Trash

People,

There is still a lot of catching up to do, so I'll try to condense things.

First of all, I don't think I mentioned what the strikes (still going strong by the way) are about.

From what I could gather through all the general yelling on TV and with people whenever I broach the subject in public, the Greek government is trying to make the pension system more efficient by reducing the number of pension plans through various mergers. Namely, we currently have about a hundred pension plans, and after they have been merged we should have about 14.

To be honest, this sounds like a rather reasonable plan to me, a good way to simplify things and reduce costs. But of course, many people complain that this will make things worse instead of better, and that those who have good pension plans now will have worse ones. Since I usually tend to root for the underdog, I am thinking more of all the people for whom this might be an improvement, but it is true I do not have a pension plan here, so it's easy to be generous with other people's money.

But I digress. I also forgot to mention that during the strikes, the trash does not get picked up. At all. We now have piles of stinking trash rising steadily all over town. Thank god it's not summer. I have included a couple of pictures in this email, so you can see what the city is starting to look like. I especially like the 2nd one. Notice how the Greek flag is slowly being swallowed up by trash? Clearly, the European flag is next. Maybe it's just me, but I thought this was a highly symbolic picture.

I shouldn't complain, though. A few weeks ago, the same thing happened in Italy. In Naples, the piles of trash had apparently reached the second floor windows. So overall, I'd say we're doing pretty good, here in Greek-land!

Now, I don't know if you heard, but back in January/February, it snowed quite a bit in Athens. Not only that, but the snow actually held, reaching about 7 or 8 inches deep for a couple of days - even in my usually warm Southern suburbs! (I'm including a picture of my balcony.) I'm sorry I don't have the picture to prove it, but the beach was actually covered in snow. It looked a little like Greenland, except with palm trees.

Of course, the Greeks used the opportunity to close everything down again: schools, public services, post offices… I don't remember getting one single day off from school during the much harsher winters in Belgium, when there was snow up to our knees. But in their defense, Greeks hate being cold, and the schools are apparently terrified that the pipes might freeze over and the little cherubs might catch their deaths. Knowing what an angry Greek parent can look like, I rather understand them.

As for my nationality, I went back to the town hall, and they did register me [the strike apparently relented for 1 day, so some worker was bored enough to stamp my paperwork]. All that remained for me to do in order to obtain an ID card was go to the police station [by appointment only]. I had to bring the town hall's paper, the government's paper stating that I am Greek, 4 black & white photos and my poor grandma as a witness - to WHAT, I'd like to know. Clearly another case of the Greeks not trusting their own government, yet trusting the word of a total stranger, and a biased one at that.

So to the police station we went with my little grandma, whom I practically had to hoist up a very steep flight of stairs - for who needs an elevator in a police station? Probably an economical way of keeping their police officers fit. I should also mention that police stations in Greece usually have a guard armed to the teeth stationed at the door, asking you what your business is before letting you in.

I'm not kidding. These guards are literally dressed in full combat gear, with a bullet proof vest, combat boots and a giant firearm to match. I know strictly zero about weapons, but to my untrained eye it looks rather like a Kalashnikov. I do not know exactly what vicious attack they are there to prevent in my peaceful suburb, but it certainly makes one feel less safe to see them armed like that, wondering where the threat is coming from. Probably other would-be terrorist photographers such as myself.

Unfortunately, I don't have a picture of this either, for I am not risking imprisonment AGAIN for you, guys - remember my little adventure with the DANGEROUS PHOTOGRAPH??... For those of you who don't, there now is a blog with all my newsletters, complete with photos AND your comments too! [http://atouchofgreece.blogspot.com/]

Anyway, we got into the IDs office and the guy made me fill out a couple of forms. Which is when I realized that Laura Neri was apparently too foreign a name for the town hall people, and I had been rebaptized Lora Nerh.

Short history of Greece and names. About 99% of the population in Greece is Christian Orthodox. Priests/churches supposedly will only baptize your child if his/her name is a recognized name, a.k.a. in the Bible. [Although that is rather flexible, since most ancient Greek and mythological names aren't, yet have been extremely popular lately.] Clearly, whoever registered me at the town hall decided that Laura was too pagan a name and decided to change it to a more acceptable one. The 'h' is just the Greek way of writing 'i' in this case.

Did I mention that the Greek way of pronouncing that is LOR-a, pronounced like the last 'OR' from 'horror'? I hate that name. I really do. For those of you who don't know it, my name is Italian and should be pronounced something like 'Lah-oo-rrah' - but only by Italian/Spanish speakers. The rest can stick to Laura.

The police officer very seriously suggested I return to the town hall to have this corrected, but picturing another 3 months delay because of the undoubtedly inextricable complexity of altering something that had now been officially recorded in the Greek registers, not to mention more strikes and a new appointment at the police station + hoisting of grandma up the stairs, I declined.

I would be LORA in Greece forever, he warned. Gritting my teeth, I said that I would live with it.

One more thing before I run off to play badminton: the city apparently intends to repave the streets in my area. I say "apparently", for about 6 weeks ago, they stripped our street of tar, along with a couple of other random streets in the area [don't ask me why they don't do an entire block together - I'm sure there is a Greek reason for this] - but the workers have since then disappeared, never be seen again. My street looks all forlorn, naked like that.

Hopefully they'll repave it before I leave the country.

L.
PS: I should have sent this yesterday, for now this last point is moot: as though they'd somehow read my complaint, the workers magically reappeared yesterday and covered my street in tar once more. I was so grateful I didn't dare ask what took them so long.

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Christophe N:

Bon, ben au moins, t'as ta nationalité grecque ma chère lora. non?

Gavin K:

I'm so glad to see that the bitingly humorous observations/commentary of the Laura Greek Chronicle emails are back again!!! Love those trash pics - wow. Can only imagine the pleasant smell that goes with them...!

Death and Taxes

Hello people!

I know, I know, I've been bad and lazy this last couple of months… So here's an update of what has happened since my last letter.

After receiving the long-awaited letter stating that I am indeed Greek, I started the whole procedure of getting registered at the local town hall and getting a Greek ID/passport. Of course, you know Greece by now - none of it was as simple as it sounds.

First, I was told I had to go to Athens, to the office that had erroneously given me the famously disputed birth certificate. (Remember that piece of paper I almost wrestled someone for?) Anyway, I apparently had to have it annulled before being able to claim my nationality as the daughter of a Greek woman. Because that paper implied I was Greek by birth, not by blood. But, I said, since I'm Greek anyway, does it really matter… YES! Of COURSE it did!!

Knowing by now discussions are useless, I made the long trek to that office. After waiting in line forever as usual, I finally got a woman to take care of the problem. I'll give you the short version of that discussion: "Wait, so you're Greek?" "Well, not yet." "But this says you're Greek. Why do you want to cancel it?" "So I can be Greek." "But you are Greek." "Look, will you just cancel the damn thing?!"

Having learned by now the circumvoluted way in which the Greek mind works, I insisted she give me a paper proving that this had been cancelled. Proudly brandishing that, I returned to the town hall.

Unfortunately, a series of strikes had just started paralyzing the city, and the town hall was officially closed until further notice - even though half the employees were in their offices. [I don't really get it, but anyway.] They might reopen in a couple of days, or maybe next week.

Greeks being a people that jumps at such opportunities, the strike of course was extended to roughly 10 days, during which most public services didn't function, including public transportation, some schools were closed - and the electricity was cut off for several hours every day, generally at lunch time [possibly they hoped that the irritation at having to eat a cold lunch for an entire week would prompt people to support their cause in the hopes of ending the strike] - or in the evening, so that we were all reduced to 18th century devices: candlelight and quiet conversation, since most bars don't have a generator.

And let us not forget the best part: no electricity = no lights. No lights on the streets, a.k.a. no red lights, no green lights, no policemen anywhere of course, and tons of enraged Greeks trying to pass crossroads at the same time, at the speed of… light.


Ah, lots of excitement in Greece. Living dangerously. I tell you, James Bond has nothing on us. Iraq? Afghanistan? Naaaaah. Statistics say our death rate each year is that of a country at war. Except our war is waged in cars, by people furiously manipulating stick shifts and stomping on gas pedals.

What else happened? Taxes of course!

Obviously, I never had to pay taxes in Greece up to now. Since I made exactly 200 euros since I got here, I didn't think taxes would be a necessity. But of course, a law had just been changed, and since my mother has put her apartment in my name [Greeks do that a lot to avoid the huge inheritance taxes on property], I now had to file taxes.

There were half a dozen papers to obtain in order to have the privilege of paying taxes, and no sooner had I mailed the damn thing than I was summoned to the tax office in Athens. The very next day, might I add. Apparently, there are some things for which Greeks are VERY quick and efficient…

It appeared I hadn't signed my declaration ["I DID TOO!!!"] and had written an address in Greece while declaring I was a foreign resident. Tsk, tsk. Another long trek to Athens. Except I hadn't been told which office to go to - and the tax building comprised 5 floors full of offices. Fun.

When I finally found the right office, I pointed out to the person that I had of course signed my declaration. Her response? "It's barely legible." It was perfectly legible blue ink. What was I supposed to do? Print it in blood???

Anyway, once that problem was solved, there was the question of: did I owe the state any money?? I had been told that the law stated there were no penalties in cases like mine, but - of course - the law had changed that same week. This is Greece, after all. The woman gleefully started sorting through memos, but then she dispiritedly discarded them. The law had changed again the previous day, and I owed nothing once more. Glory be to Greece. Until the next time, of course. Tomorrow I'll probably owe a fortune.

More catching up in the next installment...

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Amy T:
Ha! Very funny! And now you’ll probably have to get a permit to live in your apartment. Wait! That’s only in germany. You have to file paperwork every time you move!

Christophe N:
Hé bé! C'est quand même la folie ton pays !

Linus L:
Oh Laura - you are a good girl - this is hilarious.
When are you coming back?

Pete S:
Ah, Laura-- this one was priceless! Thanks for the ray of sunshine.

John H:
I love your emails. You will triumph!

Starting 2008 with a bang

The famous letter from the Surround. I was so happy to get it that I didn't notice they misspelled my name... This would come back to haunt me later. (See "Trash", March 2008.)

Hello, beautiful people!

I know, I have been silent for a long time, but not for lack of things happening since I came back to Greece after spending Christmas in Belgium.

Let me tell you the epic fight of having to go shopping for groceries on New Year's Eve with my little grandma. ("But grandma, why today of all days??" "We have nothing to eat for New Year's Eve." "How about shopping 1 or 2 days in advance?" "We must have fresh meat on New Year's day." "Grandma, I really don't care. How about we eat bread and cheese, maybe a salad, and go shopping after the craziness is over?" Oh, the shocked look. Heresy. No meat on New Year's day?!?! What did I learn in America? Barbaric people.)

There is no arguing with my grandma once she's decided something. She is deceptively small, for such a strong will. So we found ourselves at the supermarket at 11.00 am on the 31st. I wanted to go at 9.30, knowing that Greeks are notoriously late-risers and hoping we might avoid the brunt of the shopping onslaught, but we had to wait for my grandma's pension to be delivered to her house at 10.30 that same day.

Yes, in this country, one's pension is not wired to a bank, apparently; it is delivered by hand, by a sloppily dressed guy who stays for a cup of coffee and some biscuits (sorry, cookies), always thoughtfully provided by my grandma (and, presumably, by the other 50 old ladies he delivers a pension to every month - I wonder how he's not obese).

Once that immutable ceremony was finally over, ("Grandma, can't we skip the coffee and cookies for once?" "This poor boy has come all this way to bring me my pension!" "But that's what he's paid to do." Yet another disapproving look. Clearly, those Americans also took my sense of hospitality away.) - we finally got to the supermarket.

One look at the throngs of cars lining up 10 deep outside, waiting to get into the overfull parking lot, and despair grabbed me. We would be there until 2.00 pm. I dropped my grandma at the door and went to park 2 blocks down the street. (Only smart move of the day.)

Inside, claustrophobia briefly squeezed me when I saw the hordes of people, packed like rats (or sardines, whichever you prefer) as far as the eye could see. I'm not kidding, wading through that crowd was physically exhausting, not to mention mentally, since Athenian shoppers on or before any given holiday are notoriously NOT filled with any kind of Christmas spirit.

Trying to find my grandma in the crowd, worried that she might already have been pulled under and trampled by thousands of enraged shoppers, I didn't notice right away the woman who was repeatedly pushing me with her cart. After the 3rd time, when she viciously bumped me on the ankle, I finally turned around and asked if she could please stop hitting me with her cart, especially as she could see there was nowhere else for me to go, unless she expected me to step onto the head of the grandpa in front of me.

Big mistake. I saw her face light up: I had just provided her with an excuse to release all her pent-up frustration of the last hour she had spent in this hellhole, possibly even for her whole shitty week or her failed marriage.

"There is no way I can avoid pushing you", she screamed in my face, "there's too many people!" I pointed out to her that she probably could if she wanted to, since I had so far managed not to hit or shove anyone. This released a fresh burst of screaming, but I wasn't really listening, as I'd finally spotted my grandma in the crowd, fighting over some yogurt with another grandma.

I started moving in that direction, but the woman had no intention of letting her nice fight blow over that quickly. She screamed something about having the right to put her cart wherever she felt like it. I almost asked if that included my ass, but refrained and instead told her she was very rude, at which point she screamed even louder that no, I was the very rude one, and how dare I?!

Unfortunately, the crowds were such that I couldn't get away as quickly as I wanted to. Ever had those dreams where you feel like you can't move forward, and something or someone ominous is right behind you? That's exactly what it was like, being followed by this screaming harpy and her cart while slowly edging forward, except I couldn't wake up.

I finally reached my grandma (who'd won the fight over the yogurt, as it turns out), and the harpy gave up, since old people still command a minimum of consideration in this country and usually don't get screamed at as much as the rest of us.

After about 40 mn of shopping for various superfluous stuff, my grandma suddenly remembered our New Year's meal. Reaching the meat counter after an agonizing 10 mn spent crossing the supermarket, my grandma took a number, and I almost fainted: the number was 76. The counter above us read 7.

I tried to reason with her. This would obviously take over an hour, she couldn't remain standing for that long. But she wanted to choose the meat herself. I pleaded with her. Please, grandma, let's go home, I don't care if we eat nothing special, there's only 3 of us. But we had to have meat on New Year's Day. I begged her. I even threatened to leave her there, but she's crafty. She told me to go on, which of course I couldn't do.

So we stayed there, the crowd jostling us constantly, while the counter slowly crawled forward. After another 45 mn, we had reached number 41. I tried again to convince her to leave, knowing it was in vain. But she had a secret weapon, she said. She would use her age. Turning to the guy behind the counter, she wheezed: "My dear boy, I am 88 years old. Have mercy on an old lady."

I was expecting some outraged reactions from the crowd, but old age is somewhat sacred here, after all. After finishing with his current client, the "boy" (who looked in his early 50s) dutifully asked my grandma what she wanted. She pointed at a huge chunk of meat. I didn't even try to argue, knowing that my grandma always cooks for 10, then donates whatever we cannot eat to the neighbors and wonders why she is constantly running out of money.

I briefly wondered why she hadn't used her secret weapon right away, but I guess even Greeks have to see an old woman suffer for a while before ceding their place. Seeing her success, another old lady elbowed my grandma: "Say, I'm 81 years old. Could you also ask him for that piece of meat for me?" My grandma of course complied.

I'll spare you the other 40 mn spent waiting in line at the cashier's, and my brief murderous impulse when I was told I should have weighed even the pre-packaged fruit and vegetables I had bought at the special fruit & vegetable counter, where yet ANOTHER giant line awaited me.

Instead, I'll share with you the wonderful news of 2008.

Are you ready?

Drumroll...

I have received a letter from the Greek government, stating that YES, I AM GREEK AFTER ALL!!!!!!
(And apparently have been since August, when I first deposited all my docs with them, but who's counting the months before they told me?)

Of course, I must now begin an entirely new fight to get a passport/ID card form my local city, but who cares? I am seriously thinking of having that letter framed.

Hope 2008 is turning out to be a good year for all of you.

Take care,
Laura
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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Kim R:
Absolutely frame it.

Cory M:
That settles it. Greece is a jungle.
But I'm glad you finally wore them down and gained admittance to the tribe.

Bénédicte G:
FÉLICITATIONS, MA LAURA !!!!!!!!!!!
Et vive les Grecs !

Diane Lisa J:
CONGRATULATIONS!!
I always knew you were Greek. They should have just asked me, I could have told them.

I still love the story of you going from room to room getting rejected until you finally found the one helpful lady by lying and saying you were sent to that room. These are tricks you must have learned at USC.

Will M:
Congratulations on the victory!

Amy T:
Woo hoo! Glad to hear you are back and giving us updates.

The ice cube and other stories

Hello people,

I don’t think I ever mentioned that following the helpful suggestion of a neighbor, I actually put an ad in a local paper advertising my services as a film director. The neighbor assured me that her daughter had found her current job through that very newspaper – they’d called her the next day! So I took her advice and listed both my cell and home number on the ad.

Bad idea.

Ever since, I have been deluged with indecent proposals, lewd suggestions and bizarre fantasies. Almost every single day, some random guy calls me with offers of a dubious nature, complete with deep-throated voices/sighs. I will list only a few here, to give you an idea.

The first one seemed genuine at first: a deep male voice enquired about my credentials, prior experience, diplomas, etc. I listed my achievements, mentioned filming various genres, dramas, comedies, docs, etc. The man then asked whether we could meet in person so we could discuss the project he had in mind. I asked if he could tell me a little more. He said it was [and I quote] “a different kind of project”.

Immediately becoming a little wary, I asked whether he could be more specific. The vagueness remained. Could we not meet in order to discuss it? I said we could, but I might as well warn him right away that if the project he had in mind was of a pornographic nature, I wasn’t interested.

Well, he said, what he really wanted were pictures. Dead silence. I informed him that I was a director, not a photographer, and he would be best advised to find a professional… He immediately interrupted me: he didn’t want a professional, he said. An amateur would do fine. The photos were of a personal nature and to be used privately.

At which point I said I really didn’t think I was the right person for the job [“But why??...”] and hung up.

The next weirdo decided to text me. While I was peacefully having dinner with my little grandma, I heard the “BEEP” signaling an incoming message and ill advisedly read it at the table. The text read: “God, your friend Elena really destroyed me with her strap-on! It was good!”

“Who was it, sweetie?” My grandma asked. “No one, yaya”, I replied, deleting the offensive message on the spot and trying to resume eating. Five minutes later, another incoming message. It said only: “It hurts.” I erased that one as well.

Yet another 5 minutes later, 3rd message. Deciding I was pretty much done eating, I pushed my plate back and read the text: “God, it was a big one.” Deciding that my policy of ignoring the texts wasn’t working, I furiously punched in: “Who the FUCK are you and why the FUCK should I care what happens to you? Stop texting me.” Although my friends said it was dangerous to respond, it had the desired effect, at least as far as the texts were concerned. I did get a phone call a few days later, where a voice incoherently moaned “I huuurt”, but when I answered that that was of absolutely zero interest to me, the line went dead.

Third weirdo, also via text message: “I am a little ice cube, starting in your mouth, I go inside your bra and then descend into your panties. What should I do next?” Having learned from prior experience that attack was the best defense, I savagely texted: “This is not a sex phone line. You obviously have the wrong number, you pathetic twerp.” That ended those texts.

Then there were the inventive ones: “We’re calling from Mode Magazine. You have won 300 Euros. All you need to do is answer a few questions about fashion. Do you wear mini skirts? Do you wear tight pants? Do you often wear transparent clothing?” When he got to “What’s the most provocative outfit you’ve ever worn? We need details”, switching from the polite ‘plural’ form to the everyday ‘singular’ form in his excitement, I finally smelled a rat and asked what kind of questions were those – at which point he hung up.

I was so furious I actually redialed him [the moron hadn’t even bothered calling from a hidden number]. I am not quite sure what I intended to say to him. Probably just random insults. He initially picked up, but immediately started dialing another number, obviously not noticing I was on the line. He hung up, and after that the line was constantly busy. Unbelievable, I thought. Apparently, this guy had nothing better to do all day than dial random women, whose numbers he probably picked up from that very same newspaper.

Another fun one was the guy who wanted me to film him and his wife having sex with 3 other couples. “I’m very sorry, but I’m not interested.” “You don’t understand, you wouldn’t have to participate, just film us.” [Apparently, THAT shouldn’t be a problem for anyone.] “No thanks.” “But why?” “Because my career aspirations do not include filming sordid orgies.” End of that call.

I’ll skip through the following days of weirdos. I’m still getting some, even though the ad was taken off 3 weeks ago. This should make Americans feel better: not all sex maniacs live in the US. At least half of them seem to be in Greece.

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Jim G:
An interesting way to meet people, n'est ce pas? Maybe I should try something like that here... um... ok, maybe not.

Cory M:
Makes you sort of wonder what kind of job your neighbor's daughter got.

John T:
Sex maniacs? I thought we were naive Puritans? Well... not me personally, but... you know.

Mik H:
So, no booty calls in Greece, just indecent proposals?

Good things about Greece - Part 2

But first of all, a disclaimer: when I mentioned “booty calls” in a previous email, I meant of course the random ones, from people you barely know, yet who think it’s ok to call at 2 in the morning after you’ve exchanged a total of roughly 4 sentences. I’m sure there may be “booty calls” between people who have a history, even in Greece.

Now, on to more good stuff.

1. Your neighbors constantly ply you with food, offering loukoumades and various sweets, bringing a cake or cookies to your place, for no special reason.

2. You actually know your neighbors. You hang out with them. You should try it in L.A., it’s fun. Here, neighbors can be relied on to bring you your mail if they wake up before you, check on your grandma when you’re not there and help you move a couch several floors up. They even invite you to spend New Year’s Eve with them. Did I mention my neighbors of South Cloverdale for the most part conspicuously ignored me if I dared say “Hi” to them?

3. The sea is so clean that people fish octopus and squids out of the sea every day, next to where you’re swimming. [Of course, the bad part is they kill them in front of you, especially the octopus, which they repeatedly bash against the rocks because it makes the flesh tender – otherwise they would be pretty inedible.]

4. The Parliament guards don’t look scary. [See photo. They are supposedly the best of the best, but how do you feel threatened by a guy with pompoms on his shoes? I particularly like the pigeon, obviously oblivious of the danger.]

5. The building manager lives in the building, so if you need a bulb or anything fixed, he’ll usually come and do it himself the same day. [Regardless if he grumbles about it.]

6. If there is no parking spot, you can still park – just leave the car anywhere. I know I already mentioned the no tickets part, but think also of the time saved! No riding around the block forty times in the hope that some other looser will leave! No walking 20 blocks because there was no other place to leave the bloody car! Just park right on the front step if you want and go about your business. If it’s a really bad spot, the hazards lights may be left on, for the entire day if necessary.

7. If you are lost, you can always ask the people in the car beside you - unlike in L.A., they always open their window instead of looking at you like you're a bug.

8. Restaurants still serve food way after 10 pm.

9. People rarely ever go to bed before 1 or 2 am, so even during the week parties and outings never end at 11 pm, like in some sad places I shall not name.

10. Although most TV badly sucks, there is a TON of excellent theater here, mostly totally indie/guerrilla productions that take place in abandoned warehouses and the like.

11. People are usually much more socially/politically engaged and savvy than in the US. They know what's going on in other countries, they care, and they are trying to change it. Pinochet and the likes of him are not forgotten.

12. At the risk of losing half my readers, I will mention that the Greeks realize there are worse evils than communism/socialism.

Finally, let me mention my grandma again, if only for the pearls of wisdom mixed with total wackiness that she often displays.

The other day, I made the mistake of mentioning to my grandma that I am still going swimming almost every day. She was horrified. In this weather? She stuttered. Grandma, I said, it’s 16 degrees Celsius outside. [For those of you who count in Fahrenheit, multiply by 2 and add 32 to that. You should get a rough estimate.]

Then I did worse. When she asked, tremulously, whether I went swimming ALL ALONE, I replied that there were always several grandpas and grandmas there as well. “You see?” She said, as if it made perfect sense. “You shouldn’t go there anymore. It’s dangerous.”

I wasn’t quite sure whether she meant that exposing my young flesh in their midst might trigger a savage attack from the grandpas and/or grandmas, or whether she thought that what clearly wasn’t harming said grandpas/grandmas would prove fatal for my younger constitution.

Sometimes I think those moments make it all worthwhile.

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Mun Chee Y:

Yes, the guard looks very cute and adorable.

Chris H:

Another great email, among the top two, even if you slighted your former South Cloverdale neighbors.

Efterpi C:

Certainly, there are always the blessings we tend to overlook when we are in our home countries. I´m glad you mention the good things about Greece. Reminded me that I also have a list of good things about Venezuela, the kind of things that deep inside you don´t want to give up, even though you dream of running away!

John T:

Hey, I need my beauty sleep!

A day in the life

All right folks,

I’ve decided to describe an average day here, along with pictures and even videos... [I know, I'm spoiling you.]

7.30 am: be woken up by a typical ambulating van offering in a melodious voice to gather your old stuff [see? That’s why Greeks never do yard sales – apart from the fact that they would find it demeaning to try to sell anything for a measly $2].

7.33 am: Go back to sleep.

7.49 am: be woken up again by another ambulating van, this time selling carpets. Decide you might as well get up. (Click on Exhibits A & B to have the pleasure to see and hear the vans in action. The 2nd one says: "I have carpets for your living room, your kitchen, your dining room. Come and choose them...") [Seriously? The kitchen? There's one place I thought I didn't need a carpet.]

8.30 am: Spend ½ hour gossiping with the neighbor on your way down to your grandma’s apartment.

10.00 am: After breakfast, decide to walk the 25 mn to the post office, considering it’s a nice day yet too cold to swim, even for you.

10.15 am: Encounter interesting people and picturesque places along the way, such as this one [Exhibits 1 & 2].

Now, I’ll give you 3 guesses as to what function this building serves. Could it be an abandoned insane asylum? No, wait, there are clothes hanging on the balcony. An orphanage from the Ceausescu days? A low-income housing project? Does this look like it could be a functioning hospital?? Yet that’s what it is.

Well, maybe “functioning” isn’t exactly the right term for it. After all, that’s where my mother had the misfortune to be sent after our car crash – they did manage to put her femur back 37 degrees off, so that she had to have it broken again 1 year later (in Belgium this time, where doctors usually take measurements BEFORE surgery) in order to set her leg straight.

I was fortunate enough that there was no face/jaw specialist for me at that state hospital, so that they had to send me to an exorbitantly priced private clinic, where they did repair my 5 face fractures very well, I must say, and put my arm back exactly where it belonged. Imagine the Picasso I would have become had the state hospital been in charge of my face…

Now, I know that the US are just as bad as Greece as far as state vs. private hospitals are concerned. I remember hearing that horrifying story about the woman who agonized on the ER’s floor while the doctors and nurses ignored her and the police tried to arrest her. Fortunately for her, she died before they could send her to jail. Thank god for small mercies.

However, the US has a history of putting commercial interests before the good of the people, whereas Greece has supposedly been ruled by a socialist government these past 20 years (it’s only 4 years ago that they changed back to the center-right). How does a socialist government justify the fact that if anything should happen to you, your choices are either being bankrupt or being butchered?

Moving on, let’s continue that pleasant walk.

10.30 am: Arrive at the post office, [which is the only one I know where they sell religious icons as well as stamps - please see Exhibit 3], wait in line for roughly 45 minutes [a good day] while various old people jostle to cut in front of everyone.

11.15 am: Mail a couple of letters [or rather, buy stamps which they will make you glue on yourself, the old-fashioned way - observe Exhibit 4], pay your grandma’s bills and be looked at weirdly because you’re the only one to ask for a receipt.

11.30 am: Start on the way back home, make friends with some errant dogs [Exhibit 5 - the name tags don’t mean they belong to someone, but that the city council has had them neutered, etc.].

11.52 am: Walk by the police station and narrowly avoid getting arrested before finally getting home around 12.35 pm.

What’s that? You’d like to know why I was almost arrested? It’s all your fault, guys. There I was, peacefully taking pictures of various things I thought I might add to my newsletters [as some of you requested], when I happened upon the police station. For some reason, I thought it might be interesting to show you and snapped a picture of the entrance.

I had barely taken 5 steps when an authoritative male voice yelled: “Hey, you! Come back here!” I didn’t immediately connect the dots. When I heard “Miss, come back here RIGHT NOW!!!” I turned around and realized I was the one being thus addressed. The man [clearly a plainclothes officer who had just made his catch of the day] said: “It is forbidden to photograph a police station. Follow me.” I stared at him in disbelief and laughed, but he wasn’t kidding.

Marching me inside the police station, he made me step into an office, where 2 officials stared me down. “What are you taking pictures for? Don’t you know it is illegal to photograph police stations and army bases??” I replied I knew about army bases, of course, but it seemed a little pointless about police stations, considering they are public offices and they were after all in plain view – I didn’t think they had anything to hide.

“What if you are planning to come back and bomb us?” He asked, very seriously. Again, I laughed, but he wasn’t amused either. “Go up to the chief’s office”, he barked. The plainclothes officer marched me upstairs and into the chief’s office. Even though his expression clearly said this was no laughing matter, I couldn’t stop.

The chief was on the phone and unaware of the gravity of my crime. After a while, he asked why I was here. The officer told him about the incriminating photograph. I tried to look suitably chastised. The chief, a true Greek, sighed in his mustache. “Don’t you know it’s forbidden to photograph police stations and army bases?” He asked. I said I now knew, but hadn’t when I snapped the picture. Why did I take that picture anyway? He asked.

So for the next 15 minutes, I found myself answering questions and basically telling my whole life to this police chief: the newsletters relating my life in Greece [“Why the police station?” “I thought it might be interesting for them…” “Why?” – at which point I didn’t really have an answer for him], my move from Los Angeles, my MFA in Film Production, my Greek mother and Italian father and being born in Belgium.

Finally, unable to think of any other mitigating circumstances for my crime, I offered to show him the picture. He stared at the view of the entrance, nodding thoughtfully. Finally, apparently deeming that it didn’t represent a threat to the Hellenic police [sounds so much better than Greek police, doesn’t it?], he handed back my camera and waved me out.

I was sorely tempted to ask him if I could have my picture taken with him for my next newsletter, but thought I shouldn’t push my luck and quickly walked out before someone decided to lock me up. After all, if I was almost arrested for photographing the entrance of a Hellenic police station, who knew what penalty I faced for taking the picture of a Hellenic police chief?

Still. This photograph almost cost me my freedom. That is how dedicated I am in trying to keep you people informed. I hope you appreciate it. I proudly present Exhibit 6: THE DANGEROUS TERRORIST PHOTOGRAPH...

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Aaron T:
The police station looks like an apartment builing in Santa Monica. Perhaps they should have a sign that says no photography. Oooh please, can we have a picture of a military base next... Man, glad to hear you made it out without incarceration.

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Oh, and one more good thing...


...There is no such thing as a "booty call" in Greece.

Men here understand that unless they take the time to talk to you for at least a couple of hours and maybe even - gasp - take you out, things don't usually go any further.

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

Janeen L:
Sorry to hear that... ;-)

Mik H:
Uh-huh. Suuuuuure.
They just call it a "brutey call".

Diane Lisa J:
"a couple of hours"
wow those are some high standards.
;)

John T:
Oh, well, then... count me out.

Greg H:
I'm never moving to Greece. That's bullshit.

The good, the weird and the endearing.

1. View of the city from the Acropolis

2. XIth century church in the center of Athens

3. Athens by night (that's the Acropolis at the top and the temple of Olympian Zeus on the left)

4. Green Greece (the little black squares on roofs are sun panels)

5. View from my Athens apartment

6. View from my Nafplio apartment (it's a Venetian fortress from the XVIIth century, people)

November 19th, 2007

All right people,

I’ve thought of more positive things to say about Greece, for those who because of me now recoil in horror at the mere mention of the country. (Apart from the fact that I’m hopefully keeping you guys entertained.)

1. Well, there is the fact that my "yaya" (= Greek for grandma) is here... I'm sort of partial to her.

2. I have a pretty nice view from my balconies, both in Athens and in Nafplio. Not to mention, the light tends to be gorgeous. I didn't have a balcony in L.A. And even if I had, the view wasn't that great – especially when the neighbors were having a yard sale with their old shoes on top of the pile.

3. The fact that it’s sunny most of the year, even during the winter, means a lot of households use solar energy. [Dear Schwarzie, you might want to try it for California...] In my area at least, most houses have solar panels on their roofs. I know some people think those are ugly, but they’re ecologically friendly – Gore will love you. And if you don’t care about that, think about how much money you save: since I’ve been here, I have only turned the water heater on 3 times. The rest of the time, the sun was enough to heat my entire apartment and I didn’t spend a dime.

4. I swear the vegetables and fruit taste different – as in: better. In fact, so do most meats. I don’t know if it’s less pollution (hmm… maybe not in Athens), or less pesticides/a more natural way of growing things or what, but things here taste good! (Or maybe it’s just my grandma’s way of cooking.)

5. I can drink tap water. No, not like in L.A. I don’t mean that metallic, weird-tasting thing that they serve you in restaurants. I mean GOOD water that we actually put in bottles and straight in the fridge – no need for filters, lemon slices, nor anything to disguise the taste.

6. That same water is also good for my skin and hair – I look a ton healthier here than in L.A., where the corrosive water savagely attacks my skin and makes my hair look like a mop.

7. Did I mention I’m still swimming? In the SEA? I get to exercise every day for free. My favorite part is getting undressed and walking into the sea in my bikini while passersby in their winter coats look at me like I’m INSANE.

8. I actually get into meetings with the top executives of TV and film companies. They talk to me like a human being (even if they later disappear into thin air). They have all watched my film/read what I wrote and actually compliment me on it. [Granted, a fat lot of good that does me so far, but at least you get the impression for a fleeting moment that something might happen. Actually, this is increasingly starting to sound like Hollywood…]

9. I don’t have to worry about waking a friend up if I call at 11 pm.

10. Almost daily, people call me up and say let’s meet for coffee/a movie/dinner in half an hour – or they simply ring my doorbell and tell me to come downstairs and join them.

11. There are gorgeous antiquities everywhere I look – and I don’t mean my grandma. [Apologies for that cheap joke – everyone’s allowed to slip.]

12. There are stray dogs everywhere – but they are friendly and don’t disturb anyone. Most people give them a few scraps of food and a kind word, as they do for stray cats. [Granted, for those allergic to animals that’s rather bad news.]

13. You can get away with practically anything by flirting. Parking ticket? Give your nicest smile to the police officer, he’ll usually let it slide – or give your ticket to the next unfortunate male driver. [Actually, this works for guys too, if the cop's a girl.] No money for the train? Bat your eyelashes and someone will usually come up with the change. That brings us to the next point:

14. Greeks aren’t usually stingy. If the price of your groceries is $5.20 – they’ll be happy with $5. Of course, if you’re due 5 cents in change, you better not expect them either. But if you don’t have $3 for a cart at the airport, someone will usually give them to you.

15. Old people are (usually) treated with the utmost respect. There are very few of them in retirement homes – mostly, Greek families are closely knit and stick together. That means taking care of senile grandma themselves – and of course letting your kids live at home until they’re 40 and/or get married. [This part I like less.] But that also means few homeless people and/or mad rambling old grandpas in the streets.

16. One of the very best parts: I can park wherever I want and not have to worry about those BLOODY parking tickets. Corner? Red zone? Yellow zone? Residential permit? Fire hydrant? Cleaning street days? Only allowed to park here for ½ an hour or until 6 pm? Never heard of those here. Parking meter? They tried to install them in my area a couple of years ago – the people were so pissed off the city had to remove them within a couple of months. Park on the pedestrian crossing? Sure. Park on the sidewalk? Even better. Hell, most days, there isn’t even enough space to double park here – one must triple or quadruple park.

17. One word, people: LOUKOUMADES. I know the non-Greeks have no idea what I'm talking about. But it's simply the best desert in the world, and I've never found it outside of Greece.

18. You can scream at people and they'll still speak to you the next day.

19. You can give the middle finger to people while driving – they may curse you, but there is no risk of anyone pulling out a gun.

20. For those of you who know her, I now have the proof that whether in the US or in Greece, Amalia Giannikou only ever drives Beetles.

See? Don’t you wish you were in Greece right now?

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SOME FEEDBACK ABOUT THIS NEWSLETTER:

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Kostantinos K:

21. Albanian lovers everywhere ?
ok ok ok that was very cheap :-) but as you say, everyone's allowed to slip...

Your description of people's reactions - and of the biliardadiko scene - was excellent... Ti na pei kaneis?

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Trent J:

Went to the Santa Monica Swim center yesterday and thought how nice it must be to swim in the Aegean without a wetsuit. Keep the stories comin'.

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Marc G:

I agree that fruit and meat and everything else tastes different, at least it did in Italy... My guess is that they let things ripen on the vine instead of rot in the store.

I most differ on the dog thing though... I think dogs need people, and vice versa. Finally, as the Beatles say, Giannikous are the same wherever you go. Miss you two and your wonderful continent.