From the area of Canaan during the time of Abraham.

Potty seat

Sewage system

Public bulletin board divided according to the ten tribes of Athens.

Plato's Academy

 

joel harris

4/3/07

So. The fates have subverted even Lord Zeus and woven that I must write the final chronicle of the ETS journey through Hellas. I submit to their desire, not wishing for the fates to confuse me with dear old Oedipus. Wednesday ended for the southern california group what was 2000 years of history in ten short days. All jet lag aside, with all the facts stored, olives eaten and songs sung, the return to California was remarkably kind to us. After completing the final luggage-to-bus juggle, our group left the hotel at eight o'clock and caught our last glimpse of the men wandering the city streets of Athens, souvenier shops raising their shutters, and the sun's light breaking up on the Acropolis. Greece had shown us her glories, and it was now time to be subjected to the glories of commercial flight.

We speculated for a time as to whether the one hour and fifteen minutes we had between our flight to Paris and our flight to L.A. would happen, and as we approached Paris, it began to look bleak. This was aided by the fact that we sat on the ground in Athens for about 20 minutes because of some malfunction the flight-steward wasn't even sure how to describe. Being that Charles DeGaulle is a monster of an air-terminal (this is an airline pun, in case you have never noticed--not nearly as terminal as 'AirFranceTakeAChance' though)and that their method for getting to the airliner involves traversing the entire airport in a little bus, we had good reason to speculate. Graciously, there was a man waiting at the end of the ramp with a sign--" L.A." it said, and he turned and began to weave through the lines, elderly paritioners and coffee stands. As we slid away on the moving sidewalk, we read the wity french adds that showed pairs of pictures with ironic statements--my favorite: two pairs of pictures featuring a stick of broccoli, and the other a brownie. It said alternately something to the effect of: good for you, bad for you; bad for you, good for you. We continued our charge through Charles DeGaulle, and after storming the gates of Immigration and putting the customs agents to the sword, we finally boarded our shuttle and ultimately our airliner.

I am quite convinced that airline travel is a lie; all that transatlantic travel really is, is a giant pair of hands that takes the aluminum tube housing 'passengers', and stretches it out from Europe to the far west. It then empties them all from one end to the other. This would account for the feeling that you never really went anywhere even though you went such an awfully long ways. And the stranger fact that even though I sat in the same exact place for twenty-five hours, I can remember every time I scratched my nose, the twenty-three times I turned to the left, the fourteen times I turned to the right and how many two-thirds full cups of coffee I had. I also remember peeking out the bottom of my window and seeing the frozen pieces of ocean near Greenland, and as we chased the sun home peering down on the rivers of ice that laced the mountain sides. SO much for my theory.

Arrival in L.A. meant a quick departure for me to Eugene, Oregon. For this reason, I did not have the opportunity to say good-bye to everyone--a sad affair, for it was wonderful to meet all of you. It excited me to see so many of you students so interested in these things--I'm getting more and more of a crushing sense that history is invaluable, and so is the opportunity you have had. After a mind-numbing flight in a propeller-plane where my seat-mate decided to talk to me all the way to Oregon (and drink too much wine to boot) arriving at school felt wonderful. Now I am back at school and reflecting on the trip and the events and faces. Through recollection, history seems much more vivid to me now. I'm startled by the contrast of how man has sought to seek God--from the mountain sides of Delphi, to the rock out-croppings at Meteora, or to the Jewish Ghetto of Berea where tradition has been kept for so very long. Yet underneath all of it runs the story of genuine faith like the faint trembling of an underground stream. It has always been there, murmering in the dark or spoken on hills. But in its essence it leaves only the memory of men and women who were moved to God because of their understanding of their human condition. Still, the intelligence, beauty and complexion left by the ancient Greeks has left me somewhat dumb-struck, and as Socrates would say, "conscious of my own ignorance."