Greek people know how to wake up late, and take it easy. And they want you to relax too. I went to get my hair cut at a modest salon, and was offered coffee during the haircut. I almost refused, because I thought, how will this work? My hands are under the smock, my face is covered in hair. But you just relax, then everything works.
And yet, when it's time to move, who knows how better than the Greeks? The day I left Greece, transportation workers were on strike in Athens. The situation was this: I had to catch a bus to catch a boat to catch a plane. Why? I don't know. Playtime was over. I was broke. I had to return to Buffalo to finish a project I started a year ago. I woke up in Athens at 8 am, left Dimitris' house at 10, and it took me nearly four hours just to get to the bus station in Athens (should've taken just over 1). I've never seen so many people so well organized in my life. Exception: The March for Women's Lives, Washington DC, April 2004, which, while an impressive and important display of feminist voices, did not outline a set of demands. It was a loud, defensive action, and it was beautiful--a reminder to ourselves as much as our enemies that not all of us are asleep--but it was ultimately non-threatening to the powers that be.
I waited for a commuter bus into Athens. The buses were full of people who would normally be taking the metro, which was not running due to the strikes. Inconvenience is effective. People were cursing, and either cramming onto the few buses that were running or giving up and going home. In an hour and half, two buses passed. I didn't get onto to either of them because I was not willing to shove an elbow in another person's face. I called Dimitris, who graciously picked me up and drove me into the city.
And yet, when it's time to move, who knows how better than the Greeks? The day I left Greece, transportation workers were on strike in Athens. The situation was this: I had to catch a bus to catch a boat to catch a plane. Why? I don't know. Playtime was over. I was broke. I had to return to Buffalo to finish a project I started a year ago. I woke up in Athens at 8 am, left Dimitris' house at 10, and it took me nearly four hours just to get to the bus station in Athens (should've taken just over 1). I've never seen so many people so well organized in my life. Exception: The March for Women's Lives, Washington DC, April 2004, which, while an impressive and important display of feminist voices, did not outline a set of demands. It was a loud, defensive action, and it was beautiful--a reminder to ourselves as much as our enemies that not all of us are asleep--but it was ultimately non-threatening to the powers that be.
I waited for a commuter bus into Athens. The buses were full of people who would normally be taking the metro, which was not running due to the strikes. Inconvenience is effective. People were cursing, and either cramming onto the few buses that were running or giving up and going home. In an hour and half, two buses passed. I didn't get onto to either of them because I was not willing to shove an elbow in another person's face. I called Dimitris, who graciously picked me up and drove me into the city.
The traffic was ugly because there were more cars on the road than usual--another reminder of how unpleasant life could be without the metro. Dimitris dropped me at the road block in the center of town, near a bus stop I knew, but my sense of direction was thrown by the masses (thousands) of workers and supporters. I got lost. If I didn't get the bus to Patras within the half hour, I would miss my boat, meaning I would miss my plane. I asked a police officer directions and he told me he had no idea where the bus station was and turned his back on me. Er...thanks. Within a minute, four Athenians, (who, based on dress and manner, appeared to be from four completely different walks of life), surrounded me and joined forces to get me to the bus station. It was very sweet, and also the second evidence of the day that Greeks know how to organize best of anyone. Four Athenians deciding on directions is the antithesis of four Italians deciding on directions, which is to say, Italians don't decide on, but disagree about. Conversations in Italy usually aren't about the question or the answer, but about making music and noise. If it weren't for Greek organizers I would not have nearly missed my bus, nor would I have made it. And everything you do is an experience.
I arrived in Patras at 4:30, ran from the bus station to the port, in the rain, to buy my ticket, ran to the other end of the port to pay my port fees, and then ran back to the other end of the port to board the boat. The boat left one hour behind schedule. I amused myself by taking pictures of the sea and writing Greece a little note. Goodbye Greece, your yellow flowers and fat, un-pruned olive trees, your haphazard parking and sunny balconies and ceramic everythings. It went on and on, and was sentimental and useless. I won't bore you.
The boat was soft and warm and squishy, like the inside of a giant traveling womb. I put my pack down in a dark corner of the deck room, sat next to it, and took a deep, grateful breath. For the time being, I had arrived. Three men and a woman entered the room. The first man looked about fifty, was short and fat and smug, and was on his cell phone (speaking Italian). He wore well-pressed gray pants, a black shirt, and a gold cross around his neck. The woman, who looked as if she'd be on his arm if it weren't for the height disparity and the fact that the aisle barely accommodated his girth, followed him. She was as tall as he was wide and thin as a rail on a diet. She wore red leather stiletto boots, and a matching bag of fake red snakeskin. Otherwise she was in skin-tight black. Her face was stuck in a pouty frown--only her lips were too thin to really pout. The result was the look of someone for whom just existing is very uncomfortable. Her hair was long and (not naturally) straight. I thought she would have been very beautiful if it weren't for her apparent misery. She might have been about 40.
I arrived in Patras at 4:30, ran from the bus station to the port, in the rain, to buy my ticket, ran to the other end of the port to pay my port fees, and then ran back to the other end of the port to board the boat. The boat left one hour behind schedule. I amused myself by taking pictures of the sea and writing Greece a little note. Goodbye Greece, your yellow flowers and fat, un-pruned olive trees, your haphazard parking and sunny balconies and ceramic everythings. It went on and on, and was sentimental and useless. I won't bore you.
The boat was soft and warm and squishy, like the inside of a giant traveling womb. I put my pack down in a dark corner of the deck room, sat next to it, and took a deep, grateful breath. For the time being, I had arrived. Three men and a woman entered the room. The first man looked about fifty, was short and fat and smug, and was on his cell phone (speaking Italian). He wore well-pressed gray pants, a black shirt, and a gold cross around his neck. The woman, who looked as if she'd be on his arm if it weren't for the height disparity and the fact that the aisle barely accommodated his girth, followed him. She was as tall as he was wide and thin as a rail on a diet. She wore red leather stiletto boots, and a matching bag of fake red snakeskin. Otherwise she was in skin-tight black. Her face was stuck in a pouty frown--only her lips were too thin to really pout. The result was the look of someone for whom just existing is very uncomfortable. Her hair was long and (not naturally) straight. I thought she would have been very beautiful if it weren't for her apparent misery. She might have been about 40.
She glanced at me briefly as if she felt sorry for me and my lack of red snakeskin stiletto boots. I felt sorry for her too, so we were even. The man sat next to me, directly across the aisle, and she sat next to him, out of view. Their henchmen/wolves were two 20-somethings who wore track suits, gold chains, and clean white sneakers. Their heads were buzzed. They looked vapid, attractive, and dangerous. One sat diagonal from me, in front of the "daddy" character, and the other sat in the seat directly in front of me. It's important to note that we were in a large room full of empty, identical chairs. So why had they surrounded me? Because they were the mafia. I mean, look at them. There really isn't another explanation. I don't know what they had planned, but I didn't stay to find out. I collected my stuff, oh-so-casually. Only the henchmen/minions stared at me as I cleared my throat silently and went off.
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