Silver Bird
I began my pilgrimage to Greece by settling luxuriously into the middle-seat, six square inches of leg and lap room generously provided by my airline host for the ten-hour crossing. I stretched like the tawny lion on the wide Serengeti, then addressed the surly, hirsute and ill-smelling hippopotami on either side of me. "Kali Mera (Good Day)!" I chirped. The burpish grunts I received in return made me flare with hope; these could well be the great, new, life-long friends promised by Fodor's and Rick Steve!
With this electrifying possibility in mind, I furtively eyeballed my neighbors at every opportunity, eagerly trying to discern if one of them might be female. A little squeak of joy escaped my lips: that would be the frosting on the cake.
Yes! I exulted: the Journey begins!
City of Plato
Upon my arrival in Athens, I was immediately caught up in the daily mass anti-American demonstration. To preserve my own safety, but to my utter horror and self-loathing, I found myself participating in the hanging and burning of an effigy of our magnificent Texan president. I honestly doubt that I'll ever be able to forgive myself for that cowardly and traitorous act. Fortuitously, I had packed the effigy and noose I had so lovingly crafted in the post-election disgruntlement so common in San Francisco. Though repeatedly impaled voodoo-style during that recent brouhaha, it had not yet been burned. To everyone's delight, it burned quite nicely indeed.
[Editor's note: As the author's so called "pilgrimage" occurred in spring 2001, Mr. Bush had not yet been universally recognized as the messianic soldier, statesman, scholar of our troubled times, equal parts Sun King, Jethro Bodine and General Buck Turgidson. The author is a fierce and warlike patriot while traveling in rural America, flags rippling from every corner of his Corolla, and we apologize for any misunderstanding. Now we return to the effigy hanging, burning, and dismemberment.]
Despite myself, I was swept away by the crowd's childlike and infectious enthusiasm, and ultimately ended up leading the crowd in hypnotic chants of "Jackie O.! Jackie O.! Jackie O.!" By the early morning hours, we swayed as one, sweaty, exhausted, but elated, to "I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke," and "Oh mama, can this really be the end? To be stuck inside of Thessaloniki with the Constantinople blues again." (Greeks yet grieve deeply for the recent loss of their Byzantine capital to Mehmet the Conqueror in 1453.) I was already half in love with this ancient land and its passionate and unpredictable people.
Sweet Village of Agamemnon
The next day, I arrived in the beautiful seaside village of K, where Stella Gracopolis took me in hand, and gave me lodging. According to Homer, (sorry, I don't know his last name...bada bing!), K was one of the seven cities offered to Achilles by Agamemnon in the Iliad. The Iliad was later immortalized in the movie, "Laurel & Hardy Meet the Sons of Hercules...at Troy!" famous for the oft-quoted line, "Don't let him pass the Gates of Uranus!" This always makes me smile gently and think of concerned mothers giving well-intentioned, but hopeless advice to their stubborn daughters. Mothers and daughters! Sometimes I just want to knock their heads together, and say "Trust me, I know what I'm doing."
Learning Greek
So far, this is what I've learned to say in the tongue of Socrates:
"How old is the meat?" A good start to any negotiation from taxi drivers to shoe shine boys. Puts them off balance and that's half the battle.
"Do I look like an egg-sucking hoyglet to you, Mr. Papa-what's-his-name?" - advanced negotiating technique. (LBJ called all Greeks "Papa-what's-his-name" - the Texan grasp of foreign affairs is simply masterful.) Absolutely refuse to discuss what a "hoyglet" might be, but FYI only - Hoyglet was the deeply-loathed nickname for a short, crew-cutted, redheaded kid with glasses that I went to junior high school with.
"Fill it to the brim, Hercules, you cheapskate!" - when bringing in my Starbucks' "Venti" to-go cup to the local kafenion. Otherwise, you get a measly thimble-full of "Greek," formerly "Turkish," coffee, in either case, mostly grounds. While we're on the general subject, the fact that a "small" at Starbucks is called a "tall" really gripes my butt! It's spooky the amount of insensate rage that comes up at this fatuous newspeak, though I do appreciate their clean restrooms.
Science, My First Love
I continue my meticulous research into a possible sun-heat connection. I realize that many of you regard as insane my years of experimentation, still without any conclusive results, but, intuitively, I feel there's some relationship - exactly what, I still don't know. But what if it's true? We could heat our water, dry our clothes, even darken our skin, WITH THE SUN'S RAYS!
Man & Superman
I started rapping with the local teenagers - I wanted to learn their hopes and dreams, the location of the Scandinavian-patronized nude beach, and to share some of my own hard-fought, hard-won wisdom. I looked them straight in the eye and brought up the importance of flossing - showed them gums that made their hair stand up on end. Over raki and dolmas, we pondered the fearsome inscrutability of lima beans: who are they and what do they want? I wanted to hear what the kids had to say - it was like opening up a dam.
Behind the souvlaki stand, I demonstrated the basic mechanics of the colonic swallow-back ("Breathe deeply, visualize, now clench and hold! Zip, zip! Keep the prana focused on your root lock!"), a yogic technique I invented for first dates and theater events. I sketched out simple diagrams they could take home and study. But nothing made a greater impression than the description of how Sumo wrestlers pull their testes back up into their bodies before matches. My analogy of a 747's hydraulic cargo bay brought on an excited discussion which almost came to blows.
Despite our language difficulties, the kids were hungry for knowledge and very attentive - lots of nodding and forehead wrinkling, dramatic Mediterranean gesticulations, and explosive ejaculations of disbelief and wonder. I think they appreciated having a sophisticated American take an interest in their rustic lives. They gave me an affectionate nickname - "Malaka," apparently meaning something like "the tall, mysterious American from San Francisco." I liked this - seemed kind of Casablanca-ish to me. So when a waiter or storekeeper asks me my name I say, "My American name is Henry, but my Greek name is Malaka." I am always gratified by the large, spontaneous smiles this universally elicits. Before I knew it, every time I walked down the street, people would point and wave, honk car horns, laugh and shout, "Yassou (hello) Malaka!" or "Here comes the Malaka!" Schoolchildren run after me and throw stones, screaming, "Malaka! Malaka!"
It's nice to be virtually deified by this ancient people who invented both philosophy and the rotating gyros meatlog. I feel lapped by the warm waters of their unsmirched love.
[Editor's note: I don't want to be the one to tell Mr. Panky, but "Malaka" is an earthy Greek colloquialism, roughly translating as "born from the anus."]
Quiet Ruminations
I am sitting outside at Dakis' joint in the magical Mediterranean light, sipping my fourth or fifth Kronos brewski. I am thinking about Odysseus and the Cyclops; Oddysseus called himself "No-man" to confuse the law after jamming a charred stick into the big guy's eye, and I mused - I too am no-man AND every-man. ("Dakis, my dear hoplite! Another cold one! And play the Yanni album one more time!) I am alone, yet I also surf the universal backwash of undifferentiated Being, which is LOVE. I am thinking about how grace-riddled every single thing is - the little girls with flowers woven in their hair, the three-legged dog sniffing the offal beneath my table, my painful crop of fanny pimples. (Too much cheese lately - Greeks put slabs of feta in everything. But the cheese too is holy, holy, holy.)
In the "Mahabharata," Lord Krishna eats a single mung bean, declares himself to be stuffed, and the whole universe is sated! What the fuck's a mung bean, I wonder. Sounds filling.
I'm not sure I've ever been so at peace with the world, seen the universe in such a golden light. ("Dakis! I love you, man! One more frosty mug of golden Kronean goodness!") Perhaps on my way home, I'll stop in at the ancient church, get down on my knees in the sacrosanct, incense-laden silence, pray and give thanks. That sounds real nice right now, just like "California Dreamin."
On the other hand, I could mosey to the newsstand, see if any new fashion mags have come in - I've heard scarcely-to-be-hoped-for rumors of surreptitious Gwyneth Paltrow bare-bottom beach photos. Talk about answered prayers! Ineffable, unreachable and incomprehensible grace! I feel exalted, dry-mouthed, risen up: the decision is made. But first, one more 32 oz brew, to whet the appetite.
[Editor's Correction: our profound gratitude to devoted reader Popeye Spanakopita. Apparently, "Malaka" does not mean, as we reported in good faith, "born from the anus," but instead denotes one enslaved to the sin of Onan...in other words, compulsive self-love of a physical nature. That's a different kettle of fish entirely, and, in our opinion, pegs Mr. Panky quite nicely. Our apologies for the mistranslation.
Coincidentally, Alfred Knopf, as part of their "Something Nasty in the Woodshed" imprint, has just reissued the author's "Left Hand of Onan" trilogy: "The Secret Garden of Señor Onan," "Onan Nose-Whistles the Blues" and his universally condemned masterwork, "Children's Letters to Onan."]
Stella is Unhappy
Someone squealed to Stella - in retrospect, I shouldn't have lied about being the love-child of "our greatest vice-president, the illustrious Greek-American Spiro Agnew," and one of the lesser Mousketeers. (Stella gasped, then seized my hand and kissed it repeatedly.) But it got me a helluva room and board deal. Now, suddenly, hurt, resentful looks and no more Easter cookies or pigs' feet in tomatoes. A plastic bag of excrement in the mini-fridge. I don't know who squealed - some ferret down at the kafenion probably - but I'm going to fix his hash good...though, honestly, hash-fixing doesn't sound that bad to me. In fact, going out for breakfast, I usually pay someone to fix my hash. I like hash. Maybe I'll take him for a "ride" instead - like the judas who betrayed the Godfather. "Hey Paolo, Mrs. Corleone wants us to run out an' get some green peppers." Boom! Ciao, Paolo. Then: "Leave the gun, bring the cannoli" - I love that line. Ok, I'm not sure if it was "leave the gun" or "leave the garroting apparatus" - anyway, I'm definite about the fat guy Clemenza wanting the cannoli, which is the classy part after removing a man's head (whether with a hollow-point or a fishline is immaterial). Mama's homemade cannoli, yum yum. When I do the squealer, I'm gonna bring some cannoli, or failing that, a box of Hostess Ring Ding Juniors.
In any case, grim, brooding Stella is nursing her grievance like a marsupial her young. (Marsupials are the antipodean marmots with those weird pouches. Sometimes they hop.) And, tell me please - what exactly did I do? A middle-aged, suburban American WASP took advantage of a canny Greek villager? Hahahahaha, come on! That'll be the day. But sunny Dino won't look me in the eye anymore - he mutters about "Kyoto Accords," "unilateral missile defenses," and something about Olympia Dukakis deserving the Best Actress Academy Award for "Moonstruck." (Cher won Best Actress, while Ms. Dukakis won Best Supporting Actress. Greeks are a terribly proud and tetchy people.) "Americans, pfffft! Worse than Bulgarians," he whispers and spits on the hot stones, as he oils his deadly lupo.
I and my semi-feral and flea-ridden cat-friend, Wilson, rarely leave our darkened room now, and supplies are getting low. We had a terrible fight last night - I'm all scratched up - over the furry meatball we found under the bed. Ok, he found it but I'm paying the rent, and was able to pry open his jaws before he could swallow.
Dear Lord, I hope it was a meatball. Can't hold on much longer.
All is forgiven! I snuck out and bought Stella a disposable Bic lighter, which I described as a "magic fire stick." Her eyes got as big as dinner plates and she ran out to show her friends in the September 17th club. That night, squat Stella and I danced the ancient dish-towel dance of the Lacedaemonian warrior - we jumped, we kicked and spun, we limbo-ed, a souvenir dish-towel stretched tight between our two toothy mouths, binding us together heart and soul. "Opa!" All this suitably chaperoned by Dino, clapping and grinning like Gomer Pyle at a freak show with a corndog.
A plate of giant white beans swimming in oil showed up the next morning. (Yoo hoo, Mr. Henry!) Tomorrow, Wilson and I are hoping for red meat, maybe a lamb shank. I've already sent away to Athens for my next gift for Stella and Dino: a miniature melon-ball scoop. Guests will exclaim in awe and bitter envy at their elegant fruit salads at village events and church picnics.
Go Tell the Spartans...Here Lies Henry Panky
I climbed out of bed excited as a five-year-old on Mommy's diet pills. "Horsey, horsey, horsey!" I squealed, clapped my hands and jumped up and down, over and over and over again, until Dino starting pounding on the floor above and shouting something in Greek. What wild hair got up his bupkis?
No need for medication today - I FEEL GOOD!
Down to the kafenion: "Dakis! A triple Nescafe frappé, muchee coldee, chop, chop and put a frothy head on it!" I grabbed the chunky Albanian serving girl and swung her around, singing "Turkey in the Straw," high-stepping my West Virginy gobbler strut, while wildly strumming Dakis's grandfather's antique balalaika. They love me there; I'm one of their favorite foreigners. Poured down the frappe', clickety clack, the gears were starting to turn now, bing, bang, bongo. I was off after a quick 65-minute detour to the WC - had to wedge my legs and feet against the door as other patrons flung their bodies against it. "I'll be right out. I don't speak Greek. You have a very beautiful country! I love your Kalamata olives!" I sang out gaily.
Oh, bright morn, pendulous with ripening fruits!
I galloped up the mountain, riding my walking stick like a thoroughbred. "Go Pie, go Pie!" I lashed its sweaty, heaving flanks; Dandy Dick Cheney and his Orc-ish minions fell shrieking beneath my righteous sword and the lashing hooves of my beloved Bucephalitis. My hawk's face sliced the wind like a ship's prow, "I am the Tojam, King of the world!" I squeezed Kate's heaving breasts to stop her from falling into the foamy sea. "Adrienne, Adrienne!" I howled, eyes like slits, bloody, staggering but unbowed from the beating I had taken. "Stay Alive! I will find you!" I shouted and jumped into the waterfall with Chingatchgook.
Basking in the crashing waves of acclaim, I pounded the podium and screamed, "Ich bin ein Malaka!"
Total silence. Shit! I forgot the locals' mixed feelings about Germans. (Village eradications in WWII, and one too many "Ja! Your beer is pisswater, ha ha ha.") Personally if I was German, I'd pretend to be Dutch: who'd know the difference? And everybody likes the Dutch (except for the Congolese who confuse them with the Belgians, another small people, who ass-fucked them under Leo II). Due to a certain malevolent envy pursuant to being a citizen of the richest, butt-kickingnest hombre-nation on the planet, I often represent myself as a milque-toast Canadian. (End every sentence with "eh?" Call the girls, "Sheila," and wear a "bush" hat.)
Pandering to the nationalistic fervor of the grazing sheep and donkeys, I howled, "Eleftheria i thanatos!" Then: "Honk if you think Baklava is a tasty dessert!" Finally: "There's always room for Jello!" A muttering, lip-farting throng began to fill the aisles. A forest of pantomimes intimating deep, forcible, lower-tract entry by multiple hairy fists and forearms. (Jeesh! I could have stayed in SF! Busman's holiday!) My mood was plummeting faster than turkey giblets in thin gravy. Maybe I shouldn't have sold my anti-depressants to the twelve-year-old at the bus station after all. (I never used the word "ecstasy," but there may have been some confusion as we struggled in our different tongues to make contact, one fragile human being to another.) Dakis' triple frappé seemed very far away now; I searched my pockets (any Lithium? nope); found only the linty, puckered end of a bologna roll; ate it.
"Horsey, horsey," I mumbled to the buzzing blowflies. "Bing, bang, boom," I whispered to Mr. Dung Beetle rolling his dinner patiently home. I thought briefly about abandoning the human world for the universe of dung beetles, like the brujo Don Juan in Castaneda's masterpiece, "Journey to Mescalito Land." No, much as I'd like to, I had too many people counting on me. I nuzzled and untied Bucephalitis - a sweet-mouthed Appaloosa similar to Little Joe Cartwright's, but with Seabiscuit's crazy eyes. I hoped it wouldn't be necessary to gut and eat him on the long trek back. But I didn't rule it out.
Going Home Tomorrow
Drank slowly and sullenly all day long while scratching at my leg-shank psoriasis. Bought half a dozen greasy mouse skins from a gypsy - gifts for the nieces, or maybe I'll make something pretty for myself. In any case, the price was too good to pass up.
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