Greece: Ladies Traveling Solo - Wear a Fake Wedding Band, Hold Your Head Up High and Lock it Up!

There has truly been only one single moment in my life where I felt I was in imminent danger. Our journey to Greece via the ferry and the encounter I had on that train never came close to trying to hail a cab after a late night in a San Francisco Mission District bar or a 3:00 a.m. subway ride in New York City with my friend back to her apartment in Washington Heights New Year’s Eve. Never even a close encounter with a mugger. Wherever I traveled, I held my own. Even if I was completely lost and couldn’t find where I was on the map, I’d dodge into a café to figure it out. I never let my ulnerability show.

They say that you truly get to know someone while traveling with them; I believe in this statement. Instead of the proverbial coffee or dinner and movie as a first date, I wish I could have traveled abroad with every guy I dated. I would have gotten to know their true selves immediately. Either the best or the worst comes out of people while displaced in a foreign country. Same rings true for my sister and I. The worst in her was she played the Mother/Commander in Chief role: she always had guard of our passports, Eurail tickets, money and itinerary and never let me touch. She curbed my enthusiasm after dinners to head to the bars and meet some boys and was the bugle boy alarm clock to get up super early (we never wasted a minute of daylight) to sight see. The worst in me? My inability to shut my yapper. Whether it was mumbling along to any Spice Girl song on my walkman during long train rides (annoying, for sure) or as we moved on to southern Europe, my natural tendency to yelp back at any machismo muck who threw out comments like “Ciao Bella.”, “You lovely American yeah?” “What hotel are you staying at? I have a couch you could sleep on.”

I would jokingly scoff back with “Are you kidding me? Please.” “As if!” or “Gimme a break!” This annoyed my sister immensely. She would scold me and lecture “Erika, you’re in their country now, you must abide by their customs and culture, grow up and deal with it.”

“I’m sorry, (cough, cough) ‘culture’ did you say?” I questioned and began the heated debate “You call sexual harassment culture? I won’t stand for it!” This was the 90’s, the dawn of sexual harassment in the work place and the height of political correctness. Don’t we all remember the mandatory sexual harassment learning seminars? Male employees were told to not even comment on a female co-workers appearance or else they might get canned. Remember the movie Disclosure with Demi Moore and Michael Douglas? Didn’t that just scare the bejesus outta ya?  In hindsight, far too extreme and a bit too much. I was actually flattered if some male co-worker complimented me on
how nice I looked that day, harmless stuff. Looking back, I missed out on a few opportunities to hook up with some rather handsome, male-coworkers.

With her natural mothering tendencies which were far more extreme than my own mother ever was, she warned me for the last time “Look, we’re only in Italy and on our way to Greece and then Spain, it’s only going to get worst from this point on.” Then she reprimanded me “So you better learn to
deal and lock it up.”

“No, you lock it up!” I bitched back.

“NO. YOU! Lock it up!!!”

I exhaled with frustration and I didn’t want something silly like this to ruin the rest of our trip. “OK. I’m done. I’ll deal with it.” ‘Mom’ I muttered under my breath.  

We spent one day in Florence before heading down south to Brindisi to catch the ferry to Greece. After viewing the marvelous Il Duomo Cathedral, Ponte Vecchio Bridge and Campanile Bell Tower we’d browse the street stalls, looking for Versace scarves and other Italian high fashion designer
handbag rip offs.

By the time we made it to Brindisi we had the entire day to waste. Brindisi is a port town, not much there to do. We got our passports stamped for entry to Greece and meandered around. Nothing to view but signs selling tickets to Greece. Eventually we sat on some rocks near the ocean. We
grabbed some cheese, bread, green olives, pistachios and a bottle of red wine, our backpacker on a budget dinner for the late 10:00 p.m. ferry departure. The ferry just happened to be titled Erika. How auspicious I thought; surely a sign of good sailing ahead, in a cabin below the deck, the size of a closet, with no window and two tiny bunk beds.

Upon arrival in Patras, Greece the next morning, we had breakfast and coffee and made hotel arrangements for Athens. We walked to the train station en route to Athens. The hotel manager that my sister spoke to over the phone assured us the train ride was approximately 2-4 hours and we’d
arrive in Athens early evening.

We sat on the platform waiting, me enjoying an iced coffee and my sister reading a book. An eerie man kept pacing the tracks, occasionally looking at me. He didn’t appear to be Greek or Italian, Armenian I thought. During the 1990’s there was an influx of Armenians throughout Italy, Greece and
Turkey seeking escape from the violence and ethnic cleansing from the Balkan War.

Nothing against Armenians, but the guy was creepy and started to get on my nerves. He would stand right in front of me, staring, leering. Eventually, I had had enough and assumed my sister would understand that I deserved to counterattack after biting my tongue for so long. I jokingly said to him “YOU think you’re going to get with THIS?” and ran my hand up and down my body (clad in shorts and a tank) and laughed, rolling my eyes.

We boarded the train, second class carriage and stashed our backpacks on the racks above. Our ‘friend’ joined our carriage and sat opposite me. For the next four hours he sat there, head turned to me, glaring with sexually suggestive, and intensely threatening, crude look in his yes. He never, ever, once, turned his head or blinked an eye. I refused to let him get the better of me. I sat there reading my book, Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’ Diary, looking out the window or closing my eyes for a nap. Luckily for me, I never had to get up once to go to the toilet, I was afraid to move. Though I never flinched, inside this guy had a stranglehold on my confidence and my fear began to heighten. I then
truly regretted the crass remark I made to him back on the platform. I didn’t realize I had taken it that far and pissed the guy off, total regret and felt horrible that I might have gotten my sister and I in real trouble.  

Our train ride had passed the 4 hour mark. He did get up about 6 or 7 times to head to the bar. He’d come back with a beer to drink, but still kept his eye on me and getting increasingly intoxicated. Or, he’d grab a smoke in between the carriages (this was allowed) but he would stand there, still staring at me through the glass window. When he was absent, my sister and I whispered about the problem and what to do. We were told this would be a 4 hour train ride max, it was nighttime and we were traveling through the countryside, nowhere close to Athens. Our particular carriage was full of Greeks and neither of us had a chance at asking for help because no one would understand English. I told my sister I was going to walk up and down the carriages to try and find a group of Americans or Canadians to sit with us; anyone actually who might speak English and could understand our problem.

After several searches up and down the train I found a group of young male and female Australians. I shared our dilemma and asked if they wouldn’t mind if we joined them. They were super outgoing and understanding and welcomed us. I came back to grab my sister and we breathed a sigh of relief and partook in the laughter and fun that only a group of Australians can provide. They are the best of both worlds, the U.S. and Britain: friendly and outgoing and a lot of fun to pub crawl with and take the piss out of (British slang for making fun of someone).

At 11:30 p.m., barely midnight our train arrived in Athens. We all gathered our backpacks and disembarked. The Australians asked us which hotel we were staying at and offered to escort us here. I looked back at the empty train, all the lights were on and the conductor was walking through. All but one passenger remained. Our ‘friend’, was passed out drunk with his head slumped against the window. ‘God let’s hurry up and get outta here’ I thought to myself.

Unfortunately, the train conductor woke him up. Dazed and for an instant, confused of his own whereabouts, he stood up and looked around the train and then outside the window and spotted us. We all began walking to our respective hotels which were both nearby. The man had the nerve to follow our group. My fear turned to anger. I couldn’t believe this guy had the nerve to continue his ridiculous hunt. I confided in one guy that this was the man who had been harassing us.

Finally, after 10 minutes of walking, this strapping, husky, Aussie guy launched back threatengly, with his fist up and shouted “Enough! Now leave us alone mate!” Yeah! YEAH!!! ‘Get a wolly dog up ya arse’ (Australian slang for fuck off!). He turned around and left us alone.

Lesson learned, I mean, I got it, I really, really got it. My sister was right, thanks ‘Mom’. That lesson was like a nail pounded in to my head with a hammer. Ignore it, don’t give them the pleasure and move on. Truthfully? All of it is in jest and mostly harmless fun and it is part of the male culture in some European countries. The wiser woman ignores it and moves on and they do too. Since then, I’ve never, ever yelped back at any European male who made such comments. Over time, I confess, they were slightly flattering. In my thirties, while traveling Italy I remember one such comment from a stranger “Hello. Where are you from? Are you a student in university?”

“No. I’m not.” I smiled and moved on. ‘Wow.’ I thought admiringly of myself. Someone thinks I’m young enough to be a college student! Hmmm, 32 years old and still rockin’ it!

  

London, UK: Congrats to Wills and Kate and Remembering the Late Princess Di

I wrote this personal journal essay back in August 1997 while I was living and working abroad in London. The announcement of the engagement of Prince William to Kate Middleton sparked my memory of the late Princess Diana. I resurrected it because not only am I thrilled to witness what will be my second royal wedding (likely over the TV unless friend and I can gather the loot to get there) just like the memory of watching Charles and Di wed back when I was 8 years old, at 3am in the morning, glued to the television, mesmerized.I am also cautious that not all relationships stand the test of time as I’ve learned in my years. We expect the solidarity between best friends, family and spouses to endure forever…sadly, some don’t.

It’s also a warning to the media and relentless paparazzi to please, respect these two people. Now more than ever our lives, especially those of public figures and celebrities are hounded by media of all types; the respected and the disputable. I’d like to live to see my first royal coronation someday. 

31 August 1997

I am absolutely gutted. I'm not a Briton, and I really don't think I'm a Royalist.

I was deep asleep in my bedsit in London and my phone rings. It was my sister. When I heard her voice an immediate shiver went through my body. I began to worry. Why is she calling me long distance at 4a.m. all the way across the Atlantic? She actually gave me a fright and my stomach became queasy. I began to worry that someone died or was in an accident. Why else would she call me in the middle of the night? 

"Erika, have you heard the news?" She asked. 

"No. Wait what news?" I replied. 

"Erika, Princess Diana was in a car accident in Paris and Erika, she's dead."

I laughed "Come on your joking. No. That can't be true"

"Erika I woke you up at 4 a.m. I'm not joking turn on the TV there has to be news coverage over there."

"No. There’s no TV on at 4a.m.” I informed her. “It can't be true"

I turned on the television, and on all four channels, live coverage from Paris. My sister and I sat there on a long distance telephone call costing her quarters by the minute and we never spoke a word. She watched her news in the US and I watched mine. We were both silent. Finally, after 20 minutes of dead silence I said "I need to go now. I’m going to cry".

I was in a total state of shock. I was wide awake for the rest of the morning. I did my normal Sunday routine.  I had a cup of coffee and took a bath, although, I really didn't know what to do with myself. I decided to walk down to Camden Town. Walking down Camden Road listening to Oasis on my Walkman ear deafeningly loud to try and shut out the sites and noises of passersby whom at a glance didn't seem to care or be affected by the tragic news of that morning. However, most people had a worn down and disconcerted appearance.

I didn't have a plan, I was just wandering aimlessly. I went and bought a double cheddar and onion chutney sandwich at Prêt-a- Manger, salt and vinegar crisps and a slice of passion cake. That was my comfort food, sort of my pathetic homage to Princess Di. On the way home I stopped by and bought a bouquet of pink roses to add to the white daisies I just happened to treat myself to the day before. I came home, sat myself down in front of the TV and turned the channel to BBC Channel 1 and cried, turned to BBC Channel 2 and sobbed, turned to ITV and finally BBC Channel 4, and moaned. 

There were no other channels so I stayed tuned to Channel 4 and continued to weep. I just couldn't believe it.  This is a world-wide event. I watched a tearful Prime Minister Blair, shaking while he spoke his words of condolences. President Bill Clinton expressed his regrets. Henry Kissinger stated 'The world is suffering the loss of a great humanitarian.' Nelson Mandela described her as the 'best ambassador Britain ever had'. All of them seemed to hint disgust towards the very media that interviewed them; was it the vicious invasion and fox hunt of the paparazzi that eventually killed her? I watched as every major world leader, politician, philanthropist, entertainer, and celebrity spoke of their sadness. There were people of all races, genders, economic and social backgrounds, occupations and nationalities overflowing with deep expressions of shock, sadness and real anger. 

I slept for most of the afternoon and went to bed early. I woke up an hour earlier Monday morning so I could have time to walk by Buckingham Palace on my way to my temp job for that week, which happened to be nearby. I gathered my bouquet of roses and daisies. A Monday morning tube ride was more somber than usual. People appeared to look like zombies. Obviously, in grief for reasons other than the dreaded work week. People hid of behind their daily paper of choice. They all blasted the headline "DIANA IS DEAD", words that didn't make sense seen together. Occasionally, I’d lift my head up and glance at someone, anyone, male or female, and I’d catch a slight tear in their eye. 

I stopped off at Green Park station and walked through the Green Park towards Buckingham Palace. I passed the TV crews set up outside the Palace. I wanted to spit at them. It was you guys who killed Diana and here you are exploiting here in her earthly absence.I felt incredibly self conscious about standing there in front of the cameras to lay down my flowers but I just felt obliged to do something. Of course I never met Princess Diana, nor did I ever catch a glimpse of her. This even isn't my homeland! I was a bit hesitant and shy about approaching the large crowd of people paying their respects, but a bobby came up to me and guided me to where I could lay my flowers down and pay my respects. 

I really didn't know what to do. I just stood there for a couple of minutes and gathered in the sight and particularly the smell. Every sort of flower stacked up like a mountain against the palace gates. There were grand bouquets and simple arrangements like mine. All of them mixed with lit candles; an incense indescribable, a sort of melancholy potpourri. 

I was still a bit dazed. This slime ball camera man came right up in front of me and zoomed into this teddy bear with a card, obviously from a child with a message that read 'Diana - we love you and miss you, you're in heaven now.' A blue collar, cockney-like, man stood next to me. He wasn’t exactly the type you would imagine would have such a link with a glamorous woman such as Di. He told this obnoxious camera man in his cockney accent that he might get out of the way and leave us alone. He kept on zooming around with his camera focused on these personal messages and tokens of heartfelt affection. A bobby came up to him and suggested that he should leave and let people grieve in peace. He didn’t budge, just kept buzzing around with his camera moving in and around and barging in front of other mourners. The bobby came up to him again and asked him to leave. He didn't. The cockney man behind me, in a tearful, crackled voice yelled "She told you to leave mate, now leave!"

I began to walk over to Victoria station where I was to begin a temp job for that week at a cosmetics company. Luckily it was just data entry and I could just sit there and get lost in the numbers. Of course the usual office gossip began to brew up amongst these vain, catty women. "My mother just rang. She told me that the driver of the limousine was drunk!"

"My boyfriend’s law firm says there's a conspiracy theory buzzing around his office"

"Oh God, figures! I bet Diana was snorting coke too! What a joke, I mean she really didn't do anything. People are treating her like she was some sort of a saint"

"Oh right darling. Sorry Di, but some of us have to work for a living."

"Well ladies, I suppose we were never an office full of royalists."

No I thought to myself, you’re an office full of spiteful, bitchy cows!!! 

I didn't say a word all day. I came back home and continued to cry while I watched the news and decided I was not going back to that job the next day. I called the temp agency and told them I was out. I soon realized that I was in a bizarre state of mourning and depression. I just had to express this. Whether or not some people were consciously aware of it, we all shared this strangely intimate, media molded bond with her.

When the news of the state funeral was announced it was not difficult to make the decision to join the few million predicted to crowd the streets of London for her funeral procession. My friend Andy tried to dissuade me, throwing at me theories of crowd mentality gone out of control. Somehow though, I managed to persuade him and his wife to go with me. I spent the night on their living room couch, and we all got up at 2 a.m. to start our journey to downtown London.

We set up camp on the South Carriage Drive, which is a road alongside Hyde Park, right near Kensington Palace. Soon enough hundreds of people started to gather. It was a gorgeous sunny morning. The dew glistened off the grass the air smelled fresh. We fed the ducks and geese left over doughnuts. There was even a tea/coffee stand set up with complimentary cuppa's for everyone. We sat next to an older woman and her son. She offered us part of her blanket to sit on, which was kind.

We were starting to have fun. Sharing jokes and chatting with people, eating, drinking coffee. Nicola asked me if I was going to cry. And we both agreed that we had pretty much gotten it out of our system throughout the week and that we were feeling emotionally stable. Andy thought otherwise and said that he would stand in between us so when we started breaking down in sobs we would each have a shoulder to cry on.

Soon enough the already somber and hushed crowd became silent. The funeral procession was about to begin. We were right next to Kensington Palace, so we caught the very beginning of the procession and they were not to meet up with the Royal Family until they approached Buckingham Palace. It was a very surreal moment. All I managed to tune into were the bells of Westminster that chimed every minute and the clip clop sound of the horse's hooves against the pavement. Everyone kept their focus straight ahead of them. Everyone in synchronicity turned their heads to watch the carriage approach. You knew the carriage was approaching because of the domino effect of sobs that grew louder and louder. I watched as the cortege pass by me.

It was not the coffin draped with the royal flag, the lily of the valley flowers, or even the card with the word Mummy written on it that made me break out in tears and sobs. It was the one horse that I noticed had no rider; the soldier-less horse. Ceremony and symbolism usually reserved for military heroes and statesmen. So Andy was right after all. Both Nicola and I turned in towards him and sobbed. If there was any person on this earth that I dreamed of meeting, or even catching a glimpse of, it was Diana. And in a truly sick and ironic way my wish came true. 

I grew up with her. I remember at age nine my mom woke me up at 2 a.m. so I could watch the wedding live on TV. As a kid, being up that early in the morning was like stepping into a different world. It was dark outside, everyone else in the house was asleep and I sat in front of the TV glued. I thought to myself ‘wow, what a strange world, they talk too funny and look so old fashioned. Those buildings look like fairy tales, not like here.’

And although her life was played out on a much grander stage than my own, I truly felt similarities and a connection to her. She was a 'girlie' girl. Like most of us women, with childhood dreams of being a ballerina, Hollywood actress or a princess. Then she was a young woman. Like me, maybe she often felt insecure about being labeled as just a 'princess' and not much more. She was stereotyped and pressured by highly influential people to play that archetypal role; marry your 'prince’ the perfect man, breed the 'heir to the throne' that will be your only contribution in your life. Oh, and keep your mouth shut too, proper ladies don’t speak unless asked to.

Although she was literally a princess, the Princess of Wales, HRH, Her Royal Highness, I believe that she saw herself as something more than just that cliché. She was a woman, like me, a real woman. She made mistakes, and she had her weaknesses. She fell to vulnerability, yet made the choice to rise above it. We women understand that and accept that. Aren't we women are so egocentric in thinking that the world revolves around us (rightly so I say) and we feel that we are the only nutty ones in the world who have locked themselves in our bedrooms with a box of cookies, a pint of chocolate fudge swirl and sobbed to ourselves that we must be the only freaky, uncontrollable, overly emotional' people on the planet who:

• didn't cut it as a ballerina
• got dumped 
• devoted half her life to a man who just used her
• thought she looked incredibly frumpy and fat in that dress
• nurtured and sacrificed for her children who then they grew apart from needing her
• got divorced and found themselves in the circumstance of fending for yourself 
• spent hours at the gym in pursuit of those illusive 18" thighs
• felt criticized and put down for simply speaking their mind

No doubt about it I applaud her for her humanitarian efforts. Everyone has to give her at least that. But why I felt a bond with her is because when you put aside the HRH, the Princess of Wales, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, The Most Photographed Woman on the Planet, she allowed herself to be human. She had the courage to express herself, her truth, her foibles, weaknesses and downfalls and the message that came across to me and I assume lot of women was 'Hey, I've been there, done that. I've felt less than perfect; you're not the only one you know. You don't know how many times I've tripped over my tiara darling and I'm the bloody Princess of Wales!' 

That's what she meant to me. She was my peer. She was the only woman, the only person of my generation with whom I made a connection with. I admired her and respected her. Dare I make this comparison but she is my ideal of a feminist: unique and complex, feminine and at times weak but incredibly strong. As my role model she never let me down and I in return have always stood up for her.

I remember back in November 96' drinking at the Rat & Parrot pub with my then British boyfriend Jon and all his boisterous mates. I met Jon at my first temp job in London. He was a financial headhunter and I was the office receptionist. He was a bit pudgy, ‘four eyes’ from his thick glasses. But he possessed that quintessential British charm that was like two cubes of sugar and cream that melted my cuppa tea if you catch my drift ladies. Each time he recruited an investment banker he bought himself a Thomas Pink tie. He took me to rugby games, port wine and stilton cheese tastings, walks along the River Thames and all things British. He grew up in Durham, was an Oxford choir boy and he bragged how his father was the Vicar of Durham. One morning I transferred a call to him and he asked “And what accent are we sporting this morning?”

“I’m sporting an American accent, Pacific Northwest region. It’s fluid, eloquent and not crass like a New Yorker, the perfect accessory for the winter season.”

Co-workers jokingly referred to him as the ‘dark horse’, the racehorse that you never expected to be the first to cross the line and win the affections of the young, Yankee receptionist. He later turned in to be a cad. Many weekend nights he bailed on me while being dragged to the pubs then late night members only clubs with his mates, dropped out of a weekend trip to Paris and I ended up going alone. Easter holiday weekend he bailed on me when he promised to take me to the Cambridge/Oxford boat races. Exhausted after months of endless letdowns I called and left a message on his answering machine. After minutes or ratting him out I ended with “You know, you may be the son of a vicar, but you’re a real son of a bitch to me” and slammed the phone. Done. That’s how we American girls roll!

Back at the pub that November, his mates began to grill me "So Erika come on, tell us, how do you like England?"

"I'm certainly glad I crossed the Pond!" I replied.

"What do you think of the Monarchy?" they all asked. 

"God save the Queen!" I shouted and raised my pint. I gathered instant applause for that remark. 

"Don't tell us you like the Spice Girlies!"

"Oh God no, they’re tacky, tacky, tacky!" OK. I confess I lied about that. How many times did I find myself in a karaoke bar singing “So tell me what you want, what you really really want, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really really really wanna zigazig ha.”

"What do you think of...Diana?"

With enthusiasm I said "I absolutely admire Diana, I really respect her." A unanimous uproar of ‘Oh bloody Hell, no!’ occurred.

"WHAT?! Are you insane!?” they shouted at me.

"You must be joking!'"

"She's a weeping, wailing, emotionally volatile woman."

"She's a disgrace to the monarchy; she's out to destroy it!"

I stood up for Di and stood by my opinion. I remarked "Well, that is your opinion, but however you feel about her you have to admit you respect this woman for traipsing through land mines and war torn fields of Bosnia, and cradling the crippled with AIDS and leprosy when no one would even touch them. Or simply walking down the street with 5,000 cameras shoved in your face and at all times maintaining your grace and dignity. You have to at least give her that."

An immediate and rare, dead silence rolled over the rowdy pub. With a look of disregard on his face, Jon replied "Well, whatever luv. Hey, do you want another pint?"

“Sure.” I sighed but smiled affectionately. 

I guess it’s a 'girlie thing', but I’m going to miss her terribly.