futures.  

Hello. Where aM I?

Hello you beauteous creatures, you delectable humans, you magnificent readers, you.

I’ve missed you. Have you missed me?

I have not written in quite some time. And for that, I must admit, I feel terribly guilty. To be honest, I had not realized how much pressure I would feel to come up with unique and clever things to discuss on this forum. It’s not like anybody other than my mother (hi, mom!) reads this. However, I do feel that if I’m going to send my ideas out into the virtual void, those ideas should at least be interesting for me to write about, right?

Right. Now…

For those of you that communicate with me regularly, you probably know that I have not been able to speak about anything other than my European excursion for quite some time. (Sorry I ain’t sorry!) Well, now that I’m in Europe, I see no reason not to continue this trend. So here it goes… my first few days in Greece:

I landed late in the evening on Thursday, October 20th. As my plane touched the ground and taxied to the terminal, I felt an unexpected shock come over me. In large, bright, lit-up letters, the front of the airport terminal read: “THESSALONIKI – MAKEDONIA.”

Makedonia? Like, Macedonia? Like, the country that is NOT Greece?

“How did this happen? How could I get the wrong ticket? I bought these tickets with Zhenia [my super responsible, adult cousin for those of you that don’t know]. How could we both misread the ticket? Ok. Ok. Relax. You’ll book a hotel for tonight. How expensive could a hotel in Macedonia be? Then tomorrow, you’ll take the next flight to Thessaloniki, Greece. That might be pricey but you have no other options.”

As I got out of the plane and onto the bus that would take us into the airport, these and many other thoughts jumbled in my brain, promising to cripple me from shear shock. HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUPID?

And then… a beacon of hope… a familiar sign (or rather, a familiar letter.) The wonderful, gorgeous letter Ф.

This letter just happens to be the Greek equivalent to the letter “F.”

I know that Greek and Russian just happen to share the a couple of letters here and there and that this shining letter Ф is one of them. I felt a wave of pure relief wash over me.

Fun fact: the Macedonian language also uses the much of the same script as Russian and Greek but does not include the letter Ф.

This little anecdote was really my first taste to a generally confusing first few days in Greece.

 [I’m sorry but why does an airport have the name of a DIFFERENT COUNTRY on it in BRIGHT LARGE LETTERS?! Not cool, Greece, not cool.]

My lack of familiarity with Greek language, culture, customs, etc  continued to lead to embarrassing situations including one in which I attempted to pay for a bus ticket with a pass that was clearly too large for the machine while complete strangers watched and judged, silently.

I won’t continue to amuse you with further stories of my humiliation; however, I would be happy to tell you about each embarrassing story when I get home, dear reader.

All of these embarrassing moments and many enjoyable moments have led me to reflect on the decision I have made to travel through Greece on my own. I am thrilled at the adventure I have already experienced in Thessaloniki and excited for the time I will spend in Lesvos and Athens on my own. I have seen an incredible amount of beauty and culture. Visiting the historical sites in Thessaloniki, traveling to the Monasteries at Meteora (where I met up with my little brother) have all been enriched as I have learned to experience for the sake of experience, rather than for the sake of the story. When traveling with others, my favorite part is sharing the moment, reliving the story and relating the experience with your travel partner. In traveling alone, I have missed this part of the journey; however, I have discovered a new piece of the puzzle that I had not considered previously. I love seeing and experiencing without relating to anyone else. In our everyday lives, we sometimes forget to live for the sake of the experience and, instead, we experience for the sake of proof of the experience such as: an Instagram or a Snapchat. We care more about others relating to our stories rather than enjoying the stories to the best of our abilities. Now, as you all know, I am a huge fan of a good snap; however, I find myself occasionally overstimulated with the amount of people that I want to relate my experiences to.

Here, I feel no such pressure. I am enjoying the awe I feel at the site of an ancient ruin, the embarrassment at a mispronunciation, the joy of a sibling reunion (s/o @David), the stress of a long journey and, most importantly, the thrill of traveling independently. So, to ALL the Greek people who read my blog (ie: none)… judge away, people!

In my [humble] opinion, I believe that everyone could benefit from experiencing the utter confusion, anxiety and stress that result from finding oneself in completely foreign circumstances. As a total outsider, everything here is new to me including the absurdly generous amount of eye contact locals use. [Nothing to see here, people! Just stuffing my face on the bus. Really not that interesting.] The culture shock I have experienced is unlike anything I have ever felt before and these few days have taught me to be comfortable in my skin and to ignore the nagging voice in my head that feels ashamed when I’m lost or confused. I have learned to accept and even enjoy the moments that could cause anxiety.

On Thursday, I may have felt utter humiliation if I were to ask a local the question “Where am I right now?”

NOT ANYMORE!

 Liz 2.0 feels no shame and will continue to ask until she figures out where the &*$% she is.

At least I made it to the right country, right, mom?

On the road again...

Hello again, readers! 

It's been a while since my first blog and I'm honestly a little tempted to go back to my first post and revise that piece where I said I would write once a week... because that just hasn't happened...

I've been thinking about the various rants I could put down on this site for all to read and admire. And every time I think of a new topic to write about, I immediately come to the conclusion that nobody cares what I have to say. This is the same problem I have with Twitter; I'm not going to waste people's time describing in 140 characters or less my opinion or what I had for lunch. 

As I sit in this stuffy, slightly odorous Lucky Star bus heading home to Boston, I have done everything in my power to avoid coming up with a topic for this blog post (hence these rambling paragraphs). I've decided that the topic for today's post will be.... "Liz ranting about something that happened in the news!" Sounds exciting, right? Right?! RIIIIIIIGHT?!?! *cue nervous laughter*

Now, let's begin. 

The Stanford Sexual Assault Case. You heard me. We're going to be talking about that today. Now, I won't be illustrating any new information in this blog post and I'm going to do my best to keep the overall sentiment as light as possible. However, I want to underline how heartbroken I am about how this has all played out. What a disaster. What a disgrace.

As a 23-year-old woman, I have come to terms with the fact that I cannot constantly be safe in any environment I may find myself in. I have accepted the circumstances that my female-ness provides me with. It is an unfortunate fact of life that women are oftentimes physically vulnerable to men when it comes to sexual assault. Now, don't get me wrong - this isn't something that I'm constantly thinking about. I don't glance over my shoulder every time I walk into Whole Foods; however, when I'm walking home at night, I certainly feel slightly more secure when I'm with a male. Kind of makes it impossible to be truly independent, huh? 

Now, what reeeeally grinds my gears about the whole situation is this: alcohol. is. not. an. excuse. For those of you who read the victim's letter, you will understand when I say that she beautifully bashed her perpetrator for blaming alcohol for his actions. Just be honest with yourself. You raped this girl. Not the tequila. The assailant has claimed that his biggest mistake was ingesting more alcohol than he should have. I've been drunk before. Like seriously hammered (sorry mom). Never would I ever even consider harming someone in the way that this *$*%^& hurt an innocent woman. 

Which brings me to the core thesis of this post. What makes people do horrible things? 

Quick side note. In the 10th grade, I learned about various philosophers who were crucial to the enlightenment period: Descartes, Voltaire, Spinoza and, my favorite, John Locke. Locke was an exciting man who coined the term "Tabula Rasa," meaning blank slate. Locke was referring to the idea that every person is born with a blank slate; they are neither good nor bad and their upbringing decides what kind of people they become. This ideology has shaped my way of thinking and, even though, I have modified this theory for myself, I do believe that the core concept remains: people are only as good as their surroundings. Predispositions exists but they are limited in their effect on people's behavior and can only be realized in proper environments. 

Back to the matter at hand. I think it interesting that many of the media outlets have covered the story, highlighting the attackers stellar record and athletic successes. Many have seen the inclusion of this information to be disgraceful, as though the news sources are attempting to make the attacker seem more attractive to their readers. Perhaps they are. However, I perceive the inclusion to mean this: this young, entitled, spoiled, young, white male could have potentially thrown his life away because he had been brought to believe that his actions were not meant to have consequences. Now, I'm not blaming this mentality solely on the parents' shoulders. This way of thinking is integral to our society. We're taught from a young age that people at the top deserve more (or less if we're talking punishment) than those at the bottom. This young man was born with certain natural abilities that made him the better athlete. He was also born white and male, automatically making certain things in life a bit easier for him. He, however, was not born a rapist. He was made that way because he was taught that having sex with a partner doesn't necessarily mean asking him or her back to your room, making him or her comfortable in a bed** and, you know, NOT FORCING HIM OR HER INTO ANYTHING. I don't mean to take the onus of this vile crime away from the criminal. Many entitled, white males live very decent lives and turn out to be rather enjoyable human beings. I just want to explore the possibility that some of the blame may lie on our society's shoulders. 

And now, the verdict. The unfair, disgraceful and unfathomably lenient sentence of six months in prison. Now, anyone growing up, reading this case will come away with an important fact about our reality: Being white, male and privileged provides certain people with the ability to take advantage of other human beings’ vulnerabilities and face minimal consequences. I don’t know about you but that’s not the kind of lesson I want my younger, impressionable nieces, nephews, cousins and friends growing up with.

Final Takeaway: Women are born with the power to say yes. We have the same power that men do to say yes or no when we like. But it's like Louis CK says, "How do women still go out with guys, when you consider that there is no greater threat to women than men? We’re the number one threat to women! Globally and historically, we’re the number one cause of injury and mayhem to women.” Too true, Louis. Too true. I personally go out with guys because I find it easy to say “eh, not gonna happen to me.” Unfortunately, it could totally happen to me. It’s a harsh reality I am coming to terms with but maybe it’s a better lesson to come away with than “I can do whatever I want to whomever I want with absolutely no consequences.”

So let's all be nice to each other. Stop hurting. Stop the violence. It's not as hard as it sounds. Just be nice. And if you're not nice, blame it on yourself, blame it on society, but certainly DO NOT blame it on the alcohol. Sorry, T-Pain. 

**Disclaimer: I'm not judging people who have sex in places other than a bed. Just something to be considerate of, you know. 

Inaugural Blog!

 Hello and welcome to my first ever, semi-exciting venture into the world of blogging! 

With no preconceived notions of what this blog will entail and how I will captivate readers and visitors to this site, let me begin by thanking all those who are taking the time to read my innermost thoughts, considerations and opinions. I'm still trying to hash out the fine print and figure out exactly what I'll be writing about but, for now, I think I'll use this medium as a way to express my ideas: real, philosophical, political, etc. Shoot me a note if you have any thoughts on this matter and I'll take your suggestions into consideration!

Now, where to begin... I guess I'll start off by explaining the reason for this blog. It all started with my previous and first job; my premiere foray into the working world. In October of 2014, a mere 5 months after having graduated Brandeis University, I began working for a Public Relations Agency in Boston. After having worked there for a year-and-a-half, I left the agency with no specific work prospects in mind. Now, I'm attempting to freelance through a variety of platforms to get my start in Video Editing. A blog seems like the perfect way to keep the creative juices flowing and to keep myself on some sort of schedule. I plan on blogging once every week, providing readers with some insights into the inner workings of my life and mind, a place not as frightening as you might imagine. 

The question that must be asked at this point in my seemingly endless narrative is this: "Liz, your life isn't that exciting. You are an unemployed 23 year-old living in suburbia. Why blog at all?" And to that I'll reply, "Well, reader. Why read at all?" And yes, answering a question with another question may be as "douchey" as that guy at the bar with the backwards hat and waaaay too much cologne who doesn't get the hint no matter how many times you tell him that you're just not interested; however, I digress. In my personal and very unsupported-by-factual-evidence opinion, reading and writing are tools that many of us use to validate ourselves as the people we are today. Human beings, in general, are as self conscious as they are narcissistic; we are constantly seeking approval, hoping that the people (real and fictional) we surround ourselves with will make us feel as though we are constantly "doing [insert: thinking, feeling, considering, etc.] the right thing." Reading provides us with stories, opinions, literature that supports our intellectual, ethical, moral tribulations. When we face dilemmas in our realities, we oftentimes turn to fictional characters that have faced similar, or sometimes completely different, challenges and rely on their hypothetical guidance. Yes, these fictional characters can come from television just as they can from books but I'm talking about writing, here so stay with me, people.  This is not to say that we only read narratives that we relate to. Oftentimes, we read in order to sympathize with characters we never considered we would relate to; however, we relate to the humanity and the human impulse in any fictional character, making their struggles our own. 

"Now, Liz. This all sounds ridiculous and far-fetched. If you want me to believe you, you'll have to provide me with an example."

Well, sassy reader, to that I say, "Challenge accepted!" 

One of my all time favorite books, The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov (yes, mom, thanks for everything) is set in a fantastical version of Moscow in the 1930's during the Soviet era. The characters in the novel range from a delirious journalist, a couple of communist cronies, a talking cat, Satan, the Master, Margarita (boss-ass chick, by the way), some demons, the ghosts of evil people, etc. (it's not, what you might call an easy read.) Despite the wildly eccentric characters and proceedings of the story (although, who knows, maybe Satan's German professor alter-ego and his "Rat Pack" did roam the streets of Moscow in the '30s), people for decades have read, re-read and re-re-read this novel in its entirety, sympathizing with Maragarita's plight, the Master's heartbreaking desperation and even the demons' mischievous pranks (seriously, people, if you haven't read this book, you should.) The reason people have been reading this book and enjoying it is that they/we are all hugely narcissistic creatures looking for validation wherever we can. I find validation in Margarita's willful nature. Her adventurous spirit makes me feel like it's "ok" to take risks, to feel vengeful and to act with spite. I oftentimes relate to her stubborn pride and resilience. Woland's character validates my opinion that everyone in this world, including the devil, can be made to act out of sympathy and kindness. There are plenty of other examples I could provide but, in the hopes that some of you may not have read this book, I will stop right here for fear of giving too much of the incredible, fantastic, wonderful piece of literature away. (Please read it, please!)

MLXLS<--- This is Behemoth, one of the novel's best characters. Seriously, so good!

I read The Master and Margarita because I seek validation. This the same reason I am writing this blog. I hope that by putting my ideas "out there" I may find some semblance of creative fulfillment and self-approval that we all crave. 

This past year has been hectic, to say the least, and many who know me well can attest that stress and worry have become regular emotional companions for me on a day-to-day basis. Worry not! I will not be using this blog to pour out all the emotional baggage that I have compiled over the past however-many months but, instead, I hope that my words may stir up emotions, conversations and maybe, even some feedback. 

And on that note, I will end this particularly useless blog post as the introduction to future posts that I hope will be more insightful. 

Thanks for reading, you awesome reader, you!

“But why don’t you take him with you into the light?
He does not deserve the light, he deserves peace.”

— Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita