What always amuses me about Greek air stewardesses is how they give you the absolute worst-case scenario disaster-related safety information and leave out the “Please make sure your seatbelt is securely fastened” spiel. This nation of cynics doesn’t give a toss about turbulence; when you’re genetically predisposed to neuroticism it’s really death that you’re worrying about when you pack yourself into a pressurised vessel some 30,000 feet above the ground. Grateful that death wasn’t on the cards just yet, my fellow passengers clapped heartily as we landed in Athens’ main airport in mid-February, but my mind was focused more on whether my classes at the university would actually start the following Monday following months of strikes, and less on our impending doom.
With my father (read: translator, ATM and all-round saviour) in tow, I was ready to start the second half of my year abroad in the land of feta, chiselled statues and economic woe. After an enlightening taxi ride from the airport to my new flat, during which the driver showed us the run-down Nazi building on the side of the motorway, assuring us that these were “the good Nazis” before throwing a Hitler salute – Golden Dawn alert – I was particularly happy to step out of that car and into the safer hands of my jolly Greek landlord, who had kindly filled my cupboards with some essentials: olive oil and three types of coffee. What else could one need?
Making Greek friends has been interesting, primarily because when I introduce myself as Theo Louloudis what they hear is “God Flower”. I’ve been sticking to Theodora and getting used to the subsequent barrage of questions. The problem is they can’t place me. Who is this faux deity? She looks Greek – she’s certainly got the name, plus a half-decent accent, marred by glaring gaps in her vocabulary, but whilst the Greek teenagers with half a brain ship themselves off to the UK or the States to study, she’s chosen to leave Oxford for the concrete jungle of Athens University.
Administrative problems surface often round here, perhaps because the Greeks’ laid-back approach means that nothing gets done before 10am and the idea of working past 4pm is laughable. After an hour and a half bickering with the local Vodafone salesman in an attempt to set up a phone contract without a Greek VAT number, we began to clock what the deal was. One 20 euro-loaded handshake later and I was texting friends all over the globe, making the most of the extra free texts that my new pal, Sotiris, had thrown in.
The dreaming spire is to Oxford what communist graffiti, broken windows and fag ends are to the University of Athens. Every surface is covered in scrawled slogans, only visible once you wade through the clouds of cigarette smoke wafting down each corridor. Whilst the Athenians are proud of their tradition of open political commentary and accompanying street art, the recent financial crisis has spurred the young to express their discontent with a scarily nihilistic vigour, which means that the university ain’t no oil painting.
But what the University lacks in aesthetics it makes up for in cheap coffee. While the spectrum of cultural events is nowhere near on a par with the diverse offerings of Paris or London (fair enough given the circumstances), the cafés are always full, because this is Greece, where the coffee break is a human right and people-watching is a well-practiced sport. Although someone is trying to tackle the nation’s inertia: “WAKE UP” is one of the ubiquitous graffiti tags found all over the city.
I ought to say that despite my frustrations, Athens is certainly not a fun-free zone. Pay in cash and you’ll bag yourself a hefty discount, giving shops a get-out-of-jail-free card from declaring their true income; tax avoidance is a national sport here, and boy do they play it well. Life is inexpensive anyway, and if the cheap ouzo doesn’t do the trick, the weather can’t fail to put one in a good mood. And despite the strikes, the protests, the idleness and the astonishing lack of functional technology, who could scorn a nation with such fondness for the British? While the French spoke of “binge drinking”, “sluts” and “deeezgusteeng fud”, the Greeks take the more sensible view that our women are all Kate Middleton, our politicians all amiable (if bumbling) Boris Johnson figures and our drinking culture a hell of a lot of fun.
I’m the first to admit that my decision to move to Greece was a curious one. My Greek cousins had scarpered from Athens at the first opportunity, choosing pretty much any university they could scramble their way into, so it was much to their surprise, that i undertook a reverse journey.
I’m really happy here though, and things look set to stay that way, provided my local souvlaki joint doesn’t run out of meat, the sun keeps shining, and the country doesn’t cease to exist before the end of June.
