'A climate of frivolity was intended, but the tension was palpable.'
On the lost village of San José
On unusual border crossings
On displaced arms dealers
On alpha males and tired guides
On dangerous diving
On charming brush offs
On jumping off cliffs
On unhappy marriages
On insalubrious bars
On politics and football
Ten Days In Greece
Mixed omens on arriving in the land of the Olympian Gods. My bag was first off the carousel, but the moment I passed through the airport doors, I dropped my e-cigarette on the pavement and smashed it beyond repair.
I took the airport metro for 10 Euros rather than a 38 Euro taxi. Getting off at Monastiraki, I exited the station and the Acropolis materialised illuminated above me. It reminded me of arriving in Berlin one winter night where my random exit brought me to the foot of the looming Brandenburg Gate redolent with grim history. But this time, the streets were swarming with revellers in the warmth of a pleasant spring evening.
I found my hotel without problems thanks to some unusually successful interaction with a map. I thus looked very much like I was the new tourist in town and the streets I walked towards Omonia felt like they might be slightly dangerous – if this was a dangerous place. But it wasn’t. In ten days, nowhere suggested any sense of threat. Some streets looked very poor; the city threw up a light litter of homeless, but little sign of the desperate impoverishment I half-expected from their financial crash. Perhaps the warm spring night helped – even the one-legged man on my street corner seemed reasonably cheerful and secure soliciting coppers from his roadside post.
The value of understanding the Greek alphabet occurred to me while looking at near indecipherable street signs. Also, how some maps give the streets completely different names.
I had the first of my half-dozen gyros dinners. It became my default stomach-filler when nothing more creative sprung to mind. Afterwards I wandered up and down the old Agora – the ancient market place where Socrates once asked too many questions. Around the fringes of the nearby city squares hung small knots of young African men and the fug of marijuana. They appeared friendly, but set apart from mainstream Athenian life.
Temples on Top
I was pleasantly surprised not to be charged to visit the Acropolis. None of the usual hidden charges – the literature suggested I needed some form of ticket. Only two temples of note remain. The Parthenon is in something like its fifth version. I was reminded how the Ottomans accidently blew one of them up four centuries ago as they thought it was a good place to store explosives. Bloody philistines.
I chose to dine in Kolonaki. The small backstreets soon proved beyond the ken of Google Maps, my map, and me. I walked through a lively student area and eventually settled down outside a pleasant little restaurant in a cobbled street on a gentle hill. The waiter looked crestfallen when I turned down his huge platter of mezze with barely a glance, and plumped for a rather predictable Moussaka. Happily, it was magnificent and the Greek house wines were quite palatable.
After a long search, I found out where I was on the map. I was in a place called Exarcheia. It was North-East of my hotel rather than the South-West I had planned. Ironically, it was nicer than Kolonaki despite what people say. Kolonaki, on my one brief visit, simply looked plush and full of luxury shops. In Kolonaki the following night, I chose the wrong restaurant by making the mistake – not for the first time – of confusing a welcoming smile from a waiter as a sign the restaurant was serving something I wanted to eat. I chose a souvlaki place having forgotten this largely involves more skewered meat. I ate vegetarian. Stupid on all fronts.
The Lost Marbles
The pretty receptionist was young enough to be a younger friend’s daughter, but her apparent enthusiasm for my cause still made me feel around 30. I commented on her brilliant English. In a Bristolian accent, she told me her father was English. Her colleague was equally helpful, which firmed up my false sense of youthfulness.
I went for a walk in the national park where for reasons unknown I felt close to fainting. I drank lots of water and one of the popular slushy drinks that are no doubt required to deal with the full glare of an Athenian summer. I walked past orange trees and stumbled across a small pond containing several hundred turtles. I visited the giant columns of the Temple of Zeus, Hadrian’s rather modest arch, and the impressive ancient Olympic stadium where the marathon of the first modern games ended.
I later visited the Acropolis museum where there’s clearly plenty of room to slot in the Elgin marbles. My favourite exhibit was a Lego model of the site which combined past, present and imaginary in the characters swarming about it. They included Elgin pilfering the marbles, Elton John singing in one of the old theatres, and Gandalf arriving on a donkey.
Beneath the southern shadow of the Acropolis, I discovered a maze of atmospheric narrow lanes mainly catering for tourists where the charm superseded the commercial. I remembered I was on holiday, and stopped for a beer.
Lots of riot police on the streets as I walked home from dinner in Kolonaki but unclear what they were waiting for. The newspaper said bomb-making kit was found in an anarchist squat. I passed a small bookshop and was surprised to see about 100 faces – seemingly disembodied – staring out at me, or perhaps towards a charismatic author within.
I booked a ferry to Mykonos on my smartphone – a rare foray into fully using the potential of technology. Nobody was going to do it for me. I was dissuaded from going to Santorini by a rather dismissive – and less alluring receptionist – as it was apparently too far, but didn’t like his suggestion that I should settle for one of the islands merely an hour or so away. Mykonos also has the added attraction of the mythical isle of Delos nearby.
The Island Odyssey
I took the 1730 ferry from Rafina.
Only one terminal at the end of little quay – not the confusing port I expected. It was a full-size ferry – not the smaller nippier craft I had envisaged. Finding the bus-stop to get there was trickier and involved asking lots of questions. Luckily, I did this before visiting the archaeological museum as most of these out of town buses are spread about vague areas of the city without useful signage to make the process predictable.
On the boat, I got chatting with a Greek islander. He spoke like a very well-educated upper class Englishman which he attributed to spending some years in London. He waxed lyrical about Greek philosophers when he saw I was reading Plato’s Symposium before bemoaning how little today’s schoolchildren are taught about their wise ancestors. He was more evasive about less abstract matters and I learned nothing personal about him other than a mumbled reference he made to working in finance. He expressed an interest in my careers as a journalist and therapist while expressing doubts about both. He described himself as self-actualised, but only after we parted did I reflect how negative he was about everything.
I neglected to do any real research on the practicalities of staying in Mykonos.
This proved to be a mistake.
As I disembarked at the new port at around 2230, I rather expected to be in the centre of the action. First impressions suggested I was just out of the action and this was why everyone from the ferry was now stepping into a car. Obviously, I decided to walk. Given the choice between following a sign towards the old port and a place I had never heard of – I chose the latter, which involved walking up a very long hill on the hard shoulder while HGVs trundled past threateningly. Two jolly-sounding English girls walked behind me which gave me the impression I was following an acceptable path to somewhere. They soon disappeared.
At the top of the hill, I found a kebab shop where I ate well and drank a large beer. It was one of those times that a large beer is exactly what you need. I asked the staff about hotels and they spoke amongst each other in what sounded like pessimistic voices. I spoke more Greek than they spoke English. I understood that they thought I was Italian, but didn’t have enough Greek to explain I wasn’t. In a mixture of Italian and Greek, they pointed me in the direction of where some hotels lay.
This proved to be a mistake.
Evidence of hotels did exist, but they were very much closed for the season that – it transpired – began in about a week’s time. Google Maps placed me somewhere in the middle of the Aegean Sea. I continued to walk into what proved to be the largely deserted heartland of the island.
This proved to be a mistake.
I walked around four miles. My two bags helpfully balanced the load. Twinkling lights in the far distance beckoned me onwards like Sirens shining torches to lead me further astray. Each illuminated a sleeping village or the kind of homestead that didn’t welcome visitors at 1.30 in the morning. Several gardens housed large aggressive dogs seeking company.
I began to think about sleeping in a ditch. I even inspected one, but changed my mind. I turned back as it was clear that this was not hotel country. Eventually I settled on a derelict house that I had passed earlier constructed solely of concrete floors and roofs. The walls were not yet an afterthought. I mounted to the second floor of the building on the shaky premise that wild dogs don’t attack people upstairs. This gave me an opportunity to watch the stars and feel like I wasn’t too old to experience adventures. Also, how my adventures usually involve some degree of suffering.
At around 0330, I decided to retrace my steps. It was too romantic to sleep.
When I had returned to the Crossroads of Doom, close to the kebab shop, I elected to take the opposite direction to what I had been advised four hours earlier. After about 10 minutes, the bay enclosing the old port appeared beneath me.
Now that I was in the right place, the fact about it still being the close season became more demonstrably obvious. I spent the next four hours walking up every single street in a very hilly bay of many streets. The lights were on but there was nobody home.
At one stage, two fishermen discovered me at the seafront writing my diary by torchlight. The elder seemed scared when I asked him in correct Greek whether he spoke English. His strapping young companion was less intimidated and gave me complicated directions to navigate the labyrinth of streets of the old port towards the one open hotel on the island.
Appetites Unbound
Around 7am, I found an open boutique hotel. I didn’t think I would fit in and the nice well-groomed young man apologised for the rooms costing a minimum of 120 Euros. More usefully, he told me the hotel across the road charged half that ‘if I didn’t mind waiting an hour till they opened.’ This didn’t even register as an inconvenience.
While waiting outside, I asked several departing guests if it really was a hotel to discount the possibility if it being a mirage. Eventually, I was let in and I complied fully with their invitation to eat a large breakfast. Sometime later, I was shown into my luxurious quarters within which I lounged expansively for most of the day while planning a fitting dinner.
Later, down in the small, chic and photogenic port, I ate a slow-roast lamb shank. The waiting staff were genuinely charming, which is always nice when you’re travelling alone. But their brandy still cost 30 Euros a shot. I settled for an ouzo. They didn’t love me enough to give me a free one. I thought that was tradition.
Nonetheless, it felt like a triumphant day after its disastrous start. I successfully changed my return ferry to Athens and found another hotel – still way beyond my comfort needs, but costing only 35 Euros. This would allow me to take a day-trip to nearby Delos. The manager, Maria, was charming and offered me a cream cake as it was her birthday. I said I would collect it later as I was off for my supper. She never offered it again despite my persistently hanging around reception without an obvious objective. I later found out my bathtub was a Jacuzzi. I used it every night regardless of my cleaning needs.
I asked Maria’s assistant if breakfast was included. She said ‘No!’ As if I was mad. This balanced out the Jacuzzi bonus.
Eating otherwise followed a good-bad pattern. One afternoon, I lunched at a gyros house. This was to avoid paying the 20 Euros it had cost the previous day for some fried cod and a fruit juice. I paid 17 Euros instead for some vile sausages and two portions of chips. I only asked for one. The waitress was too tired of life to offer me the coffee we had earlier discussed. Eventually she accepted my money when I went to find her.
One evening, I sought out a local restaurant where I had a (still) frozen moussaka. When I pointed this out, the waitress looked mortified, which helped a bit, and was moved to ask someone to finish cooking it. The menu’s most impressive feature was the selection of baguettes – one for each of the 12 Olympians.
On my final morning, I found the baker’s open and feasted on fine pastries and coffee for a sprinkling of change. I had belatedly hit the jackpot. After enjoying these in the pleasant morning sun, I popped back in to tell the friendly staff their wares were kostimo! Kostimo has no meaning. It is a mix of nostimo, which means ‘delicious’, and kalos, which means ‘good’ so would make quite a good word in the right circumstances. They smiled and said goodbye.
Otherwise, my best eating memory was a creation involving honey, cream, pistachios and filo pastry called Galaktoboureko. It's a mouthful in every sense and the kind of dessert that makes you laugh with pleasure - though it's best to swallow first.
The surprisingly readable Symposium follows a discussion about love between a group of prominent Athenians. Socrates gets the best lines and like most ancient Greek thinking the discourse seems strangely modern aside from the odd absence of any mention of women. While the goddess of love is Aphrodite, she is considered a better class of woman for not having a mother.
My favourite line was ‘one could hear a girl playing a flute’. My girlfriend plays the flute. Perhaps if I had a flute-playing boyfriend I could tell the difference. Another quote to remember: ‘it isn’t easy for a man in my condition to sum up your extraordinary character in a smooth and orderly sequence.’ Quite hard to say without slurring when in one’s cups.
I am also reading an abridged version of The Greek Myths by Robert Graves. I was pleased to know that during his Tenth Labour, Heracles wandered down the whole coast of Italy before realising he had taken a wrong turning. I could do that.
On my last day, I took the boat to Delos, once home to the navy of the Greek city states and supposed birthplace of the God Apollo. It was an appropriate setting to celebrate Ancient Greece with its rugged hills, scattered ruins, and seductive blue waters. I climbed up to the shrine of Apollo where I was caught short. For my blasphemy, I lost complete sight of the path I had struggled up and was forced to climb down the rocky sides where I was briefly engaged in a stand-off with a family of goats.
I was the only tourist to trail around the island museum. The one employee followed me around like a very bad spy as if worried I was going to run off with one of the larger than life marble statues that towered over me. I asked her to show me where the museum was on its model of the very small deserted island. She said she had no idea where we were, before adding: ‘eets my first day’. After I snapped several photographs without my flash, she asked me not to use my flash. Only on a deserted island can you get this kind of personal attention.
The return journey to Athens passed efficiently without incident. A bus from Rafina whisked me back to the city centre without a moment’s delay and a room in my allegedly full hotel materialised for my convenience.
The Drug Trafficker
Consulting the Oracle
With time running out, I headed off to Delphi the next morning.
Thankfully, I left early for the hidden bus-station, which I walked past before realising that the overgrown pavement I was following alongside a major road suggested I was straying from the path.
Delphi, situated several hours drive away at the foot of Mount Parnassus, proved to be the best place of all. Thankfully, I elected to stay overnight as I was too late to visit the site of the oracle that afternoon and it would have been a great disappointment not to spend the night somewhere so tranquil and fitting for a consultation with the gods.
The oracle has little to say now but the excited babble of waves of international school children were more garrulous – possibly heightened by the remnants of the hallucinogenic gas that had leaked out and lent the ravings of the original priestesses their ambivalence. I wonder how many cities were won and lost in their translation.
The temples only now exist in the form of isolated clusters of columns mostly nested sleeping in the grass though the theatre and stadium are sufficiently intact to stir the imagination somewhat. The stunning view down the mountainside to the narrow ribbon of river in the valley floor many hundreds of metres below must have made it an inspiring sight for those arriving after many weeks arduous pilgrimage through the deserted and harsh landscape.
Hotel and food were faultless – the latter involved a baked feta pie with sesame seeds, marmalade and honey followed by a wild boar and shallot stew that was so much more than ‘a stew’. The owner looked like a young Tony Soprano and was friendly in rather intense way. His girlfriend had just moved to London so he figured he should visit. He had never left Delphi and gave the impression he would be much happier hunting for my wild boar.
Before I left, I bought a small Grecian urn from a lonely shopkeeper. I felt guilty as she wrapped it up slowly and carefully for my journey home. With each new layer of protection, she seemed to be rueing my decision not to buy any of the more expensive statuettes and vases that I had spent time admiring. I was possibly her only customer that day.
Aside from sporadic swarms of school children, it was a very quiet and peaceful haven of two small streets. As on the islands, it was relatively bereft of youthful inhabitants who had been presumably drawn to the bright lights of Athens.
But I was only passing through so it remains perfect in my memory.
