In the next six months, 24 large drilling and boring machines are going to cut out 220 holes in Athens. This investigation of the substratum is being made to define the lines of the Athens Metro (as it is already grandly called). We are informed that these excavations will be dug more on the sidewalks than in the streets, in which case we are more likely to lose our friends than our vehicles. Nevertheless, in spite of every effort on the part of the traffic police and the companies involved, the flow—or perhaps, more precisely, the flood—of traffic will be necessarily disturbed.
It must be understood in these trial tests that there is some uncertainty as to the whereabouts of utility communications in some areas. And, of course, the archaeologists, those true sons of old Hades, are jealously concerned about what they feel are their underground rights. Most of these exploratory cuts will take place in Syngrou, Queen Sofias, Alexandras, Panepistimiou-Agiou Constantinou and Ermou-Mitropoleos avenues. Whatever the disturbance to the past and the disquiet to the present these considerations pale before the future thought of descending into the Athens Metro.
Bully for Madam
Animal lovers’ hearts were warmed some weeks ago by accounts of the rescue of the bull that had fallen off the ship which was transporting him to Mytilini. The entire incident had occurred because some unthinking person had loaded some female members of his species within the poor animal’s view. Hearts will be warmed further to know that the welfare of all animals is closely watched by several organizations in Greece, not the least of which is the Greek Animal Welfare Fund.
We recently received a note from Jennifer Couroucli which describes a dynamic Athenian lady who, as a staunch protector of our dumb friends, added another chapter to the Tale of the Gallant Bull:
An American friend of the Greek Animal Welfare Fund, who sends us paperbacks and Christmas cards for remounting, wondered in a recent letter if there were bull-fighting in Greece. We wrote to assure her there was not, for which we are glad, not only for humanitarian reasons but also because, if there were, we all know what would happen. Madam· would get us down there in the ring.
‘If the matador comes over,’ she would, doubtless, enjoin us, ‘just hand him our card stating the law against cruelty to animals. Take that rope,’ she would snap ‘and get it round his fore-leg’ (Not the matador’s). ‘Here, old chap,’ she would address the bewildered bull and offer him a handful of mangel wurzels. ‘D’see the state of his hide?’ she would observe, ‘shockingcondition! And I don’t like the look of his dewlap… Stop that picador — he seems to be aiming a dart in this direction.’
This is a fantasy, of course, although a couple of months ago GAWF did rescue a young bull who was reported to be swimming to shore in Piraeus. We stabled and fed him, gave him veterinary treatment and investigated his sudden appearance, like Aphrodite, from the foam. Through over-crowding and non-compliance with the very good Greek laws governing the transport of animals, the beast had fallen or jumped into the sea.
Angry telephone calls from a Mytilini butcher were received in our office. ‘Let him sue,’ said Madam ‘I’ll show ’em,’ or words to that effect. The bull, nursed back to health after a bout of pneumonia, was ready to embark once more. Madam went down to make sure conditions on board met the legal standards. They did not. To the confusion of several angry men, Madam had the bull unloaded and put back in his snug stall. His fate, of course, was always a foregone conclusion. He was simply meat on the hoof and, as so few of us are vegetarian, we have to accept the fact. At least the animal was slaughtered, eventually, in an Athenian abattoir where humane pistols are used. The moral of.the story? Since men prefer to be carnivorous, we must prevent the unnecessary suffering of our victims.
The Greek Animal Welfare Fund, by the way, has a telephone answering service after office hours. Telephone 6435-391 if you have an animal problem.
By the Sea
We set out in good time for the official opening of the yachting season in Greece and arrived at Zea Marina to find the officials installed in their right places on the quay. Three priests, with beards and robes a-flowing, were elevated above the crowd on a small dais, three microphones lunging towards them. Three candles were carefully set out and the incense burner was ready. Their assistant stood respectfully nearby on terra firma. Facing the priests was a guard of honour, naval gentlemen, presumably melting away under their uniforms in the hot sun. A naval brass band was lined up to give the appropriate toots at the beginning and end of the proceedings. A scantily-clad group of young tourists had accomodated themselves in various positions on the pavement to watch the proceedings.
As the priests began to intone the blessing, a large-bosomed, tightly-encased lady suddenly saw a friend on the other side of the pavement and, throwing reverence to the winds, started up with: ‘Pss, Pss, Pss Maria! Come here. Hee-r-e.’ Maria mouthed ‘nay nay’ and stayed where she was. A reporter friend quietly slid in next to us. The blessing complete and after the kissing of the icon by those entitled and important enough to do so, Bill Lefakinis rose to the dais and announced Mr. Tsafos, the president of the Union of Marine Tourism who proceeded to give names, numbers and statistics. Our reporter-friend’s computer sprung into action and, with his eyes glued on the speaker’s face, he carefully stored away names, numbers and statistics. A gentleman clad in a uniform decorated with medals and gold braid arose: the Chief of the Port Authority.
Mr. Tsafos then announced that we would all repair to the Jason for a feast and we joined the crowd on the great march from the ceremony ground to the ship.
On board we noticed several lions of the public relations world in Athens, a medley of travel agents, yacht owners, yacht brokers and a smattering of embassy officials.
Our reporter-friend, meanwhile, was peering suspiciously at the quay, fearful, it would seem, that the Jason would suddenly loose its ropes and sail off for a mini-cruise. His anxiety became contagious and soon spread to us. Satisfied that the yachting season had been properly inaugurated, we felt it propitious that we beat a hasty retreat to Athens where we had an important appointment at one o’clock.
Cosmopolitan Lions
One night last week we were invited to join the members of the Cosmopolitan Lions Club at dinner. We knew, of course, what Lions are but what, we wondered, are the cosmopolitan variety? Determined to find an answer to the question, we took ourselves off to the Athenee Palace.
It seems that there are no less than 15 Lions Clubs in Athens and many more in other parts of Greece, but the well-named cosmopolitan group was established for non-Greek Lions who are living in Greece. The club received its charter from Lions International in 1971 and of the original 26 members only five remain in Athens, the rest having moved on to other parts. As some members leave, others arrive and today the club includes among its numbers many nationalities as well as English-speaking Greeks.
The main objective of ‘Lionism’ is to help the less fortunate and during the course of the dinner we learned something about their achievements in this field. In the near future they will be presenting 30.000 drachma to the light house of the blind and they have adopted a 12 year-old girl who lives in the north. Their donations are paying for her education. The club receives a letter from her every month and she keeps her adopted fathers informed about her activities. In another of their projects they have been supplying television sets to hospitals.
A great source of amusement at the dinner was a gentleman, an airline manager during the working day, who is known to the others as the ‘tail-twister.’ His job seemed to be to find as many excuses as possible to extract money from the members.
When another member introduced his guest with a slip of the tongue saying he was ‘an American from America’ he was immediately ‘fined’ by the ‘tail-twister.’ Another member was fined for bragging when he announced that he was from Indiana.
The club’s after-dinner speaker was a Lion from Norway who described his life as well as his career as a senior captain with the Scandinavian Airlines. He told us how he had been in love with aircraft since his boyhood and determined to become a pilot. During the war he escaped from Norway and reached England where he immediately tried to join the Air Force, but was turned away because he was too young and lacking in the necessary educational qualifications. Undeterred, he added a few years to his age, a few ‘extras’ to his education and was promptly called to the colours-by the Army! He eventually realized his dream and provided the members with a detailed explanation of all that goes into air transportation. We. will henceforth feel much more at ease when flying but his final remark will haunt us whenever we get into a car: once off the plane and onto the bus, the gentleman commented, the dangerous part of the journey begins.
Beating Time
Our friend, Kyria Elsie, is a Greek lady with a cosmopolitan eye who, exercising her rights as a citizen and observer-of-human-foibles, regularly dispatches a letter to us commenting on the world around us.
In recent weeks we have carefully avoided making any reference to the constancy of the changes in the work-hours and have refrained from hazarding guesses as to their possible resolution. Even with ‘summer hours’ almost upon us, a decision has yet to be made and we hesitate to make any statement or move that might possibly re-order the kaleidoscopic pattern. Such a change might well throw the public, long accustomed to the pattern of non-pattern, into total chaos.
Kyria Elsie’s latest letter, however, translates the time dilemma into fundamental terms which she applies to practical, everyday situations and we consider her observations worth passing on to our reader. She began, ominously, by quoting from Lewis Carroll.
Perhaps not, Alice cautiously replied; ‘but I know I have to beat time when I learn music’
‘Ah! That accounts for it,’ said the Hatter.
‘He won’t stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock.
You have written of the pitfalls awaiting the shopper but have omitted one of the biggest pitfalls of all—the bizarre opening hours. In order to be quite sure which shop is open, and at what time, it is necessary to consult the Working Hours chart which should, in fact, be kept constantly at hand lest one overlook the strange fact that while on some days a housewife may buy her bread at 7:30 a.m., she cannot buy her butter until 12:00 o’clock noon. Her hair, mussed-up by an open-air weekend, has to be hidden by a headscarf until 12:00 p.m. on Monday, though on Tuesday, she can be beautiful at 8:30 a.m. Does she want to go shopping at 5:00 o’clock on Wednesday or Thursday? Let us look at the chart. Alas! The shops are shut at 4:00 p.m. She must wait until Friday when she may shop until 8:00 p.m. and top off the day with a ‘shampoo and set’ until 8:45 p.m.
Is this not a crazy system, of benefit to no one, certainly not the customer, nor even the shop keepers? Let us hope that when the long hot summer days come, frustrated housewives — their homes depleted of food after a series of weekend picnics, their hair ruined by bathing — will be able to stock up their cupboards and have their hair done early Monday morning, and not be found, as now, waiting outside their supermarkets and hairdressers at the magic hour of 12:00 o’clock p.m.
We cannot help but agree with Kyria Elsie that the opening hours are erratic, that they are a great problem to women who wish on Monday morning to compose themselves for the rest of the week; and that a great deal of time is wasted, standing outside shops for hours on end to insure that one will be there at the appointed hour. Depending on time-charts, on the other hand, is no solution: they tend to become obsolete very rapidly and only add confusion to uncertainty.
