Written by Mark Slagle
This morning, I found myself kneading dough in a bakery. On my left stood an Albanian man. On my right stood an Indian man.There I was in the middle, caught in cultural crossfire.A smile broke the haze, and my pastry, which I had failed to form properly, was swept away by the Albanian, sprinkled with sesame seeds by the Indian and ushered deep into the back of a dark,six-story oven. The Albanian was small and had ruffled, darkhair, as if he had just woken from a few hours of sleep.He glanced up at me and then at the clock, which read 5:30 a.m. and, with a grin on his face, muttered something quickly in Greek, and then repeated it slowly but with bigger eyes and exaggerated hands, motioning toward the bread. I looked up, laughed nervously and repeated the words slowly, my American accent pouring through my lips. I was immediately applauded by the Indian, with bouts of flour billowing from his chubby hands and shouts of praise that scared a few customers away. I thanked the men, took a pastry and a cappuccino and made my way back through the town to Harding’s campus in Porto Rafti, Greece. As I sat down to enjoy my Greek equivalent of a pig in a blanket, I turned on the television to Al Jazeera. Scenes from the protests in Egypt lit up the screen. I caught a glimpse of Mubarak.I’m not a historian, though I do admire a tweed jacket with the elbow pads,ties,some denim and a moleskin. My friend Karl told me that history does nothing; rather, it is men, living, real, who do all this. The real story has always enticed me more than the dates and statistics, though, and I don’t know how many times my mind has wandered off on its own during a civil war lecture. I pictured Mubarak in my head, running a less-than-democratic office. I wondered about how he felt when he saw himself on the news.Would he do it over again? It’s a pretty ignorant daydream, but I imagined meeting him at the bakery or selling him a pig in a blanket. He looks like he likes those.If I had the time, I know exactly where we’d go to meet. The best gelato on the planet Earth is made in a suburb of Florence, Italy, called Scandicci. A man named Daniele owns a shop called L’isola del Gelato. Mubarak wouldn’t be able to resist the hospitality, nor the gelato. I’d sit himdown,and,ashedevouredhis treat, I’d ask him why he didn’t try the mustache. I think it would really define his face some more. Was he trying to look more Western without one? I mean, James Franco has a brillo pad of a mustache over his upper lip at the moment, and he’s about to win an Oscar (or Collin Firth, but that would defeat the mustache conviction).You see, I’d love to say that I could offer him advice on what to do with his current dilemma, but honestly I’ve never had to appease protests, flee a country or be concerned about the protection of sarcophagi. I have had a mustache, and I’m afraid that’s as far as our conversation would get.And therein lies my educational process. I learn through experience, through relationship,through hindsight. When I look at statues here in Greece, I trade stone for skin.They come alive. I marvel at the myth. I look for the humanity. It’s very idealistic. It’s very romantic, perhaps too much at times. Reality can punch you in the face.However, sometimes, and only when you are looking the other way, it creeps up on you from behind. Somehow, you come to realize that those moments shape you and chip away at your nearsightedness. Experiences have shaped and molded this 22-year-old, and few books or papers could have achieved such an education.So bring back the mustache, eat some gelato and live a little; you’ll be surprised to find out how many credit hours you can acquire. (For more information on how to develop your own major, challenge yourself and drink unlimited cappuccino, contact Jeremy Daggett at the Honors House.)MARK SLAGLE is a guest contributor for the Bison. He may be contacted atmslagle@harding.edu
