When we got wind of the fact that a Kapodistria exhibition was being organized at the Zappion, a persevering member of our staff proceeded to gather routine information about the event for our listings section. In late October she presented us with the following memo: I called the Zappion Exhibition Hall to inquire about the Kapodistria (Capodistria or Capo d’Istria) Exhibition to be held there in November. An unidentified voice told me to call the Ministry of Culture at 324-3015. A voice at the Ministry informed me that they knew nothing about the exhibition and suggested I call the Ministry of Education at 323-0461. This number was continuously engaged. After a few tries, I began to dial, alternately, the Ministry’s number and 130, the telephone information service. Both were engaged throughout the rest of the morning. By noon time I was making headway with the telephone information service having gotten through to the recorded announcement advising me to hold on (perimenete sto akoustiko sas…). I did and eventually an operator came on. I asked if there were another number for the Ministry because 323-0461 had been continuously engaged for the last two hours and twenty minutes. She suggested I call: 324-0861, 324-3920, 322-5861, and 324-4770. I got an answer at the latter and a voice informed me that they had never heard of this exhibition; 324-0861 turned out to be a furniture showroom, A voice at 324-3920 said it had never heard of the exhibition, but kindly suggested that another section of the Ministry, might be able to help me. I tried 322-5861. It did not answer. I decided to try the Zappion again. The same voice replied at the Zappion, informed me a mistake had been made, and suggested I call the Ministry of Press and Information at 363-0911. A voice at that office assured me that it knew nothing about the exhibition and that I should call Miss Nikitopoulou at another number. With a name in hand, I felt certain I was on to something hot, but Miss Nikitopoulou calmly informed me that this was the first she had heard of the exhibition and suggested I call the Zappion.
A new voice at the Zappion provided me with another number, which turned out to be that of the organizers of the Modern Home Exhibition currently in progress at the Zappion. I called back the Zappion and exchanged a few pleasantries with the first friendly voice which was delighted to hear from me again and this time gave me the number of the Ministry of Press and Information telling me to ask for Mr. Anestis. Mr. Anestis was not there, but a voice suggested that I call Mr. Bourbous. Mr. Bourbous told me the exhibition was being organized by the Ministry of Education, and to call Mr. Tsiropoulos. Mr. Tsiropoulos was out of his office but his secretary suggested I call him at another number. Mr. Tsiropoulos was indeed at that number. Not only had he heard of the exhibition, but his office was organizing it. He would be very pleased to provide me with any information I needed but, at the moment, he was busy and would I mind ringing him the next day at his office. At that point I would have been unable to register any information and gladly postponed the final event.
I got through to Mr. Tsiropoulos the next morning. The exhibition, he informed me, is being organized to mark the two-hundredth anniversary of Kapodistria’s birth. It will be officially opened by the current President of the Republic, Mr. Tsatsos, on the evening of the fifteenth and to the public from the sixteenth to the twenty-eighth. He did not know the hours yet, but assumed they would be normal Zappion hours. The exhibition will feature the personal objects belonging to Kapodistria. Various other events, including a drama at the National Theatre will mark the anniversary. The exhibition will then move to other places in Greece, and end up on Corfu, Kapodistria’s native island. We thanked Mr. Tsiropoulos effusively and signed-off.
Herod Atticus Rips His Winkle
IN late September and early October, hot on the heels of the final performances of the Athens Festival which this year had included the usual impressive array of world renowned musical, theatrical, and dance performances at the ancient theatre of Herod Atticus, a series of concerts dubbed ‘Special Artistic Events’ was announced. The Herod Atticus up until then had been the exclusive domain of ‘Culture’ with a formidable capital ‘C. The first ‘Special Artistic Event’ consisted of a series of six concerts devoted to the music of Iviikis Theodorakis and Stavros Xarhakos. The following week Yannis Markopoulos conducted his own music. In the past, such concerts would have been considered inappropriate to the sacred premises because of their ‘popular’ character. The concerts, nevertheless, were organized by the National Tourist Organization at the urging, it is said, of Prime Minister Karamanlis himself. Indeed, the Prime Minister made his first visit to the ancient theatre this year to hear one of the Xarhakos -Theodorakis concerts.
Although Xarhakos’s Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias and Theodorakis’s Axion Esti are enjoyed by the populace at large, they are not ‘popular’ music in the strict sense. The first is a cantata for baritone, narrator and orchestra with a libretto based on a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca; the second is a ‘popular’ oratorio whose libretto is based on the poetry of Odysseus Elytis. Neither the composers nor the poetry can by any stretch of the imagination be dismissed as pedestrian, but purists would not consider the compositions ‘high art’. When Theodorakis first presented Axion Esti in the 1950s, however, the fact that he used bouzouki singers and popular instruments for a serious work of music created a sensation in traditional circles. Markopoulos can more readily be categorized as a popular composer and performer: Tha Fame Stin Zoungla Me Ton Tarzan (We’ll go to the Jungle with Tarzan), was a satirical song cleverly attacking the most recent dictatorship, its music and lyrics in the category of ‘Yellow Submarine’. He has, however, experimented with a variety of serious genres although he has had little formal training.
Painful as it may have been for both the cultural snobs as well as the traditionalists to know that Markopoulos was singing Lengo, Lengo to the accompaniment of the bouzouki in the Sacred Premises, their reaction must have been mild in comparison to that of die-hard political conservatives hearing Grigoris Bithikotsis sing one of the rallying songs of the Left, Ena to Helidoni from Axion Esti — with the Prime Minister’s blessings no less. It was not so long ago that the opening strains of this song would have been the signal for members of the establishment to head for the nearest exit or to reach for their rotten tomatoes. Nor is it unreasonable to suggest that thirteen years ago, Mr. Karamanlis, not to mention his associates, would have led the indignant exodus.
Clearly some sort of cultural and social evolution is underway, as popular-serious music makes its way into sacred confines and staunch right-wingers hob nob with their former arch-enemies of the Left from whom they were so recently protecting the nation, sending them off to jail when necessary. Today one can see Mr. Karamanlis on television, either at public occasions or during parliamentary sessions, positively beaming with affection at the cherubic Elias Iliou, the once naughty boy of the communists and now the grand old man of politics and parliamentary leader of the United Left. Although we thoroughly approve of these signs of progress and the social jolliness which has replaced the animosities of the past, we cannot help but feel a little compassion for old-time conservatives who must be thrown into total confusion by all this conviviality. They must often feel like Rip Van Winkles waking up in a world in which a veritable ‘Who’s Who’ of Makronissos (the former island prison to which leftist political prisoners were dispatched) are performing at the Herod Atticus under the aegis of the establishment.
The Biannual Marathonogenesis
AT four-thirty in the afternoon on October 20 the traffic had seemed particularly heavy — even for central Athens — as we approached the multi-lane intersection flanked by the National Gallery and the Hilton Hotel. The explanation soon became obvious: the outside south-bound lane on Vassilisis Sofias had been cleared of all four-wheeled traffic to make way for participants in the semi-annual marathon race. Their forty-two kilometre course had begun at twelve-thirty in Marathon. The first runner had arrived at about three o’clock at the Stadium a few blocks below the intersection. (The last would arrive at seven o’clock, no mean accomplishment since this victor was ninety-eight years old.)
A traffic policeman, positioned at the centre of this busy junction, was frantically trying to coordinate the activities of vehicles and pedestrians. The runners passed through the halted traffic, in some cases barely escaping the bumpers of vehicles that had stopped in the nick of time. Short-tempered drivers responded with unremitting horn-honking. A trim middle-aged runner trotted by, followed a few seconds later by an elderly man. They did not live up to the expected image of athletes in shape to participate in this grueling race held twice a year in honour of the first marathon runner, Phidippides, who ran all the way to Athens to announce the Greek victory over the Persians at Marathon. From a safe vantage point on the sidewalk we watched the commotion, keeping an eye out for our friend Vassilis. We didn’t, however, spot him loping by. He had run the steeple chase in his youth (jumping hurdles without the aid of a horse, and sloshing through small lakes), but he had decided at the ripe old age of twenty-nine to retire to the marathon.
Remembering that Phidippides had dropped dead at the end of the run, we were relieved to hear Vassilis answer the phone the next day when we called his house. Although somewhat exhausted, he was willing to provide some bird’s-eye details about the event in which he had participated.
To enter the marathon, he explained, only a medical examination is required to certify that one’s heart, blood pressure and lungs are in order. Training for the event is a matter of personal motivation. (He himself had decided to give up smoking in the pious hope of getting his lungs in shape, but he had not been able to stick to this resolution.) Of the more than nine hundred and sixty-six participants, only one hundred and forty-five had been Greek. The rest had come from fourteen countries — four hundred and eighty from West Germany, eighty from America, one from Iran and one from Australia — and travelled to Athens at their own expense.
Early in the morning on the day of the race, buses and private cars carried the international runners to Marathon where they assembled in random fashion to await the start of the race. At the signal, they began to set off, but since it is no easy matter for almost one thousand runners to set off at a shot, it was some time before the last participants made their way through the starting point.
What would happen, we asked, if one should change his mind along the route — or if his feet or arches gave out? ‘No problem’, our friend explained cheerfully. ‘Buses and police cars were stationed along the route to pick up all drop outs.’ Refreshments, including sliced lemons, tea and orange juice, were also available en route — as well as wet sponges to mop perspiring brows. The real goal of the marathon is to complete the race, and not to worry about the time. The last runner to finish, the ninety-eight year old Dimitri Iordanidis, attributes his stamina to — among other things — morning and evening cocktails of chamomile tea with a slice of lemon, and a diet which excludes meat, butter and milk.
Among the two-hundred and fifteen runners who failed to complete the race was a last-minute entrant, an unidentified dog, one of the first to take off after the starting signal. He kept up a brisk pace and was out in front for twenty kilometres. ‘He would have finished among the first,’ mused our friend Vassilis regretfully, ‘but once the course entered the stream of traffic and pollution at Stavros, he was frightened and ran away.’
