Kyle the Greek

Anonymous

I'm not Greek. Just in case there was any doubt. I'm about as American as they come.

Now you Symi, now you don't.

On the catamaran ride to the island of Symi this morning, I flipped my iPod to shuffle and was met with the delightfully meaningless Owl City, whose song, "Early Birdie" begins with, "Good evening, shuttle bus -- tell me where you're gonna take us. Some place that I have never been." And although this whole trip has consisted entirely of places that I have never been, I felt a very fresh thrill at the thought of actually going somewhere to which I'd never been. It was a beautiful little town, and I've decided that I will set up a hermitage there. I will become a legend among the children of the island, and they will seek me out to learn the answers to life's mysteries. Of course, I will be about as effective as the Oracle at Delphi, considering that I will be speaking a strange, Greeklish dialect that will probably not make sense to them.Αλλά it will come from the hermit on the top of the mountain, and will therefore be absolutely credible. Plus it'll give the kids bragging rights among their peers. 

...where was I going with that?

Something about community, cultural identity, and the like.

Point is, I didn't like Zorba the Greek. Perhaps I'm just not particularly insightful, but I was expecting something more along the lines of Fiddler on the Roof. I expected to see a noble tradition upheld in the face of foreign opposition, but with compromise on both sides. Y'know, that nice little Hollywood ending thing?* Instead, Zorba provided a glimpse into a civilization akin to a pack of dogs that will be nice to you only as long as you're dropping pieces of meat for them. I suspect I'm no better than the clueless protagonist regarding my comprehension of the community, but what I saw was borderline cannibalistic. It should go without saying that this analysis comes out of my own experience as a not-Greek person, but when you ask for my analysis, my experience is what I have to offer. 

If now was three or four hours ago, I bet I could have really dug down into this idea of cultural identity, but alas, it is now (hah! What a phrase!), and I refuse to start writing in my sleep again. 

Instead, I'll leave you with a picture of an appropriately sentimental and ephemeral sunset to give the impression that I am concluding this post on an equally brilliant and contemplative note, and a picture of a cute girl drinking coffee...just cause:

*I mean, Fiddler doesn't exactly end with a big red bow, but at least you care about what happens to the characters. Sure there's the aspect of honor versus shame, and the idea of saving face in a patriarchal society, but as Ben observed, there are infinitely better ways to convey these notions. The only humanity I perceived in this movie came at very strange moments from the aging French diva, Madame Hortense, and even then I was torn -- are we supposed to sympathize with this pathetically nostalgic woman?