The Times-Review, Fort Erie, Ontario, Wednesday, January 7, 1987
Christmas in Greece -- lively, lonely
Editor's Note: This is the seventh in a series of articles by Ridgeway
freelance photographer Tom Smith who is on a Cycle For Life - World Odyssey through
Europe, the Mid-East and Far East before returning to Canadian Shores.
By Tom Smith
THE POINT, VOULA, GREECE: Christmas Eve, 1986.
Don't come to Greece! Don't camp here if you love dogs. Don't come to the National Gardens
if you love cats. Don't come to Greece alone. It is a problem…
I had done it all – had my visa from the
Egyptian Embassy, had the US$150 you are required to exchange upon entering Egypt, had my
passport stamped by the Greek police and Customs. I had officially left Greece and was
waiting to board the Espresso Egito (a passage by sea to Alexandria, via Crete,
courtesy of Adriatica di Navigazione S.p.A., Venice, and their distinguished
representative in Athens, Mr. Massimo Lanzetta).
"Carnet, please," the official said
just prior to boarding.
"Carnet?" I said.
I first became aware of a carnet (kar-nay)
at the Customs office in Gatwick, England, where I was asked to pay about US$900 duty for
Melawend in lieu of producing a carnet. Having reviewed the nature of my visit, two senior
Customs officials smiled and readily granted exemption. A carnet is a vehicle passport, as
it were, which financially guarantees you won't sell the vehicle in the countries visited.
(Melawend would be worth twice her Canadian price in some of them.) It was not required in
any of the 18 countries visited since.
But this was for Egypt.
"No carnet?" the official said.
"Impossible to enter Egypt."
He moved on. Other passengers produced
orange-covered booklets – carnets. One learns to despise the word
"impossible".
Waiting to board ship there were about three
people for each of five Land Rovers, those tough, no-frills, four-wheel-drive land masters
as synonymous with Africa as the lion. There were three other motorcyclists. An English
couple had a big old BMW, painted like a zebra. A young, wiry German carpenter had the
same model but with a dark blue gas tank, deckled with an eye. A husky, bearded Austrian
had monsterized his big BMW, like something out of a Mad Max movie. It has heavily laden.
It as Melawend, however, and her carnet-less rider, which drew attention. There was
camaraderie, especially among the motorcyclists. Unfortunately, the words expressed in
sympathy for your reporter's predicament cannot be printed here. We parted, brothers and
sister in wheels. After bewildering the Greek Customs officials, Melawend and I rolled
back into Greece.
Dad took on the burden of securing a carnet
from the auto club. Peace Bridge Brokerage re-routed the shipment of parts and supplies
noted in the previous story, to their affiliate in Athens – Intercontor Hellas GMBH.
Mr. Werner Herman, the amiable company president, handled the shipment free of charge and
extended that generosity by shipping no longer needed items back home.
The delay allowed for minor modification of
Melawend – sort of a mini Mad Max. (Nah.) There was time to make more preparations
for Africa. And there was time to learn and experience more of Greece.
* * * *
* * *
In ancient Monastiraki, the flea market area of Athens, sandwiched between two souvenir
stores on a pedestrian street, in a deep, open-fronted shop lit by one bare light bulb, so
stuffed with army surplus clothes in those dull, dark colors, that you felt you were in a
musty basement closet full of yesteryear's hand-me-downs, and, in getting around the
full-figured proprietress, you had to become personal, smile and excuse yourself, I hunted
for a safari shirt for Africa.
"Hello, meester," she said as I came
in.
"Hello," I said. We exchanged
pleasantries. Her English was limited.
"I'm looking for a shirt with four
pockets," I said, drawing the sign of Zorro across my sweater.
"Please, meester," she said. She
yanked a couple of dark green shirts from the shelves.
Too dark. Too heavy.
There was a stack of tan colored causal army
shirts (if there are such things) made of that tough cotton material that has a slight
sheen to it. There were no spaces between the stacks of folded shirts, side to side or top
to bottom. You held others back as you pulled one out, not always successfully.
"How much?" I said, holding it like a
worthless rag.
"Seven hundred drachmas," she said.
(about US$5.00)
"It has only two pockets. Do you have one
with four?" I said, Zorro-style again.
From a knee-deep pile, she pulled out a faded
green shirt, like the new ones before.
"Please, meester, five hundred
drachmas."
"No thank you," I said.
"Please, meester, four hundred
drachmas," she said, doing her own imitation of Zorro on the four pockets, which were
almost worn through.
I shook my head. I took off my sweater and
tried on one of the tan-colored shirts. That's when I blew it.
"Ah," she said, inhaling.
"Beautiful!" exhaling.
Shocked and flattered, I thought: Mr.
Casablancas, do you need any male models?
"Six hundred drachmas," I said.
"Seven hundred."
I took it off. Even at that price, it was half
as much as in other shops. I figured I could sew on two pockets.
"Six hundred…the buttons are missing
from the pockets," I said.
From a pile, she pulled out a worn shirt of
similar quality and color. She yanked off four buttons and bagged them with the shirt I
had tried on. I paid her price.
We smiled and waved, then I was away,
shirt-ready for Africa.
It seemed all Greece was out shopping for Christmas. Business was more brisk for the
street vendors selling roasted chestnuts from their braziers as it was for the sellers of
fruit and the sellers of coconut sticks.
In the stores, children tugged at the coats of
their parents and pointed, wide-eyed, to something they'd always wanted. Men scratched
their heads in perfume, jewelry and lingerie departments. Generally, the older the man,
the less he scratched. Women seemed to be having less trouble in the men's departments.
In the grocery stores, carts were bumper to
backside and crammed with holiday foods. Shelves of sweets emptied and were quickly
re-stocked. There were cellophane wrapped baskets of cheese, preserves, peanuts and booze,
or what-have-you, made to order. The number you drew at the meat counter made you feel you
had entered a lottery. Checkout lines became a test of patience, bagged purchases became a
test of strength. The fingers of cashiers never stopped.
Street musicians were more lively and numerous.
Beggars smile more. At rush hour – three o'clock – you could hardly spot them in
the crowds.
Everywhere was the sound of Christmas music,
soft and low in the background. There were the old familiars in English or Greek, and some
new ones. On the bus returning to Glyfada, a girl hummed "What Child Is This?"
Your reporter hummed along in that not-so-loud-as-to-be-heard way. For him to have sung it
may have emptied the bus at the next stop, but then you'll hear a Greek singing just about
anywhere, in key or not.
Hemingway wrote: "You do not know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign
land." He was right. It finds you, or you look for it, but not too hard.
When the beautiful crowded chaos of Christmas
in Greece gets to you and your thoughts drift homeward to Christmases past, or to the
present missing of loved ones, you can find inspiration in the lonely majesty of Cape
Sounion with its magnificent ruins of the Temple of Poseidon. You can find quietude in the
National Gardens in Athens.
(As I write this, I make a special dedication
to my daughters of Neil Diamond's "Hello, Again.")
In the gardens, you are befriended by some of
the dozens of cats that inhabit the luxuriant refuge. Some gather around if you bring a
lunch. One may jump up on your lap, tuck in its paws and close its eyes. You'll see every
cat you've ever had or known. I've seen Samantha, Buffy, Sylvester, Kali…
No so with the dogs of Greece. Bess, Kula and
Rags were unique of their breed. They are loving and loved, but only in memory as they
have all passed on. Still, the stray dogs here are, for the mostpart, a likeable lot.
There's Old Yeller, a sleepy-eyed version of the dog of Walt Disney fame, who greets you
upon your return to camp, then goes back to sleep. Hopalong is a white coarse-haired
little dog with a gaping raw wound in his right rear leg to which he will not let you
attend (but he is getting better). He's the proud defender, well versed in the Laws of
Dogs. For a time, he would register title of his domain on the walls of my tent, in the
way of dogs and fire hydrants, updating this notice as required. I'm very relieved to
report he is now secure in his title, despite its removal from the record. One can be
grateful the horses and cattle on the farms in the UK, Scandinavia and Europe were not so
instructed or inclined.
This place is home for Christmas. I call it The Point. It's on a much smaller scale and
the point is barren except for scrub plants, but it is similar in layout to Abino Bay and
Point Abino where much of the dreaming, planning and training for Cycle For Life –
World Odyssey took place.
There is no snow here, hasn't been for three
years. Last week, a middle-age couple was sunbathing in the nude in a not-so-secluded cove
on the east side of The Point.
Tonight, this special night, it's cool and
overcast. Thoughts drift back to the awesome sights of nature; to the inspiring works of
humankind; to the faces of the 252 people who have signed The Odyssey Signature Books; to
those who are simply remembered for their kindness and friendship to a stranger; to the
people who got Melawend and me underway and are still support us; and of course to Melanie
and Wendy – to whom goes the personal side of the dedication of the Odyssey.
Such peaceful memories filled a day here and
gave rise to a dream that night, a dreamer's dream. Here it is in verse. Remember, this is
only a fantasy…
The Isle of No More
They rediscovered our world and
implored:
How dare we think of war!
There wasn’t enough before?
The world is people, not just politics.
The world is nature, not made all of bricks.
We loaded all the arsenals onto a
thousand ships,
And dumped them into the ocean, regardless the trips.
Mounded a lifeless island to bury war,
And called it The Isle of No More.
One big bomb, saved for last,
Blew it all away, into the past.
Monumental memory, epitaph for war;
God bless the world - and the Isle of No More.
Amen.
All is pretty well packed and ready for Africa. Melawend and I are itchy to roll up the
Nile. A pause… Kali, in the gardens… maybe there's room… Hopalong and Old
Yeller… maybe a trailer? A lovely girl, only just met: eyes warm, expressive and
mysterious – like life and autumn in Greece… a sidecar! There's the
answer! But, no. That is the problem here.
Next story: Into Africa.
