The taxi driver

Even the most homogenous species produce an eccentric outlier. This person either dies out due to inability to adapt to the environment or he leads the new evolutionary leap of the species opening new horizons.

I was sure I had an individual destined for the second option, rare though it is, sitting in the driver’s seat last Saturday night. Way past midnight - a time when all other means of public transport sleep in Thessaloniki - the lonely taxi driver was pulling long shifts. We, small group of not particularly regular night-wonderers, took a taxi to return home in the late hours.

The late 1980s taxi showed clear difficulty to drive properly, but this is not to be considered a problem in Greece of crisis. The interior of the taxi though, resembled a living room (not mine… but that of a more high-Tec person’s). The driver had installed apart from the traditional GPS tom tom, also a portable DVD player on the controls console. On the flat screen we could see a popular show of the Greek television… live. The driver had connected the DVD player with an antenna to connect to proper television.

His driving was a master performance of multitasking. Consulting his tom tom was driving while watching TV singing along to the songs performed at the show and watching pictures on his mobile phone and sending text messages.

Most men, as they claim, are incapable of multitasking, to the extent that they cannot walk and talk at the same time. Thus this taxi driver is definitely the eccentric outlier that will bring the species forward.

Now, I can feel this discontent about health and safety at work, regulations for safe driving and respect towards costumers. I thing my dear readers that you are missing the whole evolutionary point here. This man manages entertainment, safe driving and earning a living all at once. Can you beat that?

We got home safely, it was Christmas time and Baby Jesus owed us a couple of presents, you see. Sadly I did not note down his registration number to report him as I should. I thought I will let evolution do the job, of either killing himself and a set of passengers or developing superhuman powers and bringing the species forward.

Did I mention he was also smoking?

The pre-teens phase

It seems that blabbering about previous forms of existences, even on a blog, has its costs. These costs I will pay right now by providing my views and some examples of Greek music.

Let’s start with the disclaimer.

My choice of songs is by no means representative of any music stream. Neither is it a selection based on quality. The only thing that these songs have in common is that they compose the soundtrack of my early adolescence. Nothing more, nothing less. It is quite likely that many people of my generation (yes, of those born too late and doomed to easy freedom) will recognize the songs, but I doubt that many of them will get watery eyes.

Using my dad’s old radio and a new portable tape-recorder after hours of careful waiting and excellent reflexes I managed to create few tapes of my favourite music. The secret was to recognize the song from the first few notes, then run to the recorder (where you already had an empty tape waiting) press “REC” and hope that your grandmother did not arrive that precise moment to ask you if you had eaten your eggs or if you wanted chocolate. (I have a very caring grandmother who knows nothing about music).

Moving on to my immature revolution (click the titles to go to the youtube video of each song)



I am collapsing.


This is the first song I will throw at you, my poor audience. You have to realize that the quality of music resonates the great moments of 1980s as they filtered through post-dictatorship Greece. This is essentially a love song, about a man who cannot understand his woman. She is a girl of her times doing all the things a 1980s girl does: turning feminist, wanting a free love relationship that includes experiences with all kinds of men, a communist, a Christian, a junkie.. The man implores her to decide what she wants. In the refrain he tells us he is collapsing, that he can’t keep on loving women and he asks Papandreou (Andreas, the prime minister of that time) to give him a ministerial position, to forget women.
The song is a happy jumpy one, perfect for a seven-year old who knows the names of all cabinet ministers (yes, that was me).



We are room-mates in madness

This was a poem that made it into a song. Like all poems it is hard to tell what it really is about. Adult me can try to decipher what eight-year old me left unquestioned. It discusses the role of rationality in political and social choices and the twisted use of the words victory and defeat. It makes references to historical events like: Burning of Troy, Hitler’s Nazism, Defeat of Hannibal, Oedipus and Salome. Very deep… but back then I used to listen to it and march around the coffee table with my mum’s wrap around me, pretending I was Hannibal even though I had no idea who he was until few years later.


The street


Don’t play this loud. The Police will come and get us! Thus spoke my little cousin and that was enough to keep this song in my heart for ever. Written to describe the ways people treat freedom this song presents the story of a street. First freedom represented a crazy idea, a dream that only kids dared to imagine. Then life brought entertainment, football and fights, moving finally to economic wonders and consumerism… forgetting ideology and freedom. It is a song easily learned by kids. Later I had to sing this at school at the anniversary of 17th November, thus, my illusions that it was illegal disappeared, but I still feel I am doing something great for freedom when I sing it.

To be continued…

What do the numbers tell us

Today, I regained my full confidence to the Greek race. I had a good look at the election results and now I can tell you I am proud. In a totally crazy situation with a lot of sacrifice, a lot of fear and desperation the Greek voter gave a clear message to the political system as a whole.

No camp should be allowed to celebrate. The turnout was the lowest since the birth of the Greek democracy. People felt that their vote would not make any difference so they simply did not bother. And ten percent of those who did bother showed their discontent and disagreement with the political scene by voting blank or purposefully destroying their ballot paper. I truly honor these people, who go to queue, spend part of their day just to send this clear message.

And those who voted? The results showed the deep questioning that takes place in the heads, and the hearts if you want, of the voters. The old party candidates representing a much hated political establishment could not easily be defeated and the new ‘fresh’ voices supported but not generated by the same establishment (ok but different party) could not easily gain majority. The main fear was wether, having gained power, they would just join and re-enforce the establishment, throwing away their ‘alternative hat’. In the end positive thinking won but only by few hundreds of voter.

PASOK, the governing party, did not lose, but has no reason to celebrate. Their candidates won in the two major cities but only because they did not come from within traditional party lines. New Democracy, the major opposition party, did not manage to capitalize on public discontent against the horrid government measures. They have no reason to celebrate either. The largest losers of these elections were these ecclesiastical voices that attempted to manipulate the electoral result. Church should not be a political actor in any democratic state, and this result was a slap in the face of militant bishops. And there cannot be a better result than that.

Now, what remains is to see what the ‘fresh’ elected mayors will do with their power. Will they re-produce old habits and finally cause more political desperation leading voters to new dead-ends and finally increasing the percentage of blank votes, or will they actually engage in meaningful work? Time will show. In the meantime, I will be proud of the Greek voters and will secretly hope that eventually they will produce more engaged citizens.

Fatherland

A short story - My first attempt in fiction






My father was born in 1938. It was a difficult birth, both for the mother and the country. The country was struggling to feed all these newcomers of 1922, who landed unwashed and unclothed seeking a new home and doubling the population. The country do the best it could to offer at least basic survival needs to all of them, but it did not guarantee them an easy life. The mother, being one of the unclothed, gave birth to one short-lived child after the other, she worked hard and made herself important in her small community. She was the midwife of the village. When the country was already deep into yet another dictatorship, comprehending slowly the local breed of fascism the mother gave birth to the eighth child, hoping that this time she would see the baby grow.

My father took his first insecure steps when the Germans marched proudly across Europe. The country only bothered with the later. My father brought so much happiness to his family. The only boy who survived child mortality. As the country suffered, he learned to speak during the German occupation. The country and his belly were hungry, the country and his limbs where numb and cold.

When liberation came he thought it was the beginning of the happy times. The whole country was out and about celebrating and cheering. But one day in the fields, he found his dad half dead. Sun-stroke and daily life struggle taxed him. He tried hard not to choose, but when he was forced to, he chose death and left them alone to struggle. A small loss among the many. The long and bitter civil war taxed many fathers, sons and daughters, pushing the country into darker times. My father was lost and scared, he was going through his own dark times. The fight could not last too long, like a bad illness it forced for a decision to be made. The country belonged to the West, the war finished, and my father went to school for the first time. Few years too late. Just like the country entered the post-war era few years too late.

The country was a good student of the Western powers, did its homework and got rewards. My father was the brightest child at school. He was not left to herd the village sheep, he did his homework, he got rewards. The church, herding souls and politics, offered him a scholarship to herd his mind towards more education. The country slowly but steadily re-build itself, under the supervision of Western Powers and its very own Church. My father builds himself slowly but steadily, walking to the closest town with a high school, even in the snow storm without much of shoes, to get education under the supervision of the teacher and the bishop. The country begs its allies for money to build industry, my father begs his mother for two eggs to buy a notebook for calligraphy.

Early sixties, the country wakes up to more social demands. My father demands higher education. The workers movements become stronger. The tobacco workers are a strong union and are supported by the pivotal agrarian party. My father is a tobacco worker child. They ask for more education, he gets their scholarship. The country feels too old and rigid to pass more socialist leaning legislation. My father feels too old to follow his dream and study medicine. He goes for the useful, economics.
The country experiences a huge wave of urbanization. My father moves to the city. Student demonstrations, money to education not to the monarchy! My father studies and shouts. The country balances financially. My father has a full belly. Just as the democratic left makes it into parliament my father graduates. He is now an economist. The country is still a democracy. Joy all around.

The country cannot feed everybody. Many have already left to countries with grey skies and more jobs. They also have better universities. So my father, without speaking anything but Greek, heads to Germany. The country, without speaking anything but Greek, heads to a period of political turbulence.

He struggles to learn the language, to earn money, to make friends. The country is put in plaster to get cured. The dictatorship starts. My father becomes a fashionable émigré of an abused country. He organizes awareness events, resistance speeches, and when the country experiences the worse oppression he becomes the chairman of the émigrés. As the tanks attack the Polytechnic, he is in divided Berlin protesting. He is on hunger strike.

The country wins over its oppressors. My father gets his PhD. The leader returns, monarchy is abolished. My father returns home and reunites with his family. It is a period of great joy. Everybody wants to help to rebuild the country. The air is full of ideals, happiness and democracy; all the big words. The country builds its democracy. My father is determined to help the country and his roots: the refugees of 1922, the tobacco workers, his village. He finds a job, he becomes important. The country joins all the international organizations and eyes the European Communities.

The big 1978 earthquake of his city shakes all the citizens. It also shakes his world. He meets his future wife, gets married. The country is experiencing a new era. The time for change has come. The moment is the elections of 1981, when the socialist government takes over for the first time ever. The whole country is in joyful frenzy. His daughter is born, the year of the change. Joyful frenzy in the family too. The country joined the European Communities.

Glorious times for the average citizen start, as the socialist government can offer something to everyone. Glorious times for my father, as now was the time he could offer. The youthfulness of the country provoked hope and joy. My father’s ambitions grew bigger and so did his child.
At the end of the eighties politics became a difficult game to play. But my father had ambitions, and ideals and people to help. So he played along. With every change of government the public sector enlarged, making a bigger whole in the national debt. With every electoral campaign my father gave a new blow to the family budget, which looked similar to the national debt. As corruption creped in the government, lies and mistrust solidified the silence between my father and his wife. The financial scandals left many things better untold, for the country and my father.
As the country joined the common European currency my father’s daughter embraced her European future.

The country was dancing in a European music, imposing itself to an illusion of prosperity with borrowed money. As the country covered with loans the public deficit, the citizens fed their consumer needs with credit cards. The country was promoting democratic ideals for public consumption and my father was fighting to give his dreams a last chance. Public finances got out of control. My father’s budget got out of control. Corruption dressed as democracy became the rule in the country. Corruption dressed as charity blinded my father. He gave too much, he could not afford it any more.
Now the country woke up to its bankrupt future. Those who believed in it revolt. Those who love it despair. Nothing can be the same any more. My father, just like his country, woke up to the same dead-end, frightening those who believed in him, despairing those who loved him. Austerity and insecurity faces both.
The country and my father always had a parallel life. The country and my father cause me always the same feelings. Pride, love, sadness, despair, fear, insecurity, pain.

That is why it is called Fatherland.

(just before the) British Elections 2010

Today I was expecting to count ballots, even from afar. To be excited about what may come. Will Britain finally embrace the European tradition of coalitions? Will they learn to work together or will they keep being the deeply divided society where social classes have their own separate vocabulary and they prepare their tea in different ways?

That was what I expected.

But now, instead, I am counting dead bodies in Greece. Victims of the anger of a people that held their breath for too long.

Sorry Britain, I am sure you will survive even with a hung parliament. I have bigger fish to fry today.

Smoking Ban in Greece: Three months on

Passing from completely compliant England on to nagging but obedient Italy, I had assumed that oxygen inside confined space was my natural right, especially since it is generally considered vital for survival. I had taken it for granted that I could happily breathe inside bars, coffee shops, public buildings and other protected spaces. For me, the small crowed outside each bar was a group of socializing smokers, and my flatmates standing on the balcony for a smoke without previous arrangement, only natural.
My trip to autumnal post-smoking ban Greece was about to shake my smoke-free world.
Some history first: Greece reluctantly adopted the smoke ban law on July 1sr of this year. Initially nobody took notice as the fun was outdoors and outdoors smoking was allowed.
As the cold creped in so did the numerous amendments and interpretations of what started its career as a total smoking ban.
So the total ban that I saw was far from being total…. With the following amendments:
1. Small bars (like very small) can choose to be for smokers or for non-smokers. So ALL small bars I know are for smokers, since this is the dominant trend.
2. Large bars and coffee shops can divide their area into smoking and non-smoking, and divide the two with a two meter high glass wall (which was a state of the art, hey, as you could literally step through it! … It did not exist! Anywhere!)
3. Big nightclubs, with the traditional bouzouki where in the old days the best clients broke some plates reaching maximum entertainment.
4. Universities, being a police-free zone, once upon a time to ensure freedom of speech, now ensure freedom of smoke of equally academics and students (we are all equal in smoking!). This includes lecture theatres and seminar rooms.

This covers bars and coffee shops. The restaurants I have not tried yet. Let’s hope that the government has been a bit more successful there.
The best result of the smoking ban was the new discourse on discrimination. Apparently smokers who are the majority of the adult population feel discriminated against… Their rights are suppressed not because the government cares about their health, but because some insurance companies have lobbied far too well and refuse to pay for the operations needed to cure (or slow down) the diseases caused by smoking alone. We pay all our lives, they say, damn straight they have to pay for the operations!

The irony....

Weddings: Santorini

Weddings are like conferences. They are mainly clustered around the school holidays, when one does not have to teach. This one took place in April, perfect timing for me, just after my field work in Greece.

Being a “destination wedding” (just to use the Guardian’s middle class vocabulary) it was not easy to organize, especially when you live in the old Albion. The happy couple, living somewhere in the trendy side of Islington, London, had to pay an Asian looking wedding planner to make sure everything would run smooth on the “happiest day of their lives”. And as we know, smoothness is priceless; especially when you have a jolly English family flying in from South England and a traditional Greek family that likes to have the last say in everything.

Clash of civilizations nicely balanced at the edges of a volcano. I had a unique perspective of the wedding. I know the groom since neither of us could utter anything apart from “ta ta ta” or “gu gu gu” and since then we followed a similar path, spending in England the past seven years of our lives. He made a breakthrough bringing home an English bride, not following his father’s example to bring home only his PhD from abroad. Shock absorbed, preparations made, there we were…

The Greek surroundings were an interesting folklore tone for the English, who on their return to familiar greyness would spend ours talking about the great Greek weather, the beauty of the island and the amazing food. The choice of the island was no mistake. Santorini is the flagship of the Greek Armada put together by the ministry of Tourism. You think of Greece? You have a picture of Santorini in your head. Quite an experience.

For the Greeks, though, that was even more of an experience. Uncomfortable with the idea of civil ceremonies, the lack of holy blessings and familiar chanting, they focused even more on the stunning views and the traditional touches. I could even sense the pride in their eyes when gazing towards the “English side”: You see how great is our civilization? Give us back the Elgin marbles! (oooops!). The personalized touches of the ceremony included some Greek modern poetry samples and medieval wedding songs (I had to present one myself as member of the welcome-to-the-family-committee for the bride).

The wedding was elegant, timid, and simply beautiful. Everyone was happy. And the menu… full of local delicacies (and I have a soft spot for Santorini cusine). I spend my time shooting pictures and chatting to the hired photographer. Maybe also dancing a bit. Or more than a bit.

In the end, I can say, the two great nations, the English and the Greeks, felt a little bit closer. Even though the Elgin marbles are still an issue…

The hat of nationality change +1

Monday morning 8.30am El. Venizelos airport, Athens

My last five hours of the fieldwork-easterholidays-weddinginSantorini month in Greece have to be spent in the transit of the Athens airport. The local internationalism of airports always intrigues me. As the same safety and consumption standards have to be kept everywhere, you get the same familiar feeling of airport-land. It matters not where you are, you still see the same signs, smell the same perfumes, eat the same food. I was even surprised to find traditional english train-station food in the main "food village" area of the airport.
For those nomads like myself, true citizens of no other country but airport lounges, differences between airports are small.. but striking. Sipping my coffee, eating my spinach pie I observe my co-airport-time-wasters being approached by:
1. A lottery ticket seller
2. An unfortunate lady begging for money
3. An unfortunate lady selling lighters
4. A lottery ticket seller (yes, a second one)
Typical, I tell myself. Having coffee in any square in Greece one would be approached by 5.2 people per hour asking for money. So.. the only thing that is missing is the small gypsy child playing (really really badly) some sort of musical instrument and a disable persopn that is normally too upsetting to look at (hence the 0.2).
By the time the second unfortunate lady appeared it was clear to me. Nobody approached me. I checked if I was invisible. Negative. Did I look poor? Negative. I had my (infamous duck-hunting) hat on and I was scribbling on a bit of paper.... Maybe, just maybe, I looked to foreign to be asked?
An hour ago, while trying on some face cream (of the type my academic salary will never be able to provide) I noticed... the shop assistants talked to me in english when I had the hat on, but in greek when I did not. Does my silly duck-hunting hat actually have magical powers? [Oh just now another lottery ticket seller passed me by. It must be the hat again].
The power of hats was never more clear to me. I praise now the wise english saying "Putting a different hat on". Never underestimate the wisdom of a people with an enormous ability not to adapt to new environments but to transform these environments to fit its own needs, a different hat in each case of course!
9.45 I wonder how many spinach pies I have to eat to pass my time until my flight...
10.51 Why does my computer not eat spinach pies too? Plugs seem to be nowhere in sight. Aspiring laptop users are strongly encouraged to do shopping instead!

PS. The title is inspired by DnD, for geeks of the bad kind. Wearing it in the head slot gives you a nationality change bonus of +1 (hmmmm.... My case is serious).

Bus science

I never liked the location of my dentist’s practice. He is a relative though, checks my teeth for free you see, that gives me enough incentive to bare the bumpy bus ride once every six months. Lost in my happy thoughts that I avoided yet another filling I slowly regained contact to my bus environment, only to overhear a lady’s sociological comments.

Oh how happy she was to meet that old man next to her by coincidence. Like good old friends they caught up with each other’s lives, and so did I as a matter of fact. His son was a student at the University in a city near by. Her son, all grown up now and oh so independent had a good job and his own apartment. “He is independent now, he does not want to live with us”. Fair enough I think. Greek men finally emancipated themselves…

The conversation moves on to more trivial topics… “Where are you heading now?” “Oh yes, I am on my way to my son’s flat, I need to cook for him. I normally do it at home and bring him the fresh food every day, but today I also need to do some ironing”. Wooooaaahh! Hang on a minute! The dream of male emancipation disappears like a bubble, with a loud plafffff! I can almost picture him, talking to his mum in this deep bored voice “What.. lentil soup again? You are going to kill me woman…”.

Ah… this boy is definitely a catch… sad I never met him.

I thought I would stay shocked for the rest of my twenty minute ride. But then comedy started. The woman moved on to sociological analysis of the bad habits of Greek youth.

“This new generation does not appreciate anything. The expect everything to be brought to them, they do not say thank you, they are lazy, they want to be spoon fed” And the man was the second violin: “Yes you are right, where is this country going.”

Okay… I just could not hold it back. I tried hard to disguise my laughter into a very bad cough. I do not know if I convinced them, but luckily I had arrived to my destination. Walking home I was thinking…

what is the reason for the lack of independence of Greek offspring, even after they reach the age of 30?
Overwhelming maternal love maybe?

And what is the reason of that then?
Lack of social activities for people above 50?

And what is the reason for that??

Oh, how I love blaming everything to the government! They should have produced a sort of “five a day” rule to distract the parents and stop child (emotional) suffocation and subsequent (household chores) disability.

Kennedy on the wall

She opened the door. Her size was half of what I remembered. Optical illusion I thought, possibly caused by her back making a perfect 90 degrees angle. She walked towards her couch in an unstable way reminding me of the first steps of a toddler. I was sad seeing her like that, and remembered the old days when I was running around in her living room playing. I always was impressed by the picture hanging on her wall and with my five years of age was amazed that the flag I recognized from my favourite show the “night rider” was in the middle of the picture frame. I never asked who these men were but I was sure that she was a cool aunt having that cool flag in her living room.

This time it was not the flag that amazed me but the images of the men. JFK and Bobby Kennedy separated by the statue of liberty. I listened to her story about the Greek civil war in her village involving a priest and a shepherd taking opposite sides in the war because of a woman. She was a practical person, toughened by the wars, never educated. She actually managed to go up to third grade before having to take care of the orphaned household and tend to the animals.

I had to look elsewhere to understand the origins of the picture on the wall. The two dead brothers seemed out of place in a Greek household in late 2008. Her late husband was not interested in politics either. Bringing up three children with only his two hands to work with did not leave him much time to ponder. Aparently the story of the Kennedies penetrated his shell of hard work and minding his own business… he was deeply moved by the assassination of someone different, who supported a more liberal society.

One day in a street market he found a Palestinian man selling hand made tapestries with the assassinated brothers. The Palestinian spoke of his country, and of the love his country had for JFK. The women of his family made these tapestries so he could make some money for them. Georgios found some hope in the existence of such politicians and as a true Greek was inspired by assassinated leaders.

Forty years later I was sitting opposite this tapestry wondering what its future would be. Grand children inheriting it most likely would not appreciate it for its aesthetic value, as it has none. As for its emotional value… it will be lost with its owners. Dead leaders of the 1960s have no place in a modern home.

Maybe that should be part of my inheritance. Next time I will ask for it.

Nero burning Rome

I spent the last two days greedily feeding on information from the homeland. I wonder if the self-exiled émigré has the right to comment on what is going on back home, or is he just the passive receiver of pictures of extreme violence with only permission to despair.

Thousand miles away, in a country that draws its national identity from the pride of being the place where democracy was born, these last two days democracy died a thousand deaths. A police officer was fed up with being called names and attacked with stones all the time by random youths. A mere boy was shot dead, just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong moment. A country was in shock.

School children attacked local police stations with stones and oranges to protest for the killer state. “Come out and kill us we are only 15 years old!” People went on the street to demonstrate armed with their pride. But so did anarchists, armed with clubs, fire bombs, knives and anger. And the riot police attacked the wrong group.

The émigré is too far away to feel the real flow of events. The anger and despair remains the same. Friends from across Europe exchange their views: - I am proud people still protest in my country, at least we are still citizens – You know that shop I got your Christmas present last year... it’s burned – Did your father park the car in a safe place? – Someone should catch these anarchists there is nothing left standing… - the government is useless, the police is useless… How can we save this country? – Do you think we should go back and do our best or just stay here and be happy we are saved?

Questions scaring the hearts of émigrés. No conscience is clear, of those who stay or those who have left the sinking ship.

These anarchists, burning and robbing in the name of democracy found asylum in the grounds of universities. Greek universities are symbols of democracy and freedom of speech, a refuge to all those who want to express opposition. This freedom will no longer be abused as the universities for the first time since restoration of democracy allowed the police to go in. Democracy died one more time in a fake attempt to be saved.

And university buildings are burned; the statues of the muses are headless.

It is the right and duty of citizens to protest when an authority sworn to protect the people abuses its power. We all cry for the boy. But we also cry for the abuse of the protest itself. Police targeting peaceful crowd and letting groups spreading terror to keep on destroying people’s property and what is more, peoples faith in this state.

As if they were not hopeless enough. Abandoned in a difficult life with no hope of improvement.

Political parties keep playing their blame tennis, hoping that one of them will miss a shot.

Émigrés, just like everyone, are trying to make sense of all this. Are trying to find where the blame lies, and how if possible, to make this lost country a better place.

Do you have to burn Rome to the ground to build it again?

Dr. Health, the Greek

Two old friends in central London….

Englishman One: Oh hello! How are you?

Englishman Two: Not too bad, yourself?

Englishman One: I am all right. Thanks.

…

[Uncomfortable silence]

…

Englishman One: Bad weather today…

Englishman Two: [good! Something to talk about!]

Yes indeed! The rain did not stop all day!

[10 minute rant about the weather]

Two old friends in central Athens…

Greek One: Oh hello! How are you?

Greek Two: I am fine thanks. Just this stomach ache is killing me!

Greek One: Oh really? Is it something you ate, or maybe stress?

Greek Two: Well, it started three days ago, I had eaten at my sisters, and you know how she cooks…

Greek One: Yes I remember last month I had dinner at hers… very spicy food. My stomach was hurting. Lots of acid and burping.

Greek Two: Yes me too. But you know now the acid stopped and I have this weird muscle pain every time I have a cigarette.

Greek One: Maybe it is ulcer?

Greek Two: You think?

Greek One: Or… now that I am thinking about it, your grandfather had cancer didn’t he? If I were you I would go have an endoscopy just to be sure you know…

Greek Two: Oh God, don’t say that! I am going to the doctor right away! Good to see you again!

Greek One: Yes you too, and let me know!

You now know why the Greek health system works unlike the NHS. Greeks are natural born doctors. Asking a simple “how are you” can lead the average Greek to providing a full medical history of himself and his immediate family. Discussing symptoms of illness is as common as “please” and “thank you” in the English everyday language. Trained for an early age to use medical jargon, combine symptoms, give a diagnosis and provide remedies for cure, Greeks find NHS inflexibility unbearable.

The whole nation has opinions about all kinds of ailments, a simple cold to cervical cancer. This combined with our natural mistrust to any type of authority (yes blame it to the Turks) does not allow a moments rest if you have to rely on the diagnosis of a single doctor. How can you trust the opinion of just one doctor, when you need at least three to create a simple majority? And if their opinions clash, the better!

The average Greek is very aware of the type of doctor needed, so he wants to go see the specialist right away. What’s with this go to your GP first and then get referred to whoever…. Nononono!

Being a doctor in Greece is almost like being a politician. You have to convince the electorate, hmmm yes sorry the patient, that your diagnosis is actually the right one, and yes please come again. And just like politicians, doctors have their constituency, their special friends and their supporters. Oh yes, and their secret funding… do not forget the secret funding (commonly known as the “little envelope”). So if you want to live happily ever after in Holy Greece, consult at least three doctors (state pays for that) and have your own doctor-friend to operate you. He wont ask for money, but if there is no “little envelope” be sure to have a grave-slot with nice view.

I hear you say that’s harsh, I hear you say its unfair. Well no. Having friends always pays off, being inquisitive always pays off, and having money… well that ALWAYS pays off. After all NHS is for free, but somehow you always end up buying your own medicine suggested by the Indian at the Boots counter.

Weddings: Thessaloniki

End of August seems to be the new wedding season. On our way to the house of our friend, the bride-to-be we passed three “wedding cars”, those with the far too expensive flower decoration (Remind me to use a humble donkey to get to my own wedding, if it ever takes place).

Weddings as festivities score top marks on environmentally hostile celebration list. Lots of useless plastic and cloth decoration, just to make sure that the world is aware of the bride’s home location. Needless to mention that all the guests were frequent in that very house for the past 10 years the least, so no need for signposting…

In this celebration of modernity, some traditions were kept. The urban monster of modern Greek culture did not swallow them all.
The bride’s girlfriends helped her put on her wedding gown while singing (very badly) traditional wedding songs preparing the bride for the first wedding night… You know the stories about the snake that goes into the cave!
All the unmarried girlfriends got the chance to find out which one would be married first, by writing their name on the sole of the bride’s shoe. Whichever would get erased first is the lucky one. I refused to let luck dominate my life so I asked for my name to be on the upper part of the shoe meaning.. no contact to the floor. But knowing my friends reputation of dancing many nights away… I was sure that no names would be legible by dawn.

The rest of the wedding followed the bourgeois rituals of Thessaloniki’s middle class.

The ceremony took place on the church yard depriving the eager of all religious warmth. New dresses and designer shoes where on display without the annoying singing of the priest. I was the only one without my hair professionally done. That combined with its pink colour deprived me from much of the “desired” networking.

Ice cream sorbet was distributed to keep the guests cool while waiting for the necessary evil (the actual wedding ceremony) to finish. The nasty organisers included stone hard sweets in the rice that was thrown to the couple, that only by some miracle avoided concussion.

The reception was set in a magnificent garden with a swimming pool. One of those my academic salary will never be able to afford. But no worries. I won’t miss much… the food was not exactly memorable (thank God cause I would end up with nightmares).

Not being a banker was a real issue at this wedding. Since the couple both work in a bank all their guests were bankers. The first question after what’s your name, was not “what do you do?” but “Which branch are you in?”. My non-banking nature was a real bore to them and soon they lost interest in me turning to a fellow banker to discuss credit cards and loans.

Suddenly the bride decided to incorporate the Hollywood introduced tradition of throwing the bouquet (obviously not the original one, but the one specially made to waste on single friends). Stupid me went with the bunch.
And the bouquet fell with force on my head.

I was supposed to catch it, but it caught me instead… by surprise. I wonder what that is supposed to mean.
The jealous eyes of all the single girls were on me. How could I apologize?

So I went to hide behind my wine glass.

Finally a cute guy in purple shirt came to congratulate me. Who said weddings are not a nice place for fashionable acquaintances?

Above the clouds

I have entered digital age. I am blogging while sitting in the airplane looking at some white fluffy clouds. I have finished my presentation for the next conference and I am enjoying my flight (with my legs against the back of the person in front of me due to lack of flight space).

I gather I am the only technologically advanced person on the flight. Go me! I can be isolated from the rest of the passengers more successfully that before. My bliss lasts until the person in front decides to have a nap and put his sit in the resting position. Then I will either have to accept having the laptop digging into my vulnerable intestines or I will have to start communicating with the fellow passenger.

Disaster!

I always need a mental and physical buffer zone between me and other passengers, especially when the plane is on a flight to Greece. The demographics on the plane vary depending on the time period. Two weeks before Christmas and the end of June students are in season, just before Christmas young Greek professionals populate the plane and all the rest of the time it the average Greek tourist dominates with his presence not only the plane but also the airport. The first thing you notice at this unfortunate period (alas I am going through it now) is the level of noise. Greeks (yes okay and Italians) are much more noisy than other Europeans. Secondly, there are no queues; just a random mob trying to avoid any order. The most striking thing for airport stuff is that all passengers in a flight to Greece happen to have tickets for the seats that are called to board first. Magic I would say.

I can be accused of being against my own people. That would not be entirely wrong. But it would not be entirely correct either. Being away for so long I have developed a very romantic and ideal perception of Greeks and the country. And now wherever I go, wherever I see it Greece hurts me.

Here I admitted it, the great behavioralist and rational choice front line fighter has a romantic soft spot for the homeland.

You can shoot me now!

Truth or Dare

Truth:
Greece has always been a nightmare for drivers. Fast driving, no respect for signs, double parking, driving the wrong direction on two way streets.
Apparently lately the government is really trying to change this. However there is a long established mentality in the heads of my fellow citizens that is making that extremely diffucult. A simple example, instead of obaying the law of drink-driving, the smart greek drivers drink and then the drive through the areas that they know the police never tests for "alco-tests". That might mean that they add an extra hour on the original journey time, just to feel free to have as much drink as they feel like. Now that is the essence of freedom!
Not long ago, a friend of mine was stopped by the traffic police at 2am on a Saturday night in a Thessaloniki main road for the traditional test. SHe was found clean. She only had drunk fizzy drinks. The officer in charge, instead of just letting her go, or thnking her and letting her go, he had a go at her.... Why shuch a young girl is not having fun on a Saturday night? It's wrong for her not to drink at all!!!!

Dare:
Obviously the approach of greek policemen has changed since then. They do not care about the citizens social life. On the contrary, they are trying to enforce the law even it means that they will disrrupt the citicents eating habbits. In this case the incident involved double-parking. The driver was just about to get coffee and breakfast but there was no parking space in sight. Hunger is not illigal yet by the greek traffic law. However, an out-of-duty policement (who says that in Greece people are lazy and do not work over time?) told the driver to forget about the cheese pies and the coffee and to take his car, as he was blocking the traffic. Of course the driver agreed, he only asked for some time to go and get his breakfast. He wasn't planning to stay there the whole day anyway.... There are so many nice things to do in Greece on a Sunday. The impatient policement judged that this man who prioritizes cheesepies and coffee before the well functioning of the traffic on that specific greek road was public danger... so he shot him.

Have you ever seen more dedicated policemen than the greek ones?

For reference:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/6720099.stm

So I believe that Greece has become a paradise for drivers. All the evil habbits of the past are now being erradicated... Only when you go beware. Do not buy cheese pies whenever you feel like it.

Try double parking in Greece... if you dare!

The day Greece entered the West

Today is one of these days that people will remember with a bitter smile pinned on their faces. While having my morning coffee the Sunday newspapers brought me the news that Greece finally became a true country of the Western civilazation. There would have been nothing wrong with this of course had it been due to economic development, infrastructure, great cultural achivements, important inventions.

The day that Greece became a true member of the Western Civilazation is the day four teenagers, children really aged 11 to 14, were accused for the murder of their class mate.

Greek always felt shocked when such a murder was in the news. But it has always been somewhere far, somewhere where the greek family values and the religious faith were not dominating. Greeks felt safe that although they were enjoying all the good aspects of the "west" they did not suffer any of its consequenses. The reason for that as they thought was their balanced view of the world and the strong family bonds. The traditional greek values.

So as USA had Superman to save them from evil Greece had its values. But as superman never appeared to save any of the victims of teenage violence, Greek values have proven to be insufficient if not just fictionary. So now that Greeks don't feel safe anymore not even from their own children maybe they will start wondering why only the shiny cover of the greek values stayed with them and the essential core has left them long ago.

Greek Easter

Easter in every other country is considered to be a holiday for the most religious of Christians. All the rest of the people send their day relaxing and eating chocolate eggs, not successfully hidden by the easter bunny in the garden. In Greece though Easter is a whole different story. For most the 95% of the population that proclaims itself "Christian Orthodox", Easter is the only occation the enter a church (unless they have played the lottery and want the Allmighty on their side).

Of course for the vast majority church going is just one part of their entertainment during these holidays, which involves dressing up, eating delicious food, singing and dancing. The first three thigs are actually satisfied in the church in some proportion. City-greeks go to church wearing their Sunday clothing, or in some cases their Saturday-night-out-at-the-club clothing showing their respect to dead Jeasus and their fashion choices to their fellow believers. Country-side greeks prepare the lamb for sacrifice to contribute to the Sunday feast and celebration of the biggest holiday of the year.

And they all show up Saturday night in the church where come midnight they sing a hymn (more popular than any song around these days of the year) play the red egg game and then eat the loser egg before the priest finishes singing his part. Then ten minutes later they are all around the table at their cosy homes eating the poor lamb cooked in elaborate ways..

So much for religion in the country of philosophy.