Light and Color of Greece Gallery

AN ARTIST IN GREECE

I
Return to Athens

I was offered a position to teach art on the island of Paros for the Spring Semester. Although I had traveled through mainland Greece and a few of the other islands several times before, I had always been in love with the land, the vibrant light, the sometimes calm, sometimes tumultuous sea, its cultural heritage, sculpture, architecture and, of course, the incorrigible Greeks themselves. The first time I set my bare foot on the sun warmed rocks of Crete, I felt immediately at home, as if I had been there in some other time. The idea of it, the sheer sound of it made my heart race. Three months on a gorgeous Cycladic island, teaching art a few hours a week, guiding students towards their own unique creativity, and still to have time to explore Greece and work on my own paintings and writing. Most of all, my quiet dream had always been to return to Greece and teach Eurythmy to people, who had never heard the word Eurythmy. This art of movement originated in the ancient Greek temples as a form of sacred dance honoring the Gods and Goddesses. Now, I would have a chance to bring it back to its homeland, to grace the land with it once more.

Since I knew this kind of opportunity may never turn up again, I negotiated a few bucks more salary per month and when the school agreed, I accepted. I bought a one way ticket from one of those cheap internet agencies and off I went. Even though war was threatening to break out in Iraq, I was determined. I wanted to go no matter what. Ah, sunny Greece, here I come! Who would have thought that in late February, a bright white blanket of snow would still cover the surrounding mountains of Athens, the wind would howl and hail would plummet the pristine marble of the Acropolis? This was not part of the plan. Of course, I was royally scalped by the taxi driver who took me from the airport to my hotel, charging me three times the going price. I hadn't been here for ages. Prices do go up. What did I know? I flipped through the pages of a Greek phrase book I had exhumed from a dusty box of books back home. I soon realized how long ago it had actually been since I had seen the shores of the blue Aegean. Toward the back of the book I found a clip-and-mail post card which said, special offer coupon to the buyers of this book...A Free Record starts you speaking Greek in just a few hours. It quoted Bob Hope promoting the language course on the record. I regretted that I never sent for that 78 vinyl, just as I had always regretted selling my 1936 cream colored Chevy with running boards and every VW bus and bug I ever drove in college or losing my first Mickey Mouse watch with movable hands. Gone, gone, all of them gone.

The school had reserved a room for me in a little hotel in The Plaka, one of the oldest and most colorful parts of the city, near the famous Acropolis. It was sure to be quiet with only walking streets surrounding it. Actually, they are probably called pedestrian byways, because streets aren't walking, it's the people that are walking. I had packed so many books, videos, slides and art supplies, there was not much room for my own clothing, other than a few essentials I had stuffed in at the last minute. As a result, my three bags were definitely full and excruciatingly heavy. Even though the heaviest bag had wheels, the second heaviest had been maimed on the flight over and was bouncing along clumsily on one wheel. I felt embarrassed for it, as it hadn't yet had a chance to get used to its affliction. I could barely drag my luggage up the three steps to the hotel. Fortunately, the concierge came to the rescue. I registered quickly, room 305, got my key and turned to gather my bags. A world traveler, I thought quickly to myself, Mmmmm, room 305, third floor. A narrow, spiral staircase loomed in front of me. I was finished. Again, saved by the concierge. Ceremoniously he opened the door to the minuscule elevator and gestured for me to enter. I shoved my gear in first and found a couple of square inches to stand on, pushed 3 and up we flew. I opened the elevator door at the third floor and dragged the bodies, one by one down the hall. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. I felt like a criminal trying to dispose of some dastardly evidence. In my room, I settled in quickly. The bathroom was no bigger than a small closet. Sitting on the tiny toilet involved some preparation. Bracing myself with my left arm across the sink and my right foot in the shower, I felt stable enough to sit down. The typical European telephone shower had a mind of its own. Showered and warm, I slept long and well that first night. I had been awake 24 hours.

Next morning, I opened the curtains to a breathtaking view of an ancient wall and a balcony the size of a large pizza. A sign on the back of the door announced breakfast was on the rooftop deck, a chilling thought, between 6:30 and 9:30 a.m. It was now 6:25 a.m. I had visions of drinking iced coffee topped with flakes of snow and chocolate shavings under one of those outdoor heating trees. I was glad to walk up a couple of flights of stairs after sitting so long on the airplane, all the more refreshing with no bodies to drag behind me. At last, the breakfast room. Relief set in when I saw it was indeed enclosed with a real roof and sliding glass doors looking out to a long, large balcony. There was a woman behind the bar preparing breakfast trays, her sweater hung loosely over a chair at the only table next to the heater. I sat down at the table across from hers overlooking Athens and the Acropolis, a spectacular view. The morning light was cool but rose colored. Steaming hot pots of real filtered coffee were soon served with warm rolls, butter, marmalade and cheese. It began to snow, melting as it touched the surface of the marble balcony. I planned to stay one more night so I could explore Athens, then catch the first fast ferry to Paros the following morning. Now, after the marathon flight from San Francisco to Athens, I needed to walk and breathe.