Bathroom Laundry

They say necessity is the mother of invention. Sometimes, our inventions aren't genius--they're just how we find a way to survive. When you first arrive in a new culture, your mind really doesn't understand all the ways this place is different from home. You expect to walk down the hall and see the washing machine right where it always was, or sit on the couch that has the same comfort level as you've been used to all your life. The reality is, everything is different, new, and a little uncomfortable. It's at this point that you either develop the strategies needed to survive and thrive, or you sit and quit. For me and my seven roommates, quitting was never an option. This was the experience of a lifetime (not to mention a little on the expensive side), and an open mind, a bathtub stopper, and a little packet of Tide was all we needed to fly over the first hurdle we encountered in our new home: no way to wash our clothes.

Lucky for us, our new apartment had a wonderfully huge balcony on which we could string clothesline to dry all our jeans, shirts, and other assorted items we had dragged around in a tub for fifteen minutes until we were annoyed enough to call it "clean." By the way, jeans are almost impossible to wash in a bathtub and know if it actually worked. I guess this was the part of the trip where "faith" was supposed to make an appearance. Either way, for the first four weeks of this experience, we all washed our clothes in the apartment bathtub and hung them on the line to dry in the hot Greek sun. This system worked flawlessly until the famous Greek sun decided to take a little siesta and the heavens opened. There are only so many places eight girls can put all their wet clothes in an apartment, but necessity truly is the mother of invention.

We had clothes everywhere. On the refridgerator, the kitchen chairs, the television, our desks, our beds, even out the windows. Anything and any place we could get them to dry. Needless to say, after that we found a laundromat where we could use our limited Greek to get our clothes washed and dried for about 10 Euro a week. Not bad.

When you travel, everything is either an adventure or a disaster. It all depends on how you spin the story. Learning to view each moment, each memory, through a positive lens allows you to look back and laugh to tears while you start each sentence with, "Remember the time we..."

Bathroom laundry was one of those open-your-mind moments and think on your toes. I'll never do it again, but I'll never forget it either.

Jet-Lagged Students Seeking Greek Mother

I'll never forget the day I met the woman they call Aphrodite. Thirty-six hours of being consistently awake does some strange things to the human psyche. My last American sunset was one of rich golds and stark beauty against the cold, March sky. I kept the image of our nation's capital slowly shrinking, looking like a Lego set, in my mind as the sky grew dark and the stars were my only company at thirty-five thousand feet. I wanted to make friends on this flight, but the two girls I had met at the airport hours earlier seemed to be interested in only each other and the non-stop party that was promised the moment we touched down in Athens. Not to mention, they were seated about fifteen rows behind me on the plane.

So here I am, flying alone for the first time in my life at the age of twenty, it's pitch black outside the plane, and I have no idea if the man sitting next to me speaks English. However, I really need to walk around and at the risk of awkwardly sitting in his lap to reach the hallway, I decide to start with that wonderful universal phrase of disturbance: "Excuse me, but..." Lucky for me, he not only spoke English, but he was probably the kindest stranger I could have encountered! We spent the next hour talking about Europe (his home) and what I could expect upon arrival in Paris. If you ever find yourself flying alone to a country where you don't speak the language and you haven't slept all night, my advice would be to find a friend. Odds are, someone on the plane speaks English and is just as lost, lonely, and awkward as you. Take a chance. The worst they can say is, "What?"

After we land in Paris and my new friend gets me through customs and on to where I need to be to find my connection to Athens, I have a new spring in my step. The sun has risen in Paris, I'm officially in Europe, and I have about 10 Euro to my name. Life is good. That is until I realize I have no idea where I am. Charles DeGaulle Airport is a labryinth of terminals, shops, escalators, and cafes and somewhere along the line, you are expected to find an airplane that will take you where you want to go. Unfortunately, I don't know where that is, I've lost my two companions, and I don't speak French. I try to use my phone to call them, but AT&T reminds me, in French as smooth as silk, that I don't have service here. At least, I think that's what they said. Thanks, AT&T. Jet-lagged, alone, and emotionally exhausted, I do what any self-respecting tourist completely new to Europe would do. I walk into the bathroom and cry. Word of advice if you ever find yourself in this situation: take a deep breath and find an airport map. Odds are, you can find what you are looking for if you just focus.

After taking my own advice, I find the two girls sitting in a cafe, waiting until we can access the terminal where we are to meet the rest of our study abroad companions. Seven hours and seventeen people later, we are on our way to Athens.

The colors of the Mediterranean seemed painted by the hand of God himself. Rich blues starkly contrast with the greens and browns of the islands. The landscape seems more alive, like each person living in Greece breathes life into the country every single day by virtue of their vibrant culture. The moment I stepped off that plane I felt the blast of the warm, welcoming air and saw my two dear friends from Etown waiting at the luggage terminal. Our reunion was one of exhausted hugs and excited screams for what we were about to experience. At this point, we haven't slept, we've barely eaten, we're praying our luggage actually shows up, and we can't find the woman who is to welcome us to this strange new world. The woman called Aphrodite.

Suddenly, after I wrestle my luggage off the conveyor belt (word to the wise: pack light. You can buy things in other countries.), I see her. In bright colors, hair perfectly coiffed, Aphrodite comes strolling through the airport with the word that I would find myself repeating throughout this grand adventure: "Yasas!", or Greek for "Hello and cheers!" My body was trapped in a paradox up until that point: I was physically drained but mentally alive. Seeing the woman who made this possible and who would guide us through a new culture and a new world, I found myself rejuvinated and ready to embrace everyone and everything with an open mind. I flashed my most genuine smile of the last thirty-six hours as I repeated in chorus with my new family, "Yasas, Aphrodite!"

Finally.