Athens is eternal. At once an alluring, maddening but captivating city. Layered and complex, it get’s under your skin. The Ottomans left Athens in ruins and rubble with broken dirt roads but it was rebuilt first with neo-classical Greek revival style by Bavarian architects in the mid and late 19th century, with a sense of harmony, symmetry and aesthetics. The city was ruined in the 1960’s and 1970’s with a concrete blitzkrieg with little thought given to urban planning. The result was rapid and criminal over-development of ugly and utilitarian blocks of flats. Eros and the flowing feminine form were sorely absent.
Good architecture is meant to evoke emotions and memories. It’s about how a space or building makes you feel. These buildings built with no allowance for parks, the vital green lungs of a city were dehumanising. The city needed to house the 4 million people that streamed into the capital from their rural villages looking for jobs in a city meant for 500 000. Viewed from the sea at a distance, the urban sprawl looks like a vast white cemetery devoid of trees and parks.
It’s not neat and manicured like other European capitals but up close and personal it will slowly reveal it’s charms to you. If you look carefully and have an open mind and heart you will find beauty amid the blight. Often it’s not in the buildings and places you visit. It’s in the people. It’s to be found in the undying, resilient spirit of the Greek citizens who have endured, survived and overcome trials and tribulations for centuries.
It’s getting cold and overcast with winter finally arriving at least for a day or two before the mild weather returns. I walk a few kilometres to the neighbouring coastal suburb of Voula to shop at the organic vegetable market which is held every Saturday morning. And to to meet my good friend Freedom – Lefteris, his brother Angelo’s and old friend Kostas. They are regulars so all the stall owners, producers and vegetable growers know them. I meet a few of the vendors. The quick, intelligent, funny, bawdy banter and use of words is part of the entertainment and overall experience. One can imagine the same spirited verbal sparring in the ancient agora of Athens. Athens gives you that sense of continuity. The ancient, the old and the modern co-existing side by side.
The “kalabouri” – fun and teasing begins. These are salted men of the earth. It’s an honour and privilege to break bread with them. There’s a man called Mykonos, a burly fellow in a T-shirt and shorts, his body covered in tattoos. He comes for a shot of warming raki. Ilias hails from Irakleion Crete. He grows tomatoes. Hectoras the Albanian sells tomatoes for Ilias while Ilias entertains us and pours the raki. He provides the tomatinas and the Cretan raki spirits. He rubs the long cucumbers with his hand in a simulated motion that is both funny and suggestive. Each of these people are characters in their own right. We drink the fiery raki in small green cups. Organic edible cups grown by the ancient Greek soil. Cups carved out of small green peppers.
They call me “compatriot” which is touching. The Greek word “sympatrioti” has a deeper meaning, a shared language, culture, religion, a love of good food, “filotimo” – love of honour, “filoxenia” – hospitality and “parea” – good friends that goes beyond a mere countryman. I certainly feel welcome and a sense of belonging here more than I ever did in a detached, aloof and indifferent Cape Town. They assemble a table with crates, a wooden board and cover it with a cloth covering behind one of the stalls. We have an instant meze feast that turns into a symposium.
The bread vendor brings two round crusty peasant loaves which he proceeds to cut in thick slices. Then more tomatoes and cucumbers arrive, assorted green and black olives in a plastic bag and green chilli peppers that can revive the dead. Blessed life-giving, grassy green olive oil. Salt.
Lefteris an old hand at the game. He drizzles the olive oil over the bread. He spreads the whipped feta mixed thyme mix on the slices. A white soft cheese arrives in a paper packet. It’s so fresh, creamy and delicate like a firm ricotta, delicious eaten plain. Somebody sources a jar of honey which is drizzled straight from the jar over the soft cheese for the sweet finale. There is no ceremony here. No false pretense. It’s real, honest and authentic. We could be out in the fields somewhere on a labourers lunch break. We use clear plastic shopping bags spread out for plates and when we need more cups, the end of a hollowed out cucumber is pressed into service. This is instant, old-fashioned Greek hospitality at its undiluted best. No money changes hands, other vendors drop in for a shot or snack and the odd passer, usually an attractive woman gets beckoned to join the party.
The first chestnuts come out. Before I leave the market I buy a packet off the fire. The chesnuts are soft, sweet and hot. The vendor calls me “Johannesburg!” Another vendor offers me a thick round of sweetcorn on the cob. Uncooked, it tastes unbelievably sweet and juicy, I tell him it’s as if he has dipped it in the ambrosial nectar of the gods.
We have produce and polite, friendly people at our markets but sadly no spicy banter. I can’t wait to return next year. I am happy to be returning home but sad to be leaving Athens. A sudden, unexpected pain stabs my calf muscle as I leave the market. I hobble home not sure how I will cover the distance. I carry large juicy raisins, chestnuts, a round of heavy peasant bread & walnuts. With thick strained Greek yoghurt and dark mountain honey I will have a feast for breakfast. I stop to rest at benches in the parks along the way where the cats stop to stare at the cripple. It’s some deep tissue or pulled muscle which is very strange. I’ve never had it before. Walking is everything here. Then I remember. Walking out of the park the pavement drops away suddenly and my calf muscle takes the strain.
The pavements are uneven and broken but they have been that way for 3 000 years.
Perhaps the muscle pain symbolises how torn I feel. It takes time for Athens to weave its spell on you. She seduces you slowly. Now she’s trying to keep me here like a jealous mother. She’s the mother & birthplace of all great cities. And mothers are sacred here.
Yesterday was Black Friday traffic hell in downtown Athens as shoppers descended on the ancient city looking for bargains. The women wanted discounted shoes & handbags. The men tablets and larger TV screens. I return from a meeting with our lawyer and my mother wants to go to a mega supermarket between 6 – 7 pm on a Friday night!!! A crazy idea. She has no grocery list. She has a mental note of everything she wants which I struggle to remember. We get back home and I’m tired and hungry thinking now I really don’t feel like cooking or another souvlaki take out. My friend Lefteris calls minutes later as if he has read my mind and senses my distress. His timing could not be more perfect. His mother Kyria Ourania has made cabbage dolmathes filled with mince and rice smothered in a tangy lemon sauce and a hearty broad bean gigantes stew with tomatoes. Two classic Greek dishes that are timeless and so comforting. She remembered me saying I love cabbage dolmathes. My nonna Mary used to make them for me. He leaves his office in Athens, goes past his mother to pick up the food and drops off the special delivery while it’s still hot and only then goes home to his family! A friend who anticipated my need! What a Godsend! What an utterly true Greek gesture! What a life saver. The dolmathes are thick and juicy. Save for my nonna they are the best I have eaten in a ling time. You can taste the love, care and spirit of generosity rolled into them with blessed calloused hands. I am left speechless but so grateful. Grateful for Lefteris, for Athens, for my Greek odyssey but above all for Greek mothers!