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.

The Light There

The Venetian section of the city, the old quarter, was exactly what I had hoped it would be. Passing through a light-filled archway, I came upon a crescent shaped harbor lined with hotels, taverns and shops in a harmonious balance of shapes and colors—the waterfront in Chania on the island of Crete. Picturesque locations are never without their racks of postcards displaying scenes usually distant cousin to the real thing, but postcards like any captured image, can be only half the picture. The deception is that appealing postcards result from several rolls of film used in an expensive camera by a professional photographer who sometimes goes overboard with filters and Photoshop. Exaggeration was not so obvious in Greek postcards. I had seen hundreds and bought dozens in past days and I was surprised at how accurately they reflected the actual scene. Could it be that the photographer working in Greece has the advantage of good light?

In The Colossus of Maroussi, Henry Miller’s hymn to Greece, he wrote enthusiastically of Greek light, saying more than once that it was a quality of light incomparable to any other. During a stay in Crete he expressed it this way:

‘The happiest man on earth is the man with fewest

needs. And I also believe that if you have light,

such as you have here, all ugliness is obliterated.’

I didn’t always agree with Miller on things Greek, but it wasn’t too difficult to see that the Aegean sun has blessed Greece with a bounty of serene light. As well, the landscape seems to bend that light in a purer form. Colors, line, the edges of shapes are recast by the sweep of that light, and appear to be enhanced. Still, despite the sunny vista, sunglasses at this time of year are a soothing balm.

For lunch I sought out a cool and shadowed patio overlooking the old Venetian harbor. Under the shade of a blue and orange striped awning, I found a retreat, temporary at least, from the power of that Greek light. The food was good, but too much for a hot afternoon. It was a combination plate heaped with four different casseroles and served with two side dishes. Most of the time I enjoy a healthy appetite, but I couldn’t finish a lunch of such hearty proportions.

Back to the hotel for a shower and nap. I now had a shower curtain, my first in this country. I had gradually grown accustomed to turning bathrooms into wading pools, but this time I stepped from the shower onto a dry floor.

After the nap I strolled out and wandered once more down to the old harbor, hoping I might find the sun just as it began its descent into the sea. I sat on a wooden bench in a cool breeze blowing off the water, a spot from where I could see the old lighthouse and its shadow twin reflected in the water. A handful of people fished from the stone walls and steps at its base. It was a peaceful half hour I sat there, absently watching a young woman paint a complicated design onto the hand and wrist of another woman. Not my first time to see henna tattoos, but my first experience of seeing the artist at work.

A dark woman appearing to be Indian handed me a small printed card as I passed her corner, winding an aimless path through narrow streets.

‘This small palace was built in the 15th century by

the Venetian family, Renier. It was a two-storied

building with a courtyard and a Catholic family

chapel dedicated to St Nicolas. It is the only existing

chapel in Chania. In 1608 the Renier family coat of

arms, bearing a Latin inscription was added to the

building. In 1695 the palace was occupied by a Turk,

a high government official, who separated the courtyard

from the road. This was done to prevent passersby from

looking in at the women of his harem. For this reason the

palace came to be known as Sultana’s House.’

This curious description was on the back of a restaurant card pointing to a small house tucked into the next turn ahead. It was a restaurant hidden in a maze of streets and alleys not far from the waterfront, and likely one of the simplest and most beautiful garden settings I had ever seen. Large terracotta urns sat about the courtyard, some upright, others tilted on their sides, spilling out clusters of red geraniums. Moonlight shone through wooden beams entangled in grape vines, casting filigree shadows on the marble tabletops. I sat at a small table, three small cats at my feet begging for scraps. A glass of white wine, a plate of calamari, Greek salad and broiled swordfish, all excellent, but I couldn’t help feeling that it played only a supporting role to the atmosphere of the old sultan’s moonlit courtyard. Like the sun, this moon too spilled its light in a glow less ordinary.