Athens 2

Yesterday’s browsing through the yellowed pages of an old travel journal has stayed with me, and for much of today the days and hours of those pages have been in and out of my thoughts. Morning following arrival in Athens…

National Archeological Museum… The garden is filled with the busy twitter and warble of birds. Their song plays against the roar and screech of traffic on the crowded road fronting the museum, and while such counterpoint may seem inharmonious, it is in fact, a pleasing combination of sounds. I have always loved the sounds of a big city, and in this case the unexpected mix of birdsong and traffic falls naturally upon the ear, just as in another context, the sight of a 19th century building snuggled up to a modern skyscraper is a picture that can please the eye. The mix is exactly what is so beautiful. My nearby hotel room offers a similar cocktail of night sounds, the dominant voice there however is the dozen or so stray cats who populate the small park below, and whose quarrels I found not so soothing.

The museum building stands just fifty feet from where I sit. It is a huge museum and will require two or three short visits rather than one long and tiring marathon walk through. I expect too, the coolness of the museum interiors will also be a welcome relief from the August sun, and hopefully a balm to an already sun-reddened face.

I spend almost three hours inside the museum. After the first hour, seasonal crowds of tourists begin to dominate the galleries and my concentration wanes. Hard to see why national museums allow booming guided tours in the galleries. This is contrary to the very nature of art appreciation. Why not read a few pages from a book in order to glean some hint of what the art might be, or what it might mean?

The Mycenaean collection is impressive. The death masks, which are shaped from thin sheets of pure gold, are interesting in their lack of true portraiture. They are not portraits at all and are suggestive of only the most general facial features. A guidebook tell me that the splendid golden Mask of Agamemnon was named based upon mistaken identity. The actual king of that name lived 300 years after this death mask was made. There are also some gold drinking cups, simple in design and starkly beautiful—if solid gold can be described as stark.

Wandering through a gallery devoted to grave sculptures I come across an excerpt from Plato’s dialogue, Phaedrus. I am unfamiliar with this dialogue, so scribble the words in my notebook. Sophocles is speaking:

‘O beloved Pan and all other gods of this place

grant me that I be made beautiful in my soul within,

and that all external possessions be in harmony with my

inner man. May I consider the wise man rich, and may I

have such wealth as only the self-restrained man can bear or endure.

Do we need anything more Phaedrus?

For me that prayer is enough.’

Later in another gallery, a sculpture from the 3rd century BC holds my attention. It is a statue in marble of a small boy, five or six years old, stroking a goose with his left hand. The guidebook calls it ‘delightful and sensitive,’ and yes, it is that. But it is also enchanting in the subtlety of its modeling. Because it is a child, the strong, sharp lines of muscle are not visible. The figure glows with an almost tactile softness.

Outside the museum a still climbing sun beats down on sidewalks painted in sheets of glare, but I can’t allow myself to be a pantywaist and hide too long inside the cool galleries. Too many things to see, too many things to do. With sunglasses and cap in place, I push on with the sights of a sizzling Athens. Sometime today I must also look for another hotel. I’ve had enough of blood-crazed mosquitoes, yowling cats and rumbling motorcycles, and am ready to pay for air-conditioning.

Upon Arriving

Short of thoughts today. Rummaging through old files I came across a day in Athens, the first of about ten, and was pulled back to that very hot evening not many hours after my arrival there in August some years ago. My thoughts and impressions at the time were certainly through the eyes of a neophyte still puzzling out the what of Greece and its fabled capital.

From streetside on the Oktovriou-Patission Road…

Athens…The plane was about two hours late leaving Istanbul. From Izmir in western Turkey to Greece’s capital, the 175 mile distance is a complicated journey. Turkish airports, I found, are not quick with information on incoming and outgoing flights. During the two hours of waiting for departure from Istanbul the boarding gate shifted from 104 to 106 and then finally 103, changes not announced by loudspeaker but rather by security policemen standing in prominent places and shouting, in Turkish of course, that boarding would now be from a different gate. Confusion was compounded by an airport layout which has none of the switched gates in sight of the other. Other travelers were as rattled as I, an uncertain crowd of frantic faces, milling about fearing the plane might leave without us.

But here I am none the worse, seated at a sidewalk café sipping iced cappuccino. Haven’t yet gotten my bearings in this large city and can’t tell very well where I am exactly, other than to say it is across the street from the National Archeological Museum. In any case, it is near my hotel.

The hotel, appropriately enough, is called the Museum Hotel. Have some worry now that I might have made a mistake in the choice of a hotel here in Athens. But the reservation was made weeks ago in a distant country. On arriving, the reservation was in place, but now I’m not at all sure about sleeping six nights in a room WITHOUT air conditioning. The early evening temperature in Athens is ninety-nine degrees. My assigned room is bare enough to qualify for ascetic training; two small beds, a table, two chairs, bare walls, an uncarpeted floor illuminated by three naked forty-watt light bulbs. Arriving hot, tired and sweaty I wanted nothing more than a cool shower. There is a shower, however it includes neither curtain nor hook to hang the long, ropy shower nozzle on. In a clumsy attempt to be neat about it, I had a difficult shower and finished with the bathroom floor swimming in an inch of soapy water. Each time I let go of the nozzle it jumped and careened about like an angry snake, spitting water to all four walls.

The café I sit in now is very stylish and apparently one of a chain of cafés in Athens, called Flocafé Espresso Bar. I’ve had two coffees, practically gulping the first, so parched was I with the heat. The menu also lists beer, whiskey and sandwiches. Good to know that such a place is so near my ‘grand hotel.’

Trolley cars pass along the street in front of me, now and then igniting a flash of bluish electricity from cables over the street. Can’t remember the last time I was in a city of trolley cars. I am told that tickets are sold at kiosks near the trolley stops, a one-way fare of 100 drachma. Tomorrow will be my day to try them out. Taxis seem difficult to flag down. The custom appears to be for the driver to slow down with open window and the prospective fare shouts out a destination. If the driver feels it convenient, he stops, even though there might be another passenger already in the cab. Both passengers pay separate and full fares. I imagine this experience is in my future, perhaps as early as tomorrow. I took a taxi in from the airport, which proved a painless operation. Probably overcharged since the fare was negotiated rather than metered, but it didn’t impress me as exorbitant, though I haven’t yet gotten much of a handle on the value of the currency.

Cooler now, and sated with iced coffee, I figure a short stroll will be good, gradually making my way back to the hotel.

In the shower later, I manage on this second attempt to keep most of the water in the right place. I pass an uncomfortable night in my spartan room in the Museum Hotel. Much too hot to sleep without air conditioning, but I am bothered more by a swarm of insects coming in through the open veranda doors and plaguing me with bites and stings. There is also a gathering of motorcyclists in the park below who hang about racing their engines. Will look for a different hotel tomorrow. Sometime after 1:00 a.m. I finally drift off to sleep, my head tickled by thoughts of the Parthenon and Greek salad.

Musing With My Stypen

In a box of worn out or junked pens on my desk is a cracked and well-used old Stypen I bought while traveling in Greece. It wasn’t an expensive item by any means, but something chosen with no other thought in mind than replacing a lost pen. I bought it in a smoke filled stationery store in Athens, and at the time had never heard of Stypen, but it turned out to be a workhorse of a pen which served me well for years. The snippet below is from the first words I wrote with that Stypen, some observations in a spot just across the street from the smoky stationers on Oktovrion-Patission Road.

8:30 p.m.…The cool part of the day has descended and I find a seat out under the trees in the museum garden, where the twittering of birds against the roar and screech of traffic on the road, offers up a pleasant cocktail of city sounds. I am surrounded by locals also relaxing at day’s end. I see a generous mix of people around me, families with children, young lovers, and in fact a few lovers not so young. Just across from me sit two grandmothers sipping and nodding over glasses of Coca Cola with slices of lemon. From what I can see, the popular drink is fresh orange juice and it looks inviting in the tall glasses rimmed with froth. I look at a menu, turning over page after page of lists detailing food and drinks. Coffees and teas, hot or cold, the ever present Nes Frappe, cocktails, wine, beer, fruit and vegetable juices… Waiters in white jackets relay orders to the kitchen via electronic pads.

From behind a tree appears an old fellow with a Polaroid camera, offering couples a chance to immortalize a moment on film. Looking over my shoulder at one particular couple, I caution them with my eyes. Sometimes a photograph is evidence enough to sink ships or break up happy families. I suspect these two are boss and secretary, he a bit older, enjoying the hush-hush joys of an illicit date. Morose one moment and dewy-eyed the next, they are deep in conversation punctuated with private gestures. Her lips move as if to say, “Have you told her?”

Back to my own affairs I begin to think about plans for the following day. I sit lost in my map and guidebook when I suddenly hear a voice in thickly accented English, “Foot massage, sir?” Remembering a few days prior in Istanbul, my heart leaps in anticipation. I raise my eyes to see from whom this offer has come and am surprised by an ancient crone all festooned in dirty black rags, reaching out with long blackened fingers and swollen knuckles. I pretend I speak none of the world’s known languages.

Cicadas in the trees overhead and gnats circling my bare knees hint that it is time to go. A little light remains in the evening sky and I give it and my table up to a waiting pair of lovers.