ENG 379 – Travel Writing: Module 6
Mediterranean Healing
As an impulsive person, if I want to do or say something, the words drip like water held in my hands. Adolescent years were filled with daydreams, scribblings, and discipline. There was no medication. As an adult the anxiety thrives on procrastination. The mind is like a web browser with a thousand tabs opened. Losing the place in a thought when talking was easy, because so many thoughts are simultaneously attempting a prison break. Everything is done in a rush. I have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.
In 2016, Brian and I were trying to figure out where we were taking our vacation, two weeks prior to our vacation time. A beach in Thailand for me. Brian wanted an African safari without the huge cost of a safari, nor the extended time in a plane. Mental darts were thrown at the world map on our wall. Greece became the target, since there was a beach involved.
There are times when sensory overload happens. It is rare but can strike while on vacation. It resembles a panic attack, almost shutting down the body’s motion. Blinking occurs as the mind is rewiring to get moving. Traveling teaches me to manage it. Focusing on my expectations can help control reactions. Yet, in a grocery store, in the middle of Nea Smyrni, I froze. Never having therapy for this condition, it can be struggling to get back to your version of normal. A stranger in a new place, with an unfamiliar language, is having an anxiety incident.
“Let it go,” said a voice. She had a Middle Eastern accent that carved extra syllables in each word. She was standing off to the side. Somehow, she knew what was happening and did not try to overwhelm me. “Accept your surroundings.”
Her questions were like Episcopalian chants. She would recite. I would respond.
“What are five things you can see right now?”
The aisle in front of me came into view. My voice quivered, “Mangoes. Limes. Tomatoes. On sale sign. Five for one euro.”
It continued as a countdown of the senses. She smiled, “You are like my daughter. You have lots in your head. Have you seen Frozen?” Shaking my head seemed to invite her to sing from the chorus of the song “Let It Go”. Skin, toasted in tan, donned freckles coded in Morse on her aging wrists and cheeks. Seldom is an adult heard singing a Disney song to another adult in a grocery store. Her voice was terrible, but enough to collect a smile.
The woman started telling me about bringing her daughter to Greece. Her daughter had an attack while crossing the street. Some local tried to take her hand, but she resisted. He had done the same countdown process with the daughter. They secured the technique in their memory. The woman moved to Greece the year following the incident. “Greece is therapy,” she chuckled. Brushing strands of onyx locks from her face, she then recommended a sunset cruise because “a tourist simply cannot be in the Mediterranean and never witness one of its sunsets”.
The jaundiced yellow brochure was tucked amongst the vividly colored, live-action photos of the other excursions Greek tour guides had to offer. Brian and I never really do the “touristy things” on a trip, but he seemed a little eager for another sailing cruise after our initial one-day tour of some islands. The Lagoon 400 Sailing Catamaran bobbed up and down upon the water, swaying back and forth on the waves. It was brand new, sleek, sexy, and it danced in a snaky motion over the waves. It reminded me of a movie scene where a clubbing man dances “provocatively” to attract a woman. My stomach knotted up a little. I had forgotten to take my Dramamine for motion sickness.
“What are 5 things you can see right now,” her voice questioned in my mind.
The crewman held out his palm, spackled with callouses from pulling rope. The aqua tankini I wore competed with the turquoise of the Aegean Sea. The sea won. Taking my seat, we joined a group of eight others, starting mid-day from the Athens Olympic Sailing Center. This was one of the few Olympic sites still in operation. As we motored out of the area, we passed the ghostly Olympic Pools for diving and swimming competitions. The vines of ivy were their patrons now. The paint peeled back like torn posters, exposing unceremonious grey concrete. One the diving boards resembled an old moonshiner’s mouth, jagged tooth barely hanging on to its metal gums. Other structures resembled some dystopian, post-Apocalyptic edifices, ejected out the terrain like a tribute to Thunderdome. My mind wanted to go there instead. Perhaps there is a fight club in that pit, punching teeth into the distance; and now you have witnessed my disorder.
I could not complain about the weather. The sky was a gorgeous powder blue with cotton balls of clouds dabbed here and there. Our skins were beginning to roast slowly in the sun, baking in our moist sweat drooling down our necks and backs. My mind could not focus on the inchworm movement of the forty feet of boat.
“What are four things you can touch,” my mind asked in her voice.
My hand held tight to the thick rope of the rails, deciding to take off my swimming slippers. We were no longer on the pliable, invasive sand. My big toe failed to dig into the textured fiberglass. The grit skidded my entire foot like a skipped stone on a lake. The motor picked up speed. My shoulder kissed against another passenger’s. Unoffended, her English accent cooed as she began spilling beans about why she was in Greece at this moment. Motion sickness should have kicked in by now. My other hand moved in braille over the stitching of the cushions, finding my husband’s knuckles balled in a fist at the end of her sentence. Brian uses his knuckles as traction. This is humorous. I should be the one seasick. She thinks I have heard her story and continued with more of her tale.
The weird thing about my ADHD is that I look like I am not paying attention, but I can recite everything a person has said to me if asked. I am just distracted by everything else. Everything else includes the gusts, created by the speed of the boat, smoothing my back, and lifting the skirt-like length of my tankini top. I brush my hands through my dreadlocs, herding them together like cats in a tornado. I was tired of them whipping the freckles off my face. The twisty band resisted in my spread hand. I flexed it over the locs and sealed them off into a ponytail. The wind on my face felt amazingly better without a hundred wind-driven whips lashing on your forehead and nose.
“What are three things you can hear?” That accent pried in my skull.
Over the wind, the crew people talked about Athens and the coastline. They chattered like a stock ticker machine, churning out information in English, with a gooey Greek accent. The wind rustled in my ears, natural static for those not really paying attention. Except I heard, “my friend.” The phrase “my friend” is pure love. For Greeks, my friend is everyone who has not made them angry. That is never the purpose of my travels. Yes, I am your friend. In every nation I have visited, my persona is “my friend”. I started counting the instances of being friends with this crewman. A passing boat, which I deemed as my friend, too, rung their bell. It carried on the breeze like a bird whistling during a rock concert. Our Catamaran captain honked his horn, boasting a bold honk from the bow. The new friend sailed on with a churning of waters as it sliced towards home.
“What are two things you can smell,” queried the mind, losing the accent
As we slowed for our first swimming stop, the air was rich with a perfumed saltiness. I had lived on the coast for most of my life. The air in my hometown is pungent, a filthy salty air baptized in the breezes of the local pulp mill and chemical plant. The marsh belched its farty breath into it on every downwind. Greece, however, blossomed in a crispy saline diced with fainted jasmine and hiccups of citrus. The reduction in speed unfortunately introduced my nostrils to the abundance of aftershave a male passenger wore on every square inch of his person. I was hoping he would go into the water first. I was not getting out at this swim.
“What is one thing you can taste,” reverbed like concentric circles.
Those who chose to swim briefly climbed aboard. We chugged to our second swimming stop. The crew had taken out foods to prepare while we swam at this stop. It would be a longer break this time. This was my stop. I would be getting off here. Crew brought out snorkeling gear, flippers, and life saver rings. Brian had already gotten in and drifted away from the boat. Carefully selecting the snorkeling gear, my silence prayed that no one left body fluids in any of these googles. Divers often used their own spittle to defog goggle lenses. A blue jelly pair was tugged over my head while I slipped my feet into the water before letting myself fall in. Normally I would sink straight down, maybe touch a bottom. My heavy body always went under a few feet before rising back like a fishing bobber. My head barely made it under the aqua glass before I rose right back and started back floating. This was a first. I licked my wet lips as I wiped at my nose.
The Aegean Sea is the second saltiest sea in the world. The taste induces a jerk-reaction, almost shocking the taste buds that are normally used for sweet. It then becomes slightly fishy. And if lucky not to get an entire mouthful of it unexpectedly, it develops a floral hint. An unanticipated mouthful is a disdaining acidic burn.
And with all of my senses cleared, I could continue to tell you about the savory grilled meal the crew fed us, the extra time swimming, or the setting of the sails as the sun decided it was too much for him and he had to go home. The warmth of the day switched to a chill to the drying, scantily clad bodies. A blanket gave refuge and we were glad to have brought it along. The sail flapped its Morse Code of the awesome day we had. My toes stroked the netting like guitar strings. The smoky aroma of the grill faded into a musky evening breeze, filled with briny jasmine and wine. My tongue bathed in the sensual swirl of red wine. My mind was coursing through the beauty of Greece. Greece is love note to life. Greece is a reminder to take time for yourself. Her voice reminded me again, “Greece is therapy.”