I’ve visited Greece twice in the past two years because of family stationed there. Just got back July 4. At the risk of sounding like a tipsy bridesmaid or a “Mamma Mia” fanatic, I have to say the place is magical. There are plenty of reasons for this that I will get to, but the essential one is the people. I’ve never met a prouder or more hospitable group of folks than the ones I’ve met in Greece.
They’ll point to a scrubby brown mountain that looks like a Utah foothill and exclaim, “Beautiful, hah?”
They’ll look around the restaurant when you bring a party of 12 without a reservation, look around a bit, and say confidently, “We can seat you, give me 5 minutes.” (And this is in a culture where they never pressure you to leave your table, long after you’ve finished. I could get used to that.)
They rhapsodize about every positive aspect of their 4,000-year history, from science and philosophy to their fight against the Nazis. My sister-in-law living there explains that their memory is very selective, which I can see as well.
And every Greek-American I know has visited at least once, might have family still there, and knows the village their family came from. That tells you something of the tenacious Greek character, and the allure of the place.
It’s likely that surviving hardship will endear a place to you afterward. Our “hardships” when visiting have been 100* weather and the chance of wildfires. I lost memory of the concept of “chilly” and despaired that any and all clouds had sunk into the sea. Noel Coward’s lines popped into my head every single day about “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.” I began to resent the phrase “stay hydrated” as if I were some kind of lichen.
Without this heat, though, there might not be that lovely street life that emerges after 6 pm like Poseidon from the sea, as restaurants get busy and village squares fill with families and children. Old folks bring plastic chairs to the sidewalk, even if only to watch their television set still inside the house. People spilling out of bars forcefully debate everything and nothing. Traveling makes me realize how sad it is that, along with good bread and affordable health care, America is impoverished by the lack of such street life, at least a gun-free one.
When it’s very hot in Athens, my sister-in-law will call it “zesty.” At least, I thought she’d coined it. The Greek word for hot is zesto and conjugates to zesti in some cases, so it’s a good play on words and a stiff-upper-lip way to describe conditions. Instead of saying “it’s hotter than Satan’s taint” (which my wife got tired of), you can just say it’s quite “zesty” out, and your companions will commiserate.
To get under my skin, a locale has to have some history. To me, newly minted Florida is just a paved-over swamp, while historic New Orleans is a world-class city. Greece is teeming with history, obviously, being at the crossroads of two continents. though they give heavy emphasis on classical times and the past two centuries (ixnay asking about the Ottoman Empire). Much of the evidence of its classical history has been looted, smashed, neglected or cannibalized. This resultant wreckage might make Greece even more alluring, unlike the bloated opulence of Rome (though shoot that stuff into my veins, too, amici!). History of course is not just the beautiful stained glass of Ste. Chapelle or the gardens of the Alhambra; it’s also people struggling to survive through harsh conditions, cruel occupation and the indifference of Time. It might be nice if a few more ancient temples were still intact, but the constant theme of survival and persistence is also alluring.
The Greek myths give the illusion that the world’s creation is all a matter of genealogy. Follow the line back just a little, and you can easily find Zeus dressing up like a furry and seducing some sexy mortal. Agamemnon, the king who led the armies that attacked Troy, is only about 6 generations descended from Tantalus, the king who chopped up his son and served him to the gods and was sentenced to eternal torment of a “tantalizing” nature. And I walked the walls of Agamemnon’s palace (alleged) at Mycenae! Its stones were so big they were called “Cyclopean”, meaning only that family of giants could’ve built it. And I was there! Just trace your way back to Agamemnon and you will find the beginning of the world!
So, yeah, this kind of thinking implies that the world is only about 10,000 years old. But this is way cooler than Biblical fundamentalism, because the Greek legislature isn’t full of Agamemnon zealots who want schoolkids to worship Zeus and Athena. Fascinating and not dangerous! A good combination. Call me a born-again Agamemnonnite.
The Greek devotion to the sea is also obvious and endearing. With my pale Hibernian skin, beaches are usually potential places of torture, but I absolutely must live near a navigable body of water. When I laid back on the beach on the island of Naxos, covered in SPF 50, I thought of Joyce writing in Ulysses of “the scrotum-tightening sea”, and the dazzling continuity he drew between ancient Greece and modern Dublin, joined forever by the water. I thought of old man Ulysses himself, sailing perilously for 10 years after the Trojan War through these 6,000 rocky islands. I thought of sea-faring traders like the Venetians, who left a strong imprint here 500 years ago with some gorgeous architecture. I thought of fishermen today, in small blue-and-white boats, trying to make a living in a warming sea by harvesting delicious squid and sardines. I thought of chartering a sailboat next time we visit, at the risk of looking like Eurotrash, just to get the whole vibe.
Not every Greek is a creature of the sea, however. Take Olga, the resourceful, reliable and hilarious woman we hired as a driver for 8 of us for our first week there. Olga grew up in the western Peloponnesian countryside near Kalamata. She drives business people and diplomats around Athens for a living, but in January when business is slow, she loves to take her BMW 1200 motorcycle up north and open it up on the plains. She doesn’t drive it in Athens -- too powerful for that infested nest of scooters. She loves the focus motorcycle riding requires and the feeling of freedom it gives. Has she gotten up past 200 KPH? She just smiles and says quietly “Nai, nai” (yes, yes).
Olga was a phenomenal aide. We were traveling with my father-in-law, who is 84 and has no feeling below his knees, which concerned us because the place isn’t exactly ADA-friendly, and the sidewalks in Athens can look like the aftermath of a Marvel movie. Olga helped Dave climb into the van many times a day (he became more strong and flexible through this, though he continually denied it). More importantly, she took control of his care, which relieved us all of some worry. Got him a wheelchair and ferried him as far as was possible at ancient sites, when he kept insisting he just wanted to sit and rest somewhere, not be a bother. Cut him off from a second Manhattan in a restaurant. Challenged him about who was in charge – “Who boss man now? I’m big boss!” Arguing gently with waiters for the best food. She wasn’t just our driver, she was our field general.
This type of care was shown by so many other people as well. When my father-in-law needed a lot of time to climb down 8 or 10 stairs, waiters and hosts would leave other customers and help him down to the sidewalk. Once was in a busy Athenian restaurant, and expensive, but no one gave this a second look. No one huffed or rolled their eyes. Helping an old guy down the stairs with dignity was what a person does. That’s what a good place does.
Did I mention the food? Indulge me, please. Fresh squid and octopus. Pork sausages and goat fillets. Zucchini blossoms. Okra that was crisp and tangy, not slimy inside. Chickpea soups. Crusty bread. Tangy tomatoes and feta cheese. Fresh yogurt and honey (literal ambrosia). Olives that even I liked. And I don’t think a single entrée was more than 12 euros.
Greece has a lot of problems. It’s bankrupt, yet has to deal with swarms of German tourists invading every summer, sneering how the natives don’t work hard enough to be in the EU. The housing in Athens is pretty butt-ugly, thanks to their military dictatorship of the 1960s and 1970s. It’s hot and getting hotter, thanks to global warming. It has an aging population and an immigration crisis and is fighting as always with the countries in the region. It has starry-eyed dopes like me clogging its streets and taking selfies hanging off the Parthenon.
But the nights, the street life, the irresistible food (the kind you swear you’ll learn to cook when you get home), the stories and the warm generous people forces all that in the background. As hot, sweaty and filthy as I was near the end of the trip, all I could think of was, “How soon can we make it back?”
Looks so beautiful and sunny and hot, Jim!