Ah, I heart my Vagabond!

Today I am getting ready to teach a class in Dreamweaver stencils. Find them at http://www.dreamweaverstencils.com/ . Now, those of you who know about stencils, know that trying to deboss some of them by hand is tedious and gets your hand very tired. But if you have a Vagabond (an electric die-cutting machine you can see in action here:  http://sizzixblog.blogspot.com/ ), it's breeze! All you need to do is make a stack of stencil, paper, and soft pad between the cutting plates on your platform, and push a button to run it through.

How easy is that?

Gotta run--almost time to go to class!

Nan

It Never Rains But It Pours

Things were getting pretty slow in the way of projects and classes to teach, but business has really picked up lately! Got three classes at Bellevue Art and Frame, one at Art Works, and if they all go I will be a hard-working Art Bee. And I have been asked to be on the creative team at Urban Scrapbooker (thanks, Brooke!) and that will be fun too.

Have been languishing with an allergy attack, so I won't be saying much about the book I am posting today. It was made for one of Brooke's contests, and though it didn't win, it was a lot of fun to make. I started with a kit from LYB with acrylic covers, and made extra pages. Most of the regular pages I added were gessoed on both sides before I worked on them.

Outside Cover

The contest kit was made up from Little Yellow Bicycle's Twig collection from last year, papers and embellishments. I carved a couple of stamps for it, and added lots of ribbons.

First Page. The Leaf Ribbon is Hand Dyed to go with the Book Colors

Next Page: It Was Under an Acetate Page

The Rosette Was Made With a Tim Holtz Die; the Birds are Hand Carved Stamps

Love That Translucent Paper

What's Underneath

On the Left It Says "Once You've paid for it, it's free" and on the  Right, "Don't Abandon the Good In Search of the Perfect."

Lots Of Inspirational Words On the Left; "Create" on the Right

There is a Small Notebook on the Left Page; The Right Says "Make a Mark Every Day."

A Tag on the Left; On the Right, "It is the Property of True Genius to Disturb All Settled Ideas," a Quote From Corita

Another Notebook, Left, and a Pocket, Right

When The Green Envelope Is Flipped, the Hands Sort of Hold It

Like This. The Right Page Says :Fear No Art."

The Left Says "Good Stuff," and Has a Pocket; the Right Says "Let Your Ideas Fly Free;" the Bird and Cage are Made With a Tim Holtz Die.

The Page Under the Acrylic Cover

And the Book is Closed

That's all for now! Nan

Sometimes I Just Get Carried Away

I've been reading a book on how we create--the science behind creativity. It's called Imagine: How Creativity Works, by Jonah Lehrer. (His website is http://www.jonahlehrer.com/ ) I had gotten some hype about the book from a couple of lists I belong to, and I was curious to see what all the fuss is about. Creativity has been on my mind a lot these days; one of my good friends has been bemoaning her lack of it, meanwhile being creative about a problem in her life--she just wasn't making ART and saw that as not being creative. Lehrer's book is a look at how creativity works in the brain, and it is written in a handy accessible narrative style so it makes an enjoyable read as well as an informative one.

I am fond of saying, in accordance with the standard Left-Brain-Right-Brain definition of what in our brain controls what, that I am always in my right mind. Apparently, though, one needs both halves to do any thinking about anything. Throw in the Prefrontal Cortex and you are on your way to being creative, if you just go along with what your brain is doing. But please--don't take my word for it--read the book!

"Cabinet of Curiosities" using stuff from Deviant Scrap

Now my biggest fault in being creative is that there are too many choices pulling at me--should I write a poem? Should I paint something? Collage? Sew? Work on a novel? I am constantly being pulled this way and that, each shiny new thing attracting my attention. Right now I am loving digital art, playing with art journals, making liquid polymer skins, and putting earrings together to sell at the Northwest Polymer Guild's Artisan Gift Show this year. All--or should I say each--of these requires a certain amount of creative thinking, though this kind of decision-making is not earth shaking in its consequences. I don't think I will ever invent Scotch Tape (after all, it's been done) or the Post-it Note, or anything as useful as a Swiffer (all these are talked about in Lehrer's book). I might--though it isn't highly likely--write a poem as game-changing as Bob Dylan's "Rolling Stone," but I only have about twenty-five years or so left to do it, and my Poetic Muse is busy elsewhere right now. What I really have to think about is my upcoming classes and demonstrations, the first of which is next Saturday. So what am I doing? Writing this blog, and posting my digital art to it.

"Woman Escaping Her Stereotype" using Deviant Scrap and other images

These two pieces of digital art are made with the copy of Photoshop CS6 Beta that I downloaded a couple of days ago. I have been a Photoshop user since forever, and am still finding new things to do with it. Some of the new things in CS6 Beta are fun to experiment with. But the old standbys of layers, masks and blending modes are still the big guns in my arsenal. I heart Photoshop! (And that iconic phrase is in Imagine too!)

That's all for now--Nan

Some More Poems from the Past

I'm feeling sorry for Greece right now--such a lovely, hospitable, proud people, facing who knows what for a future. Will their precious heritage be sold to the highest bidder? I sure hope not. I'm not likely to visit Greece again in my lifetime, but I have very fond and pleasant memories from my visits there over the years. My pictures from Greece are all on slides, mostly put away in binders, but one of these days I'll have to dig some out and scan them for the blog. But for now I will have to illustrate my poems with other things.

Collage with leaves and transfer

At Delphi, 1971

When we had climbed,

stumbling on the loose pebbles,

struggling up the high steps,

the long path to the place

where his Pythian priestess sat

dispensing the future suitably

in ambiguous hexameters,

there was nothing for us to see

but weathered memories.

Our guide unequivocally announced

the irrefutable fact:

APOLLO IS DEAD

I found it was not so.

I knew why I had climbed:

to hear, still echoing

across these sacred stones

the music of his golden lyre.

Collage with transfers.

Clytemnestra Speaks her Mind

Beetlehusk I

who was once iridescent, expectant of life

stood in my robe of soft folds of love

enveloping, caressing,

waited to be drawn into the net

of a bride's veil, a prized catch

to grace some royal house.

Treasure of the House of Atreus

you came in gleaming gold,

Agamemnon, Marshaller of Men

to court my sister, Helen. She,

daughter of Zeus or Tyndareus

went home to Sparta with your brother

while I, of no less age and worth,

followed the greater King to Mycenae.

You, like that warrior-laden horse,

were beautiful and strong to look upon,

but full of sharp and deadly little things

to strike the color from my folded wings.

Without complaint I bore all that was

to be borne.

Then, wretched day at Aulis!

the fairest flower of your house

I watched you pluck

and dash against the altar of expediency;

and in my grief and rage I swore

if you lived through your stupid war

a second sacrifice.

Ten years now I've waited wrapped

in the hard shell of hate

keeping your kingdom's keys

winding, spinning, weaving,

bringing honor to your throne,

dishonor to your bed,

preparing for the day of your return.

Now, come, in gleaming gold,

step out into this blood-red trap I've laid:

step out, march forth

into the thick enveloping folds

of my vengeance.

Let me hack this lump of vengeance out

with a two-edged sword:

One edge for her who never shall return

and one for me who never was.

You shall feel the sharp edge

of my beetle mouth, caught in my jaws;

for this have I waited expectant of death

and I shall not let go.

Digital collage; texture from my photos and scans,
clip art from Dover, colored in

Menelaus Tells the Truth About the Trojan War

The poets say we went to war

spent ten years on a foreign shore

because some cockamamie kid

ran off with my wife.

That's my Helen, over there,

the pretty one with yellow hair

throwing weft threads on her loom

quite content with life.

She insists it was a hoax,

says she visited some folks

in Egypt, pure as driven snow

avoiding all the strife.

Her royal hosts will surely claim

that she alone and blameless came

to them, and took no part at all

in her supposed rape.

My friend, what difference does it make?

My honor's never been at stake

when gods take part and interfere

with history's true shape.

We monarchs didn't go for her--

we marched away because we were

young and strong and brave and ready

to play at war, escape

the mundane and the nine-to-five, 

because it made us feel alive.

The glory of the battle won

excitement and comraderie--

that's why we went!

Our names and deeds from hearth to tent,

in triumph sung, we laugh and cheer.

We weren't the ones who had to die.

That's all for now---Nan

Indulging My Passion Last Weekend

Lest you get too excited, I hasten to tell you that last weekend my passion consisted of a workshop in pop-ups with book artist and paper maker Shawn Sheehy. Of course I had to take this workshop--I collect pop up books and have dabbled from time to time in making cards and two minute books with pop ups in them. So here was my chance to learn from a master. Here is a link to Shawn's web site, where you will find Wonderful Things.

http://www.shawnsheehy.com

I warmed up for the workshop by entering another of those contests at Urban Scrapbooking in Edmonds, where you get a kit of papers and embellishments and make whatever you want. Incidentally, my Advent Calendar won the last contest. My only competition was a series of paper dolls, which were really cool, and made me think about my paper doll for this contest. In case you've forgotten what the Advent Calendar looked like, here is a reminder:

The paper dolls in the contest were flat, and made from the kit papers and arranged on a wall hanging. I love paper dolls (and collect those too, in a desultory way), and lately I have been collecting pantin, or jumping jack, patterns. Like the Jumpables I blogged about a couple of posts back, designed by my friend Shirley Rainman.

So I thought I would use one of those and build a costume around it, using the papers in the kit.

Victorian Pantin

I chose this one, because the color of her bodice went with the papers in the kit, and I liked her black tights. She didn't come with a body, but those are simple hourglass shapes of the appropriate size, and easy to make even without a pattern.

Bodies for Pantin Ladies

These dolls are usually made by pasting materials directly to the assembled doll, but I wanted to make something in three dimensions that would sit on a shelf, That meant I probably needed to make a cone for a skirt. And my cone would be limited by the width of my paper, which was 12 inches. It also would need to be attached to the doll somehow. I worked out a pattern on lightweight chipboard, so I could use it again if I wanted to.

Cone with Bodice Attached

I cut the colored paper using the cardboard pattern, and found I had to cut almost to the bottom of the hip on the body to get the cone to form properly. That didn't matter, as those cuts would not show when I executed my Grand Plan for the dress.

I made a second cone, minus the bodice shape, out of patterned paper, and fit it over the first cone to make an overskirt. Before I closed the cone, I cut a body shape from patterned paper, fastened the legs on with brads, and glued it to the first cone over the attached bodice. Then I put the head and the top of the bodice on top of that. Now I was ready to fit the overskirt on. Next came the arms, attached with brads at the shoulders. I made a ribbon sash to help blend the overskirt to the bodice, and used a brad in the center of the bow for a little pizzaz. The brads were painted with a coppery glitter paint, and went very well with the underskirt and the flowers on the overskirt. I made the doll a matching hat, and used Stickles to add a bit of bling to the skirt and hat. I thought her underskirt needed a little something, so I put word stickers all around the bottom, using words like "adventure" and "explore" and the like. I also added the sign she is carrying, which reads, "I just want to have fun." (Me, too!)

The Finished Paper Doll

It was a good warm-up for the next day, when the pop-up adventures began.

Here is a picture of the class, with Shawn Sheehy on the left, in the lime green shirt.

Pop Up Workshop with Shawn Sheehy

We worked from 9 AM to 4 PM each day, with an hour for lunch break. We made 16 pop-ups--each one took about an hour--and at the end bound them all into a handy reference book. My book needs a bit of touch up--I want to add titles and such--before I photograph it and post it. But here is a wee preview:

Pop Ups in Progress

And yes, it was exhausting, but so exhilarating! I am really looking forward to making lots more of these cool paper sculptures!

That's all for now--Nan

The Adventure Continues

[In case you are a first-time Reader, you will want to read the previous post, of which this is a continuation.]

The next morning I got up and went out for breakfast. I was very stiff, and ducking under the low arch between my room and the toilet had not been fun, so I stopped at the first open place that looked like it was serving eggs and toast. My Policeman walked in and sat down a few tables away, and of course, tipped his hat. He looked a little bedraggled, as though he had been up all night. I had my eggs scrambled, and three cups of coffee. My Policeman had coffee. As I passed his table on the way out, I said in English, "I am going to the museum now, so you needn't rush."

He smiled and tipped his hat.

I was halfway through the museum and its wonders, including a magnificent 18^th-century crystal chandelier that had been brought up the mountain on the back of a donkey, when I remembered it was Monday. No museum in Greece is open on a Monday, so this was remarkable. Equally remarkable was the fact that I was the only person in the museum other than the guard who had given me a ticket in exchange for a look at my Deltion (a free museum pass given out at that time to scholars). Very odd.

My Policeman was on duty at the museum steps as I left. He tipped his hat.

I decided to go shopping and have lunch before my appearance at the Police Station at two o'clock that afternoon. I wandered through town, bought a tourist guide to the archaeological dig I planned to visit the next day, had an excellent horiatiki salad and a bottle of Demestika, inspected a stall selling fish and another selling vegetables. Wherever I wandered, eventually I spotted My Policeman, and he always tipped his hat. I was tempted to ask him if he was following me, but it was pretty clear by now that he was, indeed, My Policeman, and I would find him on a corner, across the street, or two tables away, ready to tip his hat when I spotted him. I speculated a bit on why I should be the object of My Policeman’s attentions. Almost certainly it had to do with my fall and the subsequent events, as the anger of the mayor and the sternness of the Colonel of Police definitely pointed to this. However, I was in a country governed by a totalitarian dictatorship, albeit one friendly to the U.S., and that alone was enough to make me just a little apprehensive. I had all the proper papers, including a document that permitted me to stay in Greece longer than three months, and these had been duly inspected by the Colonel early on in the proceedings. The permission slip listed me as a Professor of Archaeology; this was not a legitimate title, although I was indeed at the time professing archaeology in connection with my dissertation. Maybe this error had been discovered, and I was under surveillance because of it, an error purposely made by the charming middle-aged bureaucrat issuing the document when he couldn’t think of anything else important enough to call me. As he pointed out, everybody in Greece is a student of archaeology. I, working on a dissertation, was clearly superior to those dilettantes. Doubtless I would find out very soon what the score was.

The Colonel was already in his hat at his desk when I arrived, exactly at two o’clock. He greeted me with a solemn nod, and indicated the chair opposite the window wall. I sat down and looked around. There was now a row of chairs against the window wall, and seated in the second one from the desk was a skinny, droopy-mustached man in a rumpled brown suit, wrinkled shirt, and badly tied four-in-hand tie. In a chair further down the row sat a spotlessly clean middle-aged fellow, also mustached, dressed in the open-collared shirt, jeans, and sandaled feet of an animal-driver; he had, however, an air of authority about him, and he was obviously a cut above that occupation. The room was electric with expectancy, and I wondered who or what we were waiting for.

A policeman (not Mine) came in next, dragging along the man who had been running the animal I was thrown from, and who looked very frightened. He sat down in the chair at the end of the row, and stared at his feet, which were clad in dusty sandals and looked like they hadn’t been washed in several weeks. In fact, all of him looked like that. It was a marked contrast to the other driver, who now leaned over to say a few reassuring words to the newcomer. It didn’t seem to help much.

The Colonel was looking as official as possible with his hair sticking out stiffly from his hat, and said something about “the judge is a little late” to the man in the brown suit. “Still finishing lunch, I imagine,” Brown Suit replied. “You know how he likes to eat.” I tried not to show I understood this, as it seemed to me that my not knowing much Greek would be crucial to my part in whatever was proceeding. No one had spoken directly to me yet, and in fact I felt invisible, until Brown Suit said, “Is this the koritsi?" (A woman of any age can be referred to as a koritsi, which means “little girl.” I was 40, and used to it by now.) The Colonel nodded and looked pointedly at his watch. “He’ll be here,” said Brown Suit. “Don’t worry.”

Five minutes later, as we all sat in silence, the door flung open and a large fat man lumbered into the room. Everybody stood up, so I did, too, albeit stiffly. The Colonel and Brown Suit shook the newcomer’s hand, and he sat heavily in the first chair. Everybody looked at me. I looked back.

The Judge, for it was apparent that this was the newcomer, looked so much like Sidney Greenstreet in a Humphrey Bogart movie that I wanted to laugh. He wore a white suit with a marked gravy stain on one lapel, white shirt and tie, and to top it off, a white Panama hat. Brown Suit now took on a Peter Lorre-with-mustache aspect, and I waited for the rest of the movie to unfold.

I was asked to tell my story again. I did, in English, while the Colonel translated. The Judge asked a question or two about the number of animals I had seen. I answered truthfully that I thought I saw two in front of me, but I might have been mistaken, as the circumstances were rather hectic. The Judge looked even more like Sidney Greenstreet as he nodded at me and leaned back in his chair. I managed not to laugh, thank goodness, as this was a legal proceeding, and a man’s future was in the balance, as it happened.

The animal driver was asked to stand up and tell his story, which he did in a practically inaudible voice, still staring at his feet. He apologized to me (without looking up) for not getting me to a doctor right away. This part of the events was never in question, and the driver was culpable of gross negligence in this regard. It was clear that he was frightened nearly to incomprehension, and the clean animal driver stood up and gently questioned him further about the animals. This man was in charge of all the animal drivers, and was supposed to regulate them. I was still mystified about the constant return to the number of animals, which seemed a silly thing to dwell on, all things considered, until I heard Brown Suit ask him, “You did know you should only have two?” My driver nodded miserably. “And you admit you had three?” The Judge broke in. Again, a miserable nod. Brown Suit sighed. “I will represent you tomorrow,” he said. sadly, as though it would be a lost cause.

The policeman who had brought him in came forward and took the driver by the arm, leading him toward the door. The driver started off, shuffling his feet, but then stopped and turned back. “My children,” he said, tears streaking his dirty face. “What will happen to my children? ”

This was news to Mr. Clean. “You have children? But you are not married!”

“You know,” said the driver, “my children, my animals.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Clean, “I see. Don’t worry, I will see they are taken care of.”

The driver turned sadly away and went with the policeman, presumably to jail. Mr. Clean followed them out.

As I turned back from watching them depart, somewhat bewildered by the outcome of the proceedings, I noticed everyone was staring at me. I smiled weakly, and asked the Colonel, in English, what had happened. The Judge asked the Colonel what I had said. The Colonel sat up importantly, and told me that there had just been a hearing. He repeated this in Greek for the Judge. Did I know what a hearing was? The Colonel believed we had them in the U.S. He translated for the Judge. I agreed that we had them in America, but I was not sure what this one had been about, exactly.

“Ah,”said the Colonel, “the driver is only allowed two animals by law. He had three, so he broke the law. He will be tried in court, and this will be his lawyer.” He pointed to Brown Suit as he translated for the Judge. “Also, he did not help you when you were injured. That is also against the law.” He translated. The Judge nodded, and asked what I would be doing tomorrow, Tuesday. Would I be leaving the island?

I waited politely for the Colonel to translate, and said, No, I wasn’t leaving the island until the Fortuna subsided, and in any case, not before I had been to the ruins at Akrotiri. The Judge looked inquiringly at the Colonel, who translated. I was going to Akrotiri tomorrow, I said, and after that, I would go back to Athens when I could get a ship. The Judge listened to the translation and nodded. “How long will she stay at Akrotiri?”

I waited for the translation and said I would be there most of the day. How was I planning to get out to the site? I was planning on taking a taxi. The Judge nodded, and the Colonel seemed to like that idea.

“I will see that there is a taxi for you at your hotel in the morning,” he said, “and it would be good if you were at Akrotiri all day. I will have the taxi wait for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, mentally adding up the astronomical fare for that. “I can take the bus back. And I can get a taxi in town after I have my breakfast.”

The Colonel translated for the Judge. The Judge said he thought that would be all right, that the danger was minimal, anyway. That caught my attention, and I waited for the colonel to translate, but he did not. Everyone stood up, and I recognized that we were now in recess. I thanked the Colonel for his courtesy, and left the station. I was only partway down the steps when Brown Suit caught up with me.

“I hope your injuries are not too painful,” he said in Greek, as we walked along toward my hotel. Without thinking, I thanked him in Greek for asking, and explained that the doctor had said it was nothing. He laughed. “I know,” he said, patting me gently on the shoulder, “that doctor is my brother, and he worried that you did not understand what he meant–that you had no broken bones.”

“Ah,” I replied, “that did lose something in translation, but I understood.”

His eyes twinkling, Brown Suit said, “You are a good actress. You understood everything, and pretended not to. In there,” he added, pointing back the way we had come with his head. He smiled at my embarrassment at being caught. I said I thought it was prudent, and he agreed.

“I should tell you, though, why they want you out of town. The driver has a large family, and they are afraid one of them will try to get even with you, before they know the circumstances in full at the trial tomorrow.”

“Even for what?”

“They know he will have to go to jail, and it will be a blot on the family record, and they may not understand,” he answered. “They might think you accused him falsely. But he did confess, and that willingly, so I am not so worried.”

“It would not be very Greek,” I said. "Normally, a Greek would never attack a tourist."

“True,” he said, “but the Judge and the Colonel have decided to have you followed, all the same. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Ah,” I said, “I am glad to know that was why I saw My Policeman everywhere.”

He laughed. “Well,” he said, “he could have worse assignments. Anyhow, he will have a day off tomorrow, while you are at Akrotiri. And you should take the first taxi that you spot after breakfast, because that driver will be following you, too. By the time you take the bus home, the trial will be over, but you may still be followed.”

“What an adventure a simple trip to Thera turned out to be,” I said. “It will be something to tell my grandchildren, when I have some.”

“I hope you will remember it as a good adventure,” Brown Suit said, “in spite of the fall at the beginning.” He said goodbye at the door to my hotel. I thanked him for letting me know about the surveillance, and asked him to thank his brother, the Insurance Doctor, again for me. Then I turned and waved at My Policeman, whom I knew would be waiting to escort me to dinner that evening. He tipped his hat.

Thus ends this Greek Adventure. I have had others, of course, during my visits to that country, and I expect I will share some of those with you. One thing I left out of the first installment: How I Knew I Wasn't Dead After the Fall. My head came up from the ground and out of my mouth came two sentences.  In Greek. The first was, "pou eine o yiatros?" (where is the doctor?) and the second was "pou eine ta yialia mou?" (where are my glasses?).  I was still clutching my string bag of belongings. The glasses were found at the side of the road, thankfully unbroken, and restored to me. I had to find the Tourist Police to get to a doctor, as related in the previous post..

An Adventure on Thera

Sometimes, when travelling in a strange country, one has occasion to meet and interact with the local constabulary, and sometimes with interesting results. My encounter took place in Greece in 1973, when that country was under the dictatorship of Colonel George Papadopoulos, and on the island of Thera. When a tourist boat landed, it was the custom for everybody to rush off and claim a donkey or mule to take them up the long switchback cobblestone trail up the cliff to the town of Santorini, and hurry around town looking for lodging. 

I hired a mule, one of three animals owned by the driver (two tourist-bearing animals, a horse and a donkey in front of me were apparently his), settled my string bag of possessions in my lap, and off we went, the first in line. I was two thirds of the way up when the driver slapped the mule to make him go faster. Instead, the mule slipped; I made a circular trajectory over the animal's head, and landed hard, first on my hip, then shoulder, and finally, head. After determining that I was not dead and retrieving my string bag and my glasses (still intact, by some miracle, though I was uncertain about my body), I had to climb back on the mule and continue to the top. I haggled with the driver for a reduced rate—after all, I had been thrown, I hadn't fallen off—and paid him. Then I tried to think of how to get medical attention for the fall; I wanted to be sure nothing was broken or concussed.

Greece has a branch of constabulary known as the Tourist Police, whose job it is to look after tourists in trouble, answer questions, give directions, and other benign activities. I saw a sign pointing to the tourist police station, fortunately only a couple of blocks away, and hobbled over.

Once there, I explained my plight, and one of the policemen took me, on foot, mind you, to one of the two hospitals in town. Unfortunately, it was the insurance hospital, admittance to which I was not entitled. A doctor there took over from the policeman, and escorted me to the free hospital, luckily quite nearby. By this time the shock of the fall had worn off and the pain of it started to set in. The insurance doctor was very sympathetic, and worried, too, because the free hospital was apparently not open for business yet—the door was locked, it being about 8:30 AM on a Sunday. So he left me on the steps and went back to his own hospital to telephone for someone to come and let me in.

Eventually, a nurse came to the door, took one look at me, and escorted me into a waiting room. Soon a tall teddy bear of a doctor inspected my injuries, decided I wasn’t concussed, and gave me a shot for the pain. He told me to come back that evening at 7 PM to have an x-ray of my hip; he had no film at the moment, but he was expecting some by that time.

By now, it was 9:30 AM, and I still had no place to stay. I had to go on foot from rooming house to rooming house, back toward the center of town. There was nothing. The Fortuna wind was up, and no ships could leave the harbor. Therefore, all those already ON the island, and who had booked all the rooms, were not going anywhere. The two thousand newly arrived tourists were really scrambling to find places. I began to worry that I would be sleeping on the street with my string bag for a pillow.

I spied a barber/beauty shop at the top of a long flight of stairs. It had a porch on which a wall-eyed man was sitting in a rocking chair, looking down at me; it also had a sign that offered rooms. I looked inquiringly at the man, but he offered no comment, so I toiled up the steps, wondering how long the pain killer would hold up. I found out halfway up. One second, I was feeling OK, the next, I was really hurting. But I struggled all the way to the top. As I mounted the last step, the man said, "No room." That did it. I started to cry.

No Greek man can stand to see a woman cry, I think. Immediately, he was all concern. I told him the whole story, from three animals to fall to top step. He listened carefully, and sympathetically, and took me into the barber shop, where he sat me down in a chair in the back of the room. An old lady came in, and he introduced me and told her my story, whereupon she ran off and returned with a cup of coffee. The two of them decided that they would ask a current resident to leave so I could have a bed. I tried to protest, but they had decided. It was only a question of which one would have to go.

Soon a customer came in, looked me over curiously, and inquired of the barber what I was doing there. The barber introduced me and explained. The customer asked me a couple of questions, then grabbed the phone and began shouting into it. I speak a little Greek, and I could tell he was repeating my story, and he was angry about the way I had been treated; the mule driver should have seen to it that I had medical attention, and then the Tourist Police should not have just abandoned me at the wrong hospital. And I should have been helped to find a room, under the circumstances. He was the mayor, the barber explained, and he was determined to do right by me. And he had the authority to do it. I was to wait at the barber shop until an escort came for me.At this point the old woman returned and guided me into the beauty parlor part of the establishment, as one of the regulars had come in and objected to a woman in the barber shop. I sat and drank my coffee, and wondered what would happen next. I was really in pain by this time; moving any part of my body hurt, and I wished I had thought to pack aspirin in my string bag.

Within half an hour, my police escort arrived. The mayor barked instructions at him, and told me I was to follow him to the regular police station, not back to the Tourist Police. It was a slow and painful walk of four blocks. The policeman (whom I came to know as "My Policeman") opened the door to the police

station and motioned me inside. It was a simple room, with lots of windows on one side with a bench underneath, a large desk in front of a wall with a door, and a couple of plain wooden chairs against the blank wall opposite the windows. The obligatory portrait of George Papadopoulos hung behind the desk. My Policeman pointed to one of the chairs, and I sat down, gingerly and slowly.

My Policeman knocked on the door, and a few seconds later it opened and a tall, handsome, hatless man strode into our presence. He sat down at the desk, and rummaged in one of the drawers, removing a peaked officer's cap; this he jammed on his head, causing his Beatle-length, luxurious hair to poke out all around. It did not seem the appropriate time to giggle, so I suppressed my immediate reaction to this man, who now regarded me sternly.

"I am the colonel of police," he said in flawless English, "tell me your name and what happened."

             I repeated my story once more, in English this time, explaining about the three animals and my fall, and the Tourist Police, the hospital, the barbershop, mayor and all. I did withhold my haggling over the price, as it added nothing to the story. The colonel asked if I knew the name of the driver, and I said I didn't, but he was the first in line when I raced off the ship. The colonel nodded, and asked how long I planned to stay on Thera. I told him several days, as the Fortuna would prevent the ships from leaving, and I wanted to see the dig at ancient Thera and the museum in Santorini. He already seemed to know I had no lodging, because he asked if I could stay at the hospital. I said I didn't think so, as this had been discussed between the doctor and the nurse, who determined I wasn't injured badly enough. He picked up the telephone and called the hospital to verify this for himself. As I expected, the answer was no. 

            The colonel glowered at me, and asked for my identification papers, including my passport and my visa, if any. He looked these over, handed them back, and told me to wait there while he sent My Policeman to find me a room and incidentally investigate my story. Then he removed the peaked cap, put it back into the drawer, stood up and marched from the room. My Policeman tipped his hat and left me alone in my chair.

An hour later he was back, nodded to me, and knocked on the door. He said a few things I couldn't hear to the door opening, and soon the colonel was with us. He performed his hat routine, and looked enquiringly at My Policeman, then at me, and asked, in Greek, "Did you find the driver? Did you find her a room?" My Policeman handed him a piece of paper, and told him that I had been truthful in my story, that the driver, Damigos, had indeed been running three animals. "Then there will need to be a trial," the colonel said, still in Greek. My Policeman nodded. The colonel looked as grim as possible with his hair standing out over his ears like a fringe. "And we will have to have a hearing. Tomorrow." He made some notes on a pad on the

desk and turned his attention to me.

            Now at this point, I decided that, although my Greek was pretty good for most purposes, perhaps it would be a Good Thing to seem as though I was unable to speak or understand more than a few courteous greetings; I had not spoken Greek to anyone, not even My Policeman, since I had explained my plight to the mayor, so I thought I could carry this off. "He," the colonel said, pointing to My Policeman, "has found you a place to stay." He consulted the paper My Policeman had given him. "There is a room out in the country, which you can have to yourself. And, there is a bed in a place in town, but you will share the room with

three Danish girls who have agreed to let you stay with them. I strongly urge you to take the room by yourself. And I urge you to leave the island as soon as possible."

"But sir," I said, ignoring this last remark, "that would be most difficult. I am to get an x-ray tonight at the hospital, and I might need some help with the pain in the middle of the night. Also I will need to be near taxis to get to the excavation. I think it would be better to stay with the Danish girls."

The colonel sighed heavily and with a look at My Policeman that clearly said "Women! Tourists!" nodded at him and told him to escort me to the rooming house with the Danish girls. Then he said to me, "And you, please be here at 2 o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

With that, the colonel removed his hat, put it into the drawer, and without so much as another glance at me, went through the door behind the desk.

My Policeman led me through the streets of Santorini to the rooming house. I was shown the room by the landlord, and gratefully put my sakkoula of belongings on the bed indicated. The Danish girls were not in evidence, but I assumed I would see them at some point to thank them. I followed the landlord's instructions on how to get to the toilet, and then set off to explore Santorini. I discovered that I was very hungry, so I found a restaurant that looked pleasant, went in, and sat down. I ordered a horiatiki salad, my favorite lunch in Greece (a simple dish of tomatoes, cucumber, Greek olives and feta cheese, smothered in olive oil) bread, and a small bottle of Demestika white wine. I figured any buzz from the wine would wear off well before I got to the hospital; I would even have time for a short nap and dinner.

On my way back to my room, I noticed My Policeman sitting in a kafeneion across the street, and smiled. He tipped his hat. I thought nothing of this, as Santorini is a relatively tiny town, and one is bound to run into the same people from time to time.

            After my nap, I wandered around for a while, checking out the town, buying some aspirin, locating the museum, and scoping out someplace reasonable for dinner.In Greece at that time, you could go look at everything the restaurant had to offer, arranged for your inspection in the back, by the kitchen. That was so the unfamiliar names of dishes on the menu would not cause a problem for foreigners: One could merely point to the dish one wanted, and that was that. I don't remember what exactly I chose that evening, but it could have been an eggplant dish, a stuffed tomato, or perhaps pastitzio, a noodle dish reminiscent of macaroni and cheese, but made with ground meat. I picked a nice, clean, brightly lit establishment, and chose my meal from the array of dishes displayed. My Policeman wandered in and took a seat near the window, tipping his hat when he saw me.

When the time came to go back to the hospital, about a mile away, I considered taking a taxi, but I had noticed that walking apparently helped ease my banged-up muscles, and as I was not in a particular hurry, I made my way there on foot. Every once in a while I would see My Policeman, on the opposite side of the street or on a corner I needed to turn. Each time we made eye contact, he would tip his hat. In the hospital, the Teddy Bear doctor led me into the room where his X-Ray machine stood. It was a most interesting contraption, unlike any machine of its kind I had ever seen, on a frame of one-by-four lumber bolted together. The doctor patted it fondly, and explained that he had made it himself from parts he had scrounged here and there. But, he assured me, it worked very well. Then he arranged me against the machine in order to x-ray my hip, the portion of my anatomy that had hit the ground first. He did not have a

lead apron, but he didn't think that would be a worry as I wasn't pregnant. He took a couple of pictures, and while he was doing that, mentioned that he had to have the film smuggled to him by some accommodating U.S. Navy corpsmen, who delivered it on their twice-weekly helicopter run to Thera. I felt guilty about having the precious film used for my benefit--I envisioned some poor Greek child with a broken limb unable to get an x-ray because of me. The doctor said that was not a problem, as in a real emergency, he could get a friend at the other hospital to steal some film. This kind of attitude is known as "systima hellinico"--perhaps best translated as "the Greek Way."

Another man arrived on the scene, another doctor, as it happened, from the insurance hospital down the street. He had been pressed into service to explain to me in English what the x-rays showed. Teddy Bear Doctor went to his darkroom to develop the film, and Insurance Doctor stayed with me and said in a most sympathetic tone that my injury was most likely "nothing," in spite of the magnificent bruise that had been revealed during the x-ray process. Teddy Bear Doctor returned with the results, and the two of them conferred over the picture, agreeing that nothing was broken. The Insurance Doctor repeated, in English, "It is nothing," several times to be sure I understood. I wasn't sure I agreed entirely with his diagnosis, but I understood that he was trying to tell me nothing was broken. Rather than embarrass him by repeating in Greek what I thought he meant, I nodded and thanked him. He left, and I asked Teddy Bear Doctor how much I owed him. He was most unhappy to take any money from me, as I looked (by design) like a poor student travelling on a shoestring, but I finally wormed out of him that he paid for the film out of his own pocket, so I was not to worry. In one of the strangest bargaining encounters I have ever had, I finally got him to agree to take the cost of replacing the film, which turned out to be a whopping $6, which he asked for in U.S. dollars., if I could manage that.  Professing to have no other American money, I insisted he take the $20 bill I had tucked away for emergencies. He thanked me warmly, though he was clearlyembarrassed about the enormity of the transaction. I thought I had gotten a bargain.

As I walked down the hospital steps, I noticed My Policeman lurking over a newspaper box on the corner. When I passed him, he tipped his hat. I went on back to my room, where I finally met the Danish girls and was able to thank them for their kindness. I went to bed and soon fell asleep in spite of my aches and pains.

To be continued. Sorry there aren't any pictures; after the fall, I was afraid to use my camera until it got checked out at a camera store in Athens.