The meltemi winds have arrived from the North carrying with them the promise of cooler temperatures; the great hordes of tourists have dwindled now to resolute backpackers, stray middle-aged couples, and the odd, pale-skinned, camera-toting groups; and luscious clusters of green and purple grapes are everywhere. It is time to think of new projects. Time to find an au pair who won’t end up speaking more Greek than French, English, or German to the children. Soon the furs, wools, and carpets will come out of storage and covers will be removed from furniture. But that’s at least a few weeks off and the ritual relaying of the carpets will be postponed by traditionalists until the warm weather is long gone and the rains have settled the dust. Right now it’s time for a walk on Lycabettus Hill at sunset, a film at the outdoor cinemas before the chairs are stacked for the winter, time to enjoy the gentle chill of the evenings. Because if you live in Athens, and not in one of its seaside or northern suburbs, you are about to come into your season.
Soon, instead of you fighting your way through all that traffic to get out of Athens in search of swimming, sunbathing, and coolness, the “others” will be fighting their way into your city to attend art or language class, to shop, to go to the theatre, or to an elegant restaurant. While all the others are having to think of the extra half hour or so that it will take them to get to town, you can dawdle, read your newspaper, or catch an extra half hour’s sleep. Soon, you won’t have to worry about your geraniums dying on your tiny balcony because they are not getting enough water or clear air, and it won’t matter as much that when you look out your window you see a neon sign instead of mountains and trees. The sound of traffic will be muted by the closed windows, and, with the doors closed securely against the rainy chill of winter, you can begin to entertain again, in comfort. You won’t have to fret over keeping both the watermelon and the salad cool in the refrigerator. And you won’t have to cope with well-meaning friends who cluck over your eternally dusty coffee table, or ask you with a catch in their voice when you are going to move “out”.
Yes, this is when Athens really belongs to you, not the tourists, and when all the hustle and bustle of a large, metropolitan city seems not irritating and bothersome but natural and invigorating. The muffled, pink-cheeked groups that hurry past your window will sound happier and more musical than in the summer when they tend to walk slowly and speak softly. The apartment will be snug and once again sweet, with the scent of fresh-cut flowers which had to be forsaken in the summer. You can turn on one more heat-generating table lamp and smugly relax in your velour-covered, overstuffed armchair, while you wait for your guests to ply their way through long lines of screeching traffic, their dripping umbrellas soaking the hems of their coats and making puddles of water on the floor of the car.
But right now it’s September and time to enjoy the last remaining days of warm sunshine and evenings of cool breezes. You have gritted your teeth against the noise, and squinted your way through the relentless sun, and suffered the summer of clammy heat, and you deserve this sleepy, between-seasons lull. You’ll be able to find a taxi to take you to Herodes Atticus for the Festival’s last performances, take a twilight walk through the National Gardens, and wander into the little church in Monastiraki, satisfied in the knowledge that it’s your season.
On Camomile
NOT long ago, one of our elderly aunts was struck out of the blue by a sudden onslaught of myopia. Her doctor attributed this development to a severe reaction to a sulfonamide, which he had prescribed for a nasty case of bronchitis, and insisted she stop taking it. She did, resorting instead to camomile which cured not only the myopia but the bronchitis as well. Camomile frequently succeeds where new-fangled methods fail and we can list countless cases of illness which we know to have been sent packing by camomile, taken internally or applied externally (preferably both, in the event of a gall bladder attack, kidney infections, arthritis and so on).
Camomile, which in its natural, fresh state resembles a miniature daisy, belongs to the genus Anthemis, the common European variety being called Anthemis nobilis. The word camomile is derived from the Greek and means “ground apple”, because of the apple-like scent of its blossoms. Many varieties of the herb can be found throughout Western Europe and a cultivated variety is used as a border for gardens, where it will bloom from midsummer to the first frost. Camomile will grow in almost any soil as long as it is fully exposed to the sun. When used as a tea and for medicinal purposes, the heads of the plant are cut off as soon as the flower has fully expanded, and then dried. A volatile oil is also extracted from the flowers and used in medicines. It is used as a “mild sedative, good for colds, upset stomachs and hangovers”. Applied locally to an irritated part of the body it is “cooling and soothing… and is said to repel insects”.
All of this we learned after a little research at the library. Although our sources did not specify medications in which camomile is used, or the precise diseases for which it is a remedy, we are able to supply this information on the basis of our own considerable experience, that of all our relatives, most of our friends, and the testimony of several pharmacists in Athens, as well as a number of doctors of our acquaintance who continue to use an empirical approach and resist the siren calls of modern science. Camomile, as we and all of these authorities know, will cure anything from eczema to schizophrenia. We ourselves use it as a skin balm, hair rinse, a sedative at bedtime, and to treat the Asiatic flu or any other epidemic that occasionally besets the nation.
The reason for our research, and for this explanation about the curative properties of camomile, is the growing scepticism among today’s youth, particularly, if we” may say so without running the risk of being accused of prejudice, among young Anglo-Saxon types who have taken a few courses in Biology or subscribe to Science Today and other such journals, and who regale their friends with stories about camomile tea — usually after a sensible local physician or pharmacist has prescribed it for an ailment. This age-old remedy and national cure-all is worthy of more respect.
This was brought home to us recently when an American friend of ours, a young executive, discovered that he had developed a strange rash which seemed to be spreading rapidly over his body. We immediately suggested that he apply camomile tea, but he looked at us with dismay and asked, “What is camomile tea?” We patiently explained, ignoring his sneering contempt, but he insisted on contacting a dermatologist. Somewhat cowed, he told us a few days later that the physician had told him that he could not identify the cause of the rash but advised him to steep himself several times a day in a bath of either oatmeal, or, even better, camomile tea. He had opted for the oatmeal.
After several outbursts of disapproval from his cleaning woman, with whom he can’t communicate but who made it very clear that she was fed up with cleaning oatmeal from his bathtub, and after stopping up the plumbing, he decided to try camomile. We smiled with approval at the news and told him how happy we were that he was now cured. Scratching vigorously, he replied that he was not cured by any means and that sitting in the bathtub with tea bags floating around him was having a very negative affect on his self-image and he would soon be in need of a psychiatrist. To add to his woes, his cleaning woman was growing increasingly exasperated with him, gesticulating animatedly at the tea bags he was using in his bath, even though he was carefully removing any trace of camomile bathtubring left behind by the tea’s sediment. We quickly grasped the source of the good woman’s distress and hastened to explain that as aficionados of any sort of tea can tell him, bags are simply not the same as loose tea and we felt certain the bags were not producing the necessary chemical fusion. He would hear, none of this, informed us there was a limit to his humiliation, and that he would certainly not take baths with dried daisies floating on the surface. Still scratching vigorously, he departed to visit another dermatologist, who, of course, recommended camomile, which our friend testily refused to use.
The last time we spoke to him, he told us, still scratching, that he was flying to Brussels on business and would consult a dermatologist there. We told him he would no doubt be in good hands. Remembering our Agatha Christie, we felt certain a wise Belgian doctor would recommend that favourite remedy of Hercule ; Poirot, a tisane, which, as we all know, is an herb tea—perhaps even camomile.
Throwing Down the Gauntlet
DEBORAH Tannen, whose book on Lilika Nakos, one of Greece’s foremost writers, is soon to be published as part of the Twayne World Author series, has done considerable research on Greek women writers and, in the area of sociolinguistics, studies comparing the communicative strategies of Greeks and Americans. She has now taken a brief detour into the subject of Greek men. Here are her observations, which we hope will send our male readers to their typewriters: I like Greek men because they know when to be polite to salesmen and taxi drivers and when to be angry with them. If the meat is undercooked, they send it back with the right blend of annoyance and indulgence. They know how to behave. The only trouble is that when I am with a Greek man, I always end up feeling that I don’t know how to behave.
I like Greek men because they look so comfortable in their bodies—as if they were dancers. They know this, and that is why they dress and walk as if they were on stage. They wear tight trousers and shirts unbuttoned to their waist. Since worry beads are passe, they put their hands in their pockets—if they can squeeze them into their pockets. A cigarette hangs precariously from their lips at all times.
One of the problems with Greek men is that they think they can seduce women only if they tell them they love them, so they are forced to become (reluctant, of course) charmers and flatterers. To let a woman go by without trying to seduce her would be like passing up a free meal; knowing how they always try, they don’t trust their women with any other men. A woman who has a Greek man for a lover has to give up her best buddies and any hope of ever making any new ones.
A Greek man is very sensitive. If his lover is hurt because of something he has said or done, he is deeply wounded that she would so misunderstand his good intentions. If she does not want to do what he wants, he is terribly hurt that she doesn’t love him enough to do such a small thing for him. If she is hurt because he has not done what she wants, he is inconsolable because she doubts his devotion. Morever, he expects her to know what he wants without having to tell her, because his mother always did. (He will sometimes anticipate what she wants, based on hints she never gave out.)
I recently met a newly-married Greek couple. I was charmed by the husband: a lean, olive-skinned young man with deep, passionate eyes. He was attentive and solicitous and agreed with everything I said. When his wife came in and asked him what she should make for dinner, he turned to her with a jolt, and his eyes flashed in anger. “You’re asking me?” he belted. The wife retreated silently, and he turned back to me with a sweet smile and honey voice. I asked him why he had spoken to his wife that way. “That’s all she understands,” he said. “If I don’t talk to her like that, she does whatever she wants.”
When he’s wooing a woman, a Greek man is indulgent, conceding to her every whim. Once she is caught, “whatever she wants” is just what she must be prevented from having. I really like Greek men. The problem is, I don’t think Greek men really like women.
