I am saddened with the news from Andri, and to me life is too short to be constantly bickering about the cyprus problem.
how about all of us as grown up people come up with some ideas on how we can unite the island where our kids kids are able to put all the heartaches we and our parents went through.
the cyprus problem ain't gonna be resolved as it seems by the politicians but it has to start at the ground floor and thats us.
partition ain't gonna cut it because there will come a day when the tables are turned and then the nightmare will start again, and that means our kids kids will inherit the same problem.
unification of the people has to be the answer.
life is too short
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life is too short
by pitsilos » Tue Mar 13, 2007 6:16 pm
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by zan » Tue Mar 13, 2007 6:25 pm
How about we forget about the problem altogether for a week until Andri returns. Those that can go to Villawagons picnic go and have a drink to her family and those that can meet elsewhere do the same. I fear that trying to talk about any solution will start the whole nightmare off once again so lets tell jokes and stories instead. I have to take it easy for the rest of this week anyway.
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by Murataga » Tue Mar 13, 2007 7:10 pm
I am saddened by the news from andri and agree with Zan. Pitsilos: "wanting unification" is not in the monopoly of GCs. TCs want unification aswell. It is the "terms and conditions" of this unification that we do not agree on and why we have the Cyprus problem.
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by zan » Tue Mar 13, 2007 7:39 pm
Here is a story that I just read and loved. (Nice to see you posting Murataga)
Smashing plates in Paphos…
By Lauren O’Hara
IT’S 10pm in a crowded Fettas restaurant in Ktima Paphos. We’re the only foreigners there, the music is playing, the meze keep on coming and there’s a sort of folk karaoke in progress. The microphone is being passed from table to table. Some young Cypriots next to us are being unusually playful and disrespectful to their elders. They are writing and holding up scores on their napkins for each singer. One particularly out of tune rendition gains a 1.2, and as they show their score they get shy nods of agreement from a black dressed group of matrons on the next table.
Then, although there is hardly a dance floor, more of small clearing, a man begins to dance.
Despite his age, he is as light on his feet as when he first wooed his wife, who sits proudly to one side intently clapping the rhythm. He surprises us all by grabbing handfuls of paper napkins and tossing them into the air so they float to the ground like confetti. Then he turns to a gawky teenager on his table, cajoling him to dance. The spotty youth looks mortified, shrinks away, shaking his head furiously. But the older man is not to be denied, eventually the boy rises to his feet, blushing as red as the T-shirt he has on and dances with his father. Where the father is controlled and graceful, the boy is gawky and angular. As the older man spins and drops to his knees in one smooth movement, the boy loses balance and turns his trip into a break dance step.
By now, the whole restaurant is clapping and whooping, and the father happy at his success sits down and leaves the limelight to his son. At first, the boy looks panic stricken to have the eyes of us all solely on him, then his back straightens, and he dances. Not as well as his father but seriously and carefully, we can feel his concentration and I, for one admired his heart; it was obvious he was putting himself through this ordeal for his Dad. Then bursting with pride, the father begins to smash plates at his son’s feet. There is a round of applause and the boy dashes for safety to an uncle sitting at the furthest end of the table, to leave the floor once more to his father.
This was kefi, that emotion so exuberant that its only release in praise of a dancer is to break a plate. A few months ago, sitting next to a young Greek banker from Athens, I was told that the tradition was dying out, in fact it was considered so dangerous that now people threw flowers instead, and he boasted that he and his two mates had thrown over 1,000 euros worth of flowers at girls on the dance floor in a single evening only the week before.
The only other time I had seen plates flying was a few years ago in a traditional taverna close to the port of Athens. Once more, we were the only foreigners on a heaving Saturday night full of family parties. Suddenly, the room was silenced by a woman in her forties, shouting and wailing at her husband who sat non-plussed at the other end of the table. To our ears it sounded terrible, we thought she must have discovered that he was having an affair with her best friend at least.
But no-one else seemed upset by the tirade, we longed to ask but felt too embarrassed. Finally she stood up and like Medea, in a constant stream of woe, she pointed her finger and directed her pain at the man who coolly sipped his red wine at the table’s end. Then she picked up her dinner plate and flung it into shards at his feet. No one seemed at all surprised at this behaviour, her elderly father just nodded hid head sagely and they all continued with their meal. Only now have I had it explained that a plate is often broken when lovers have to part, he was probably off to work in Thessoloniki for a few weeks.
Back at Fettas, the young man flushed red was getting redder; against his mother’s wishes he had been poured a large glass of Johnny Walker whisky and was sitting away from his younger brother with his uncles. One felt that we had been witnesses to a rite of passage: like an invite to a ba mitzvah. The road from childhood to manhood, baton passed from father to son, traditions kept alive, he could now move away from his mother’s side and the women’s end of the table and sit with the men to drink and woo and dance another day.
Copyright © Cyprus Mail 2007
Smashing plates in Paphos…
By Lauren O’Hara
IT’S 10pm in a crowded Fettas restaurant in Ktima Paphos. We’re the only foreigners there, the music is playing, the meze keep on coming and there’s a sort of folk karaoke in progress. The microphone is being passed from table to table. Some young Cypriots next to us are being unusually playful and disrespectful to their elders. They are writing and holding up scores on their napkins for each singer. One particularly out of tune rendition gains a 1.2, and as they show their score they get shy nods of agreement from a black dressed group of matrons on the next table.
Then, although there is hardly a dance floor, more of small clearing, a man begins to dance.
Despite his age, he is as light on his feet as when he first wooed his wife, who sits proudly to one side intently clapping the rhythm. He surprises us all by grabbing handfuls of paper napkins and tossing them into the air so they float to the ground like confetti. Then he turns to a gawky teenager on his table, cajoling him to dance. The spotty youth looks mortified, shrinks away, shaking his head furiously. But the older man is not to be denied, eventually the boy rises to his feet, blushing as red as the T-shirt he has on and dances with his father. Where the father is controlled and graceful, the boy is gawky and angular. As the older man spins and drops to his knees in one smooth movement, the boy loses balance and turns his trip into a break dance step.
By now, the whole restaurant is clapping and whooping, and the father happy at his success sits down and leaves the limelight to his son. At first, the boy looks panic stricken to have the eyes of us all solely on him, then his back straightens, and he dances. Not as well as his father but seriously and carefully, we can feel his concentration and I, for one admired his heart; it was obvious he was putting himself through this ordeal for his Dad. Then bursting with pride, the father begins to smash plates at his son’s feet. There is a round of applause and the boy dashes for safety to an uncle sitting at the furthest end of the table, to leave the floor once more to his father.
This was kefi, that emotion so exuberant that its only release in praise of a dancer is to break a plate. A few months ago, sitting next to a young Greek banker from Athens, I was told that the tradition was dying out, in fact it was considered so dangerous that now people threw flowers instead, and he boasted that he and his two mates had thrown over 1,000 euros worth of flowers at girls on the dance floor in a single evening only the week before.
The only other time I had seen plates flying was a few years ago in a traditional taverna close to the port of Athens. Once more, we were the only foreigners on a heaving Saturday night full of family parties. Suddenly, the room was silenced by a woman in her forties, shouting and wailing at her husband who sat non-plussed at the other end of the table. To our ears it sounded terrible, we thought she must have discovered that he was having an affair with her best friend at least.
But no-one else seemed upset by the tirade, we longed to ask but felt too embarrassed. Finally she stood up and like Medea, in a constant stream of woe, she pointed her finger and directed her pain at the man who coolly sipped his red wine at the table’s end. Then she picked up her dinner plate and flung it into shards at his feet. No one seemed at all surprised at this behaviour, her elderly father just nodded hid head sagely and they all continued with their meal. Only now have I had it explained that a plate is often broken when lovers have to part, he was probably off to work in Thessoloniki for a few weeks.
Back at Fettas, the young man flushed red was getting redder; against his mother’s wishes he had been poured a large glass of Johnny Walker whisky and was sitting away from his younger brother with his uncles. One felt that we had been witnesses to a rite of passage: like an invite to a ba mitzvah. The road from childhood to manhood, baton passed from father to son, traditions kept alive, he could now move away from his mother’s side and the women’s end of the table and sit with the men to drink and woo and dance another day.
Copyright © Cyprus Mail 2007
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by Pyrpolizer » Tue Mar 13, 2007 9:08 pm
Thanks Pitsilos for informing us about Andri. I don't participate in any other sub-forum so I wouldn't learn about it otherwise.
I am actually very sad to write anything.
Good night to all of you, and may God help Andri's child, and give her courage.
I am actually very sad to write anything.
Good night to all of you, and may God help Andri's child, and give her courage.
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by Sotos » Wed Mar 14, 2007 10:13 am
What I was thinking a few days ago with all these new DNA tests that they have now is if I want to know what kind of diseases I will get. Do I want to know that I will get cancer in 15-20 years so I can do everything I can to delay it and be ready for it or do I prefer to live 20 happy years without worrying?
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by GAVCARoCOM » Wed Mar 14, 2007 10:18 am
Sotos wrote:What I was thinking a few days ago with all these new DNA tests that they have now is if I want to know what kind of diseases I will get. Do I want to know that I will get cancer in 15-20 years so I can do everything I can to delay it and be ready for it or do I prefer to live 20 happy years without worrying?
I dont think its a good idea because you cant be happy when you know u got a disase . I beleive we have to try to live happy everyday because we may not be able to wakeup from the bed tomorrow.
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by Niki » Wed Mar 14, 2007 10:28 am
GAVCARoCOM wrote:Sotos wrote:What I was thinking a few days ago with all these new DNA tests that they have now is if I want to know what kind of diseases I will get. Do I want to know that I will get cancer in 15-20 years so I can do everything I can to delay it and be ready for it or do I prefer to live 20 happy years without worrying?
I dont think its a good idea because you cant be happy when you know u got a disase . I beleive we have to try to live happy everyday because we may not be able to wakeup from the bed tomorrow.
There are measures you can take to prevent an illness you may get such as diet, exercise etc.
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by humanist » Wed Mar 14, 2007 10:30 am
I am thankful that I was born in Cyprus the time that I was and for the experiences that I had as I am the man that I am. I am thankful for my experiences for they have provided me with the passion for life and humanity that I possess.
God Bless Cyprus and All Cypriots.
God Bless Cyprus and All Cypriots.
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