Meanwhile mayhem reigned as EOT employees and other hastily enlisted laymen manfully boarded tourist buses and threw Greek art and history into confusion in the course of excursions around the ancient sites. During the three-day strike the Theatre of Dionysos, it is said, grew several centuries older, the Temple of Wingless Victory became winged and the Corinthian columns of the Temple of Zeus were transformed into the Ionic order. Tourist guides are not indispensable. Bus drivers can get tourists to a destination like Delphi, of course, and hoteliers and restauranteurs can provide them with creature comforts, but only guides can provide intellectual succor to tourists confronted by that immense hillside jumble of old stones known as the Sacred Precinct, sort out those endless rows of treasuries, identify the wild flowers growing in their midst, outline clearly the political intrigues of the Amphictionic League, enumerate the subtle beauties of the Bronze Charioteer, and indicate the way to the museum lavatories—faultlessly in several languages.
Of course, there are many excellent guidebooks but depending on them alone to get about has its shortcomings. One spends more time in reading than in looking, and the prose of Baedeker and Company is often less than inspired. It can also be hazardous. Tourists striding along ancient sites with their noses buried in books have been known to bump into columns (or each other) or to trip unawares into archaeological pits. Perhaps the Palace at Knossos is the great testing ground for the guideless adventurer. The ground plan of the palace as presented in the handbooks usually looks like a complex electrical circuit illustrated in a physics textbook and the accompanying key like a Linear A tablet Thus, with great relief have lost souls stumbled upon a tour group and eavesdropped stealthily on the words of the guide.
Tourist guides are among the most dedicated and well-informed classicists in the country. They combine knowledge with dramatic flair and with equal ease and aplomb can list the kings of Sparta or give the weight of the Lion’s Gate in either kilos or pounds. Their absence over any period of time would be sorely missed by visitors.
Rally Jolly Good Fun!
WE WENT to the Flower Rally,’ X pronounced our friend Sandra Morris in heavy British cadences describing a Sunday’s activity early in May. We were pondering this avid car bug’s sudden interest in flora and trying to pinpoint the ‘Silver Ghost Springfield’ and kHubmobiIe Phaeton’ species of blossoms peppering her speech when we caught a reference to Rolls Royce and knew she was launched once again on her favourite subject. Here is her report:
The Flower Rally is organized by Philpa which stands for Friends of Old Cars. Twenty-five vintage automobiles participated in the event this year, held on May 8. An annual local affair, the Rally covers one hundred kilometres beginning in Kifissia, running round and about Mount Parnis, and returning to Kifissia, with a stop along the way for a picnic and treasure hunt. On a grander scale is the International Rally, a three-day event which will take place in September and run a four-hundred-and-eighty-kilometre course from Athens to Porto Heli and back. So far there are entrants from Greece, England, Switzerland, Italy, France, and Austria.
The cars lined up near Kefalari Square to have their engines inspected to verify that they were the original ones. A 1935 Austin 12/4 Tourer, owned and driven by Chris Flodis, arrived at the starting point with a broken fan-belt. It was repaired when a female friend hastily removed and prof erred her panty hose—a well-known remedy for fan-belt afflictions.
The Rally is not a race, participants gaining or losing points on performance only. There are three categories for entrants: those tracing their lineage back to the era of 1919-1930, the relative parvenus that made their debuts between 1931 and 1940, and post-1940 newcomers which do not yet qualify as vintage models but fall into the category of ‘collectors’ cars’ and as such are allowed points according to separate criteria. Some of these horseless buggies were until recently family cars in regular use which have now been promoted to rallying. The oldest was a 1923 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost Springfield driven by Robert Smith; the youngest, a 1953 Volvo Ρ 444 driven by Nicholas Matiatos. None of the cars were built for the cut and thrust of today’s driving and collectors will allow theirs to be driven only by experienced drivers. Allen Francis is the only driver of a 1934 Austin Martin: originally built for and raced in Le Mans, it requires inordinate concentration since the accelerator and brake pedals are reversed. A 1932 Hubmobile Phaeton—an ancestor of Oldsmobiles—was driven by Vasilis Bakellas and carried on its hood a water temperature gauge designed by his father in 1920. The reverse side of the gauge incorporates a medal of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers and motorists in the Catholic tradition (up until a few years ago, when he was removed from the official roster of saints).
The cars, gleaming in the sun, with the drivers, co-pilots and passengers in some cases wearing period costumes, made their way to a spot on Mount Parnis where they gathered for a picnic. The mountain run proved to be an unexpected obstacle course. Although it was clear when inspected by officials two days before, it had been treacherously narrowed by mounds of gravel piled along one side in readiness for resurfacing of the road. The only serious mishap befell a 1928 Rolls Royce Saloon which was struck broadside by a petrol truck skidding out of control. Sound Rolls craftsmanship withstood the impact although it took a beating but the driver escaped unhurt. The Treasure Hunt followed the picnic. Clues led drivers from one check point to another. The clue ‘Return1 sent many cars retracing the route and only one driver figured out that it referred to the Taverna Return. One car whose driver managed to solve no clues whatsoever, arrived first at the finish line where it could be seen standing mutely awaiting the others while nearby its driver drowned his sorrow in beer.
Beware of Cousins Bearing Gifts!
WE RECEIVED a letter from our Greek-American friend and frequent visitor to the land-of-her-ancestors, Connie Burke of San Francisco, which set us to thinking about hands-across-the-culture solutions for today’s ethnic jetsetters who must make instantaneous cultural adjustments. One such problem is how to deal with compulsive, gift-bearing. Greek relatives without hurting their feelings and without hauling home a staggering assortment of olives, liquers, cheeses and sweets guaranteed to raise the eyebrows of the most hardened customs officials abroad. Her letter read in part:
In contrast to the usual flood of relatives arriving at the airport for last-minute waves of handkerchiefs, the unusually quiet day on which we left brought only several dedicated cousins with final, last-minute waves of gifts. The offerings tallied up to three heads of kefalotiri, several boxes of snow-white kourabiedes, a string of dried figs, three bottles of Metaxa, a package of baklava leaving a trail of honey, and two large petrol tins filled to the brim with olive oil. Conforming to the custom bred into us from childhood that to reject a gift is insulting to the gift-giver’s pride, we tenderly carried the figs, cheese, dripping baklava, brandy and olive-oil-filled petrol tins — gifts to us or to be relayed to others — to Row 22, seats A and B. We kept our fingers crossed, our eyes lowered and our breath held, hoping that the heady cheese scent of the kefalotiri would not offend the sensibilities of our fellow travellers. We were relieved to discover tha* seated next to us was a seventy-eight-year-old village grandmother — travelling for the first time on a jetliner, en route to meet her eldest son now residing in New York City. A hard-core member of the cheese-oil syndrome, she was not only unperturbed by our take, she was impressed.
Eight hours later we arrived in New York City. The customs officer repeated the usual questions in the familiar monotone. He suddenly became more alert as his eyes scanned our red, Cretan bag from whose corners the petrol tins protruded ominously. ‘You guys always travel with your own gas?’ he asked incredulously.
‘Believe it or not,’ we replied, mustering our pride, ‘these cans contain precious olive oil from our uncle’s farm in the Peloponnisian mountains of Greece.’
Olive oil? In gas cans? No kidding! Hey, Joe,’ he called out, ‘c’ mon over here and take a look at this. We got some folks here who are bringing olive oil into the country in gas cans.!’
We remained unperturbed as Joe and other blue-coated customs agents gathered around dipping their fingers into the oil, tasting it in disbelief, and peering inside the containers to see if anything was concealed. Perhaps it was our deadpan, earnest expressions — or the smell of the kefalotiri —that began to affect them, but in no time at all we were hurried through the inspection booth with encouraging words of welcome; ‘Alright you guys, move along now, hurry up, make room for the next guy…
Ms. Burke was, of course, among the more fortunate members of the contingents regularly and summarily drafted into our National Gift Transportation Service. Not all are let off so lightly, and many pay heavily for their acquiescence — in fees to the airlines for overweight baggage and to customs officials at their destination. On the other hand, openly defying gift-bearing battalions of Greek relatives is not well-advised. Refusing to accept or transport gifts may lead to pitched battles, fratricide or prolonged intramural warfare. There is a compromise solution, however, one that makes concessions to both our national customs and the realities of modern-day travel. We were introduced to it some years ago while witnessing the departure preparations of an American-based Greek-born friend.
He had just completed his summer vacation in Greece and with several intimate friends in attendance was methodically folding and sorting his belongings in preparation for his departure when we arrived at his hotel. As a matter of fact, we had come to say good-bye and to present him with a jar of absolutely superb olives from our village. We watched as he carefully set aside bottles of brandy and ouzo, packages of sweets, various and sundry cheese, olives and preserves. Having finished packing, he turned to his collection of gifts, made a careful inventory of each item, and added to the list several containers of olive oil and demijohns of wine lined-up in the corner of his room. Next to each entry he noted the name of the person to whom the item had been consigned and the donor. This task completed, he proceeded to distribute his collection at random among the assembled company.
He would not dream, he explained, of disappointing all the mothers and aunties who had spent countless hours preparing the gifts, or the fathers and uncles who had devotedly hauled tins of oil, wheels of cheese, and demijohns of wine from the village, believing all the while that these ritual gifts were soon to bring joy to distant loved ones. Nor would he dream of spending several hundred dollars on overweight and customs duties. He accepts all gifts with effusive exclamations of pleasure, and before his departure distributes them in Athens. Once back home, he contacts the intended recipients and tells them to write their thanks to whichever relative sent them whichever gift, and sends off his own thank-you notes. That way everyone is happy. We were forced to agree that he had a point, but when we left we took our olives with us.
