"Greece" - the movie?

Perhaps the blog title "Ellen meets India" is becoming somewhat inappropriate, since I'm writing about a lot of other places (Thailand and Greece, for example), but I rationalize this with the argument that I wouldn't be traveling to these places if I weren't already somewhere exotic.

Greece has always seemed to me to be a movie set that had a double life as a real place. I can't even think of Greece without a scene of a postman riding his bicycle up a steep island road, Zorba dancing, Meryl Streep acting infantile and lip-synching, or leftists rioting in the streets ("Z"). So when I came in on the airplane today and saw urban sprawl outside the plane window, it was a bit disappointing. No Zeus or Poseidon spirit flying by the plane window, or flames from Temples of Athena visible from the skies.

But oh me of little faith! When I stepped out of the metro at the square near my hotel, it was indeed a movie set. A cobblestone square surrounded by coffee, gelato, and souvlaki shops; a group of musicians playing and random people dancing to their music; people of all ages sitting and walking on every surface like pigeons strutting their stuff; and ancient ruins scattered about, with the Acropolis visible from the moment I left the metro - this is real, Ellen, you're not in a movie.

Then I walked up the narrow street to the hotel (OK, I did get lost and go down the wrong street twice, but that doesn't really fit into this story) and there were cafes lining both sides of the street - the food on any single one of the tables I saw looked better than any meal I've seen in recent history. Plus it was amazing to see so many white people in one place (it's been awhile since I've been in Minnesota).

When I got to the hotel, the clerk, the quintessential understated gentleman (I've got a secret life; if you have to ask you're not worth telling), told me, "Ah, you are staying for 8 nights. If you would like a larger room then just tell me tomorrow and I will move you." Usually they wait until you complain. Then I asked him for a place to have a "simple dinner" and he gave me the name of a restaurant nearby.

Maybe getting older makes me aware that I have to consciously stop time once in awhile to savor the moment - or just let the moment be in charge instead of trying to control my surroundings. And Greek restauranteurs, certainly at this place ("Athiki"), were happy to take control from me. The evening reminded me of a short story I heard once on "Selected Shorts" (NPR), by a food writer (MFK Fisher?) about when she stopped for a meal at an out-of-the-way restaurant in rural France and had an incredible meal - the waitress kept bringing her course after course of incredible food, no matter how much she tried to resist.

I don't know whether the proprietor of this restaurant has read the story, but as soon as I arrived and told him I wanted a light meal, he had the prescription. "I have a perfect small fish for you, fried, with a nice Greek salad. And some wine? Water? White? Just a small white." I was wondering how they could serve whitewater when the waiter arrived soon after with a bottle of Greek spring water AND a 1/2 liter bottle of white wine from Crete, which he opened with a flourish, then shook his head in proud disbelief as he praised "good Greek wine" and swirled a small amount in the class before handing it to me. He turned his head away as if tasting wine were an intensely personal experience that one should not witness. A moment later another waiter arrived with "just a little bread" and then he brought "this Greek salad - it has the olive oil already, just salt and pepper and nothing else!" he commanded, and set the salt and pepper in front of me with a flourish.

All this may sound arrogant and annoying, but actually it was like winning the "Queen for a Day" contest (I realize that dates me), as these people placed the dishes in front of me and waited for my approval - I felt loved, attended to, flattered, feminine (ok, the wine helped). When the fish arrived, it was a a dozen or so little fish, deep fried, INCLUDING THEIR HEADS, arranged nicely around the plate. I cut the first one with my knife and fork, separating the head from the body carefully. Then, thinking again, I motioned to the waiter and asked, "Are you supposed to eat the heads, too?" He smiled patiently and said, "Madam, you do not use knife and fork for this. This is for the hands!" (As if that answered my question). But I guessed that meant that once you're using your hands, might as well bite off the fish heads.

Those fish were really good - fresh, crisp, just a squeeze of lemon, deathmasks of fried batter keeping them just foodlike enough for me not to think about their feelings - and the white wine did indeed enhance the flavor of the fish (and vice versa). And a Libyan computer science student at the next table starting talking politics with me, and the view of the quiet square and cathedral, filled with trees and people hurrying to get to their Saturday night events, started to take on a magical glow (really, it WAS NOT the wine). I looked into the restaurant window, since I had chosen to be one of the few eating outside, and I saw an elderly couple clinking wine glasses and smiling at each other.

And the music swelled with songs about not appreciating your loved one enough and having only a few moments together and "hold me now" and of course I missed John but nonetheless it was everything Greece should be, movie or no movie. And it was fun to let other people be in charge. So when I finished the fish I said to the waiter, "And dessert?" Without hesitation, he said, "Coffee and our house baklava." The baklava was the size of a slice of pie and clearly homemade - lots of walnuts - despite my earlier claim that I wanted a "light meal," I thought only briefly of taking some of it back to the room for Amy, then finished it off.

When I returned to the hotel, the clerk greeted me and suggested that I go up to the rooftop bar and see the Acropolis lit up at night while enjoying a coffee.

Attention - never underrate it. Especially when you are an over-50 woman. And particularly when earlier in the day, some lady in the airport security line told me to get out of the women's line and then, after I responded "I am NOT a man," looked at me closely, hesitated a bit, and then said, "OK." And I was even wearing big earrings to look ladylike.

So arriving in Athens, and having several gentlemen wait on me, smile at me, and "take care" of me, was great. And worth a movie, I think: "Eat, spend, sleep, " I think I'll call it. And by the way, don't ask how much the meal cost. It was worth it.