LandOMiracles

We woke up this morning to the smell of fire and a reddish glow coming through the window at first light. Out in the balcony, a thin layer of ash was already being whipped up into individual mini clouds by the strengthening wind. Climbing up to the top floor, I could see through the attic porthole the huge pall of grayish black smoke billowing over Mount Parnitha.

I turned the radio on only to hear the first reports from the fire front: burning intensely through the night, two huge wildfires were converging on the foot of Mount Parnitha from a north-northwesterly direction, threatening townships and industrial facilities in their path. Already, thousands of acres of tree cover had been burnt. This is the same part of northeastern Attica that was brutally ravaged in 2007 and, again, in 1993, suffering enormous losses in green, including most of the forest cover of Mount Parnitha, a designated national forest (see my earlier post on the destruction of Parnitha).

The catastrophe that is unfolding as I key in this piece is not unprecedented. In recent years, wildfires everywhere, but especially in Attica, have become extremely difficult to contain because of the abandonment of even rudimentary precautions, the lack of sufficient firefighting means, the indifference of both local residents and local government, and the generalized collapse of the state of law that allows various special interests to violate the environment with complete impunity. The problem of illegal construction, a primary cause of deliberately starting forest fires, is so widespread, and has created such deeply-ingrained financial stakes, that no government, save perhaps an iron-clad dictatorship, can wade in and start chopping heads off. And chopping heads off we need because there is no other way of averting the mathematically ordained death of this country by fire.

Strange. I haven’t heard anything from Mr. Karamanlis. Increasingly, this man is absent… just invisible. O, by the way, he also happens to be the prime minister of this wasted land.

See the map and some photos (quality is unfortunately of cheap mobile phone standard, since I was caught without my camera):

The two circles in the upper part delineate roughly the areas where the fires are raging. The red circle shows the location of the Athens international airport.

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I was driving north, facing Mount Parnitha, when I shot this pics. The smoke billowing from behind the mountain covered most of the Attica sky:

The economic crisis has had some “positive” effects, at least in normal economies that obey simple laws of supply and demand:

Consumer prices [in the U.S.] have fallen more in the past year than in any 12-month period in nearly six decades – a huge break for shoppers but also a reminder that prices are being restrained by weak spending that’s likely to slow an economic recovery.  The recession and lower energy costs kept a lid on prices for July, causing consumer inflation to fall to zero. Most economists think prices are now in a sweet spot: ultra-low inflation without a serious risk of deflation – a destabilizing spiral of falling prices and wages.   [.....]

In Friday’s report on consumer inflation, the Labor Department said prices were flat in July and have fallen 2.1 percent over the past 12 months – the steepest drop since a similar decline for the period ending in January 1950.  Core inflation, which excludes volatile energy and food prices, showed a small 0.1 percent rise in July and over the past 12 months has risen 1.5 percent – right in the Federal Reserve’s comfort zone.

Compare and contrast with the LandOMiracles.

All of us poor super market customers are treated to steadily increasing retail prices despite very clear signs that the pathetic Greek economy is shrinking even further under pressure from the global downturn. Greek oligopolies work out miracles hand-in-hand with the corrupt State and the hundreds of thousands of its minions, who need sustenance without producing anything. In one recent radio spot report, for example, a popular announcer lamented the findings of a 2-month long comparison of key consumer prices affecting visitors between Athens and five European capitals, including Paris and Vienna. I wasn’t surprised to hear that Athens scored first across the board of hospitality-related prices, not to mention prices of goods on the shelf, which affect equally Greeks and those among the visiting who decide to go self catering.

This relentless rally in consumer prices leaves little room for recovery of any kind. With the exception of those who are independently wealthy — i.e. belong to either the robber baron class or that particular group of rodents feeding off the black untaxed economy — the rest of us are chopped liver. The most recent uppercut is a steep increase in the price of gasoline, now touching €1.3 a liter in many parts of the country. Government “consumer protection” agencies, well versed in the politics of fuel smuggling and price fixing, shed crocodilian tears over this price increase that “must” be due to “increasing demand” when, for the first time ever, Greeks are leaving the car behind in droves given the bite of falling income and the onslaught of the taxman in a desperate effort to fill the government’s bottomless coffers.

To me, it is amazing that people from the outside would still consider this country for a visit or, even worse, permanent relocation. I can think of dozens of alternatives that promise a much better deal overall. Greece’s comparative advantage was always mostly imaginary based on nostalgia and fantasy: sun and good weather and brilliant beaches and all that… Well, the weather has changed, the sun is now relentless, and the beaches are increasingly dirty or encroached upon by “businessmen” with profit-making schemes that make the beaches a little less desirable, to put it as elegantly as possible. And on top of all that loss of the “comparative advantage,” the LandOMiracles demands top dollar for its bottom-quality trinkets… What a combination! In the end, one must be stupid or ignorant (or both) to willingly subject oneself to this kind of treatment for the sake of Hellas!

  With the August lull in full swing, there was precious little to do today at the office, so I ended up having a long conversation with one of the troop stragglers left behind to guard the supply train. Zoe is a mother of two with a pretty handful of problems at this particular time in her life. We talked (mainly) about parents and children as many of her problems are indeed the outcome of screwed up parent-child relationships extending, I guess, back two or three generations! It was a good talk. I think it helped Zoe. We went through a pot of not-too-strong coffee but, nevertheless, there was enough caffeine in that pot to give me an added boost, so here I’m writing about life again.

I always wondered what I would have been if I were the child of, say, a famous scientist and a life-long piano soloist or, perhaps, a rich merchant and his early volunteer wife, who was a bemedalled front-line nurse on top of running her own publishing house. I have to confess that, ever since I was very, very young, I fantasized about  being the son of famous or rich parents (or both).

My parents were not rich, neither were they famous.

Dad was a really tired guy. At least, this is how I saw him every day of his life with us until he died shortly before I graduated from high school. A small businessman, he was perennially sunk in his business, the benefits of which were not immediately apparent to the rest us — Mom, Sis, and myself. We did own our house and there was always food on the table, but beyond that our life was hardly “middle class.” Dad must have been not very successful in what he was doing because I never saw him with the wads of cash some of his friends so easily displayed, even during casual encounters at his shop or the coffee shop where all the neighborhood merchants gathered. These “wad people” owned motorcars (a very big thing back then)  we owned simple tickets for the bus. They had those spacious vacation homes;  the few times we left Athens while Dad was still alive, we always stayed in at what would be the down-and-out hotels of today.

In short, our “middle class” life was just-barely-above-water  existence, which I personally never liked or appreciated as an experience that “builds character.” It left me with a profound sense of insecurity, on top of making me angry that I could not have the few material things I considered at the time to be real treasures, like a record player or … yes … my very own toy electric train!

Mom was another chapter altogether. I am now convinced that she regretted marrying Dad the minute she said “I do,” but divorce was out of the question given the tight mores of the day. So, she persisted like a death march volunteer frozen into doing what millions of women of her era did, viz. live desperate lives with husbands whose removal from the scene would have been a blessing from the skies, especially if it came fast. Thus, depressed and deathly unhappy, she tried to take care of us as best as she could. We were never neglected in a material sense, but, emotionally, the ride was painful as it was unforgettable.

When Dad died, we ended up in dire straits, but Mom, it was obvious, was taking deep breaths of the kind she had never done while “happily” married. She must have been so deeply at odds with her decision to walk up the steps of the church that from the day Dad was gone to the day she herself died, many, many years later, she simply dropped speaking about him altogether. She just wiped the HD clean, did a fresh install, and carried on with her unremarkable but reasonably quiet, and, I might speculate, “happy” life for another four decades. Somewhere in the background my sister and I still hovered.

My most persistent “parent fantasy” I had as a pre-high school little person was that my father was a pilot! I can’t think of why “pilot” was stuck in my mind so strongly. It must have been the early readings of heroic air wars, and the proximity to a next door neighbor who was indeed a real-life air force officer, that must have been at play there. I would daydream about Dad arriving back from some distant campaign, leather-clad and wearing high bomber’s boots, or him waving to us from the still open cockpit window of a big, multi-propeller silver bird as he taxied for take-off, a swirling, billowing cloud of dust chasing aft of his dream aeroplane. 

Mom “parent fantasies” I didn’t particularly have, although I was always moved to tears when watching those American movies with female protagonists in roles of all-embracing, all-loving, never-unhappy, permanently-on call Moms, who would deftly bake those lovely, hearty pies, drive resolutely those woodie station wagons, filled with offspring, climb mountains to collect their favorite flowers, dash back home to take command of base camp again, and then be ready, shirt-starched, and with polished buttons and belt buckles, by 1900 so that the whole family, Dad presiding, would sit at the table for dinner.

Much later in life, I did run into some families that appeared closer to these fantasies than anything I had previously experienced.

Once, I was invited into the home of a man who owned an ink factory. Apparently, business was thriving because all three children attended expensive private schools, the family would often fly to Florida for breaks, and the driveway was populated by the three latest models every time I would visit. Dad was an accomplished painter, collected old pistols, and had his own racing car. In addition, he had served in Indonesia with some civilian reconstruction team and had fabulous stories to tell about jungles and local shamans.

At another time, I became friendly with a senior surgeon and his lady wife, who was a remarkable, learned woman. Without children, they lived in a typical upper class Scottish house with ample grounds surrounding and had turned themselves into patrons of postgraduates students of the nearby university. We would be all invited to very formal dinners, where typical student attire would not make the rank. This was the only “restriction” though because both Mr. and Mrs. were delightful hosts at all times. And our contact with them was not restricted to such invitations. Whenever anyone in the group faced a problem, Mr. and Mrs. were there with solutions — which always worked.

I can’t say I ever run to my parents for solutions. In fact, the more I shift through memories, the more I am unable to remember even one single occasion when a heart-to-heart with either Dad or Mom helped — simply because there weren’t any heart-to-hearts. Such was the level of communication in the family that when I announced I wanted to take the entrance exam of the Greek military academy — a big decision in those days that immediately put families in high gear — the news hardly broke the graveyard silence surrounding our relation with our parents. Dad said nothing. Mom, if I remember correctly, just asked why I wanted to do this when I was such a poor student in high school. I mean, it was one big surge of enthusiastic encouragement, with both Dad and Mom cheerleading and hanging banners over the door reading: “We Shall Do This Together.”

Of course, there is no honest answer to the hypothetical question of “what would you have been if your parents were different.” I have read a million stories of accomplished people producing useless kids, and another million of losers giving birth to geniuses, that I know the statistical picture, at least, is somewhat evenly matched. Still, it would have been nice to have had a dad who talked; who actually went out and came back with a bicycle so that he could
teach me how to ride; or who surprised us with tickets to Venice once in his lifetime. And it would have been so much, so infinitely better if Mom wasn’t in a permanent state of post-traumatic stress disorder, good intentioned but dazed and largely lost, a person to be pitied really for having to do things she obviously wouldn’t or couldn’t.

I always think of my parents with a deep sense of sadness. They were unhappy all their lives, it seems, and the legacy did not exactly die with the next generation. I wish I could have done something, anything, to make them happier. But I had no such resources or wherewithal. I was the little person, in the early days, and, later, the rather indifferent person, who pushed as far away from the family as possible.

What a way to go!

Images of Panepistimiou street and the space in front of the old Athens university building, like these below, are indeed rare. These photos I took around 11 a.m. on August 10, a time of the day when, usually, the place is packed with traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular. The empty front of the university building is particularly surprising and a feast to our eyes. Almost routinely, on “normal” days, this space is teeming with illegal African immigrant peddlers, junkies, anarchists with banners, and any other fringe element you can imagine who, with a pair of speakers and an amplifier, freely pollutes the sound waves hitting our ears while being protected from arrest by the “academic asylum” law. Sounds crazy? Yes! It is crazy! The police are not allowed to climb the steps from the sidewalk to the “Propylea” (the front of the building)  and clear out these dregs of society so that they do not return because of the “asylum law.”

These peaceful sights come in sharp contrast to what is happening barely a mile down this empty downtown street. At the end of Panepistimiou, you meet Omonoia square and you enter the growing downtown illegal immigrant ghetto. The blight runs in concentric circles across several city blocks beginning in Omonoia, with literally thousands of illegals, mainly Asian and African, packed in derelict buildings and competing for turf with junkies, drug pushers, pimps, whores (mainly foreign… even Greek whores have given up)  and any other bottom-of-the-barrel scum you can possibly imagine. I was reading in this morning’s press how desperate hotel operators in the downtown section have become because of this apocalyptic collapse they’re faced with. Their foreign tourist business has severely shrunk along with the reputation of Athens as an all-round safe city offering round the clock access to sites and entertainment without the fear of crime, both petty and more serious, that is present in so many other big foreign cities.

The government response to this terrible crisis has been fragmented and indecisive. The knee jerk reaction for the past two months (and after Mr. Karamanlis took a beating in the Euro-elections largely because of his allowing illegal immigration to claim a large part of our living space)  has been to send out the police to chase after the illegals in large-scale “broom” (i.e. sweep-and-remove) operations.

These forays are carried out in force, with helmeted, shield-bearing, baton-yielding officers coming down hard on illegal immigrant squatters to clear them out of buildings that have become festering sores surrounded by mounts of trash and radiating sickness and disease in every direction. The sweeps are “successful” — the targets are herded on buses and removed, sometimes after scuffles with local communists and anarchists, who insist on an open border (!!) policy (yes, this country has a deep death wish) … but where can you put them once you’ve removed them from the ghetto? Holding cells at police stations are brimming with such illegals and large-scale holding facilities in Athens or its environs do not exist. There have been announcements of old military camps being converted to “guest centers,” but even if this is indeed the chosen path conversion of such disused facilities requires a lot of money and a lot of time, both of which the government does not have.

The situation is desperate. Government and local authorities are involved in a no-win effort to conceal the impasse, but thousands upon thousands of people running desperate themselves aren’t amenable to a whitewash. Now, under pressure downtown, the illegals are predictably shifting away from the center and into satellite locations. Liberty Square lying some dozen blocks from Omonoia, for example, has become a new gathering point for homeless illegals, who are pushing and shoving against a growing population of drug addicts. Needless to say, neighborhood residents are in panic, faced as they are with an unstoppable flood of lawlessness, filth, and deadly risks to life and limb.

Sometimes, I feel at a loss over how we have ended up in this country. Then, of course, I remember the key attributes of this here Land of Miracles — crippling corruption, political instability, social degradation, collective callousness, mind-boggling lack of civic consciousness and a sense of self preservation — and the whole picture again begins to make sense.

For years, I’ve made a point of staying in Athens in August, when most of the barbarians are gone. I’ve never regretted it. Yesterday, for example, I went to buy some odds and ends at IKEA Athens. This place is always a zoo. Yesterday, it was a quiet, civilized very large store. I breezed through the departments without being elbowed by screaming Greeks grabbing things from the shelves as if WW3 has just been declared. At the checkout, I was alone along with another lady buying a bed. No sweat. I even visited the food section and got some Swedish lager.

Traffic is minimal. If it were not so oppressively hot, I would’ve been even tempted to try using my bicycle to go to work — a good one hour’s ride door to door. Most people at the office have taken leave, so I am practically a free bird in the cage. I must say I savor these minimal staff days, especially because all my “favorite” assholes are on leave, including my next door office neighbor whom I barely endure.

The radio is now playing Steve Winwood’s “While You See A Chance,” a song that brings back many happy memories. Those were the days we felt ready to conquer the world. Those were the days of no fears!! How amazing it felt not to fear anything, including things that were very near disastrous possibilities at the time.

I remember particularly one HOT, HUMID August in the U.S. when I worked 12-hour shifts cooking in order to cover next year’s room and board. I hated every minute spent in that hellhole of a kitchen — and the man who run it — but on Sundays (I worked Saturdays) I would rent a car and drive straight into the mountains. How easy it was to unwind then! I’d spent the whole day by the lake, lying under the trees, munching on goodies I’d brownbag at a nearby town, and drinking cold soda I kept in a little cooler (never beer!) The place was the most serene I’ve seen ever, with the exception perhaps of some distant parts in the Highlands. In the evening, I’d drive back truly refreshed and take a long cold bath while watching B-movies on a small, portable, B-and-W TV. Simple pleasures!

There are no moments like this any more. Materially, we have advanced. Mentally and spiritually, we are in shambles. My Patmos stay is as if it did not happen. All the positive energy from resting for three and a half weeks just dissipated the moment I stepped off the ship. This is a worrying sign. If you drain so fast after a supposedly good vacation, something may be seriously wrong with the innards.

(Song now playing: Pride [In the name of love] – U2)

I’ve been sorting through bills since I got up this morning. I’ve just stopped doing the instinctive conversion into old drachmas. The amounts are frightening. Last night, I was sitting out in the balcony late — the street, for once, is deadly quiet — and, suddenly, I picked up the voice of my stupid next door neighbor, a victim of his own greed, shouting on the phone only a few short steps from my railing: “I have no money, I tell you … Shud up, shud up …!! There’s not a penny left to get from me… There’s no money…” He belongs to the deservedly dead or dying. Others though struggle despite their honest efforts.

Our esteemed government suddenly decided to relieve the chief of the armed forces, General Grapsas, of his duties because, the newspapers roared, the good general is too tough with the Turks … and who, in this pathetic, cowardly administration, wants trouble now that the Turks are taking over the Aegean by storm … like, as in fighting back, right? My views on this subject are reflected perfectly in this editorial. Read and weep, if you are even remotely connected to Greece.

Yesterday, I was stunned to learn from a friend I hadn’t seen for quite some time (he wisely lives abroad) that a common acquaintance from a graduate program we attended together some time ago died recently after a short bout with cancer. This boy (because he was a boy in appearance and heart to the very end of his 40-odd years)  belongs in my images of good, hopeful days, so the news of his sudden removal from this world struck me quite hard, although I was hardly one of his buddies.  The eerie thing is that his entire immediate family predeceased him, all dead because of cancer.

[Pause]

Leave the dark thoughts behind with some more photos from Patmos:

Peace.

While on the island, I shot more than 3,000 photos — 3,028, to be exact. Ah, the beauty and ease of digital cameras! So, without further ado, here are some samples!

The Byzantine imperial flag with the double-headed eagle continues to fly over Patmos since it is the standard of the Ecumenical Patriarchate of Constantinople — and the monastery of St. John the Theologian, sitting atop the peak of the island, is under the Patriarchate’s ecclesiastical jurisdiction.

The indefatigable Nisos Kalymnos, a small ferry boat running a circular route serving Patmos and nearby islands, steams into Skala harbor on a brilliant day (i.e. the standard day on Patmos during the summer).

Sunsets on Patmos are always dramatic!

The moon rises around 9 p.m. behind a thick hedge … Perfect stillness and the fragrance of aromatic shrubs …

This was once a shining new little machine … now resting inauspiciously on the side of a remote island path.

The beautiful Pyrgos tou Valvi bathed in sunset light rich in golden hues… but try to picture this mansion after the sun is gone, surrounded by complete darkness. Perfect setting for an Agatha Christie movie!

It has been nearly two weeks since I returned from the island and I haven’t found a spare moment to post a quick post. I’m sunk. In maddening, petty, pay-ransom business, caused by the government and the odious Greek IRS. It would be a waste of time to go into the details. Suffice it to say I have been so frustrated in the last few days all the good vibes from the Patmos sojourn have just gone up in smoke. But, with August only a short one day away, the last throngs of idiots are leaving Athens and, at least, we’ll experience a couple of weeks of relative peace.

Late this afternoon, after much bickering and phone calls and other bother, I read a great, very moving post by Penelope Trunk, the one and only “Brazen Careerist” (if you haven’t run into her blog, do go visit and bookmark it, it’s such a superb read, every time). Penelope apparently has had what we’d call an abused childhood and she’s not hesitant to write about it on her blog. Many, I bet, would find her openness about such personal detail shocking or inappropriate or, even, downright weird (judging from the comments under the post though I see a lot of readers who reacted with only positive feelings).  I find her way very brave.

The question Penelope asks is how do you decide how much to reveal about yourself once you decide to go out on a lurch and begin publishing on the Web (or elsewhere). A very personal, very difficult question indeed. She has obviously found the answer: her posts are matter-of-fact on many topics most people would reserve for the confidential moments with those they feel very close to and very secure with. If you are a regular blog reader, you should have already run across various levels of personal openness and latitude of revealing personal details that are usually described as “sensitive.”

I have toyed with this question myself for years. My blogging has been largely focused on broader issues, so the opportunity to talk about personal matters was always limited. Furthermore, I always looked upon spilling one’s guts out on the world stage both pointless and somewhat dangerous (what you write will be there for others to peruse for a long, long time and could lead directly back to you if those doing the searching are a bit above average in their Internet skills). I would personally counsel against blogging or other forms of Web self-publishing if you value your privacy “above average” — unless you decide to focus on something very narrow and hobby/technical (Bob’s Amateur Radio Blog or Best Lemon Pie Recipes or something similar).

Once though you go down Penelope’s road, there’s no looking or turning back. Suddenly, you have many, many people picking up “the scent” and approaching with various intentions. Things may turn out surprisingly rewarding — or, they can become quite disturbing. Never before in the history of human communication was there such instant ease of announcing to everybody both irrelevant and intimate details, and the result could be an equally fast blowback from the most unlikely people (whom you would probably never know beyond their inanimate presence on your blog’s comments).

I can’t say I’ve reached Penelope’s level of self-confidence in revealing personal detail to a world audience. By training and education, I am instinctively a batten-down-hatches person. My friend Jason never though fails to remind me that I do have to struggle with some serious contradictions on this count. One of my (many) unfulfilled dreams was to become a stage actor. Actors, Jason rightly points out, have little opportunity to batten down the hatches… they are on stage all the time.  Jason never fails to prod me when he sees me shredding various documents, bills, or other printed matter that I feel could contribute to identity theft or other suspect business if they end up in the hands of even the average thief. He laughs heartily when I sweep my hard drive with data destroying applications that wipe files permanently and leave no recoverable trace on the medium. Last Christmas he gave me a history of MI5 as a gift. He thinks I am a little paranoid.  

Perhaps I am. But I appreciate Jason’s friendly jabs. They help me maintain perspective.

So, to return to Penelope’s question: by all means, start a completely open diary on the Web and sign it with your real name if that gives you the catharsis you think you can get by sharing openly and receiving feedback even of the trash kind. To be a bit extreme, secrets tend to create an endless cycle of worry and deception, and it takes a strong and persistent character to maintain the appropriate levels of “security” every step of the way, all the time. Letting the secrets go does result sometimes in enormous relief. And secrets, invariably, lead to lying, which some people do out of nature but many others simply cannot stomach.

I’m still not sure what’s best.

End of the line for Patmos Summer 2009. I’m scheduled for departure at 11 p.m. tonight. The weather has mercifully changed to hotter with seas like a pond. The maritime forecast is for winds around Force 3 to 4, locally blowing up to 6, which translates into an expected peaceful journey.

I’ve been packing since early this morning with a view of the harbor. Tourist traffic continues slow. This is past mid July and traffic of this kind spells the figures for the rest of the summer: very low. Yesterday, there were three cruise ships anchored just outside the harbor, but their busy dinghies brought in only small groups of travelers. The sea cruise business is obviously slow too.

I am always sad to leave the island. I wish Patmos was more accessible during the year — but if you’re caught here during a bad weather spell, you’re liable to stay far longer than you originally planned. This is the time when the absence of reliable ship service, carried out by new, capable all-weather boats, becomes painfully obvious. This is the matter with all smaller Greek islands during off-season. The Greek state, bankrupt as it is in many more ways than one, has never provided the obvious: regular, reliable connection to the mainland for all islanders living outside such “icon” destinations as Rhodes and Mykonos (my opinion of such ‘icons’ is extremely poor, so I’ll save my comments for another time).

Back in Athens, little has changed. I had no doubt. I spoke to friends a short while ago to hear that the place is boiling and ozon levels are soaring. My sister reports wilted flowers in her garden despite all of them located in the shade and regularly watered. Nature delivers little — and, frequently, not so little — signals about what will happen next. We of course mostly ignore them.

Good bye Patmos. I’ll miss you.