Dream Weaver

I have recently been experiencing a re-occurring nightmare that I would like to share with my avid readers. There are a plethora of museums in Athens of a myriad of different varieties. We have had the distinct privilege to visit many of them with our Athens through the Ages professor, Iaonna Kopsiafti, who seems to know the ins and outs of museum life like the back of her hand. My tragic dream occurred after a visit to one of these museums.

In my dream, The group is weaving it's way through one of these museums taking in the history and knowledge that places like these tend to provide. I am staring at an ancient statue of Zeus himself when my foot suddenly catches beneath me and I trip and tumble over myself. Clearly my sub conscious was reminding me of my recent decent into clumsiness.

As an aside, I was never the klutzy one. My sister Jennifer has been known to trip in the middle of an empty room. Apparently since coming to Greece, I have taken the clumsy crown as my own. Jennifer has nothing on me now. From tripping up the steps on Delos and falling on my bad carpals, to falling at the temple of Artemis in Turkey and tearing open my knee skin, I have experienced many a folly that have caused bodily harm to myself.

Back to the nightmare. As I trip and fall (in slow motion of course. This is a dream after all), I see the statue of Zeus in front of me and put my arms out to catch myself. In an effort to avoid injury, I knock over the statue and watch with horrified panic as the statue wobbles and tips precariously. I take a deep breath as it seems to settle and suddenly the entire sculpture crumbles into dust. The last imagine I remember before waking up in a cold sweat with an overall feeling of shame and guilt, is one of everyone from the museum workers, to Ioanna, to Professor Marra, to my dearest mother Patty, gawking at me with general looks of contempt and disbelief.

After such a terrifying look into my sub conscious, I am now far more aware at the museums than I would be otherwise. In addition to trying to take in the overwhelming feeling that tends to accompany seeing an actual Spartan shield from the Battle of Pylos, I also take into account how well said shield is protected, not from the elements, but from my own personal misfortunes. Museums where the artifacts are well protected, such as the new Acropolis Museum, are far easier for me to navigate when I don’t have to worry about the entire nation hating me when I knock over a restored sculpture of Athena.

So, readers, use this tale of woe as a cautionary word. Making friends and influencing people isn’t done by knocking important things over.