The walls are a shiny mint green; upon one wall is a picture of a typical Greek village, and above the desk is a mirror and light. There are also lights over each bed and a swag dangles precariously over the foot of my bed.

The view of Athens is spectacular, especially at night when the smog is not evident. Licensed drivers may only drive on alternate days to help in the control of smog. The sunsets are marvelous. On a clear day one may catch a glimpse of the Aegean Sea sparkling in the distance below the many various mountain peaks.

Throughout the night one can hear the Greeks as they drive late (customarily), cars, trucks, and motorcycles, battling the mountain roads, and dogs barking..... between 12 - 3 A.M. The roosters begin to chime in early morning. Noisy? Yes, but one gets used to it, and if tired enough, sleep cannot be kept away.

Feb. 5, 1983 (Sat.u.r.day)... The trip to the heart of the Flea Mkt. was cancelled unanimously by Mom and me. The weather, in the morning being lead gray skies shedding a sleet-like mist, became gradually more severe as the day progressed. By mid-morning, the sleet had transformed into jumbo snowflakes and rapidly proceeded to blanket the entire area in an unexpected cloud of white. The Grecians were quite delighted with the entire affair, as snow is rare in these parts; the last blizzardy condition was 15 years ago and caused Athens to close down. The people are ill prepared to drive in such conditions and find themselves at a loss in this type of weather; cars were strewn on all sides of the road.

As for myself, I was also happy with the snow; my only protest would be if it would hinder my departure on Wed. Otherwise I reveled in the beauty I was shown today. I was on the verge of sinking down into the bed to rest when Norm called... that was a nice addition to my day!

I went down and ate a small portion of green beans, rice and bread.

We had a party in which Mom and I had a part... at 7:30. It consisted of our Artist Game, Becky Pate's rhythm game and Donna's auction, the proceeds of which went to the dishwasher at the hotel restaurant.

Refreshments ended up the fiesta. . . it was a nice break for a Sat.u.r.day nite.

Feb. 6, 1983 (Sunday)... I began my day by snapping several pictures from my balcony. Subject: snow-covered mtns. I figured that I had better record them on film before the sun's heat chased all of the snow away. I went to breakfast promptly at 9:00, ordering my usual morning fare, oatmeal, honey, 2 toasts, and "red" Nescafe (the decaffeinated kind). Following breakfast Max invited Mom and me to a game of Scrabble. I nearly won point-wise, but Max cleared his slate of letters first, thereby adding the total remaining letters from all of our slates to his score.

Lunch was very good today. . . my fish was cooked to crispness, the way I like it to be fixed. Following that meal, I hastily made my way to the Greek-English Dictionary to look up "crispy"; perhaps hereafter my fish dinner can always be crispy!

My blood test results were favorable, as far as it counts. I dropped to 2.5. The shot went well today, and I returned to have breakfast before venturing to the Flea Market in downtown Athens.

We caught a cab on the road above the hotel. It's a lot easier and less tiring for me than if I'd have to ride the bus all the way to Athens.

The Flea Mkt. can be described very simply as a low-brow, motley array of shops, most of which carried a wide selection of goods which repeated itself over and over through the area. It was actually a pitiable sight to see. Few of the people had heaters in their shops, and many appeared quite dest.i.tute.

The junk was over-priced; however, the merchants seemed unprepared for much bartering. I moseyed in and out of many shops without having been offered one price reduction. I ended up with 2 belts, one reduced from 120 drachmas to 110, and the other to 100.

After browsing awhile, Mom and I stopped and I got a pita bread to munch on for energy. Mom ate the sausage that came with it (38 drachma).

I found my way into a shoe store on the edge of the market and bought 2 prs. of boots. . . one is a smooth red leather short boot, and the other is a gold suede knee boot (1200 and 1800 dr.).

Lunch was at a corner restaurant. I had cabbage/cuc.u.mber salad, rice, and bread.

Cab... strange guy...

August, 1983... After last Diary Entry...

My last journal entry about Greece dwindled into nonexistence as home became part of the foreseeable future, with broken phrases and words serving as the one reminder of my excursion to the Flea Market and a strange encounter with a Greek who had repeatedly asked, "You American?

You marry me?"

The following morning the three of us were packed on a jumbo jet amid a screaming mob destined for New York, and thoughts of Greece had made way for other, more prominent images. The red pointed shoes from Athens which were peaking out of my pant legs, the in-flight snacks, the certainty that our plane would crash on the way home. . . I desired to be home to such a great degree that paranoia became a plague, and I fancied my emotions were similar to those who are threatened in a war zone; in effect, if I was not killed in Greece, I would die on the way home. It was as if Fate was not an idea; it had taken shape and lived, exuding a force that controlled relentlessly and completely.

Upon reaching New York, and transferring to a different and considerably less crowded plane, my fear dissolved. We had traveled all day with the sun, and now it had overtaken us. The lights of New York twinkled like a brilliant network of gold on black velvet, covering the city's filth with delicate grace. I watched the points of light stretching endlessly into the darkness, and knew I was home; no foreign words rolled off the tongues surrounding me, yet a balanced variety of creeds and colorings spread about the plane.

Chicago possessed the essence of the midwest; when we reached the city, I was overcome with happiness and bought a bold red tee-shirt that read "Chicago." Mom noticed my purchase and questioned me; after all, I was probably the only patient of the Greek doctor who had not acquired a GREECE tee-shirt. The way I saw it, tee-shirts made statements.

Some people wanted to express how they felt, others wanted everyone to know where they had been. I merely wanted to emphasize my grat.i.tude for being home, and red carried the message with adequate force.

One flight later, the three of us stumbled wearily off of the small plane that had delivered us to Moline. I had not slept in over 24 hours, but I still recognized familiar faces, and many greeted us as we walked into the terminal. Besides my aunt and uncle, a group from the Circle C Cla.s.s (Circle in Christ from our church) milled about, holding a "WELCOME" poster and wearing great smiles. It was a royal welcome to be received by one such as I, and it a.s.sured Mom and Dad of the support which rallied in their time of need.

PAGE 263

Chapter 35 In Limbo

"Friends were beginning their exodus to distant places . . . it meant appraising my own life and facing, time after time, the stagnation which it represented."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

In Limbo

April 1, 1983... There is something left to be desired about living in a state which can be described as "limbo." I am neither happy nor unhappy. I cannot plan, because planning would only dig my sense of "loss" to a deeper level. I am unable to live my life in the ways in which I like for fear of ruining the Alivizatos miracle cure and because of my general lack of energy. I think I can do something but when I actually try, it fizzles into dust; I haven't the energy.

I sometimes feel a world apart from all else... in Greece I lost my zest... or what zest I ever had... for living (in my sense of the word). Perhaps I can look forward to normalcy only after the six months period has come to an end. At least then I'll know my verdict. . .

as I had before I went to Greece.

June 26, 1983... Today the bomb blew up that was ticking in my brain.

I guess one might say that emotional explosions are a rarity in my case, however, I am lucky enough to realize when I've reached the point of mental saturation. It seemed of late, that all I heard were complaints and conversations necessitating an obligatory response of heartfelt sympathy.

I should never expect less than the truth when I ask "How are you?"

There is then a symphony of habitual ailments; I receive quite an ear-full and the health report is consistently poor.

The next uplifting conversation was with Max, the master of personality, and a virtual ball of fire, (I jest, of course). His lamentations include numerous health difficulties, among them his artificial limb. Undoubtedly he is far worse off, in my opinion, than I.

However, I don't relish conversations riddled with bits and pieces of Greek reminiscences; I prefer to forget the entire affair. Moreover, I battle to maintain somewhat of a conversation. . . silence can only last so long before I become unsettled and feel nervous tremors pacing through my stomach. I am thoroughly exhausted once I am home. I am so tired of sob stories; they are no longer any good with me. I wonder if I lack tolerance for people who eternally lament their personal plights. Others also have problems, but m.u.f.fle them to a far greater degree. Life's too short to taint other's lives with one's own depressions and sorrows; talk but do not burden! Perhaps, also, I have no sympathy for people who completely deny death and cannot accept it as a normal part of the life cycle itself. I hope my mind can now relax... I have twice today relieved it's pressure. I can now, with luck, bid my senses goodnight.

August, 1983... Is there really any sense to my life anymore?

Sometimes I hate my life. I seem to be going nowhere... my pendulum has come to a slow stand-still. It seems that all the progress I had made 2 years ago has left me empty-handed and stripped once more.

Selfworth is altogether laughable in context with my life. What, after all, is my purpose for being here? I do no more than spend other's money, take up s.p.a.ce and burden my family with my lack of physical attributes. I feel that I could hold no job. . . I sometimes spend hours in one day running to the toilet. After eating, I always run the risk of feeling enormously nauseous for the duration of several hours.

And stamina? Sometimes I have it, sometimes I don't.