My small country...

"My country is so small
that when the sun goes to sleep
nobody can be sure of having seen him
The wise old ladies say
that this is why he keeps coming back
My country is small
that from the top of one steeple
you can always see the next one
They say that the villages are afraid
of being alone
and of being too big
My country is so small
that she can fit in my heart
if life takes me away from her
and until they invent
detectors for the heart's secrets
we shall all be smugglers
of our small country"

The lyrics come from Lluis Llach, a great Catalan singer and composer (what the Spanish wisely call author/creator of songs). I listened to them today for the first time and I could not think of better words for my mood.

These last days I have thought about Greece more than the usual. Yesterday I witnessed the devotion, strength of character and constancy of the Greek national basketball team, probably a role model for all Greeks for its combination of talent, comradeship and confidence. Over my life I have passed from being an utterly fanatic hooligan to a normal, sane sports fun that simply does not miss a game. But in this team, European Champions two years ago, World Cup runners-up last year, who yesterday battled against World Champions and hosts, Spain until the last minute I see a lot more than a great team, mostly because they combine a lot of Greek virtues while perpetually defying all the flaws of our race. They never give up, they do not whine about their misfortunes, they never look for excuses. They take pride in victory and assume responsibility in defeat. They are confident in themselves but have no problem in recognizing the superiority of the opponent. I have seen teams maybe more talented than this one. But to date I have not come across a group of such character and dignity.

I have written, perhaps more than once, that I hate mixing politics with sports. Nonetheless I keep doing it, probably because it cannot be done otherwise. With the Greek elections taking place today, I just hope that a lot of my compatriots think a bit more before casting their vote. And that they think a bit more about this team and how nice it would be if we could create its political counterpart and send it to the Parliament.

Twenty meters too far

Under the starry sky the sea was calm, the water, still and dark beneath the raft. Then a sudden noise of wood against stone, the small boat slightly bounced against the rock and stopped. For its tired passengers, legal dreamers, illegal travelers, the journey seemed to have reached the end. From the coast of Morocco to the Canary islands it must have been a long way. Now, as many before them and a lot more to come, they have made it to Europe.

Only they did not know. They did not know that Europe was still twenty meters farther, that the coast was there at their reach but their raft was stuck on a "u"-shaped reef. So close, yet so far. In the darkness of the night, obscured by exhaustion and anticipation they fell into the dark waters and sank, the burden of hope too heavy for them to bear.

They have traveled as stowaways, guided by false lighthouses, monitored by evil satellites. They would have arrived as castaways and would have lived as outlaws, feeding on hope while sending money back to their families.

These ten just did not make it. They drowned tragically last night, near Risco Verde in the Gran Canaria. They were not the first, nor will be the last.

Cell-phone Nation

I 'll start by using the favourite line of a very good friend.

"Maybe it's just me being weird"

Yes maybe it is just me but then maybe I am not and it's just (part of) the rest of the world going nuts. Here is the story that triggered all this questioning.

Yesterday I was watching the news on Spanish TV. Pavarotti's death was -of course- among the first. The "Maestro" was the one who put opera back into the radio station play-lists, exposed younger audiences to "serious" music and -alongside Carreras and Domingo- liberated football funs from being characterized as un-cultured idiots, through the famous 3 Tenors concerts at the World Cups of 1990, 1994 and 1998.

But it was not the news, or the covering of the story. It was the behaviour of the people themselves, the so-called funs of Pavarotti, or simply his fellow citizens of Modena, standing outside his house, waiting for the car to go out carrying him to his last residence. Then finally the car appeared out of the garage and started its slow process through the stone-paved streets of Modena. A moment supposed to be dedicated to grief and respect to the "Maestro". But instead of the (appropriate?) silence or the last applause, all the people could think of was to take out their cellphones, lift them up high enough above the crowd's protruding heads and try to take the best shot/video of the event. It really shocked me. These people were supposedly there to say the last goodbye (or the next to last, since they can also attend the funeral) and instead of that they were taking cell-phone photos of what? The black limo carrying Pavarotti's casket?

It looks that all this technology, cell-phones, e-mails, voice-mails, video-mails and "mails from the other side" in general, has changed not only our lives but also the way we think about a lot of stuff. And the new way is NOT thinking about a lot of stuff. We have come to admiring sunny beaches through digital cameras, whispering to our lovers through skype and listening to music through ringtones. We miss half of the concerts to take photos and videotape the funeral of a legend.

Perhaps it's just me being weird, but the day may be close when news will be only RSS feeds, friends will be only met on facebook and all we 'll be reading will be our stupid blogs.

Earth, wind and fire...

this summer was supposed to be something different from what it turned out to be.

I hoped for cool waters and summer breeze and I saw too much of dry earth and burning wood. I was longing for the smell of the salty sea but got dust and ashes instead. I was hoping for fun and laughter but got blue mood and grey faces.

Life is like this. It does not always give us the expected. And the four weeks I spent in Greece were at a large part a sad reminder. Not that there were no nice moments. During my stay I witnessed the wedding of a very good friend, (and maybe danced too badly while celebrating it, so badly that people had to throw water on me to make me stop). I had the chance to visit the south of Crete for the second time in my life (to be once more reassured of the special beauty of the place and the kindness of its people) and did not miss the opportunity to revisit familiar, favourite places in Sifnos, meet with old friends and make some new ones. I had the chance to spend some time with someone I love, verify what keeps us together, realize what stands between us and stick to the first.

But the good moments end there...

At that point this weird August, filled with flames, hot winds and bad news, started its charge. As the phone kept ringing with an absurd frequency bringing news of sickness and loss, the screens started their own bombardment of televised catastrophes, villages in flames, people perishing and ...finally Ancient Olympia caught in the midst of this burning hell.

It was then that we all find it hard not to crack. Because one may handle the destruction of objects and the decline of moral, one can even suffer lightly the human loss, but he cannot stand the destruction of the symbols, the decay of the living memory and the loss of his identity.

They say general Makriyannis, one of Greece's heroes of independence once stopped some local chieftain trying to sell antiquities to the British in exchange for guns. And when the chieftain told him that the guns were needed to keep up the fight for a free country, Makriyannis told him that these same antiquities were what they were fighting for, these ancient pieces of marble, that cannot be reborn or sprang out of the earth, were the free Greece they were dreaming of. And that without them there was no need for struggle or fighting.

The marbles of Olympia were saved, although only at the last moment. Thus there is still reason for battle and struggle.

A day like today, Makriyannis forced the King of the young, independent Greece to grant constitution to its people. The brave, stubborn general kept fighting until the end for a better place for his children. Let us follow his example.

ViennaBios - Lessons from a conference

I spent last week in Vienna, the last destination of a series of travels this semester, before heading back to Greece for the holiday. The official excuse, was the ISMB/ECCB conference (which will be understood by bioinformatics geeks only but seriously the rest of you do not need to know!) And amazingly enough the conference was indeed the place where I spent most of my time while awake. Apart from its huge size in all aspects (participants, parallel sessions, exhibitions, 1000 posters etc) it was particularly interesting in a a number of ways, not all having to do with Science. I 'll postpone writing about Vienna for another post (or maybe another journey) and stick to the lessons a young (and lets admit only marginally promising) scientist can get from a conference.

Lesson #1: (As in most sectors of human activity) the people who really matter are most likely the ones who have been around for quite a while.
They are in general under-dressed, have awful haircuts, horrible powerpoint slides (they actually do not use overhead projectors because they are not allowed to do so) and use old-fashioned vocabulary. They are also wiser, wittier and more clever than the average speaker, they do not talk crappy-fashionable-scientific-voodoo-buzz-words all the time, have a wide knowledge of the problem they are dealing with, are more interested in questions than in answers, finish their talks with more criticism than perspective, use the language in a better way. Strangely (or not) they tend to have a totally different background than most of the attendants of the conference. Not surprisingly they have little or no impact on young researchers who carry on doing their thing...
And that is the non-optimistic lesson!

Lesson #2: Class battle exists in science
I had the chance to attend two talks by the same person given on the same day, on the same subject, to different audiences. the first one opened with an impressive introduction, carried on under flashes of photo cameras and ended with the presentation of an award for the speaker, which -as the organizers kindly informed the puzzled audience- left no time for questions. A couple of hours later, the recently awarded young scientists had to face a wave of criticism and really hard questions from a suspected audience who did not really care about awards or not forming part of this special cast of awarded, or invited speakers. To me it looked that what was was under criticism was, apart from the presented work, the whole system of evaluating scientific work through impact factors and k-indexes. It appeared that a great majority was somehow pissed at being steered by an arbitrary, self-acclaimed, scientific avant-guard, which decides what is worth it and what is not, not only when it comes to scientific answers but -and that is dreadfully WORSE- scientific questions as well.
To the unsuspected, innocent young post-doc I am, it really looked like scientific class battle of the best kind.
And that was the optimistic lesson!

Roots...

I guess the post titles ending in "..." are supposed to add a sort of nostalgic, hanging-in-the-air feeling to it, but you may be right if you think it is becoming tiring.

...however...

(here we go again!)

A long, sighing "anyway" before moving on, and that is in all possible ways. Over the last week, I have been talking with people on the phone, reading their blogs (or their comments in mine), or discussing with them directly and I got the same feeling from practically everybody. They all need holidays. Either from having worked too hard these last months, having been bored to death or simply because it's summer, in any case people are starting to think of the sea much more often around this period, at least on this side of the planet.

Moreover, and without any loss of generality, we can certainly argue that the geometric locus of the exiled Greeks' dreams is, and will always be, the Aegean Sea (and who ever dares can try to prove me wrong). Nonetheless, I don't think it's so much being tired (the case for most) or lazy (my case) for longing Sifnos, Crete or Schinousa. I 'd rather say it has to do more with our roots than with our mood or stamina. And our roots, whether we want to admit it or not, are inextricably weaved with the pines at the seashores of our childhood, buried in the sand of our teenager holiday beaches, or floating at the edge of the deep green sea of our youth. More prosaically, we need to go back in time, more than in space. And since (as an elderly wise man like Eric Hobsbawm puts it) the past is a different place, we still consider going back as a journey.

I felt his clearly only ten days ago, standing at the shore of this lagoon in Vivari, close to Nayplio, the place where I have spent a number of my childhood summers and which I have been visiting unstoppably ever since. Yes, the past is a different place, but let's admit it, it is a nice place to visit every now and then. On the other hand, no one can convince me that we are living lives so miserable or unworthy, for "nostalgia" to be the only way out.

In the end, for all you Greeks out there, the meaning of "nostalgia" itself (αλγος του νοστου) is actually the "pain of returning home" and this is exactly how Homer meant it. The fact that coming back almost always means also going back in time and this is -most of the times- painful. But what the hell! If after an unknown number of massive cataclysms, the rise and fall of a hundred empires and numerous scientific revolutions we still remain as much of a "masochist" as Ulysses, then -Zeus damn it!- it must mean something. And paraphrasing Kavafis, it may be worth even longing for the journey...

(and there you have them again, these three dots in the end)

missing the point...

On a day like this (or to put it better days like this) I should have been writing about a whole bunch of things. Antonio Machado's verses on the hot, dry summers of Andalusia, Serrat's songs about being Mediterranean (see Soundtrack), how Kastoriades understood the ancient Greeks (see Wordtrack) in a way no Greek had ever done before. Or more down to earth stuff like running onto Woody Allen and Scarlet Johanson having beer in Barceloneta, Arcade Fire preparing for Summercase festival or simply strolling down -staying at the shady parts- the sunny, quiet streets of the Gotic like the one you see in the photo.

But unfortunately I can't tell you about these things, simply because over the last few days, all these rather important stuff have been set aside and "work" has occupied my time in -lets say- a bit excessive way. I am not in a position to wine about this, having just recovered from a long overseas journey, followed by a short trip back to Greece. But still, it is the idea of it that pisses me of. Summer is here, -although not as warm as I might have expected- and my mind tends to drift more and more to the "labyrinth paths" (another reference to Kastoriades) that have to do with the ergodic literature of Milorad Pavic, the elegant melodies of Radiohead (good old stuff revisited), daydreaming strange stories that could have been written by Marquez, daywatching goals that were actually scored by Messi, talking about the history of the Balkans (an issue not to be taken lightly I can assure you), in general an incredibly variable amount of things that sadly does not include the keywords "nucleosomes", "microarrays" or "hormone-induction".

Nonetheless, it is keywords like these last ones that occupy most of my (precious) time and my even most precious little mind. It is funny but sometimes you find yourself squeezing out all the energy within towards tasks that look completely useless. Am I missing the point here?
Before I totally flip out, I should better pack my stuff and head home, have a glass of wine and watch a good film. And maybe just for the fun of it -and after having read Feyerabend's views on scientific method once more- I try once more to think about how to solve some problems, just before going to bed. A bit dizzy, after having read some more of Machado's verses, listened to a little more Radiohead and a lot more prone to thinking that science is not that much different than art.

And then maybe I come up with a solution that is not optimal, but at least beautiful.

What's new? ...and what is"news"?

I spent last week back in Barcelona, with loads of work but in very good company. This sort of homecoming has been warmer than I would have hoped for and it definitely put me in a good mood. Nonetheless, I remain in a sort of loose attachment to the US and news from the other side are still affecting my humour. Some of them are quite astonishing.

Last Wednesday back in good new US of A, CNN's star journalist Larry King was to interview Michael Moore about his latest documentary "Sicko" dealing with the country's (in-existing) social security system. Moore remains a controversial figure in the States even after having won two Palmes d' Or and wide acceptance in Europe. His interview was highly anticipated especially after allegations that he might even be persecuted for filming in Cuba, thus breaking the long-standing embargo. But it so turns out that as in many aspects of life, in modern electronic journalism as well, there is always a bigger fish that can eat the smaller. And it appears that nowadays in the USA there can be no bigger fish, than the ultimate star of emptiness, probably the world's most renown person for having done absolutely nothing, a legendary personality of mythically quantum proportions, the planet's most famous person for just being famous, the greatest celebrity of them all, Ms Paris Hilton!!!

For the ignorant residents of the Old Continent, who -like me- thought until recently that the aforementioned princess of nullity was actually the hotel of the French capital, I can only contribute by providing the background. Ms Hilton was once arrested for driving drank and her license was revoked. After having been spotted to drive (an achievement not easily undermined for such a person) without a license, she was miraculously sent to prison for a three-week term, during which the earth (or at least its US counterpart) stood still, holding its breath before the suffering and torment of the young damsel. Last week she was let go after serving her sentence and the media where there to capture the scene live, on a broadcast that according to an eye-witnessing journalist was covered "less like the liberation of Paris Hilton and more like the liberation of Paris itself in 1944".

During the last days of our princess' imprisonment and while she was still scribbling down her memories of the ordeal in the pages of her version of "Notes from the Underground" or "Prison Diaries" (soon to a bookstore near you), the mainstream media were negotiating a price with her family for her first interview after three weeks in captivity (pardon me, I meant imprisonment). ABC offered 100.000 dollars, then rumours put the number set by NBC in the upper 6 digits but when the word was out and in fear of a(nother) scandal the Hilton family fell back and granted the interview free to CNN and Larry King. The "King" of interviews was highly discouraged to complain once he was explained that Paris Hilton is the "hottest" interview he could get right now next to Usama Bin-Laden. And so it went. CNN set a timer counting down to hour-0, the blond debutant came, saw and conquered tens of millions of spectators, reading parts from the aforementioned "Prison diaries" finally and irrevocably proving to her critics all over the world that YES she can read! The show was repeated only a couple of hours later after nationwide demands.

What do I care? I think, apart from the ridiculous side, there are some issues at stake here. Electronic media are proving to be something different that what they initially set out to do (or aren't they). Smart asses running CNN, FOXnews, NBC e.t.c. care less and less everyday, about what really matters and could thus be classifiable as "news" and more about what would bring audience, therefore money. If people care about what Paris Hilton has to say, the media will give them exactly that. Some will be touched by the drama of the suffering heiress, some will have a chance to feel extremely clever just by comparison, some may even be pissed that a girl at her age, status and level of accomplishments (please stop laughing it's politically incorrect) gets to better treatment than the UN general secretary or a Nobel laureate. What they all missed was a chance to listen to Michael Moore explaining to them why they are likely to die without help if a hurricane leaves their city in ruins or a madman with a shotgun severely injures them in their college dorm. But that is a different story.

So what do I care? It would be so much better if the "audience" (and this of course includes me as well, I was watching CNN while in the US) would ask themselves the same question. What the freaking hell do I care about Paris Hilton? And just so as to add an optimistic tone, "Glory and Honour" to a real journalist, Mika Brzesinski of MSNBC who after reading the news about Paris' "freedom" tried to burn the script with a lighter live in the studio and apologized to the spectators for having to open the newsflash with such an incredibly stupid and useless piece of information...Once more proving that there are people over there that still think.

(pay tribute to Mika Brzezinski by adding one more hit to her action at youtube)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VdNcCcweL0


Goodnight and good luck!

Back in Barcelona...

anonymous log entry...Barcelona June 2007

As the sun goes down behind the last line of waves in the Mediterranean, I am only waking up. The first blow of the late evening breeze hits me directly as I stand on the terrace of the lab, dizzy and tired after a day of incredibly stupid ideas, sloppy programming and unavoidably dissapointing results. The night falls, the horizon dresses in orange and purple and my mood throws down its blue gown. The 24 hour day is still young. I ride my bike by the sea shore, Arcade Fire pounding on my mp3 player, thoughts become clearer, scientific issues seem to resolve themselves miraculously and the heavy veil of dizziness is suddenly lifted. "How come I havent thought about it before?" This idea deserves a beer! As I skillfully avoid crashing against a bus and hitting an old lady crossing Passeig Joan de Borbo I have already set the date through a network of expanding sms. I arrive at the Rambla de Raval sweaty and starving, half of the people are already here and the feast of spicy, indian masala, catalan beer and conversations in five different languages begins. As the Greeks and the French realize that we share 90% of the jokes, the Spanish and the Germans that they are more alike than their complexions might have implied, the Portuguese make fun of the way the Brazilians speak and vice versa, we find ourselves lost in the small streets of Raval and then on the other side of la Rambla in the Gotico. We bearly escape a storm of water falling from the sky only to understand the residents are aiming at our precious heads, so full of worl-changing ideas, yet equipped with overwhelmingly loud vocal chords. We decide to keep it down as we enter "13" bar and the noise resumes as soon as the first round of mojitos arrives. It must be past midnight but who cares? Scientists never stop working, so no guilt about connecting simulation models to football strategies, or calculating the conditional probability of picking up the girls at the other side of the bar. As the probability increases asymptotically with the number of mojitos, we only realize the night is getting old. The dawn finds us on Passeig Maritim, the sun is going up behind the distant buildings in Forum and we are already on our way to the lab. The day is only beginning in Barcelona. Someone else may tell you how it is going to be, but my guess would be at least interesting.

...

Oh what did you see my darling young one?

So it is official! After a month and a half on the other side of the Atlantic, this different, fascinating world, full of marvels and contradictions, I am back in good old Europe.

These last six weeks have been intense to say the least, providing food for thought on many levels apart from real, good-friend, traditional fun, especially during the last days. But on these last days, spent in Yellowstone Park, I'll try to come back soon. For now I can only bid farewell to the USA and since six weeks is too much time to allow me to go into detail, I will just try to put everything plainly but at the same time lyrically in the style of the great Bob Dylan, trying to condensate images, sounds and thoughts in a handful of verses.

So let's go...

...[
Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've ridden a steel bird all over the ocean
I've stood on the shore of the opposite side
I've strolled all along in the yards of old legends
I've walked all the way to get out of their shadow
I've drifted away where the time is forgotten
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw an old man forced down by his name
I saw a blind mob hurraying in the vacuum
I saw the big city lights, they were glowing for no one
I saw people running, with nowhere to go to
I saw people standing, wishing they could fly away
I saw the great wide open, it looked like it was narrowing
I saw the steep canyons and they looked to be widening
I saw ten million travelers and they were all taking photographs
I saw ten million photographs and they all looked the same
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard "hello" and "goodbye" and they both had not meaning
I heard "Godspeed" and "farewell" and they both sound real
I heard the "welcome" at last and it made me wonder
I heard the clapping of hands echoing nothingness
I heard ten thousand cars all honking their horns
I heard ten thousand horns instead of ten thousand screams
I heard the radio shouting and the TV mumbling
I heard the people's silence, so sad and so lonely
I heard the sound of the thunder again and again
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a living legend and he let me down
I met ordinary people and they lifted me up
I met an elderly woman, she was crying at the bus stop
I met an old guy worrying and people thought he was crazy
I met a young, crazy girl and she was worried about nothing
I met a working-class girl, looking outside the window
I met Asians and Arabs and Greeks and Americans
And they were all going around as if nothing was happening
But it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out before the rain starts a-fallin',
I 'll walk through the streets of an old, forgotten continent
I 'll swim across all the seas of my ancient country
Where the people each talk their own different language
Where the sick and the healthy are still liking each other
Where the blacks and the whites still work next to each other
Where the sun may still shine while the clouds are a-gathering
Where they all are somebody but they want to be nobody
Where they all want to be someone they are not
Where the world rules the money but it's starting to change
And I'll see it and think it and speak it and laugh at it
And I'll watch over the shore as the ships will be leaving
Like the old times when people still had a dream and a hope
And I 'll stay there until the ships start a-coming
And the people with dreams come back with their hopes
And the people with hope come back with the dreams
'Cause we need them and their dreams and their hopes and their coming

'Cause it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
]...

get the original song's lyrics here