Hats

I was mortified to see the hat selection on the wall of REI as I shopped with my mom a month ago for archaeological-dig-like clothes. What are you supposed to wear anyway? One thing I knew. None of those hats were going on my head. Some were about as attractive as wearing a fanny pack, with canvas flaps meant to cover the wearer’s neck. No gracias. And others had brims so wide my face lay in shadows and all you could see was my mouth, lying in a flat, un-amused line. No again. I finally found myself a cute, black Roxy confection that I hoped would make me look like a fashionable archaeologist, if that is at all possible,  all the while keeping my forehead from turning tomato red.

While I was self-consciously worried about the commitment I had made to my new hat, little did I know I had nothing to worry about. Gournia witnesses a variety of hats so diverse as to rival even the most extensive REI. Day one I played it safe and wore an A&M baseball cap. Can’t go wrong with the all-American, I-tried-but-my-hair-is-not-cooperating-today favorite. And while there were some baseball caps gracing the heads of other eager, bright-faced archaeology students, the seasoned veterans of Aegean Studies knew better. Not only do these people know a lot about digging in the dirt and analyzing the tiniest fleck of paint on a sherd of pottery (care to be in the know? A piece of pottery is called a sherd, a piece of glass is called a shard), but they also demonstrate a creativity never before seen in the design of innovative sun protection.

Exhibit A: My own Trench Master, who mid-morning accompanies his ritual dousing of sun block with the tying of a dingy, white T-shirt around his head, letting it hang down the back of his neck, topped with a bucket hat. It may not be pretty, but it gets the job done. The man has never had to buy aloe vera to recover from a sunburn.

My pride hasn’t let me reach for the bucket hat just yet. I find myself reaching for bandanas because they cover my ears, which get sunburned no matter how much sun block you use, and on more glamorous days I tie a colorful scarf in my hair, as the European students pull off so effortlessly. The sea serves as a weather forecast each morning; if the sea is still, it’s going to be a stifling day, so I reach for my baseball cap or my black REI purchase, to keep the blazing sun out of my face a little better. If there are whitecaps, it will be cooler because of the wind, so I feel more freedom to leave my hat at home and wear a scarf instead.

 But for some professors, SPF and hats simply aren’t their thing. Go without and get sunburned so many times your skin acquires the consistency and look of leather, as sported by the older experts.  One more measly little sunburn doesn’t faze them.

As ‘leathery’ isn’t really the look I’m going for long term, I’ve resigned myself to six weeks of hat-wearing, no matter how dorky I may feel. After a few days I realized no one cares what they look like. You’re too sweaty and hot to care. And as I have now created a reputation for myself for being the one who has the most dirt on her face at the end of the day, worries about appearance have gone out the window, and looking at myself in the mirror makes me laugh instead of cringe.

What with the streaks of dirt I got going on down the side of my face, I may just throw caution to the wind and wear that bucket hat.

Food for Thought

Tonight, Professor Glowacki took me and the other two Aggies to a traditional restaurant out in the country, to discuss what we learned throughout our first week on the site and introduce us to a little more authentic Greek culture. After stooping to enter the low door to the ancient house, a boisterous Greek man with customary Cretan handlebar moustache chattered off a list of what he and his wife had cooking in the brick oven for the evening. My professor ordered half the menu, and we can all mark this on our calendars as the day I actually ate vegetables. Probably more than I’ve eaten in the past year combined. First came fresh bread with mashed up chickpeas (so delicious I nonchalantly ate half of it before anyone else had a chance to try it), twice-baked bread with tomatoes and olives (similar to Italian bruschetta), spinach and feta soufflé, zucchini flowers (rice wrapped in the un-ripe blossom of a zucchini plant), and then came potatoes cooked in olive oil. And then the chicken cooked in wine. Then the meatballs, then the wine, then the goat cheese bread with honey, and then for dessert, Greek yogurt (almost as thick as sour cream) with diced oranges and dates.

Food coma anyone?

Good thing this is a no-calorie trip. I’m pretty sure I lost two pounds today from swinging a pick-ax and hauling buckets of dirt back and forth for 8 hours. It’s like a get-out-of-jail-free card.

It was good to think as we ate about what this week has meant. I’ve realized that classes don’t mean much until you apply them, and that real life experience is the best teacher. A class can’t teach you the feeling under your trowel when the soil changes consistency from crumbly to hard-packed. How to mold the soil like a sculptor, to handle it with intense care and precision, instead of merely scraping off layers of dirt like you’re working in a garden. How variations in soil color mean you’ve stumbled upon something new, something important, like a wall you didn’t know existed, a plaster floor that redefines the purpose of the now non-existent building, or evidence of a natural disaster that brought about its demise. I’ve learned how to separate dirt from one locus from the dirt of another, to label pottery accordingly and to keep mental track of which locus is yielding the most reward, and what that means for the location and purpose of the site.

 Classes can’t teach you that time is money, and that archaeologists don’t have money, hence the atmosphere of pressure and high expectations. Work harder. Get things done faster. Do your job well, but be aware of your time limit. Even a five minute water break is looked upon with suspicion. I’ve learned to work with a team, something I normally hate because I’d rather do the job myself. And I’ve learned to respect the value of my own work. Archaeologists are as protective of their trenches as wild animals are of their young. Today some German tourists thought it would be just fine and dandy to walk over our ropes to inspect our vulnerable burial trenches and a hopping mad, bushy-bearded, bandana-wearing hippie archaeologist yelled at them at the top of his voice to get their filthy feet off the poor deceased’s bones and his goddamn dirt thank you very much (further expletives excluded). If you want to visit someone else’s work space, you ask permission to step inside their ropes. It’s etiquette, and to do otherwise is a huge offense.

And I’ve learned you earn your spot at the table. To be welcomed to dinner by a professional is an honor, one you don’t pass up or take lightly. You ask a lot of questions, admit your own shortcomings, and work harder than you ever thought possible in order to earn their respect. I’ve been gently and not-so gently corrected several times this week. It’s humbling, but boy howdy do I know a whole lot more about archaeology today than I did a week ago.

And, if your profs are super cool, they buy you dinner. From a Greek fisherman who lives on the side of a mountain overlooking hills of olives rolling down towards the sea.

I’m not going to need to eat for a week…

Destination, Heraklion.

Long flights have a reputation of being no fun, but mine has felt like more of an adventure! It really is quite amazing that I am sitting in Pachea Ammos right now, at 5 pm in the evening on the 18^th, after I left Phoenix at 6 am the day before. Quite a few hours have past, but it passed in the blink of an eye. From my kitchen in Gilbert to a blustery, seaside coffee house on the northeast coast of Crete. Worlds apart. The flight to New York was a familiar one, the unabashed conversations of uninhibited Americans and their penchant for giving their children noisy electronics. But the first feeling I had of leaving familiarity and diving into the unknown was while people-watching in the airport in New York. Obnoxiously loud Yankee conversations melted into softer, guttural accents-the rough yet melodic timbre of the ancient language itself-Greek. That was pretty thrilling. I was leaving! Leaving to experience a culture completely foreign to me! Not only was I fascinated by the happy chatter I couldn’t understand, but by the stereotypes I was hesitant to believe for fear of being offensive. A line of men, young and old, waited to board the flight to Athens. Apparently Greek men have no qualms about buttoning their shirts only halfway and exposing copious amounts of chest hair. Maybe it’s a competition? Whoever’s chest most resembles a rug wins the ‘Most Manly’ award. Eww. But other generalities I found true proved charming, including the woman sitting next to me on the plane, who must have been about 55, yet described with almost prurient sassiness the colorful party life she leads, accompanied by her single friends. Cheeky tales of dancing and drinking were accompanied by grandiose hand motions, reminding me of the big personalities in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Could it be true? That Greeks really are that warm and unabashedly in love with life? Yes, I think it may be true.

The only hitch, that I had feared would come true, was that our plane was delayed two and a half hours in New York City because of the weather! I thought for sure I would miss my short flight to Heraklion, but luckily I made it on in time. The short 40 minute flight flew by, and seeing the gorgeous water below us, decorated with white caps, made me anxious with excitement. This place was remote! I bounded off the plane, huge, swinging backpack in tow, and after meeting up with several other archaeology enthusiasts, drove the hour and 30 minute drive from Heraklion to Pachea Ammos. Pachea Ammos is so tiny it literally takes ten seconds to drive through. Little town blends into little town along the coast, and ours is only a five minute drive from Gournia, our excavation site. Our apartments are charmingly rustic, wanderlusty in their aged, National-Geographic design, yet so recently refurbished that their vintage charisma is unlikely to manifest itself in cold showers or unwelcome bugs. My favorite part of our romantic housing arrangement? The French doors in my bedroom, ready to be flung open after a long night’s rest, over which I will gaze upon the ancient, azure Aegean. Tonight, I am sitting in a little café where the waitresses don’t bother you til you call for them and the wind is whipping my hair into a psychotic science experiment. The beach and the water is 20 yards from me, and stands in stark contrasting beauty to the brown, harsh mountains of the island. Tomorrow, I will trudge up one of those imposing mountains to have my first experience excavating a Minoan landscape that resembles a miniature Machu Pichu, stacked up against the rugged, unforgiving hill. But for now, I need sleep. Was I really just at home this morning? Or was it yesterday morning?