4 days ago, I wrote this post on an airplane:
34,000 feet in the air, and for once, I’m speechless. As much as I hate flying, I must admit that the experience is unparalleled. The roaring of the engines and feel of an invisible hand pushing you back in your seat upon takeoff, then soaring over the deep blue sea, passing swiftly through the clouds, but always wondering if the blanket of them could support you on the way down. More than actually being in the air, though, the idea of flying and airplanes always strikes a chord with me. A plane can take you home, or to a location far, far, away. Flying, then, can represent a return to the life you know, or a major life change.
Dallas –> Paris in 9 hours. Chicago –> Hong Kong in 16. It’s unbelievable how quickly life can change. For me, right now, it’s Athens –> London in 4. When I arrive, I’ll be heading to Oxford to visit my Aunt and Uncle for 10 days, and then back to the States, where more life transitions await. Santorini was technically the last stop on my Goliard pastry tour, which hopefully explains my ruminating (though perhaps you’re thinking it’s incessant droning) about feelings of transition.
I took a break in writing this post as my plane touched down, but haven’t been able to finish it since. It could be that my newfound addiction to Downton Abbey (seriously so good, plus I’m hoping to pick up a British accent) and the two-day drama of the French Open final (helloooo Rafa “Muscles” Nadal) have prevented me from sitting down to write. Another truth, though, is that I’ve been rather conflicted. What could I possibly say to sum up such an incredible journey? What should become of my blog? And, perhaps the largest conundrum of all: What should become of me? Continue reading
These words were uttered as we looked on in dismay (ok, and in my case, not a small amount of excitement) at the feast already laid out in front of us: hot, freshly fried tomato fritters, bowls heaped with classic Greek salad, a fava dip accompanied by thick slices of fresh bread, and chilled white wine to wash it all down. That hunger would be conquered tonight was not a question on anyone’s mind. After we had sufficiently gorged ourselves on the “appetizers,” we returned to cook our entrées for the evening. That’s right…cook. Because today, I had the wonderful opportunity to take a Greek cooking class!
This post is dedicated to my grandfather, Yat-Kwong Ho, who passed away today in Hong Kong at the age of 96. Thank you so much for raising such a remarkable son, and for giving me all the opportunities in the world. May you rest in peace in the presence of God.
There’s something so special about seeing a town at its sleepiest. That time when the sun is just peeking out, but the cool of night still remains in the air, along with the anticipation and promise of the coming morning. You see the preparation for day that often falls unnoticed into the background…owners arriving at their stores, waiters shaking out restaurant cushions before the breakfast rush. As you cross paths with other early risers and acknowledge each other with a slight smile, you feel like you’re part of a secret club eluding those still warm in their beds. Silence feels sacred in the air, broken only occasionally by a passing car, a bird chirp, or the jingle of a donkey bell.
Or rather, a whole host of donkey bells. Yes, this morning I arrived on the gorgeous island of Santorini, renowned for its gleaming white houses, volcanic rock beaches, and cliff stair-stepping donkeys.