What Jamie Said in Athens: A Long Road to Athens

We entered Athens by bus. Our driver was a cheerful man with the disposition of Santa Claus, and a death wish. The driver careened through the busy downtown, leaping curbs and nearly grazing pedestrians.

In his defense, he was busy having an animated conversation, in high-octane Greek, with the woman in the seat behind him. The woman was evidently angry about something. I could tell by the way she flung her hands around as she spoke. And each time she got louder, our bus driver got more worked up and drove faster.

Once we got off the bus, I pulled up the address of our apartment on my phone. It looked something like this:

“Αυτή είναι μια πρόταση με τυχαίες ελληνικές λέξεις. Και δεν έχει και τόση σημασία τι λέει, γιατί απλώς το τονίζω. Οπότε απλώς συνδυάζω λέξεις για να συνεχίσω να τονίζω αυτό το σημείο, επειδή δεν το διαβάζεις πραγματικά αυτό.”

Since I do not read Greek, I randomly approached cab drivers who were waiting outside vehicles, brandishing my phone to them.

“Can you help me?” I said, just in case any spoke English.

None did.

Thankfully, one cabby took pity on me. He took my phone, glanced at the address on the screen, and said, “Nai, nai.”

Then he stomped out his cigarette, hurled our baggage into the trunk, and used his knee to force the hatch closed. We all piled into his car, which was roughly the size of an average bowling shoe, and we were off.

Our cab driver chain-smoked Winstons. He quickly realized we spoke no Greek and carried on his end of the conversation anyway. He chatted in my general direction, staring cheerfully into the rearview mirror as he traveled ninety along residential streets with one finger on the wheel.

I gripped the chicken bar overhead and answered everything he said with “Nai! Nai!” I was very sincere in my replies. In fact, my replies were so sincere that sometimes I had to pause to wipe my eyes.

Finally, the car came to a halt. We gathered our luggage and found our way into our apartment building, along with a group of feral cats who accompanied us every step of the way.

There must have been ten cats in our welcome committee. One cat led the way. Several brought up the rear. The rest sat on faraway perches, watching us struggle with our bags.

Our host met us at the door. The apartment was perfect. Well-kept and clean. And although it was tiny, the flat-screen television was about the size of a Times Square underwear ad.

“I have a TV,” explained our host, just in case we missed it.

There was a pronounced look of pride on his face.

So, we all sort of gathered around the TV, inspecting it the way you’d admire your brother-in-law’s new Buick.

“Yes, that’s definitely a TV,” I pointed out.

“Very nice TV,” he reasserted.

“So exciting,” my wife said.

Whereupon we were taken on the remainder of our tour. The host showed us the water heater and told us to keep it turned off unless an emergency arose that required actual hot water. Then he laughed, as if such a thing could ever actually happen in this current dimension. Still, in the unlikely event that we might ever truly NEED hot water, we were told to activate the water heater, thirty minutes beforehand, and if no hot water came out, then just watch TV.

Also…

“Do not flush toilet paper down the toilet,” he said in a serious voice, indicating danger.

Then he wagged his finger. “Never flush toilet paper.”

“Never?” I said.

He shook his head gravely. “When you wipe, you must NEVER flush paper.” Then he pantomimed the entire wiping process so that nobody was confused. Then he showed us the special poo-paper receptacle.

We solemnly agreed to never flush toilet paper. And I shudder to think of what happens in this country if some unfortunate soul is ever caught flushing tissue down the commode during post-movement reflection.

Once we settled in, we left our apartment for a walk.

The streets of Athens were beautiful at sundown. The streets were filled with people, cars, cats, music, smells of garlic, and homicidal scooterists.

Everyone seemed content, going about their days. Sipping espresso in outdoor cafés. Having reunions in the middle of the road, sometimes parking their cars in the middle of a thoroughfare just to have a conversation with someone on a sidewalk.

And who can blame them? The people on the sidewalks are impossibly friendly. They smiled and greeted us, although we were strangers. We passed seven thousand coffee shops and twice as many barber shops. We even passed one place that is a combination barber shop, nail salon, and coffee shop.

A man on the corner was playing Byzantine lyra, an ancient precursor to the violin. There were children playing hopscotch. A group of older men, huddled in a circle, fraternizing and laughing.

We stopped at a café. We ordered two Americanos. We found an outdoor table. We were caught in a warm sunset, sipping our coffee, watching the visual parade of the world’s most spectacular city pass us by at eye level.

My wife looks at me and smiles.

“Fart,” she says.

“What did you just say?”

She points to the graffiti behind me.

I turn around, and sure enough, I can see how she got there.

She says the word again. A few people in the café overhear her, see the graffiti, and start laughing. Soon, we are all laughing. One of us is laughing so hard tears are coming out of his eyes.

Several strangers who have nothing in common. And yet we do.

We really do.