A Little Bit Foreign

          From time to time, it’s refreshing to go abroad, away from the flagrantly immoral rhetoric that pervades domestic politics and feeds into the current-affairs media to which I have become addicted. Admittedly, there is no real escape, thanks to the internet, but respite can be found in the form of distraction. On our second morning in Athens, I took a stroll around our temporarily adopted locality, Panormou, just to get my bearings, suss out a place to have coffee and relish for a while the sensation of geographical and cultural distance from home.

          There’s no shortage of cafés, but I was looking for an outdoor seat in the delicious winter sunshine. For Athenians, December is ‘puffa jacket’ season, whatever the weather. Some women take it to the extreme of ankle-length, thickly-stuffed coats that would pass muster in the severest of Siberian blizzards. But with the temperature at a balmy 13 degrees Celsius, it seems to me ideal basking weather and I soon found a sunny spot to sit and savour the relative foreignness of this south-eastern corner of Europe. Yes, the supermarkets here play Christmas muzak, but the recent pop hits are royalty-free covers – and I’ve heard some very classy jazz versions of familiar old songs. Cultural differences, in general, are not fundamental, which makes for a comfortable co-existence between visitors and natives, while the slight divergences serve as a reminder that accidents of geography and history are all that separate us as humans.

          Looking around the tables, I became aware that most of the other customers were old men (like me), some alone, others with pals, but all of us watching the world go by. Later, the myriad cafés fill up with all ages. I speculate that the reason for the ubiquity of cafés and the certainty of custom for all of them is the fact that everyone lives in apartments and there are no gardens to accommodate the urge to get outside. Most of the blocks were built to a similar pattern after WW II, when the housing shortage had to be addressed with both urgency and economy. The result is high-density urban living, but on a low-rise scale that maintains both sociability and a good sightline towards the Acropolis – the latter benefit, at least, being intentional on the part of the city planners, or so I’ve heard. For sure, there are property developers pushing at the limits of height restrictions but, if they succeed, they will surely kill the goose that lays the golden eggs of tourism.

          But I am not content with sitting in the sun drinking coffee (and, sometimes, wine). There are serious museums here to be attended and, at this time of year, they are not crowded. Even better, entry is mostly half-price - a concession that may be intended to benefit long-suffering Athenians but from which we off-season tourists are not excluded. There is, however, a downside: half-price can mean half-staffed, so that rooms are roped off at random because, as I was told when I enquired, there are not enough attendants on duty. The closures are random so, if you want particularly to see the collection of vases in the National Archaeological Museum (as I did), you would have to go every day in the hope they might be accessible. A false economy, if ever there was one. And since, for me at least, returning during peak season is out of the question (I would fry in the heat), I have to make do with the stuff that is available. But it’s no hardship, really, since there’s an awful lot of it – even after Lord Elgin made away with some choice examples.

          Which reminds me, I must check the Guardian-on-line for the latest political shenanigans.

 

   

Travelling Light

          Last week was all about travelling. During the four days it took us to get from Plymouth to Athens, we took seven trains, two coaches, one ferry and two taxis, spending one night with relatives, another in an hotel and a third at sea. Yes, it would have been quicker – and cheaper – to fly, but we chose not to and, having done so, determined that we should relish both journey and destination alike. We’ll be away for almost six weeks, so packing took a little consideration: no flying means no weight restrictions, but we still would have to drag all our stuff around, so we settled for a manageable, medium-sized roller case each and a couple of small back-packs.

          Whatever the means of travel, journeys are always beyond your control: you make your bookings, assemble your documents, buy your insurance and set off in hope that the infrastructures are not disrupted by strikes, weather, technical failures or the kind of natural disasters that insurers shy away from. Now, if you’re expecting me to relate a tale of woe, you will be relieved to learn that everything went according to plan. There was just one panicky run for a connection but, for the sake of proportionality, I won’t dwell on that. Better to stress that we did enjoy the overall experience.

          Unlike planes, trains have seating configurations that are conducive to conversation with fellow passengers, some of whom can be interesting. Jean Paul, for example, started talking to me as soon as we sat opposite each other on the busy Eurostar to Paris. He seemed to me the epitome of a Eurostar customer, a Belgian whose employers operate from different European capitals, whose grown-up children are being schooled internationally and who is himself about to take up a post as head of a United Nations meteorological unit in Geneva. We had socio-political discussions all the way to Gare du Nord and never once did we talk about the weather. When we disembarked, trailing our cases behind us, he waved a cheery goodbye and strode off along the platform with his stylish overnight bag slung over one shoulder.

          But long-distance ferries, with their generous public spaces, afford the best opportunities for interacting with strangers – the proviso being that nobody wants to lumber themselves for too long with a boring companion. Hence, it was only toward the end of our passage that we got talking to the Norwegian lesbian couple we had seen at dinner. They were on their way to their holiday home on the island of Lesbos with their little dog Billie (Jean King). When I commented on their modest baggage, they told us that they had cycled from Norway to Italy (with Billie in a travel cage), sent their bikes home with a courier and would be taking another ferry via Piraeus after parting company with us at Athens railway station. I was impressed by the extent of their Nordic endeavour, but it was almost eclipsed by dogged determination of the Australian father-and-son duo who subsequently joined us during the wait for disembarkation. They were part-way through an ambitious Euro-culture tour to mark the son’s graduation from high school. With their noticeably small rucksacks and dishevelled but practical clothing, they were undertaking a sort of modern-day, low-budget version of the educational ‘grand tour’ indulged in by the wealthy English in the era of the Enlightenment. They were about half-way through but showing no lack of enthusiasm for the myriad museums they had yet to broach. The six of us, being the only pedestrians on the ferry, stuck together for the journey from the port via taxi, coach and train to Athens, where we parted company like friends.

          The Airbnb apartment we have rented in Athens is, in many respects, similar to our own home, so we have played it pretty safe, accommodation-wise. We may also have played it safe wardrobe-wise, since I notice that most of the clothes I brought are still on their hangers and look likely to remain there for the duration.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

          It’s beginning to look a lot like (let’s postpone everything until after) Christmas. In my view, it’s premature and brought about by the early onset of seasonal muzak, worming its way into our consciousness and brainwashing us into thinking that the time is nigh.

          Normal service has been suspended. I’ve been trying for a week to persuade the plumber to come, but all I get is intermittent texts citing the “must be finished by Christmas” rush as an excuse. A monthly board meeting is skipped because it falls within a week of the hallowed day. When I turned up for the mass bike-ride that takes place on the first Sunday of each month, there were only two others there, considerably fewer than the 120 that had gathered on a fine day in June. We three stalwarts blamed the poor showing on a miserable weather outlook, but I suspect that Santa-fever played its part because, after agreeing to abandon the ride, we went home via the city-centre and saw that the festive-light-adorned streets were thronged with shoppers.

          Perhaps the same explanation applies to what happened on Tuesday at the regular meeting of the University of the Third Age discussion group. Attendance, at best, is eight, but on this occasion we were four – and one of that number was new to the group. Still, having made the effort to show up, we dug into our chosen topic, Civil Disobedience: are there circumstances under which you would agree to it? The answer was a unanimous “yes”. In fact, the speed with which consensus emerged meant that we had time to branch out into the degrees of disobedience we might condone and the arguments surrounding means justifying ends. We were beginning to run out of steam, when our new member pointed out that we are all left-leaning liberals and that we needed someone to toss in a right-wing point of view – which he duly did. But his heart wasn’t in it, so we retired early, whereupon it was agreed that the next meeting would fall too close to the 25^th to be viable and that we would reconvene in January instead.

          With all this extra time on my hands, I’ve been catching up on culture – in particular, a couple of ‘classic’ films I had never seen, Serpico (1973), a quintessential tale of cop-corruption in New York and The Pumpkin Eater (1964), a love story set in a monied London milieu. On reflexion, whether this can be called “catching up” is a moot point. Given that I have lived through those eras and, therefore, identified with them fondly all through both films, was I merely wallowing in nostalgia? Maybe so, especially if, as I suspect, the older we get the more inclined we are to live in the past, which is where I’m sure the younger generations see us as belonging – a not unreasonable viewpoint. But there’s a voice inside me that says, “I’m not done yet!” Video gaming is a step too far but, having read an assertion that Beyoncé is the greatest entertainer of all time, I made a point of ‘catching-up’ with some of her stuff on YouTube. It took less than five minutes for me to reach my verdict: if that’s entertainment, then I’d rather take a nap. Obviously, I’m not the target audience.

          Yesterday, I bumped into an acquaintance – the proprietor of a local café/bar – and we agreed that Christmas comes too early. He is making a stand, by refusing to play seasonal music at his venue until the 16th of December, a date he considers appropriate. But, by then, I will already be hiding away in Athens, returning in mid-January, when it’s all over, everyone’s broke and even the plumber should be keen to resume invoicing.  

 

You Can Bet Your Trousers

          It’s all very well having organic produce delivered direct from the farm, but what you gain in healthy bowels and soil-nurturing brownie points is traded for convenience. By the time I’ve washed the spinach, scrubbed the beetroots, trimmed the carrots – and made pesto from the leaves – my morning’s gone. Then there’s the extra cost – though by then I’m feeling too virtuous to be making mingy price comparisons with Aldi.

          Of course, only those with sufficient time and money can easily transition from the fast lane of a consumerist lifestyle to the slow lane of mindful eco-preservation: which gives a clue to my situation. Yes, I’m a Boomer, which is to say that I am of that immediate post WWII generation, you know, the one that benefitted from full employment, free healthcare, free education, free love and – most importantly – soaring house prices. No one feels sorry for us, nor should they. Which is why I take care to avoid whining at young shop assistants when they are unable to accommodate (or even comprehend) my special needs. A case in point was my recent search for winter-weight woollen trousers. Unless you seek out a specialist outlet, clothing retail is driven by fashion. And it is not currently fashionable, apparently, to wear warm, winter-weight trousers. It’s just as well I have some long-johns in the drawer.

          Not that I’m always shopping. I’ve developed a sense of dutiful thrift when it comes to the planet’s finite resources, though it’s true that it’s easier to shun unnecessary consumption when you’ve already spent years buying and discarding heaps of stuff and you know that the next pair of trousers you buy will probably out-live you. Still, the temptations of mammon are constant. I went this week with my Other Half to help her choose some new specs – the old ones having been irreparably damaged when they were inadvertently kicked across the room – and she was offered a buy-one-get-a-second-at-half-price-and-a-third-free deal. It seemed like a great idea. The first pair would be polarised for general use, the second for driving and the third unpolarised and held in reserve for emergencies. So, now she will have three pairs of specs to misplace and is suffering remorse at having over-bought.

          “Fear not”, I said, “Cop28 is about to convene in Dubai where, presided over by the head of an oil company, the Good and Great will save the planet for us”. She looked askance. Scientific evidence may point to imminent disaster, but fossil-fuel extractors are busy re-arranging the deckchairs on our sinking ship in an effort to distract attention from our fate. In fact, in a master stroke of diversionary tactics, it was very clever of BP if, as has been averred*, they deliberately nurtured the idea of individual ‘carbon footprints’ for everyone on the planet. By doing so, they offloaded the responsibility for reducing emissions on to us, while continuing to ply their trade as before. If the thought of an oil-rich sheikh fighting for carbon reduction is too ludicrous to bear, look out for your local Cop28 event: activists around the country will be shining a light on this anomaly.

          On a more optimistic note, it turns out that there is a secret weapon with which to confound the ambitions of polluting industries: Boomer power! We are diminishing in number, it’s true, but we still hold most of the world’s wealth and if we were to move our money to ‘green’ banks and pension funds, we would deprive them of investment and put a stop to their game. Now there’s something to make you feel extra-righteous while you chew on your gritty spinach.

*Am I Too Old to Save the Planet? A Boomers Guide to Climate Action. Lawrence MacDonald