Homecoming

          Travelling – or being elsewhere, as I prefer to think of it – can be an eye-opener. Ten days ago, I was standing on the Pnyx, the hillside in Athens that was the meeting place of one of the world’s earliest known democratic legislatures, a platform where citizens gathered to hear and express opinions. Now I’m back at home, reading that the U.N. special rapporteur has just condemned Britain’s recent legislation to stifle peaceful protest as “draconian” – after the eponymous Draco, the ancient Greek lawmaker whose unduly harsh penal code led to his being overthrown by outraged citizens. Similarly outraged, I propose that it’s time for some of the sitting members of the ‘Mother of Parliaments” to travel to Athens for a refresher course in democracy.

          Of course, ‘being elsewhere doesn’t necessarily guarantee a constant stream of enlightening moments or delightfully different experiences (the four-hour hold-up on the train from Bari to Milan was as humdrum as it gets), but there’s more scope for serendipity if we step outside our cocoons. Admitted, there are risks, but that’s what travel insurance is for (though trauma caused by exposure to the ways of foreigners is not covered). And, with just a little boldness, we can have meaningful conversations with people we would otherwise never meet, like Pierre from Brittany, for example. Although he has very little money, he had gone to Athens to take care of a troubled friend. He was making his way home via the ferry to Bari, sleeping on the banquettes in the lounge and carrying his life-support system in an enormous backpack. In bygone days, he might have been labelled a hippie, but he seemed to me a man of conviction, doing his best to fight inequality, injustice and the excesses of our capitalist economy. We also met a Korean woman, Su, a special needs teacher on a solo cultural tour and I asked her whether she would rather have a companion with whom to share the experience. She said that, while she enjoyed our fleeting company, she was generally content to be alone. We all conversed in English, though Su had to resort on occasion to the Google Translate app. (If you have it, translate the word “Pnyx” into Greek and listen to the pronunciation. You will get an idea of how perplexing the Greek language is.)

          The weather both here and in Athens has been unseasonably warm of late, but we got home during a winter-affirming cold snap. I like cold snaps, but the battery in the campervan does not. Despite being connected to a solar-powered trickle-charger for six weeks, it did not respond to a turn of the key, so I called out the rescue service. The man who turned up, Paul, was a bit grumpy, so I tried to engage with him personally, sympathising when he told me that that it was so cold on the previous job that he’d lost the feeling in his fingers and skinned his knuckles on an engine block while trying to loosen a corroded nut. What’s more, his arthritis had flared up. My approach worked and he warmed to conversation, even sharing details of his marriage, imminent retirement and plan to buy a holiday home in Greece. As for my battery, it had died, peacefully, in its sleep, of old age. No amount of trickle-charging could have prevented it, so I had no option but to replace it. Now, it so happened that Paul had a new one in his van and, though we both knew I could buy it cheaper if I were to shop around, I was without transport and disinclined to spend all day in pursuit of saving a few quid.

          By the time he had finished, Paul had cheered up considerably. He even reached out his arthritic, knuckle-skinned hand for me to shake before we parted. I suppose he gets a commission on the sale.  

Traces of Antiquity

          As we all know, Greek civilisation goes back a very long way and here, in Athens, the physical remains of it are impressive. But a lesser appreciated connection with antiquity is ‘barrel wine’, everyday plonk sold by variety rather than brand. There are two shops near us that sell it (they also have shelves of bottled wines). One shop is rough and ready, run by a friendly chap whose English is as rudimentary as my Greek. It’s here that I learned to blend agiorhittiko with cabernet/merlot to make a quaffable two-litre bottle for 6 euros. The other shop is more upmarket and run by a smartly presented young man who appears to have learned his trade at some posh wine merchant in London. It was here that I paid 23 euros for a bottle of unremarkable xinomavro.

          Wine has always been a part of the culture. Around 220 BCE, a Greek engineer produced a robotic servant, a full-sized replica that could pour wine into a cup placed into its hand – and then add a measure of water (which was customary at that time). Reconstructed from original diagrams, a modern copy of this automaton is the headline exhibit at the Kotsanos Museum of Ancient Greek Technology – despite being perhaps the least useful of all the inventions displayed there. Alarm clocks, burglar alarms, auto-repeat arrow-shooters, the windlass, Archimedes screw, the pantograph, medical instruments still in use today, digital signalling systems and the Antikythera portable calculating machine – described by some as the antecedent of the laptop – all were triumphs of ancient Greek technology. Moreover, they were powered by hydraulics, pneumatics and muscles. With the exception of the odd steam-powered gadget, the energy they used was renewable. These inventions might have given birth to a green industrial revolution – except that there was no industrialisation. From what I gleaned, mass-production, marketing, corporations and export-drives were all non-existent. The inventors appear to have operated ‘lifestyle’ businesses, hiring out their services as and when they got a call. Industrialisation came about in the 18^th century.

          The reason for this delay is complex: there are so many factors to take into consideration that it might be beyond even the latest iteration of AI to make sense of them. However, it is evident that tyrants and dictators played their part, destroying libraries, committing genocide, wiping out competing cultures, rewriting histories to suit their own ends and generally suppressing intellectual and cultural freedoms. (Putin and Xi Xinping, by the way, are just two of the present-day rulers continuing in this mode.) Otherwise, it may have been possible to have had a green industrial revolution 2,500 years ago. As it stands, we’re still trying to get one going now – against the tide of a neo-capitalist economy controlled by extractive industries.

          The true depth of antiquity can be even harder to grasp when you’re afflicted, as I and my Other Half both are, with century confusion – by which I mean, for example, that we have to think twice about the year 1453 having occurred in the 15^th century. (It gets worse BCE, when counting down, not up). So, it was a good exercise for us to go round the chronologically ordered sculpture galleries at the National Archaeological Museum yesterday, testing each other as we went. However, by room 15 of 28, we agreed that there were only so many selfies in stone we could bear to gaze upon in one morning and, by common consent, retired for lunch at a cellar taverna renowned for its simplicity. The interior is undecorated, the furniture is rudimentary, the cook is also the maître de, the menu comprises four plain but tasty dishes, the wine is either red or white and payment is by cash only. In fact, if I had to imagine a restaurant from two and a half thousand years ago, this one would come close. 

 

Flash, Bang, Wallop!

          I hadn’t planned to stay up for the fireworks, but I was reading a real page-turner of a novel* and, before I knew it, midnight was almost upon me. So, I woke my Other Half and we stepped out onto the terrace of the apartment we’re renting here in Athens. From its elevated position we must have seen every firework discharged to the east and south of the city centre. Then we went to bed – only to be awoken at 03.00 by another burst of explosions, seemingly outside our window. Now, I can take or leave firework displays – I can certainly leave them at 03.00 – because they are so ephemeral. They may be intended as an expression of joy but, in party terms, they are like those ‘show-and-go’ guests: they don’t sustain the proceedings. And anyway, when it comes to December 31^st, I question whether they’re signalling the end of the old or the start of the new year. Either way depends on your outlook, I suppose. But the older I get, the clearer it becomes.

          Nowadays, my past is far more extensive than my future and I’m inclined to wax nostalgic rather than to look forward with excitement at the prospect of my imminent and inevitable demise. Not that I’m constantly on the lookout out for symptoms or checking the obituaries for updates on my contemporaries. It’s just that there have been one or two incidents this week that have raised questions. Like when I put some root vegetables to roast in the oven and, half an hour later, discovered that the dish I had put them in had melted to become a flat piece of silicone, studded with colourful slices of heritage carrots etc.. But to be fair to me and my ageing faculties, this is not my kitchen and these are not my familiar pots.

          The same cannot be said of the other incident – the mystery of the noise in the bathroom. It sounded like someone was using a drill in the adjacent apartment, so I thought nothing of it at first. But, three hours later, I thought it odd they hadn’t taken a break. A little afterwards, I discovered that the noise emanated from a ceramic pot beside the basin, in which my nifty electric travelling toothbrush was thrashing away at imaginary gnashers. I laughed, but had I really forgotten to turn it off? Technically at least, the answer is no. That morning, as I recalled, it had failed to operate when I pushed its button so, assuming the battery to be exhausted, I made a mental note to get a new one and popped it back in the toothbrush pot. Later, what turns out to be a dodgy switch re-connected to the not-at-all exhausted battery. (It’s still going strong, four days later.)

          Then there was the afternoon at the Christian and Byzantine Museum, where I tried but failed to get a grip on the chronology, gazing intently at maps showing the extents of the various empires at successive periods in history, yet remained confused as to the chain of events. “Don’t worry,” I said to myself at last, “nothing was ever black and white. The characters, their beliefs and the political circumstances evolved over centuries. It never was clear-cut – hence the adjectival use of ‘byzantine’”.

          So, now I’m feeling more chipper about my prospects, 2024 isn’t looking so bad – as long as I put to one side geopolitics, the threats to democracy and the too-little-too-late approach to averting ecocide. Here, in my temporary microcosm, there is much to look forward to: thick black coffee in the mornings and ouzo at the cocktail hour, both served impeccably at wonky tables on the busy streets; museums and galleries galore, each competing for the ‘most charming café’ award; continuing fine weather and robust health. And, of course, my ever-present, indispensable Other Half.

*Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr.   

 

 

 

  

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.