Well-Trodden Paths in Athens

The Athenians are like all city-dwelling Greeks: they make an art out of arguments, they revel in being loud and they relish their polemics. But the joy of being in Greece is that you will never be left in doubt about what they are thinking.

The Kafeneions which house almost- permanent customers, consist of metal tables, woven straw and wooden chairs, a selection of ouzo bottles, beer and a collection of tavli (backgammon boards). The moustachioed men who will nurse their drinks , pass their time undisturbed by wives or womenfolk. And what will they do with their freedom? They’ll partake in a political argument which will leave them spitting and furiously flailing their arms around in sheer frustration at their opponents’ stupidity. Cigarettes and kovoloi (worry beads) dangle from their fingers as they while away every afternoon with the same well-worn routine

Taxis screech past potential customers and the drivers wind down their windows to allow people to bark their travelling destinations through the din of the traffic. Most taxi drivers spout forth their words of wisdom in between drags on cigarettes and sorting through the stations on the radio to find the football scores. There’s an added conversation to a pal or relative on their mobile phones. I attempt to put on my seatbelt and the driver swears in disgust.

Keramikos, an ancient cemetery in Thisseion is often overlooked by tourists who flock to the more well-publicised places. Keramikos has a similar atmosphere to Pompeii-the feeling that you’ve ventured into another place and time. There’s certain eeriness about it-as if you’re walking into someone’s living room (or walking over somebody’s grave). It is even more of a spectacle during spring, with a bed of flowers blanketing the huge area.

I’ve mastered enough Greek to avoid being ripped off in big style, but I haven’t mastered the art of how not to look foreign. Athens is a scene of over-eager waiters and shop assistants plying their wares.
‘It’s lovely,’ croons a shop keeper as he whips down a leather bag from a dangling wire overhead. ‘Then einai kalitera sto alo magasin’, (there’s not a better one in another shop). I want to tell him that I think his prices have risen far too rapidly, outstripping inflation, but I choose silence. These Greeks are nothing if they’re not intuitive. Within seconds he’s knocked ten Euros off it. He flicks out a lighter from his pocket and tries to set fire to the bag. ‘See fire proof.’ I can’t really see how that particular quality will benefit me in the future, but I smile obligingly and hand over the cash. I feel that I’m in the presence of a professional actor. They all seem to have the same lines though, and he states in a grand style that ‘you must have a Greek boyfriend to speak Greek so well.’ It doesn’t cross his mind that I may have a flair for languages, just as they have a flair for selling.