The Greek Adventures

New York City rushed through the sunshiny morning. Escaping from the insanity of Lexington Avenue, I bumped into a huge bronzy cat proudly presenting its mighty features on the corner of Park and 79-th Street. A tense rope kept the heavy door of the Greek consulate half-open. I slipped under a clapping flag into a room filled with gracious women and gloomy men. Energetic Greek speech flooded consulate floors connected solely by a tiny and extremely slow elevator. People with goggle eyes on agitated faces flung their hands and shouted at each other. The presentiment of bursting horrible New York violence disappeared when sudden smiles flashed followed by vigorous handshakes and warm embraces uniting all the arguing parties. My affair was also resolved positively, and I retreated from the Big Apple with a green European visa in my red passport.

Two weeks mutilated the weather. The leaded blanket of gray clouds pressed stiff humid air to the asphalt of the JFK airport. A guard separated passengers from their farewelling friends at the entrance to the small and shabby terminal of Tower Air. The inside granted no relief to sweaty suffocating travelers: air conditioning either was switched off or could not keep up with the prolonged crowds waiting to check in. The red flag of my passport expelled me soon from the tail of the Athens line towards a slender desk, and a Tower Air employee engaged me in a twenty-minute interrogation that had no precedent in my life despite growing up in the Soviet Union and dealing with the bureaucracy of the American academe. After a detailed discussion of the trip, we analyzed my four years in the States and even descended to the courses taken and taught by me in New Jersey and Texas. A pile of documents including the long-term parking ticket was photocopied, and I was allowed to register. The first ever occasion when I benefited from having a Russian passport: my neighbors in the line still had to wait for forty minutes more. A human trickle filled the Boeing 747 very slowly. The packed airplane hailed the embarkment of the last passenger with furious applause but subsequent mechanical and administrative problems extinguished the enthusiasm and doubled the delay. Three hours later than scheduled, the non-stop flight reached Greece and, in spite of its frightening name, actually stopped on a runway of the Athens International Airport.

A hot contrast with New York, Greece was dry and bright. A breeze from the Saronic Gulf glided over rolled down windows into the weary taxicab which abandoned the jammed main road to find a quicker way through the labyrinth of narrow streets. Perhaps, the democratic seat next to the driver was a reason why a fluent conversation sprang immediately and, after discussing the wonderful local climate, firmly settled on a favorite among foreigners topic - disadvantages of living in America. White low narrowing to their tops houses with huge balconies looked like small steam-boats that climbed from the blue sea to relax on sunlit slopes. My arrival to Hotel Armonia in the luxurious suburb Vouliagmeni did not disperse this illusion. After a short stop at my cabin on the last floor, I run to a beach on the eastern side of the peninsula. The sandy strip embracing the bay was filled with bodies. Youths skewed at topless women. Frisbees flew. Burning soles found relief in caressing waves. I swam away from the crowd. Greenish water became transparent and revealed a patterned bottom many meters below... Although the sea was gorgeous, it could not keep me under its spell for long. The everlasting desire to reach the highest point drew me towards the peaks of pink and grey hills covered with sparse vegetation. The ascent rewarded with golden views from the top to the misty city and Aegean blue.

Greeks seemed to be angry at me. Replies were choppy, eyes were averted. Even waiters looked as if they were annoyed to see me. It took some time to realize that this perception was wrong and that people in Greece were actually very friendly. The first morning discovered me at a deserted bus stop. According to a guidebook, I needed to buy a ticket for 100 drachmas from a kiosk. My experience at a nearby newsstand promptly doubted reliability of the advice. The first companion at the stop, a slim girl with copper-colored hair, came to my rescue. She not only provided a couple of tickets but also showed how to validate one by timestamping it when we boarded a bus. My confused appearance kept bringing her back to spare a brusque suggestion and leave me again. Before the girl directed me to the second bus of my journey, she protested: "No, you are not Russian. Russians do not speak English. I thought you were an Australian". On a side note, I saw many compatriots during my visit. Not only tourists. A Greek guide on the Acropolis told me that many Russians had recently selected Greece as a new residence and that, unfortunately, their ignorance of the local language, rough behavior, and rising crime did not improve historically warm feelings towards Russia. Meanwhile, my bus quickly became packed with passengers. I got off when decided that I was close enough to the center of Athens. Matching the terrain with a tiny map from my book persuaded that the judgment was correct. The distorted by ongoing renovation Syntagma Square lay just a hundred meters away. Although its building of the Parliament did not impress me at all, two guards in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier were worthy to look at.

A traditionally funny guard near the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. June 29, 1998

Their amusing dress featured white tight pants and a black tail hanging from a red beret. Big furry balls adorned their wooden shoes. The time to change the guards came soon. The ceremony turned out to be even more entertaining and resembled a slow dance. I dove into the street mesh of Plaka and emerged near the Acropolis where I suddenly discovered that my International Student Card (acquired to get a cheaper airfare to Costa Rica six months ago) granted some noticeable discounts. Corroded by time and humans, the flattened tooth of the Acropolis rose over the white city. The rocky top of the hill was crowned with the Parthenon. The temple was spectacular even though its Doric columns hid a modern crane, not a statue of Athena. Caryatids carried out their endless duties on the porch of the elegant Erechtheion. The stairs of the solemn Propylaia offered an asylum to numerous tourists from all over the world. Two independent meetings with other students from Austin proved how large the University became in comparison with our shrinking planet. The luminous Athens sparkled around the Acropolis. Light was so intense that obscured the issue whether it originated from the sky or earth. White walls of haze on the horizon concealed the sea and mountains. Despite the heat, the green cone of Lycabettus Hill attracted me like a magnet. Closer, right under the southern cliff of the Acropolis, the Theater of Herod Atticus opened up its ancient marble chalice.

A view from the Acropolis on Herod Atticus Theater. June 29, 1998

The already mentioned guide complained about Turkish barbarism in the past and accused the British in clinging to stolen Greek art. I learned from him that for the next two nights, the Theater of Herod would be hosting a ballet performance starring Maya Plisetskaya. I descended to the theater. Its box office was closed and empty. My book suggested that one could buy tickets "under an arc between Syntagma and Omonia Squares". Relying on this vague description brought a surprisingly easy success - I quickly found a desolate internal yard, and a woman behind a glassy window supplied me with the desired ticket. Encouraged, I soon discovered the statues of Apollo and Athena embellishing the Academy of Arts and Letters. A visit to the neighbor University boosted my cynicism: as I suspected, the splendid building belonged to administrators; actual education was moved to suburbs. A stroll along quiet streets amazed by the amount of political graffiti. While wall inscriptions from my childhood were rich with "Spartak is a champion" and "Natasha + Anton = love", it was obviously not sport or sex that inspired young Athenians. I have never seen so many red sickle-and-hammers. Their apparent main competitors were black circled A's resembling the Toyota trademark. I passed a beautiful church reminding its Russian peers and started a tiresome roundabout ascent on Lycabettus Hill. The vertex glorified by the blazing in sunshine chapel of Saint George provided great views to the prostrated below city with its Acropolis, Stadium, and Temple of Olympian Zeus. I returned straight to Syntagma, and a bus drove me to Glifada. My hotel was in commotion. The pool area, except a corner reserved for a conference reception, hosted a private party. Guests were arriving one after another. Graceful women in evening gowns were tall and slender. With this background, a segregated bunch of scientists and engineers in wrinkled shirts looked so pathetic that my desire to join the reception immediately evaporated. I walked to the seashore. A delicious dinner accompanied by the murmurs of dark waves further strengthened my respect to local chefs. The guidebook proposed to try "coffee or ouzo". My conclusion that ouzo is a Greek name for coffee was proven to be wrong when an order of Macedonian ouzo materialized into a transparent bottle. The bottle shape suggested an alcoholic content, and a single sip of the oily anise-flavored liquid confirmed this suspicion.

Next evening, the center of Athens saw me passing by arcades of shops in Monastiraki towards the ruins of the Agora. After going around the ancient marketplace, I climbed on the Arios Pagos and disagreed with the guidebook assertion that this location of the ancient parliament looked like "a rock with an artificially leveled top". My third visit to Plaka was hailed by an energetic contest between tavernas competing for the right to serve my birthday dinner. I chose the most melancholic advertiser whose second-floor restaurant expectably turned out to be empty. A lonely table on a tiny balcony offered a lovely view to the Parthenon and people on the narrow street below. I noticed the friendly family of Tolpinruds from Salt Lake City among them. Our acquaintance started at the ruins of Dionyssos Theater just one day before, but now it felt as if we were old friends. Randall, Alicia, Whitney, and Stephen treated me with a vase of ice cream and the "Happy Birthday" song. After the pleasant feast with the Americans, I rushed to the Theater of Herod - the ballet was about to begin.

My birthday with Maya Plisetskaya. The Theater of Herod Atticus. June 30, 1998

The rising circles were packed with an excited audience. Greek women made up ninety percent of the spectators. My ticket did not reserve a seat, and I was lucky to find a nice spot in the central sector. The performance brought a magical night with it. The moon and stars woke up and curiously stared at famous dancers. The lights of Athens shimmered through arched windows and over the theater wall. Ballet sparkled on the stage, and the audience was all but calm. Athletic jumps by Carlos Acosta sent cascades of sensual female sighs towards the sky. A slow graceful dance of Maya Plisetskaya was the climax. When long ovations died out, the first deserters headed for exits. One hour later, the show was over. The marble benches covered by leather pillows got deserved rest. A reception was set up on a square in front of the theater. I mingled with artistes. Maya Plisetskaya, simple and natural, requested beer and inquired whether Argentina won its World Cup game this night. My knowledge of Russian and English came handy for impromptu translation. The tour host wanted to know Maya's address in Munich. When a young Greek movie star asked reverently "Is there anything impossible?", the ballerina shrugged her shoulders: "Most probably, yes". I accompanied Maya to her big black car. The other dancers crowded a bus. A taxicab returned me to Vouliagmeni.

Joys and excitements of the journey culminated on this last night of June. The downhill July was quick to taint the stream of emotional discoveries with trouble.

The Aegean Sea near Vouliagmeni. July 1, 1998

The first sunset and deserted point of Vouliagmeni peninsula witnessed my careful submergence into the Saronic Gulf. My feet gained short steps in search of a safe way along the rocky bottom. A sudden sting launched a painful surge from the left sole to the leg and threw the body into the waves. The swim in deep clear dark-blue water erased the memories of the pain and entertained by fish and cruising liners. Reluctant to release me, the sea resented my departure and pushed me angrily on its stony edge. A ruby trail of blood run down from my knee to the pink rocks. More depressing news awaited at the hotel where a mirror showed a rising itching range of fever blisters below my disappointed lips. Early in the morning, an alarm clock announced that it is time to visit Delphi. I jumped on my feet just to collapse straightway. When even slightly touched, the left heel flushed my body with agonizing pain. The sole looked like a frivolous parody of the European flag: a circle of black stars under the reddish skin. The intruders refused to be expelled, and my surgical attempts (resumed on the backseat of a doubledecker) failed miserably. In the center of Athens, the enticed by the Oracle tourists changed a bus and met our guide Casandra. She diversified the drive with ancient myths. Near Thebes, the sad story of Oedipus confirmed that even kings should be cautious in the affairs of violence and marriage. We reached Mount Parnassus. This famous ridge embraced the picturesque village of Arachova.

Arahova Village on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. July 2, 1998

The red-roofed white houses of the village were so lovely that I limped through the narrow streets until a priest in dirty clothes hurried past me and thus reminded about the string of buses waiting near the gift shops. A heat wave arrived to Delphi before the flock led by Casandra. The omphalos was grilled. The employees in the Delphi Museum abandoned occasionally their strategic positions in front of fans in order to enforce a weird rule that visitors and sculptures could not be photographed together. Our group trickled from the museum to the Agora where Casandra hid in a shadow, delivered a brief lecture, and allowed the tourists to explore the ruins on their own. After a hasty run inside the Navel of the Earth, the lagging expedition ate late lunch and turned back to Athens. Everyone was tired. The air conditioner in our Mercedes bus suddenly succumbed to the merciless sun and died. The driver engaged in its revival. The crowd moved into the aquarium-like building of a rest area. The tourists gulped water. Casandra smoke, complained about her destiny to work while all the normal Greeks enjoyed the beach, called her husband, and answered my questions such as what is a meaning of the common (and funny for a Russian eye) suggestion "Poletai" posted on numerous billboards around the country. The one-hour repair failed. The heat inside the bus was so intense that the driver agreed to violate a regulation and proceeded with the open door. Still, when the passengers returned to the white city, some were about to faint. A crawl from one hotel to next reached finally its remote end - my Armonia - at nine o'clock. Extracted from the sandal, my left foot appeared as a swollen violet proof of what the venom of a sea urchin can do to humans.

The next morning removed the pain but brought a fever. My last walk to the western side of the peninsula failed to explain whether, when, and how illegal parking is punished. Apparently, leaving your car amongst a bunch of others is safe. An armada of motorcycles streamed from the city to the beach. A bike ridden by a young man in front and a woman with her arms around his torso would remain a symbol of Greece for me. My taxicab was fast in reaching the airport. The Tower Air inquisitive approach and three-hour delay were neither a surprise nor a big annoyance. The plane soared to the south and, to compensate for my emerging cold and weakened hearing, provided a summary of these five days: Glifada glided below; we sailed over Hotel Armonia and the unfortunate point of the peninsula; exquisite yachts relaxed at the peaceful bay of Vouliagmeni; the Boeing turned and passed by Athens towards the Gulf of Corinth where rewarded me with the last glance at Mount Parnassus and Delphi. The gorgeous island of Corfu, bleak coast of Albania, Ionic Sea, Italy, Paris, New York. My legendary Toyota Korova waited faithfully at the parking lot of the JFK. Reunited, we rushed across the Verrazano Bridge to my Newark apartment.

Sergey Gorinsky

February 3, 1999

Austin, Texas, USA