My Athens in August

I am not a misanthropist, I just like my Athens in August. Despite the economic crisis, Athenians have fled. This means that the streets are empty, you get anywhere you want in no time, there are no queues in banks, nor the tax office, nor the hospitals, nor IKA, nor at the supermarkets.

Halandri, 16 Aug. 2010 at 18:19

It is an interesting time for observations. For example, even though you can park anywhere you like, you still see the occasional car parked on the pavement. There are those stickers you can get that read 'είμαι γάϊδαρος παρκάρω όπου γουστάρω' ('I'm an ass I park where I like') from streetpanthers, but I think that if someone parks like this in Athens in August they deserve a special version sticker with 'κάφρος', instead of 'ass'.

It is also almost bewildering how the very few people who have remained in Athens drive. It is as if there is a silent agreement that basic rules are obsolete this time of year. There is absolutely no need to indicate if you are turning or pulling over, red traffic lights are there for decoration purposes only and speeding like your behind is on fire is your god given right. Even pedestrians seem to have a death wish. Perhaps they are dizzy from the heat, but they too behave like they have an invisible shield around them to protect them from the lunatic drivers. They, too, ignore traffic lights and cross the road without even looking if there are any cars coming. They cross at their own speed, like strolling in a park and at dangerous points where speeding lunatics can't see them before it's too late. The funny thing is, that because all this is known and -I honestly believe- actually silently agreed upon, and as I haven't seen any accidents, this system appears to be working, although I must say I feel sorry for the tourists and the new drivers who just got their license and decided to stay behind in the city while it's still empty, to practise. They must think everyone got released from the madhouse and were given a car as a farewell present.

Leoforos Pentelis, 16 Aug. 2010 at 18:22

One of the most annoying things about Athens in August, especially for us who've stayed because we like the peace and quiet, is all the alarms that go off and no one is around to turn them off. It is mostly car alarms. This is something I never understood. Why have a car alarm if you're not there to be alarmed when you hear it, and if nobody else gives a toss? Car alarms keep sounding for what it feels like an eternity until I wish that there really was somebody trying to steal the car and that he would succeed before I go out with an axe and smash the damn thing. However, it's not just car alarms. It's houses, too. About a week ago our neighbour called from wherever he's gone on holiday to ask us to check on his house because the alarm had been set off. I don't know exactly what I was supposed to do had there been a burglar, as I am not a particularly scary or muscly person and I don't own a baseball bat, but I went there to have a look, anyway. Perhaps because it was the middle of the day, an unpopular time to break into houses and because there was another neighbour -a retired army general mentioned before as the villain responsible for the slaughtering of the neighbourhood's last sheep- on his balcony who would have probably shot any suspicious lurkers on sight, but mainly because I firmly believe that alarms go off for no reason other than to annoy me, that I went there totally convinced all was fine in the house and that I was just wasting my time. Was I right? Of course I was. After a while, the police also came to check. All this because of an attention seeking alarm system. The next day, the same thing happened with the house next door to where I work. Again in the middle of the day, again the police came, again false alarm. And it's not just houses. There is a shop on a main street that I drive past every day where the alarm is always sounding. How that is possible, I don't know but I swear it's true.

As I'm typing all this, the boats en route to Piraeus are overflowing with people coming back to Athens. With them they are bringing their cars, their children and their disrespect for the city. The national roads are also full with unhappy people returning to unpaid loans and bills and uncertain jobs. From tomorrow morning that special time when the city feels humane will be over.

Ode to Yellow

Got my washing out of the machine this morning and it was all yellow. All my white tops, including that historical halter neck from Stafford-upon-Avon, all my white underwear (although some might welcome the change), all an unusual shade of yellow. Fortunatelly, after some research, I found that yellow is 'in' this summer. In fact it's been 'in' since 2007. Silly me, I had been under the impression that green was the yellow of circa 2007. This is what happens when you don't follow fashion, so I guess I'm lucky that my washing machine does. What's more, it provides this service for free.

A component of a carefree life, is embracing mishaps such as these. Therefore, I am about to embrace yellow in all its manifestations.

In music. Obviously, Yellow by Coldplay, as old as my previously white halter neck. Yellow River by Tony Christie apparently, who knew. Lemon, by U2 could be argued to be a yellow song, same as Lemon Tree by Fool's Garden. Yellow Submarine, the Beattles. Η Μαγιονέζα, από την Λιλιπούπολη. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, by Elton John whose music I'm not particularly fond of but that's a beautiful song and all the more for being in the soundtrack of Breaking the Waves (1996). Yellow Moon, by the Neville Brothers. Also two greek classics, Μαρία με τα Κίτρινα, Δήμητρα Γαλάνη, and Άσπρα Κόκκινα Κίτρινα Μπλε, Βίκυ Μοσχολιού which in fact has most of the colours covered. And finally, Don't Eat the Yellow Snow, by Frank Zappa, a very useful advice.

In diseases. Yellow Fever, a virus for which there is treatment but no cure and which is responsible for 30.000 deaths yearly even in our time. Cirrhosis. It actually makes you yellow.

In mental associations. Taxis. New York. Never been. The Orient. Never been. Yellow pages. Such a waste of paper but not everyone has access to the internet. Lemons, melons (oh my, an anagram!), stains, tablecloths, they will never come out, a puffy jacket that got stolen from the back of a car in Bristol, hatred, but why? Canaries, they are very sensitive, they die and you think it's all your fault and you're only a child. Yellow teeth, yellow nails, yellow press, Τριανταφυλλόπουλος, Yellow River, Kate Hudson's dress in film with very long title, Dimitra's walls in Birmingham, bananas, Woody Allen, pine apple slices.

I really liked my white halter neck from Principles in Stafford-upon-Avon.

Damn you, washing machine!

Whole New Thing (2005)

I watched a very interesting film last night that I had never heard of before: Whole New Thing, 2005, Canadian. It was directed by Amnon Buchbinder, who hasn't done any directing work since, unless he works under a different name, for which I don't think anyone could blame him. Apparently, it has won several awards. Plus the soundtrack, featuring three songs by The Hidden Cameras, a band previously unknown to me and I'm sure, to most of the world, is quite interesting (We Oh We, I Believe in the Good Life, Builds the Bone).

The main theme of the film is the relationship of 13-year-old Emerson with this new English teacher, Mr Grant, followed by the relationship of Emerson with his parents, followed by the relationship of Emerson's parents to each other, followed by Emerson's sexual awakening, followed by the relationship of Emerson with his new fellow students.

Emerson had an unconventional upbringing. He's an only child, home schooled by his mother. The house they live in was designed by his mother and built by his father, who is now working on inventing a system that will turn human excrement into fertilizer and energy. When Emerson, who is very clever and has already written a book, shows a lack of interest in math, his mother decides to send him to the local middle school. There, Emerson who not only is different, but also looks it, gets bullied by the boys in his class who label him 'queer'. Luckily, he finds support in Mr Grant, a lonely individual who regularly picks up men in public toilets. Emerson challenges Mr Grant's choice of teaching Snowboard Snowjob (which I have no proof it actually exists but kudos to whoever came up with the title) and urges him to switch to Shakespeare and inspires him to be a better teacher. As his parents are going through a rough patch that leads to Kaya, the mother, start an affair, Emerson develops a crush on Mr Grant which he very forwardly expresses. Mr Grant is trying to discourage him without hurting his feelings but Emerson doesn't take rejection very well and follows Mr Grant to the infamous public toilets. Furious and hurt at what he sees, when Mr Grant comes out of the public toilets, Emerson confronts him and in the height of emotion jumps into the car of a stranger who mistakes him for a rentboy. They end up in the office of the stranger, who has a routine he likes to keep when picking up boys. Emerson goes along with it until he is asked to take his pants off. He freaks out and locks himself in the bathroom. The stranger is getting really impatient and finally Emerson explains to him that he hasn't done this before, that he is 13 and that he wants to leave. By now night has fallen and Mr Grant is still outside the public toilets waiting for Emerson to come back. Finally Emerson returns and as soon as he's in the car, breaks into tears. Together, they drive to Mr Grant's former lover's, Claude, where Emerson's parents (who have sorted out their marital issues by now) are waiting for them. Emerson falls asleep in his parents' arms and Mr Grant seems to be getting back with Claude.

This is the type of film that I suspect dear old José Arroyo would sneak into his curriculum. It's Canadian, it qualifies as a 'gay interest' film and could generate many a discussion about gender representation and sexuality. But don't let that deter you from watching it. It's a good film, thoroughly enjoyable and funny; it's different, well shot, well acted and it definitely deserves to be seen.

corfu guide, corfu rhyme

(Let's see... How do we link this to the blog? I went to Corfu. Was it because of the crisis? No, I would have gone anyway. I took the car with a friend and shared the cost. Would I have driven alone if my financial situation had been better? No, would much rather do it with a friend. Would I have flown? Perhaps, but it was much better with the car.)

I just came back from Corfu. Stayed with a friend who has a gorgeous flat in the old town. Nothing fancy, but very white and airy, with lots of windows and a wonderful feeling to it. While I was there I read Life of Pi, I ate souvlaki at Ninos twice, I had tsipouro with saffron, went through two hairy parking situations and bought a bottle of kumquat liqueur (the clear kind, my gateway to new cocktails). Apart from food, drink, a movie and petrol, the kumquat liqueur is the only thing I spent money on. I did see some nice shoes, but I resisted until we had to rush to catch our ferry back. Now I'm in Athens and the shoes are safely in Corfu. I'm clearly not the kind of tourist the island wants. And I don't think I'm the only one. I could never, ever, imagine that finding a parking space in the town centre, in the middle of summer, could be so easy. Wherever we ate, the place was half empty. The beaches were absolutely tolerable (apart from the weekend when the locals come out to play). I counted at least six shops within the old town that have shut down (I wish this didn't rhyme and I wish I could focus on the dozens of shops that are still doing well, but are they? I feel I rant coming on).  And why shouldn't they shut down? Why do we need all this crap anyway? (Deep breath.)

One time, as I opened one of the windows of the flat to take in the view, I noticed two men on the rooftop of a building opposite us. One was sitting on a chair, the other cutting his hair (chair, hair, you have to be kidding me). I got so excited, I must have taken more than ten pictures of this scene. It was such a contrast. On the street, people walking around, tourists taking photographs, cars parking and un-parking, mopeds making everyone's lives difficult and above it all, a guy in his underwear, cutting his bare chested friend's hair. I don't know why, but there was something wonderfully reassuring about that.

Ανέξοδες έξοδοι, ημερίδες, μεγάλες μερίδες κι ο Γεώργιος Φραγκούδης

Μόλις ανακάλυψα ότι οι -δωρεάν- ημερίδες είναι ένας φανταστικός τρόπος για να διασκεδάσει κανείς, έστω και για λίγο, την ψευδαίσθηση ότι ανήκει σε μια ομάδα με κοινά ενδιαφέροντα, να περάσει κάποιες ώρες από τη ζωή του αποκομίζοντας γνώσεις που μπορεί να του φανούν χρήσιμες σε κάποια μελλοντική κουβέντα (όπου μπορεί να ξεκινήσει λέγοντας κάτι όπως 'Όταν είχα πάει στην ημερίδα με θέμα....' για έξτρα στόμφο), αλλά κυρίως για να φάει και να πιει όσο θέλει. (Εδώ θέλει λίγη έρευνα, καθώς είμαι καινούρια στις ημερίδες και ίσως να μην σερβίρονται σε όλες τόσο πλουσιοπάροχα γεύματα όσο σε αυτήν που πήγα.)

Τουλάχιστον δύο άτομα στην ημερίδα για τον Γεώργιο Φραγκούδη είχαν έρθει, αν όχι για σκοπούς κοινωνικοποίησης και τη συγκομηδή πόντων κουβέντας, σίγουρα για το φαγητό. Ήταν ένας νεαρός και μια μεγαλύτερης ηλικίας γυναίκα, ντυμένοι και οι δύο καλά αλλά με ντεμοντέ α λα salvation army ρούχα, οι οποίοι τίμησαν δεόντως τον πλούσιο μπουφέ, τρώγοντας ταχύτατα αλλά με μια γνήσια αξιοπρέπεια που, για ανθρώπους σαν εμένα που θεωρούν ότι δεν υπάρχει κομψός τρόπος για να βάλεις κάτι στο στόμα σου και να το μασίσεις, έχει εντυπωθεί στο μυαλό μου σαν απεικόνηση της αρχοντιάς. Επίσης ήταν οι μόνοι που έδειξαν γνήσιο ενδιαφέρον για τον άνθρωπο προς τιμήν του οποίου οργανώθηκε η βραδιά. Θα πρέπει να έχουν εμπειρία στο να εντοπίζουν τέτοιου είδους σχεδόν μυστικές εκδηλώσεις -σύμφωνα με τα κουσομπολιά, άνθρωποι που τους ενδιέφερε η ζωή και το έργο του Φραγκούδη δεν είχαν ενημερωθεί, προσκλήσεις στάλθηκαν τελευταία ώρα, στην ιστοσελίδα της Παντείου η σχετική ανακοίνωση αναρτήθηκε την προηγούμενη μέρα- αλλά έχω την εντύπωση ότι από όλους μας εκεί, οι δυο αυτοί άνθρωποι εκτίμησαν την εκδήλωση περισσότερο και ήπιαν κι ένα κρασάκι στη μνήμη του Φραγκούδη.

Naming a cat.

I find naming a cat so challenging a task, that my previous beloved cat went by the name Ο Γάτας (The Cat), up until I found him dying on the tarmac two blocks away from home. That was a very shocking day for me. I had forced myself to believe that when cats disappear it's because they have found a home they like better. Before him, we had Miu (there she is on the video), who I had found when she was very tiny, meowing on top of a rubbish bin -as she never stopped meowing, I always thought she had something extremely important to tell us and felt frustrated I couldn't understand her- and who we decided to have neutered a year later, after she had kittens. We kept the female of her kittens, named her Muji (from the Greek Μουτζούρα, she's the one standing on her hind legs), and watched as the mother became more and more aggressive towards us and her offspring.

We had Muji neutered before she had a chance to have kittens. Shortly after that, Miu disappeared and within a week Muji disappeared too, never to be seen again. I believe they both hated me for having them neutered and that's why they ran away (although in the back of my head I think one of the neighbours is the culprit because they were somewhat loud in their frequent mother-daughter quarrels). 

Feeling guilty towards the female cats for having had their reproductive organs removed, I decided not to interfere with Gata's testicles. Had I had them removed, however, chances are he wouldn't have gone prowling around the neighbourhood looking for female companionship, he wouldn't have been hurt and laid for who knows how many hours on the burning tarmac, dehydrated and suffering from thermoplegia and by the time I found him be so disfigured that I wasn't even sure it was him.

After Ο Γάτας (that gorgeous creature on my laptop) died on the vet's table from head injuries (the vet said it was from a kick in the head but I have trouble accepting how anyone could do such a thing), after we had done everything we could to save him, after we buried him in the garden the next morning, I didn't want any other cats. It felt like whatever decision I made about their reproductive organs, it would always be the wrong one. 

But about two weeks ago, a kitten appeared in the garden. I looked for her mother and siblings and found none. She came in the house, walking around, exploring, inspecting and purring for hours on end and has stayed with us since.

So now we have a cat again and I need to find how we're going to call her. She is very beautiful and wild, and I'm having great difficulty deciding on a suitable name. Currently, I'm between Fellini (in Greek it would be Φελλίνη because of her sex), or FeFe even, and Patousa (which means 'foot, paw' and is also the name of a street in Exarhia). The first option I like because I think il Maestro would make for a wonderful cat, but also because 'Fellini' and 'feline' sound similar. (There is also a Greek actress, famous in the 80's, who is called Filini (Ελένη Φιλίνη, VHS goddess, leotard icon, who should definitely have something named after her, a cat, a street, a star, a disease.) The second one I like because this cat has the cutest black paws I've ever seen and because, well, let's face it, 'patousa' is a very funny sounding word.   

Stars Hollow vs Melissia

Lately I've been spending my every waking hour watching the Gilmore Girls. Highly addictive, highly recommended. I realised yesterday, as I was half way through the third season, that is has started to rub off on me. I found myself not only agreeing to escort my dad at a pointless town meeting, but also looking forward to it. I was hoping there would be some sort of speech involved by the guy who was to announce his candidacy for mayor (hopefully someone like Taylor), but it was soon clear that this was a gathering of shaking hands and exchanging surnames. The meeting was taking place in a cafeteria I didn't know existed on the main square. All the tables outside were taken so we sat at the table nearest to the kitchen, bathroom and, I had some vague hope, nearest to the fire exit. Then I remembered, this is Greece, there are usually no fire exits. I suggested that we play backgammon, the boards were right next to us and the temptation severe, but my dad thought we'd look unsociable so we sat like the old men on The Muppet Show instead, debating the term 'βλαχοδήμαρχος' and silently estimating the average age of the attendees (my estimate was somewhere between 60 and 65). Suddenly, men started coming our way, stating their surname (which my dad who's hard of hearing never caught) and shaking our hands, and briskly walking away to the next table. Fascinating. Finally one of them suggested we move to join a group at a more central table. As we were still feeling adventurous, we agreed and sat with three nice people with whom we had cordial conversation for over an hour. As it turned out, their house is very close to ours and they moved to the area at the same time as we did, which meant that we could reminisce about how things used to be when there were still trees in the area, and sheep and flowers and that we could gossip about the old neighbours, especially the one responsible for the slaughtering of the last sheep, a horrible stain in our neighbourhood's history, which led to the chronic depression of Mr Sotiris the shepherd, another favourite subject of mine. My dad got invited to join the gang of pensioners at their daily meetings in that very same cafeteria, and as we were driving back, he mumbled 'well, it was better to have gone than to have stayed in', which coming from my dad means a lot, and which is now my new philosophy. Be it a town meeting, a traditional music fair, an amateur dance performance, hell, even a christening, almost everything is better than staying in.