The tour guide gathered us at the entrance of the archeological site. "We've lost some time," she said. "We only have thirty minutes here."
My heart dropped to the floor. How was I supposed to see the temple of Apollo, the theater of Dionysus, the race track, and receive the Oracle, in thirty minutes!
"We need at least an hour," I yelled.
"OK," she responded. "It's twelve fifteen. Everybody on the bus at one o'clock."
She looked at me and I consented.
I began to move up alone, without saying another word to anyone.
I passed the Athenian treasury, rushing a little, and began to panic, really afraid of not having enough time. So I had to calm my self down, and did it by accepting that, if something was going to happen there, it was not going to be of my own doing. I chose to trust the moment and the place, to have faith.
I continued more relaxed, in as much contemplation as I could among the tourists, always conscious of the ticking of time.
The temple of Apollo stood in ruins but still majestic on the edge of the impressive Parnassus, out of limits to visitors. I understood then the importance of my verbalizing "the mountain is the temple" the prior evening. I would've been extremely disappointed if I had expected to receive my oracle in the temple itself, as it happened in ancient times.
So I kept walking up the mountain. When I approached the theatre of Dionysus, a young woman sang playfully to the amusement of some tourists seated on the stones, waiting to confirm the famous acoustics they've heard about.
When I stepped on the platform nobody waited for me to perform, but I felt the need to still do or say something, at least make a sound.
I stood at the center of the stage and opened my mouth to maybe sing a note and hear it taken by the subtle air up the mountain, when an unexpected awareness of the impropriety of that act made me stop short. Somehow I knew I shouldn't do it.
I felt the soft breeze on the side of my face, making its way up all the way from down beyond the ocean, the same ancient breeze that impelled sounds to the ears of those gathered, aware of the sacred ritual. The importance of what was said, and how, in such a special place, became apparent to me then, so I couldn't make a sound.
"It's a sacred act to speak here," I thought.
I became aware of how the spoken word, in a place of power, has mythical importance. Delphi was a sanctuary for over a thousand years. There, if we respect the place, our movements and words are elicited by an impulse that comes from the earth.
So I continued my walk up, observant all the while, attentive to red and orange, and to the shapes of the tigers I saw the night before.
When I made it to the race track, few people were in the area, and a welcomed silence reigned.
I had very little time, every move had to be right.
I saw the end of the track on the opposite side, and there was no one there. I walked to it knowing that it was the farthest point from the entrance.
I paced around the stone marker with careful steps, aware of the air on my pores and my face. I sat on it and looked at my watch. It was almost twelve fifty. I had about ten minutes left, and I needed at least five to run down the site and make it back on time to the bus.
I closed my eyes and focused intensely, waiting for a whisper within my ears, or an image, a vision in my mind. Nothing happened for a short while. Then, I saw a flash of the eyes of the Charioteer, wide open and alert. "Open your eyes," I told myself.
I opened them, and saw a father and his son, of about five, walking towards me, conversing in Spanish, my native language.
"They're going to brake the silence, to be a distraction," I thought.
I focused my attention straight ahead, pass them, trying to ignore their presence, so afraid of their interference, that I didn't notice the colors they were wearing. Both of them wore beige safari hats and shorts, and the father had a red polo shirt on, larger than the orange one the son's. That fact hit me later. (This image is a reconstruction so you may visualize it).
They stood at about ten feet to my right, very quiet for what seemed a long moment. I must have had probably a minute left, when one of the most astonishing things occurred.
"Papá," said the boy, in such a way that the word itself, its sound, its vibration, held me, completely, and instantly. My body was, literally, yes literally, held by his voice. Every molecule in me responded to it, overwhelmed, against my own will to ignore it.
"Éste es un escorpión," ("This is a scorpion"), the boy continued.
"No es un escorpión" ("It's not a scorpion"), the father replied casually.
"Yo sé que lo es" ("I know it is"), stated the boy, with absolute resolution.
"Entonces ten cuidado que no te pique" ("Then, be careful it doesn't bite you"), the father responded, without any concern at all.
"Ya me picó" ("It already did"), the boy declared with certainty.
In that instant I knew. I new it in my bones, that was my oracle. I knew it immediately, and not only because the voice of the boy, which I was trying to avoid, came rushing through me and held my whole body solid like a rock, like nothing that had ever happened to me before. I also knew it because I was born in November, and have always been a very proud Scorpio. I've identified very much with the sign, its symbolism and characteristics, since I am indeed the universal description of a scorpio man. The father of the boy knew there wasn't a real scorpion, otherwise he wouldn't have been so nonchalant about it. The boy was fantasizing, playing a mind game, moved to say it out loud at that moment, within that one minute I had left. And what he said was my riddle, the answer to my question: Should I quit my job or not? I had already resigned from it, I had already decided it was best to leave, but I was asked to reconsider. The oracle was telling me: "Your soul, the scorpio, already bit you, and there's nothing you can do. It's done."
And then, a truly unbelievable thing happened:
Those resounding words were followed by absolute silence. I turned to look at them, in awe of what I heard and how I heard it, and what I saw simply blew my mind.
The father was squatting on the ground, very close to the boy, ready to take a picture without saying a word. The boy was kneeling on the ground, facing right into the lens. The second I turned to look at them, the father tilted his head to have a vertical picture, and by doing so, covered the black of the camera and his hair with his safari hat . The boy's face was mostly covered by the hat from my angle. All I saw then was Red and Orange, against the beige of the stones and sand of the track on the side of the hill. And their bodies were doing just what the tigers in my vision did. When I saw them, I knew it immediately, that that was exactly what the white lines were forming, not the tigers. I saw tigers because my mind needed to give an image to those lines. It would have been really difficult to see the bodies of an older man an a boy squatting like that and make any sense out of them. I had to see the tigers, that's an oriental image my brain was familiar with.
What is most amazing to me is that I would have known the words of the boy were my oracle, even if my vision on the night before had not been matched and corroborated with their body movement and color.
It was the most extraordinary feeling, very difficult to describe, the power of that voice over my whole self, a voice that I was trying to avoid hearing. The two of them had been quiet from the moment they got close to me. The voice of the boy sounded like in a vacuum, strong and all encompassing. And then, abruptly, they were completely quiet, taking a picture without any of them saying another word.
The moment the boy was done talking I knew with absolute certainty that that was my riddle, it was pure direct knowing, which doesn't happen too often. The visual confirmation with the clues from the night before were just an astonishing, perfectly choreographed and timed icing on the cake.
I ran down and was the last person from the group to step on the bus, exactly at one o'clock, on the dot! That was incredible as well, the exactitude in the timing of the whole thing.
And it didn't end there. Another astonishing confirmation was about to seal the deal, and the timing of this one was even more outstanding.
I didn't say much to Oscar during the five minute bus ride to the restaurant. I was trying to catch my breath from the intense run down the site the whole while.
As we stepped off the bus to have our lunch, the woman right in front of me conversed with the Greek mother of the lady at the hotel's lounge, who told me about my name.
I heard her ask: "What's the name of the island of Onasis?"
'How trivial,' I thought, 'to ask about celebrities in a place like this.'
"Scorpion," the Greek lady replied.
The word shook me as my ears popped.
"She said 'scorpion'" I said out loud to Oscar, to make it more real, to confirm it to myself.
At that instant, right then and there, when I said "Scorpion" out loud, we were walking by the restaurant's host, who was standing by the entrance greeting us. He waved at a waiter standing inside and called practically in my ear "Yorgo!"
The words "Scorpion" and "Yorgo" were said almost exactly at the same time, within a second apart! Only about ten minutes earlier the boy had said the word scorpion, describing how it had already bitten him(me). I knew it was in reference to me, to my soul. And now, the word Scorpion is spoken again, almost exactly at the same time as my Greek name is called out loud, as I'm walking by the loud voice itself.
What are the chances of that happening? Really? What are the probabilities??
Both words were spoken out loud and clearly within a second!!
(This image is a recreation, the one above shows the ladies in the story, in the middle of the group).
If that lady was not right in front of me stepping off the bus I wouldn't have heard her question, we were all walking behind each other. If the woman with her had not been Greek she wouldn't have known the answer. If the boy and the father had taken two more minutes to get there I would have had to leave. If I had not stayed late talking to the Peruvian family I wouldn't have heard that my name is Yorgo, from someone I had not spoken to. If Susan had not been seating in front of me, only for that ride, she wouldn't have heard me say I wanted to go up the mountain and wouldn't have come with me. If I had been alone I'm not sure I would have verbalized that the mountain IS the temple.
And then, everything happened with such exactitude during moments with very little time in each. So many people involved, so many encounters that very easily could have not happened, one minute sooner or later, one person missing or quite or unheard here or there, and it wouldn't have worked. For all of that to happen, wouldn't it require a lot of preparation?
When the host called out Yorgo, it was a loud and clear confirmation of my riddle. What a reiteration! When I think of everything that had to take place for that second to make sense, for the riddle to be complete! There were six people involved just then, in that second. The American tourist, the Greek woman, Oscar and I, the host and the waiter, all of us had to be at our right places and at the right time, and say our lines loud and well, for it to work!
I am Yorgo, and I am a scorpio, and the scorpion that I am already bit me. My own mind, my own soul, had made the decision already. That's what I understood when I heard it, but now it was official.
I remember at that moment I said back to... the mountain, "You didn't have to do that. I knew." But now, years later, I'm so grateful it did. The confirmation itself was a dramatic and supernatural final act, and it was truly fascinating to witness it.
The Peruvian family, Oscar, and I sat at a smaller table to have our lunch. I raised my wine glass and said, "I'm living proof that the Oracle is real."
They all smiled and toasted, but nobody asked me to elaborate.
PYTHIA'S BATH
In ancient times, the oracle was given only during the nine warmest months of the year. Pythia, the priestess who would answer the questions in a trance, was reported to look as if she had exerted herself, exhausted and drained afterwards, so it was obviously something that couldn't be done often.
As part of her various rituals, Pythia had a ceremonial bath on the seventh day of each of the nine months, and the bath on the seventh month of the year was the most important one. All these facts I learned back home, after my trip to Greece.
I was there for twelve days, and the only one day I "bathed" was on July 7th. I am a swimmer, and every hotel we stayed at had a pool, but never felt like going in any of them. We visited the island of Hydra on that day, a couple of days after my Oracle took place. Right after our arrival, I walked away from the group to be alone. I sat at a restaurant for a drink, and after looking at the blue water for a long while, almost hypnotized by the saturation of its hue, I walked towards it like an automat. I left my shoes, camera, and clothes on a rock, and dove to the bottom of the sea. It surprised me that I remained suspended there, maybe 12 feet deep, completely calm, for a longer time than I thought I could.
There was something very special about that dive, though I couldn't think much about it then. When I read back home that Pythia's main bath was on the seventh day of the seventh month, I looked up my itinerary of the tour and it was indeed July 7th when we went to Hydra. It was on that day when I dove in the sea in an unusual way. I didn't swim, I floated in all sort of ways, bathed more than swam, which is definitely not my style.
Though I know I'm not a Pythia myself, it was me who received the oracle directly, and like her, I had to catch my breath right afterwards, even if it was because I had to run down the mountain to be on the bus on time. It's all symbols, nothing more, but there's enormous beauty in them when they add up like precise words in a very special poem.
For these posts to make sense, read them in order. On your cellphone just click the right arrow at the bottom of each entry to go to the next one. They are numbered from 1 to 9. 
Ever since I read Plato's account of Socrates and the Oracle of Delphi I've wanted to go there. I was convinced the Oracle would speak to me as well. I was a young teenager then so it was easy to dream like that, but it was at the age of forty when I was finally able to go.
"It's Yorgo, which means 'Worker of the land'."
I sat up on the bed, impressed by the force with which the image assaulted my mind and very confused by it. Knowing that I was beginning to fall asleep, I just shook my head and laid back down without much thought.
Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. Not once in my life had I gotten out of bed to ponder something that entered my mind in a quasi subconscious state, commanding so much attention.
When I stepped on the platform nobody waited for me to perform, but I felt the need to still do or say something, at least make a sound.
"They're going to brake the silence, to be a distraction," I thought.
The father was squatting on the ground, very close to the boy, ready to take a picture without saying a word. The boy was kneeling on the ground, facing right into the lens. The second I turned to look at them, the father tilted his head to have a vertical picture, and by doing so, covered the black of the camera and his hair with his safari hat . The boy's face was mostly covered by the hat from my angle. All I saw then was Red and Orange, against the beige of the stones and sand of the track on the side of the hill. And their bodies were doing just what the tigers in my vision did. When I saw them, I knew it immediately, that that was exactly what the white lines were forming, not the tigers. I saw tigers because my mind needed to give an image to those lines. It would have been really difficult to see the bodies of an older man an a boy squatting like that and make any sense out of them. I had to see the tigers, that's an oriental image my brain was familiar with.
