A Historically-Inaccurate History of the Mediterranean

Alright, guys.  I know you’ve been dying to learn more about the Mediterranean.  This is your one big chance, so don’t blow it.

Chapter One: That Time Columbus Flipped Off Homer

The Mediterranean was born a couple million years ago when the Atlantic sneezed and forgot its pocket handkerchief.  The bodies of water are still connected by the Strait of Gibraltar, a 10-mile-wide water passageway.  The Strait is marked by peaks called the Pillars of Hercules, because the Ancient Greeks said that our man Herc put them there as a warning to sailors not to go past this point, because, to quote Homer, “wow is the Atlantic Ocean big… and wow, maybe it’s the end of the world.”

And because no one questions Homer, the Pillars of Hercules were long thought to be the end of the world.  The term Non plus ultra (“nothing further beyond”) was supposedly inscribed on said pillars.  But then Homer died and everyone forgot that no one crosses Homer.  And this guy Columbus was like “fuck that, I’m going for it, guys, what does Homer know?!!?” and the Spanish royals were like “well, good luck, Chris.”  So he went past the Pillars, famously flashing his left middle finger while biting his right thumb as a double sign of disdain for Homer, Hercules, and the so-called end of the world.  This sign of hubris is well-documented in my mind and in exactly zero history books.

But buckle up, because there’s more.  The motto for Spain is Plus ultra (“further beyond”), a national fist pump to the fact that the Spanish monarchs were crazy enough to send someone past the pillars, and even got some colonies out of it.  Their flag today bears the motto and the two Pillars of Hercules.  Pretty rad, I know.  Rad enough that Buzz Lightyear adapted the motto in the timeless classic, Toy Story, and if that isn’t one big reference to Columbus’s endeavors, then wow did I miss the point of the movie.

I found this meme.  I don't know why Buzz is being accused of Spanish citizenship, but it fits with the Columbus thing.

Chapter Two: Danish Pirates Playing God

Did you know that the word tragedy comes from “tragos” (goat) and “aoidia” (song)?  I imagine that having to listen to a goat bray for five hours would be somewhat of a tragedy, but otherwise I can’t figure out why they chose that name.

Regardless, the Greeks loved their goat songs, and used them to elicit “katharsis” in the audience.  Theater was a way to purge yourself, which is really interesting to me, all jokes aside.  We have, generally speaking, entirely flipped that notion in popular cinema today.  In the US, most movies abandon our mediocre, realistic lives for fabulous silver-screen versions.  The Greeks used theater to encourage people to avoid common mistakes such as sleeping with their mother, starting wars over pretty ladies, and ignoring women named Cassandra (note how many problems start with women; the Greeks certainly did not value their women, I will say that). 

It is an interesting difference that I have been pondering, because I have some disdain for American escapism, as aforementioned in my blog “Depart from Hollywood Standards.”

Anyway, the Greeks liked to use deus ex machina (god by machine), a literary technique to smooth over difficult transitions.  My favorite example is Shakespeare’s pirates in Hamlet, who conveniently kill off Hamlet’s buds, despite the fact that the play is set in Denmark, and we all know pirates only existed in the Caribbean.

Anyway, that term, “god by machine,” comes from the Greeks literally lowering a god figure onto the stage to elicit whatever unlikely change needed eliciting.  Can you imagine that today?  I wish we had stuck to the literal meaning of the term.  Having God descend down in, say, the middle of Lord of the Rings and offer to take the ring on everyone’s behalf, or at least carry Frodo part of the way?  Yes.  Or intervening right before Luke kisses Leya and being like “yo, dude—that’s your sister”?  Or, right before Harry kisses Ginny for the first time, God taking him aside and being like “Harry, Harry, I’d rather tap McGonagall than that flat character whose only specific quality is being able to cast a Bat-Bogey Hex.”

"Really, you can find someone better."

But I predict us never seeing a literal deus ex machina again, folks.  Let’s mourn that, because even if it does carry the potential to kill off a healthy plot, it would make me laugh.

Chapter Three: I Arrive in Spain

Okay, okay, so some other things happened in the middle, but really, we care about me more than those other things.  And I’m tired now.

Click here to see my latest adventures.  I found a way to link to a Facebook photo album even if you don’t have a Facebook.

And, as promised in the comments of Derek’s blog, the poem I wrote about Lord of the Rings this week.  It’s not good, but it is.  Also, I learned a fun fact about the books—Tolkein called the hobbitses' residence “Bag End” to make fun of the English using the French term “cul-de-sac,” which he thought was dumb.  Pretty cute, Tolkein, pretty cute.

Until next week,

-Rachael

Looking for Samwise

A wizard is never late,

one difference between Gandalf and my soulmate.

I’m not asking for Aragon, I don’t need a king,

don’t need someone flashy as the lord of my ring.

But he’s got to be steadfast, loyal and true,

and if he has hairy feet, what’s it to you?

I think all my life lacks is Samwise Gamgee.

He could be mine, I’d be his Rosie.

Frodo isn’t the hero of Tolkein’s story,

the one standing behind him is worthy of glory.

For who kept the garden tidy and clean,

whilst Frodo went off gallivanting?

And who kept track of all the leaf bread,

whilst Frodo was busy, off losing his head?

I don’t know if love exists beyond fantasy lore,

But Sam said good things are worth fighting for.

In life we all travel alone—who better to accompany me,

than Mister Samwise, Mister Gamgee.