But I'm getting
ahead of myself. In 1976 at the tender age of 21 and gradually
leaving behind the "beardless youth" I had been, I embarked on my
one and only trip abroad, some seven summer weeks in Israel to attend
the Sufi "Jerusalem Camp" with work camp optionally inlcuded to
set up. My student flight pkg. included first a long day's stopover
in Athens, and on the return flight a week's stopover in the same. I
thought, wow. Greece. Parthenon. Acropolis. Never On Sunday.
Melina Mercouri. Oh yeah, and Zeus & Co. of course, my beloved
Mythology.
My brother and I had loved the soundtrack as small kids, from "Never On Sunday," and at least one of us was devastated fro life by Melina Mercouri - we'd play bouzouki on heavy old wooden tennis rackets, we'd sneak into the Park Theater exit to try to catch the last ten minutes of this age-restricted film.
I will stick
here to the twin episodes of Athens and Piraeus. The latter was
Melina's turf in the cinema; the former was Melina's in the form of
Margarite. I was still in my "Woody Allen" years, no one at that
time would have thought of Dustin Hoffman or Al Pacino, much less
DeNiro. I was a schlemiel and a schmegeggie, if you will, and this
happening was inevitable, as inevitable as it was surreal and as
surreal as it was, in all details: real.
Inevitable
it felt, so much so that in retrospect soon after, I was compelled to
remark that each scenario played out like a written-then-forgotten
film script, with on the spot marginal-notes and direction in
brackets, as to what would exactly occcur next – and the surreality
of it was, that a kooky eerie breath of some sense of this was
present, hovering in my consciousness at each step of those two odd
visits to my longed-for Grecian, Greek, land-o'-bleached-houses,
this-sure-ain't-Kansas experience-abroad. Well, for a start I did
get to experience: a broad. Dumb joke, WWII generation. Let it go.
I land at
Hellenikon and my student pkg. has me riding a luxury bus into town,
which would have dropped me off at Syntagma Square where any damned
fool could orient himslef with all the other travelling students and
youth – but noooo, I having 18 hrs. to find something to occupy
myself with which wouldn't make me miss my flight out, impatiently
seek to step off the bus at a randomly chosen Athenian corner. I
hear, I actually hear my thoughts tell me, in a running instruction,
as I was very concentrated on the purpose of my trip and I had to
behave myself, watch my cash, remember that I am a student of a Sufi
Murshid, and other 21-yr. old rubbish which may as well have come
from Mom. Who wasn't there. Thank God. In fact, the only one who
would have a problem with anything that was about to occur or my
handling of it – was in my head and nowhere else. Later I could
laugh about it.
And I hear this
running instruction telling me, "Now you want to see the Parthenon,
which is visible from here at the top of that hill over there, so
stay out of trouble, don't get sidetracked, and don't go with the
first nice stranger who speaks good English." Frankly, if I could have
stood opposite myself and brushed off specks and straighted my bow
tie and combed my fingers through my hair I'd have done that. So I
step gingerly off and into that world with a caution which held no
weight aganst my naiveté and youthful curiosity, a non-stop nose for
adventure.
And stand face
to face with a friendly Greek guy who speaks good English. Made to
order, sent form central casting. And I'm the rube. Offers me a
beer around the corner, I'm not taking at 10 am, - so fine, he
changes that to coke, I tell him he's on, thinking I'm being
invited, as in: native hospitality I actually wouldn't be shelling out for.
Naive, I was naive. We turn the corner and go into his dive, his
bar. As I sit at the bar with my coke, of course She saunters up. She
takes the stool next to mine and aks me if I'd buy. She is the very
picture of Melina Mercouri, or so I perceive, only in brunette –
fabulous hair. Annnd, like Melina's Ilya, she would gladly go with
me to a back room for which I'd pay and we'd make hay.
I hold my spot,
I stick to my guns, I maintain composure, I am the picture of suave,
I remain cool though worldly. I am nearly breaking into a sweat, I
am barely controlling my tremble, I am possibly stammering idiocies.
I am out of my element. But an element I so longed to meet, to know,
to master. It would come. But not that day, not that day.
I have the
uncanny feeling of a pre-written script giving instruction to what is
to be acted out seconds before it happens, and this follows me, scene
for scene, throughout my entire stay in Greece where I'm on my own,
that day and the entire week later on. And this uncanniness occurs to
me consciously only later when reflecting on it all afterward. "This
is where he meets...Her...."
She is playing
with my knee, an old device – it's working, she has me. But I
politely turn her down while letting her order her first of two
drinks on my tab (I still have my one coke), I'm not thinking so much
of the learned-"wrongness" of going back there into some room with her
or of possibly contracting something painful to have treated, so much as a more realistic,
albeit highly improbable, caution on my part which saw me lying
unconscious on the floor with a bruiser on my head and all my cash and
related valuables gone, in short, really screwed. And that kind of
screwed I could do without. So I'm thinking, as I muster all my
suave to charm her and to resist her wiles, as I light her cigarette
of course. Right.
I
ask her her name. Of course. She tells me in that wonderful
Melina-Greek-English, "My name is Margarete...like the flower."
Oh, shit, it's getting poetic, she has my knee at her fingertip, she
does not buy my suave, and knows I know it. Who writes her material?!
But it gets better. I tell her, my hand on the bar trying to keep
from idly drumming, I tell her how flattered I would be to go back
there with her and to recieve the charms of her beauty, and such, but "I intend to go up to the Parthenon there just now, with the time
I've got – and would love it if you'd come with me, accompany me on
a walk to the...um...the Parthe...non...there." If this had played
in Berlin it would be like telling her I want to see the Brandenburg
Gate with her, if this had played in Philly it would be like saying I
want to walk with you to the Smithsonian since we won't be conducting
much else of business. D-uhhh. Now, what she does then: I am
not making any of this up, my life really is this good.
Shaking her
lovely wild main of dark-Melina hair, she tells me – not
imperiously but with an easy sovereignty which earns her THE
Melina-Award for that or any other year of my life – she tells me,
without missing a beat, hair flying back revealing her eyes, her
face: "I AM the Parthenon."
Good
Lord, who writes her material?! I want
to be her love slave. She's good, she's more than good – if she's
half that good back in that room, I... no, still no deal, even with
that. But as at that very moment I recall in her statement the story
of the devout Muslim in some earlier century who would later become a
name among Sufi greats, how he had made his way on foot to the Ka'aba
to perform Hajj, and en route comes across an old dervish sitting
beside the road, who asking him where he's going tells him instead to
make his seven circumambulations around himself, the dervish, and his
duty will have been fulfilled, he could then return home; the youth,
recognizing the power and wisdom in this old dervish, does as he is
instructed, attains an advanced state of realization, goes home and
becomes a Sufi – sooo, as at that moment I have to glimpse the
similarities here, I nod and tell my Margarete, looking her up and
down with respect for her style in slam-dunking a goofy kid from
Boulder, and looking into her eyes, "I – believe – that."
But I still don't budge, she gives up on me, goes off to a distant
table, I wind up being out 10 drachma, and find myself standing
outside again with my tail between my legs and pissed off at myself.
Not so much on account of Her, but the 10 drachma. I was still learning.
Other incidents
wind up irritating me, not germain to the story, other than that my walk
up to the Parthenon after all turns out to be a disappointment, as at
that hour of day all the magic is gone and there remains in its place a
pack of mostly German middle-aged tourists in shorts standing around
gawking. Not my scene. I take a long, long walk.
Now,
fast-forwarding six weeks, the Camp and all it's wonderful
impressions are just behind me, I hole up for the night in the Muslim
quarter of the Old City, in a grungy hostel, a total stranger, alone
– everything is just right, I've settled quite well with the floaty
sense one gets of being abroad. I want to be alone, alone is good, I
need to digest, to reflect, to absorb. I chat with a wall-eyed Arab
kid named Rafi', either he or another traveller tell me that if I
have a week in Greece and want to be alone, really alone, then Kéa's
the place for me, a lone island getaway for mainlanders, with absolutely nothing to offer but
it leaves you alone. Right on the money.
So hovering
in the air over Greece again, I pray to my Beloved
Melina-Woman-Greece, "Honey we got off on the wrong foot, let's
make up and do this right, I'll be spending the week in your embrace,
so receive me right this time and let it be good." I actually
whisper this through the window over the wing, like a prayer.
This time I get
myself to Syntagma Square, this time I know what the fuck I'm doing,
this time I read the info and figure out where the hell Kéa is and
how I get there: Piraeus by trolly, from there with a boat – six
glorious hours on the Med, standing at the prow, loving it, loving
it.
Now
there is one thing which equals being absolutely alone, to make a
journey precious to remember: and that is, to find oneself – all
the better for the sheer unexpected spontaneity of it and still
better when one does the inviting oneself and takes charge for one's own part, not under anyone else's pressure – to find oneself in
exactly the right company of one or more persons, fellow travellers –
not tourists but wanderers, wayfarers of the world, children of the
earth.
So on that tram
I wind up discovering Uwe, a 19 yr. old hippie form Frankfurt-am-Main,
who having nothing better planned, gladly joins me en route to
Piraeus and my glorious island retreat. Again that voice – "This is
where he meets Uwe, whom he likes and should suddenly invite to come
along, and who accepts..."
We check in for
the night at a youth hostel on our wharf of departure in Piraeus. As
the corpulent Greek woman shows us to our quarters, there's that
grainy b/w afternoon dimness which causes me to have to focus before
I see what the cues-editor is whispering and which I only much later
recognize as having been there as well: "Here is where they meet
the two Italians..." For sleeping on their bunks and arousing in
me an initial resistence to so much as meeting any others, are the
Figaro (or Barbieri) Francesco (40) and his companion Alvaro (ca.
21), fresh out of India and en route eventually home. As I take
right to them the moment we all gaze at one another, they agree to
join us and Francesco and I swap caps while on Kéa – where we
sleep on the trashed out beach at the foot of the very not-so-clean
Med. But one thing is sure, this island offers nothing, I will be
alone and reflecting with my three beautiful new friends. I am
Dorothy and our road is yellow, and brick. And this certainly ain't
Kansas.
My Italians meditate at the sunrise, perform the - for that time obligatory - prayer-to-the-sun hatha yoga set, and I meditate and reflect and beachcomb with Uwe...
My Italians meditate at the sunrise, perform the - for that time obligatory - prayer-to-the-sun hatha yoga set, and I meditate and reflect and beachcomb with Uwe...
Sitting
alone in the one local café there is, one morning over Nescafé –
nothing Greek here – with a cheap radio in the background playing
American '60s pop – I mean really nothing Greek here – at least
all those little wavelets I see lapping up and down from the terrace
where I'm sitting watching the waters – as if I were on acid, which
I am not, every wavelet, and there are thousands stretching before
me, is telling me with its up and down bobbing: "yes yes yes yes
yes...." like it's now James Joyce's Bloom in Ulysses.
Why not, at least he was Greek. And it does not fail to catch the
islanders' attention, when I buy a pack of 15 giant trash bags and go
to cleaning up my beach, leaving just a dent in the effect of all
that trashing it has taken from tourists – but leaving more than a
dent in the hearts of these good natives of Kéa. Silly American.
After much
agonized waiting for my ferry back to catch my flight, delayed due to
the full moon's effect on those waves (now probably telling me no,
no, no – or wait, wait, wait...) my ship finally comes in and I
will be leaving my island, it's inhabitants, and my three dear
friends. My last night there we are all made to party with the
natives, as special guests. I am invited to consider marrying any
one of several daughters of the island, and I learn that if I dance
like hell while putting down lots of retsina I will not be drunk.
The catch is, I am rarely ever drunk, it is my stomach which rebels –
every time. And I board that ferry with a Turkish acquaintance after
we've enjoyed a long walk together, he's just a kid like me, and the
ferry takes a much shorter route over the choppy Aegean to another
shore than I had first left. Here I make some six trips to the
toilet, those lovely crouching numbers I so loved getting familiar
with. I heave six times, and that last time, with hands on the
portal I pause from my hurling to gaze out, eyes teary with my
cleansing ordeal, I gaze out onto the August sun rising over the
Aegean, and knowing that I will never recapture this moment, whisper
aloud, "Ohhh, how beautiful!" as I duck my head again for another
round of losing that retsina in a manner which I will be
repeating many times in my life with ouzo or with 'arak.
But I will never stop dancing.
But I will never stop dancing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28EAWlOXrYs&hd=1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8VJCQqTL_I&hd=1
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