There is no need to despair, however. It may take a while to restore a deflated self-image, but relief from pain is just a zahawplastion away. As any Greek sage will tell you, one of the best remedies for sunburn is yoghurt. Liberal applications on the affected areas will bring soothing relief in minutes. Although we hesitate to speculate about the combination of summer heat and yoghurt, many Greek matrons swear by it. A more arcane home remedy is grape leaves soaked in olive oil. These should be placed carefully over the body with the smooth side down since the veins of the leaves next to the skin may be irritating. Thus wrapped up like a mummy, you will bear little resemblance to King Tut. On the contrary, you will probably look like an over-sized dolma. We are assured, however, that the results are soothing.
There are, of course, simpler treatments. Chamomile tea is rated high as a cure for everything and sunburn is no exception. You may apply it to the skin or drink it — or both. Cucumber peels are often used, in much the same fashion as grape leaves, and, as a double measure, you can add vinegar — another favourite remedy. One may be tempted at this point to apply tomatoes, oregano and olive oil, but they are not on the list of popular cures.
A more appealing concoction is a sweet-smelling pink liquid which used to be prepared many years ago by a pharmacist in Kifissia. We suspect that the ingredients were lanolin, rosewater and glycerine but the formula was a well-kept family secret handed down from generation to generation. Unfortunately, both the proprietor and the concoction seem to have disappeared.
If these do not work, you could try a cornstarch bath, ice cubes or lemon-water. Of course, if you are skeptical of homemade remedies, there are many brand-name preparations but since the more exotic ones cost more than three hundred drachmas, it may be wiser to stick to yoghurt, grape vines, and other homely preparations. You may feel trussed, seasoned and ready for the oven, but it will have a cooling effect on your pocket.
Blissful Moment
AS FILM crews and cameras hopped in and out of Athens recently filming parts of The Greek Tycoon starring Hollywood’s Mexican-born, quintessential-Greek, Anthony Quinn, the daily newspapers carried classified ads beckoning ‘beautiful people’ to audition as extras in gala, party scenes in the film, giving rise to many star-struck dreams. Quite by accident, however, two young teenagers of our acquaintance found themselves unexpectedly summoned into the film one morning as, arm in arm, they made their way through Constitution Square, oblivious to the world around them, and aware only of each other. Presumably they presented a vision of idyllic young love—it was one of those rare occasions when they were not spatting, the young lady observed —because they were soon approached by three men asking them, in a combination of Greek and English, if they would agree to be filmed, adding enticingly, ‘with Anthony Quinn’ — a name which meant nothing to them. They were soon being introduced to a confusion of people, and seated at a table with a soft drink and a gentleman who was ceremoniously introduced to them as Quinn. ‘Oh, Zorba,’ the young man commented, finally making a connection. As they chatted, the cameras arrived drawing the attention of passersby and in no time at all, crowds had gathered, spotted Quinn, and were pushing their way forward to get his autograph. The policemen in the area abandoned their constabulary duties, exercising their authority to gain front row positions among the awe struck. Restraining the crowds proved difficult for the foreign members of the crew unfamiliar with our enthusiastic folkways but a Greek member of the crew came to the rescue with a few well-chosen phrases. The young couple was ushered before the cameras and told to walk along arm in arm as they had before, ‘in love’. The shooting began as a camera on a rolling track zoomed in on Quinn who downed an ouzo as the young lovers walked by. Six takes later, they were finished. The crowds pushed forward once again and Quinn hastily disappeared. One of the film officials thanked the young couple for their assistance, for which they were rewarded eight hundred drachmas. Arm in arm, they continued on their way, a blissful moment unexpectedly recorded for posterity.
Ballet in Athens
AN invitation from James W. Findley of the Hellenic American Union took us to the HAU on June 30 to observe members of the American Ballet Theatre, performing that week at the Herodes Atticus Theatre, giving a demonstration class for local dancers. As four energetic young members of the troupe appeared, we hastily sought seats among the two hupdred or so observers who had gathered for the occasion.
A tall, blond young man wearing a knitted ski cap and a pale blue leotard—but otherwise resembling an ail-American basketball player—began arranging the mobile barres. A slight, pretty girl in brown leotards, stretching on the floor, rose and moved to the barre where she was joined by the other dancers. James Findley introduced Bentley Roton, assistant to Daryl Dodson, the Company’s general manager, and a former dancer whose career was terminated by a bicycle accident in Central Park. He introduced the German-born ballet master, Jurgen Schneider, who noted that he trained in Moscow with a member of the audience—Olympia Gelodari, the choreographer of the Lyriki Skini, the National Opera company—before proceeding to introduce the dancers: Victor Barbee from North Carolina, Elizabeth Ashton and Cynthia Harvey from California, and our ‘basketball player’, Richard Schafer, from Colorado. Their piano accompanist, the stately white-haired Martha Johnson, won a round of applause when she announced that she was a New Yorker.
Schneider, wearing a red, embroidered cap, explained that he would not put the dancers through any strenuous exercises or demand precision from them because they would be rehearsing for a performance later in the day. The dancers positioned themselves at the barre and began a simple workout to the accompaniment of the piano and Schneider’s crisp commands: ‘SidepYie, side plie; and one and two.’ They worked intensely and continuously for two hours seemingly unperturbed by the high temperatures.
Athens was the second stop of an eight week tour in Europe, the cheerful young dancers told us over coffee. Only eight of the productions of their one-hundred-and-forty-work repertoire will be performed by the touring company which has been reduced to seventy-five dancers. Because of the high temperatures in Athens, they worked out in the early evenings at the Herodes Atticus Theatre, first warming up and then ‘walking’ through the night’s performance. The dimensions of the Herodes Atticus stage had presented some problems during the first performance but were later ironed out. The stage was narrower than the Company had expected. Although the rough surface, the dancers noted, wore out an inordinate number of ballet slippers, it had the advantage of not being slippery. (The floor, however, is hollow and as the corps de ballet gracefully glided over the stage at the performances we attended, the theatre’s famous acoustics dutifully resonated incongruous thumps into the upper tiers.)
The following day at noon, local dancers moved to the barre and from the sidelines we observed a master class conducted by ballet master Scott Douglas. Several dozen local dancers, of various sizes, ages, skills and stamina, executed barre exercises as Douglas circulated among them for two hours straightening arms, tucking in abdomens, and correcting postures with an amiable but professional eye.
Jogging Around the Mountain
FOR several years I chose to sit, think and eat, rather than run, jump and jog, and it began to show on me,’ announced our young friend catching his breath. ‘Then the other day I read an article in Time magazine extolling the virtues of a growing North American fad, that of jogging.’ His large, muscular frame was clothed in only a white undershirt and unusually brief shorts from which extended a pair of long legs bare down to the top of limp athletic socks. His feet were shod in running shoes. Although casual and sometimes brief clothing is common in the summer heat of Athens, he was an extraordinary sight in the middle of Kolonaki.
‘So with happy resolve,’ he continued, Ί dug out this T-shirt and borrowed a pair of tattered running shoes from a friend. I appeared at the door of my apartment building feeling like Clark Kent after a quick change into his Superman costume. I hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and set off past sweet-shops full of staring eyes, up breath-taking hills, on and around Lykavittos. In half an hour I reappeared in front of my house, a panting mass of perspiration. The concierge stared wide-eyed at me, glancing over my shoulder in search of the armed lunatic or extra-terrestrial being that he presumed had been chasing me. Planting a humid palm on his shoulder, I explained elatedly that I had decided to do something about all those pizzas, taverna dinners and hours at my office desk. He looked far from elated and told me he had never seen me in such a state as he glanced warily up and down the street with consternation, fearing, no doubt, that our dwelling’s reputation was about to be ruined in the eyes of the other concierges sitting on doorsteps or leaning against stoops. I ignored this and happily crawled up to my apartment where I sat, yes I sat, for a long time under a cold shower. Since then I have set off every day except Sundays when I play tennis and swim at the Ekali Club. I start off at about 6:30 pm and huff and puff, and nearly blow myself down, running around the mountain.
‘Jogging, to put it punctually,’ he continued, ‘is good for you. Let alone keeping you trim, it does wonders for your heart, circulation and respiration. Cardiologists are prescribing it to heart patients. Psychiatrists are prescribing it to people who suffer from depression. Once the jogger is in good enough condition to run several miles at a time, he or she experiences a feeling of euphoria after a long trot.
Ί pondered it for quite a while before I actually began jogging. First of all, I was not excited at the thought of gulping in all that polluted air, Secondly, I was reluctant to run through the city in my scant, white garb, red-faced and panting. But I overcame these reservations and even learned to like the fact that I was, as far as I could tell, the only one jogging in the centre of Athens. I still get cat calls and whistles, and drivers slow down beside me and ask questions — as if I had enough wind to spare on words. But I smile back, bow in mid-trot and raise my arms victoriously — or simply ignore them.
‘The other day, while completing the last leg of my journey, a young French woman riding a motorbike pulled up beside me and proceeded to tell me that she had tried to jog in Athens but had been jeered at by flabby men sitting outside cafes. Would I mind if we started jogging together? Of course not, I replied. Well, I thought, I am not alone! Our ranks have doubled! So tonight I took a little detour on my way to Lykavittos to tell you the news. You should announce it in your magazine so that other shy joggers will come out of their closets and join our ranks.’
With this he pulled himself up and drawing in a deep breath, jogged out. Closet – joggers are invited to call our office, and we will put them in touch with our enthusiastic friend.
