Scrambling the Patriarchy

As the title of this blog hopefully suggests, this post is about eggs.

Last night, after working in the hotel for the past few days (check out my latest story here and stay tuned for my next one coming soon), I decided it was about time to check out the night life in Athens.

Thessaloniki, despite being criticized by some of my friends here, provided some of the best nights out. Sure, there were some nights that we didn’t find a good club and ended up at a smoke-filled bar, they were still fun, safe and for the sake of this post, egg-free.

Back to last night, after leaving a cool underground bar with an amazing bar tender, Olivia, Luke, Isaac, Paxtyn, Gwen and I were walking around the neighborhood when all of a sudden…

**CRACK*

An egg flew from the open window of a car full of hoodlum boys racing past us. The egg in question rocketed straight into my ribcage, leaving an oblong-shaped bruise and more importantly, putting a rotten mood on my night. (Rotten egg, get it?)

It’s not the egg itself that bothered me. It’s the fact that I no longer felt safe in a neighborhood that I was here to explore and make my own. We continued on our path, determined to barhop, but the whole time I felt uneasy (or over easy…? Can’t help but make a few egg puns. They crack me up.)

The next day, Asia and I took the subway down to the marketplace to scope out some street art and find a new angle for her story. On the way back, not only did I get stared at and was the unfortunate recipient of once-over glances from a very creepy 60+ year old man, the eggs made another appearance.

Standing in front of a convenience store of all places, on our way home from our night of graffiti and chocolate cake, the now familiar sound of boys yelping and the deafening *CRACK* of, yes, another egg, came whizzing towards us, crashing into the pavement by our feet and splattering our shoes with yoke.

This time, all we could do was crack up (sorry, did it again).

Since I have been here, I have definitely noticed the apparent sexism and creepiness of the men here after about 7 p.m.. Sadly, sexism is something that all women, no matter the country, deal with daily. In the field of journalism, that may mean that a interviewee may not talk to you or speak in a demeaning way. It means only going out in groups, preferably with a man and not a group of two girls. It means returning by sundown and not wearing shorts, despite the 85 degree weather.

Here, I guess it means getting an unwanted omelette pitched at you at 50 mph from a car full of immature boys.

I can laugh about it now. (Come on Greece, you are in an economic crisis and you are wasting perfectly good breakfast food?!) But in all seriousness, it can feel pretty gross sometimes to be a target of anything from catcalls on the streets (so far its been about 20+ times) to the fear of being egged every time I leave the hotel.

Boys, didn’t your mom ever tell you not to play with your food? Calm down, make an omelette and take a break from being obnoxious. I’m egghausted.

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