The sun has risen in Greece, but the Grecians haven’t. I am walking Nafplio’s quiet streets, alone in the cool of morning. Most shops are closed. And I am followed by cats. 

Nafplio has hundreds of feral cats. Maybe thousands. They are everywhere. In every nook and hollow. And each morning there seems to be even more. 

“I don’t know how many stray cats we have,” says one embittered shopkeeper who is unashamedly anti-cat. “I think maybe we have a million cats. No way to know for sure.” 

He’s right. Cats don’t sit still for census takers. Cats won’t even sit still for other cats. 

Nevertheless, the old storekeeper doesn’t represent the majority. Nafplio is evidently full of cat people. There are food and water bowls all over town. There are cat beds and cat treats everywhere. There are cat people galore. 

You can spot cat people from a mile away. Because, of course, there will be cats around them. 

Which is why the cats feel comfortable here. They do not run and hide.

They live in a perpetual state of freedom. They chase each other openly. They play tag in the streets. Leap from the hoods of parked cars. Recline in the sunlight. Sprawl in the middle of the walkways. Lick themselves. They purr, paw, parade, perch, and preen. 

They sit prettily on the doormat as you pass by a closed shopfront, giving you a death stare. 

Cats have a talent for knowing who does and doesn’t like them. They can glance at a person and just know whether you’re a cat guy or not. 

Moreover, they are unbothered by disdain. A cat will deliberately seek out a self-professed cat-hater, rub its feline body against that person’s legs, and either win that…

After our plane landed in Athens, we boarded another airplane. A much smaller, older model plane. The carpet was dingy. The upholstery had long ago gone to be with Jesus.

Our fellow passengers were almost entirely Greek. I know this because the passengers were louder than an average SEC Championship. Almost all passengers were talking and laughing, at times leaning over neighboring passengers to shout with glee toward the back of the plane.

Greeks are not at all like Americans, I discovered. You know how when Americans fly, we sit in polite silence? Americans don’t speak to fellow passengers except in dire emergencies. (“Excuse me, I don’t mean to disturb you, but my husband is having a heart attack.”) And if, by chance, there are Canadians on such flights, all you hear is the sound of people randomly whispering apologies.

Greeks are not like this.

At least not when using public transit. They talk to each other. They laugh. They are not at all

self-conscious about conducting animated conversations with a person who might be sitting, for example, in the cockpit.

I was seated between two older, strong-voiced women, deep in the throes of loud, social discourse. They seemed not to notice me at all. It was not unlike riding in the backseat of the First Baptist youth-group bus when Allen Weatherby ate Mentos and guzzled Coca-Cola on a dare only to discover this doesn’t make your stomach explode. But worse. Everyone was forced to clean up the remains of Allen’s semi-digested lunch while Pastor Phil’s wife watched over the felons, expressing her deep disappointment between uncontrollable fits of gagging.

When that plane landed, passengers were then vomited into a much tinier airport where pretty much all the signage looked like this:

Δεν έχω ιδέα τι λέει στην πραγματικότητα τίποτα από…

O’Hare International Airport is busy. And by “busy,” I mean “an organized soccer riot.” There are people everywhere. Elbowing. Shoving. Shouldering their way through the crowds. Charging their way up escalators. Jogging past terminals. People of all shapes. All kinds. All haircuts.

Our flight departs in a few minutes. We are flying to Greece. I will be running the Athens Marathon next week. And if everything goes right, I’ll be writing about it as the adventure unfolds. That is, if I survive the full-contact sport of airport-terminal grabass.

The aggression in this place is astounding. I just got sideswiped by a small elderly woman who stormed past me on the moving walkway, grumbling at me under her breath, repeatedly barking the F-word. And I don’t mean “Fantastic.”

I will be meeting my friend Joice in Athens. Joice is running this marathon for her birthday, competing in the seventy-year-old division. And although I am decades younger, I submitted my race times and attempted to enroll in the

same age division. Officials looked over my information and said I did not qualify. I am too slow.

The Athens Marathon is technically the world’s oldest marathon route. According to legend, in 490 BC Pheidippedes ran from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens, in the nude. When he arrived, he fell over and died of exhaustion. But not before bearing news of victory, crying, “We won!” In honor of this historic event, it’s customary for runners, upon crossing the finish, to disrobe and drop dead.

I’ve run marathons before. Lots of them. I’m slow. I have even finished dead last a few times. But I love races. I love the community. I love the socialization. Above all, I love the free beer.

I started running as a teenager because I was tired of being called…

I always wondered what I’d do if I met him. I always wondered how I’d act if I met Young Me.

Well, this was my chance to find out.

“What am I doing in this elementary school?” I was thinking. “They tore this place down years ago.”

I looked at my clothes. I was in pajamas. And barefoot. My toenails needed trimming.

I was standing in the old public school. Children’s cardboard-paper creations hung on the walls. Art projects lined the corridor like triumphant little banners. Each student’s name was scrawled onto the paper proudly, some letters backward.

I saw the boy.

He was walking down the hallway. He was going to the drinking fountain.

Remember drinking fountains? Remember when the whole class waited in line to use them? Back in the days before corporations started bottling water and selling it for $8 a pop at gas stations—my father would roll over in his grave.

The little boy was strawberry blond. I say “strawberry blond” because this is how maternal

teachers would comfort Young Me whenever some heckler teased me with common redhead nicknames such as, to choose a nickname at random, “Bozo the Clown.”

“Oh, sweetie,” such teachers would say, tucking my tear-stained face into their great bosoms. “You have beautiful strawberry blond hair.”

I never believed them. I thought I was ugly. To be a redhead at that age was the kiss of death. You were different. You were a leper. You were nicknamed “Red” by adults who thought they were original. You were capable of developing a third-degree sunburn in 0.003 seconds.

The little strawberry blond used the white porcelain drinking fountain. He tilted his head and assumed the hydration stance.

And all at once, I saw this boy for who he…

Right now, the news media is in an uproar over AI. The headlines are bleak. Experts are saying our cherished way of life is in danger. Pretty soon, if things keep going this direction, they say we will lose basic human abilities, such as empathy, sustained focus, and the ability to spel withot autocorrek.

And while I know I’m supposed to be terrified of AI, I’m not worried. Namely, because right now, I’m busy watching “The Dog House.”

“The Dog House” is a TV series about people who adopt pets in Godmanchester, England. The show documents stories of animal rescues from the Wood Green Pets Charity, and it is crack for dog lovers.

After a few moments of watching, you’re rooting for families, for rescues, for the rescue staff, and you’ve finished two bags of Chili Cheese Fritos.

This show is nearly perfect. On the “International Sean Dietrich Adorable-TV Scale,” a scale ranging from 1 to 10 (with 10 being, say, “Lilo & Stitch,” and one being “A Clockwork Orange”), “The Dog House”

receives a score of 632,348.

This is because the show is positive.

Have you ever tried practicing positivity? Have you ever actively been positive for a full 24 hours?

Yes. I know. Some see positivity as willful ignorance. Others see positivity as pure stupidity. But personally, I have always seen positivity as a five-syllable word.

Even so, positivity is not just ANY five-syllable word such as “geometrical,” “vegetarian,” or “Lithuania.” Those are regular five-syllable words. No, positivity is real.

Everything in this world is made of energy. If you were to magnify any object to the atomic level, you’d see only waves or particles. Many particles carry an electrical charge.

That chair in the corner is really just energy. The phone you’re holding: Energy. The crumpled…