Or so one must conclude from the fact that on almost any block in Athens one can find shops that charge vastly differing prices for the same items. So strong, it seems, is the social bond between the customer and the shopkeeper whose store he frequents, that the customer will, without a whimper, purchase items which might be available next door for half the price. Boycotting a product which is overpriced either by the manufacturer or the government is rarely attempted here.
Take, for example, the curious case of bananas. Their price is more than three times that in any other Western European country. A few days before the opening of the Mediterranean Consumers1 Conference, the customs authorities warned citizens and tourists that anyone caught at the border bringing in more than two kilos of bananas would have to dispose of their surplus or consume it on the spot. They were invoking a law passed in 1969 which was inspired by former junta leader Stylianos Pattakos. Banana production on his native Crete was generously subsidized and heavily protected, the latter a policy which has since been continued. The prices have been so high, though — one hundred and fifty drachmas per kilo in April — that well-healed Kolonaki housewives visiting London have found it more economical to buy bananas at Harrod’s before flying home. What is more, even though tree-ripened Cretan bananas have a delicate flavour not unlike the famous silver bananas from Madeira, local producers apparently chose for the captive local market a botanically deviant strain with a skin so thick that the fruit inside is hardly larger than a finger, and tasteless because the fruit is picked when green.
Since the banana is one of the cheapest fruits in Europe, entry into the EEC will no doubt bring the local market to its senses. Until then, visitors entering Greece will have to step gingerly in order to avoid slipping on all those banana peels.
Oh, Well…
WE ARE frequently asked by readers how we manage to keep our listings up-to-date. The truth is that although we are in constant pursuit of ever-changing information — dates, hours, telephone numbers and addresses — we are frequently outwitted. The simple question, ‘When?” can pose many problems. Planning well in advance is not an’established practice in Greece and, as a nation, we still tend to be casual about time. Although the concepts of promptness, scheduling, and forecasting are making inroads into our folkways, they are not taken too seriously. This is not surprising. After all, not so long ago time span in the countryside was measured by how long it took to smoke a cigarette. Asked how far was the next village, the answer might be ‘two cigarettes*. (The wise man then asked ‘By foot or donkey?”) Today major events such as the summer festivals are planned far in advance but final details cannot generally be confirmed until the beginning of the season and even then have a disconcerting tendency to change without notice at the last minute.
Telephone numbers are a major nuisance. Numbers are gradually being expanded from six to seven digits, and although such changes are not always announced ahead of time, a taped voice does come on the line with the news. When numbers are disconnected or lines are out of order, however, neither an operator nor a recorded announcement comes on to so inform the unsuspecting caller who, getting a ring, but no answer, assumes there is no one home. After weeks or even months of calling and getting no reply, speculation runs rampant that the party has left town — or has suffered financial reverses and is unable to pay the telephone bill, an occasion for the telephone company to disconnect service without warning.
Our favourite nuisance, however, is addresses. The names of streets rise and fall with each new regime and the whims of municipal authorities. The junta years witnessed a proliferation of streets named in honour of former dictators and, of course, April 21st (nineteen were found in an old directory in our office), the date of the 1967 coup. Despite the demise of the monarchy in Greece, fourteen streets are titled Othonos, after the first King of Greece, Otho of Bavaria, and a formidable number of later kings and queens are still holding on. Queen Frederika, however, who held court on the main thoroughfare of Psychiko where she lived as Queen Mother, and which was named after her, has been toppled: the boulevard is now known as Leoforos Dimokratias — Democracy Boulevard — but is still referred to as ‘Fridirikis’.
In the wake of these ever-changing street signs, the citizens have devised their own nomenclature, usually clinging to one of the discarded names of the past or a simple geographic designation not likely to pass into disfavour. Hence, an informal survey we conducted not long ago among old-time shopkeepers on the main artery in Kifissia led to heated disputes between husbands, wives and employees as to whether their official address was Metaxa, Melas, Marathonos or Kifissias. In spite of the many sobriquets’ enjoyed in the last twenty years by the Kifissia segment of Kifissia Boulevard which begins in Ambelokipi as the continuation of Vassilisis Sofias Boulevard, the local residents revealed that they usually referred to the thoroughfare as the main road — to kentriko.
Our stalwart old friend Kyrios Stelios informs us that over half a century ago he adopted the practice of ignoring the plethora of names bestowed at regular intervals on the main artery 01 Pyrgos, Elias, the location of his ancestral home, and that residents of Pyrgos have continued to use the old nomenclature, and he continues to receive communications addressed to the original address, Katakolou 42. In residence there for Easter, he instructed guests arriving from Athens to ask for Katakolou 42, but his confidence suffered a temporary setback. His guests found enough oldtimers able to direct them to Katakolou, but number forty-two turned out to be a vacant lot. The city fathers of Pyrgos in their unrelenting efforts to outwit the residents of Katakolou Street had not only changed the street signs, he told us, but switched the numbers. Although they had succeeded in trapping newcomers to the area, the mailman and residents had remained loyal — and no doubt oblivious — to the new system.
A source of confusion to a greater number of people, however, is the name of two major streets in downtown Athens, referred to on most maps as Venizelos and 28th of October streets, but widely known as Panepistimiou and Patision. If asking for them by their official names, visitors may be greeted by blank stares. The ‘Apollo Coast Road1 is another example. The invention, we suspect, of cartologists and travel writers, it was almost our undoing. The first time we came across a reference to it in a tourist brochure we thought it sounded nice but had no idea where it was. A brief survey of Athenians drew a blank. We finally located it on a tourist map. It is the road that enjoys a bevy of official names as it runs along the coast from the end of Syngrou, past Glyfada and Vouliagmeni, to Sounion. Visitors are advised not to leap into a cab and tell the driver to take them to the Apollo Coast Road. They may land anywhere and a driver with a fertile imagination may head for Delphi. The driver should be instructed to go to the ‘old’ road to Vouliagmeni with the admonition not to take the ‘new’ road to the ‘new’ airport (officially known as the West Airport), but to take the one that goes to the ‘old’ airport or the ‘Olympic1 airport (known officially as the East Airport — but that is taking a chance because the driver is not likely to know East from West).
He is certain to know where you mean if you say the road to Sounion, but if he’s tired of the city traffic and feels like a bit of nature, he may make his way North out of Athens to Messogion, turn right at Stavros and cross the countryside until he comes out at Lagonissi or Sounion, and begins winding his way back to Athens. The visitor may be a little confused to discover that Athens is in front of him and not behind, and stunned by the figure registered on the metre, but he will at least be on the ‘Apollo Coast Road’ and the scenic route winding back to Vouliagmeni is lovely.
In Search of Ariadne
A GERMAN television director advertising in the local newspapers in February announced that he was looking for someone who could play the title role in Strauss’s Ariadne auf Naxos which he was planning to film. The young lady had to be between twenty and forty years of age, from the island of Naxos, named Ariadne, and speak a little German. This was to be the first in a series of films planned by director Peter Rossinsky, to include The Barber of Seville and The Flying Dutchman. Rossinsky’s idea was not to simply film these operas, however, but to present German television audiences with documentaries of present-day life as seen through the eyes of natives living in the locales of the famous operas.
The advertisement went on to reassure candidates that there was no need for any similarity between their lives and the myth of Ariadne. There was, therefore, no need for this Ariadne to have fled from Crete with a lover named Theseus, or to have been abandoned by him on Naxos, or to have been wooed in turn by a god named Dionysos. Only the specified requirements would be necessary.
When Mr. Rossinsky arrived in Athens in March, however, he found himself beset with problems. Of the six or seven women who had answered the advertisement, none answered all four of the qualifications. One candidate was, indeed, named Ariadne, and although her parents were from Naxos, she was born in Athens. She, in addition, was eight months pregnant, and although the director was willing to make appropriate alterations in the script, she decided to turn down the offer. Rossinsky next phoned the mayor of Naxos who, although obliging, was unable to find a single Ariadne among the fifteen thousand inhabitants of the island. It was then suggested to the director that since the Ariadne of myth had originally come from Crete, he should look there. Rossinsky refused. “If there is no Ariadne from Naxos,” he said, “there will be no film.”At this critical point, the project appeared to be saved when an applicant answering all the qualifications presented herself. Rossinsky, delighted, asked her out for a drink. Over the first drink, however, “Ariadne” confessed — in German, presumably — that her name was actually Sappho, and, over the second, that she really did not come from Naxos but from Lesbos. This left the poor director despondent and wondering whether it might not be better to write a script inspired by another opera.
Before Mr. Rossinsky goes barking up another cul-de-sac, however, we thought to intercept him with some cold facts. He is unlikely to find an Iphigcnia at Aulis since Aulis today is occupied by two tavcrnas and a cement plant that employs mostly men. Medea’s birthplace is now smack on the Turko-Russian border where he is likely to run into some awkward political complications. He should not waste his time trying to find an Alcestis at Tiryns because most of the area is now dedicated to an agricultural reform school. Although many Electras are to be found at Mycenae, their German is poor and they are all making so much money in tourist shops that it would be idle for Mr. Rossinsky to contemplate signing them to a contract.
Clearly there is a solution to the problem and it is amazing that the director has not thought of it. Mr. Rossinsky should commission an opera called Sappho auf Lesbos and base his television show on how he found the girl who had the courage to apply for the part and the honesty to confess her true identity. Surely there he would find for his German audience a story that was authentically Greek, contemporary and, of course, true.
