CRASH AND BANG: DRIVING LIKE A GREEK GOD

Driving in Greece, more than in most post-industrial countries, is a truly wonderful experience. Really it is. I mean, how many countries do you know where each and every driver is issued his or her very own road on which to drive?

It’s true. In Greece, all citizens, upon turning 18, are issued not only with driver licenses, but also with their own roads. As a result, driving is a carefree experience unencumbered with the need to account for, yield to, or otherwise mind any other motorists.

Stop signs? Superfluous. Traffic lights? Scenic decorations. With no other motorists on the road, there is never any need to stop or even slow down for approaching traffic. What approaching traffic, I ask?

Center lines? Who cares. It’s your road, all of it, you paid for it, so you can drive on any part of it you like. Or even on the shoulder, if you prefer.

Left-turn lanes? Just add on as many as you want. Those other cars bearing down from behind at 150 kph are just imaginary, as are any cars you may block in your rush to be first across the intersection.

One-way streets? But you only want to go one way! What does it matter if everyone else is going the other way? That’s their problem on their street!

Why take just one parking space in the hypermart lot when two, or even three, work so much better and help isolate your beloved chariot (with its powerful 1.1-liter super-charged engine) from those nasty dings and dents encountered in lesser lands. Curbs? Sidewalks? Center dividers? The right or even middle lane? Why, supplemental parking, of course!

Greece, for reasons not readily apparent, does not issue vanity plates to car owners. If it did, there would undoubtedly be at least 10 million applications for the tag “ME 1ST” which would best summarize the prevalent attitude on (and off) the road.

The casual visitor should be aware, however, that despite this unique policy of “one driver, one road,” some things terrify the Greek driver. Careering down the road at 275 kph with one arm out the window and the other holding a cell phone to the right ear (though nominally illegal) is not one of them.

Being second or – may the gods forbid! – third in a line of cars, however, is.

Many Greek drivers also exhibit a fear of things like concrete center barriers, which have been known to leap from the edge of the road and menace cars otherwise minding their own business. Consequently, to guard against this known threat, many drivers will swerve toward your left door while passing you on a divided road at 315 kph, or will drive down the center of a dual carriageway at 12 kph. This will normally occur after passing you at the above-noted 315 kph.

Now, you ask, what is that odd banshee-like screaming noise you hear approaching out of the ether at about the speed of sound? That, Stranger, is the dreaded Disciple of the Modern God Yamaha.

You should know that some Greeks, including these Disciples, have forsaken four-wheeled vehicles and prefer to move about on two-wheeled craft known variously as motorcycles, motor bikes, motorized bikes, motor scooters, and damned nuisances.

Normally drivers of these machines have their girl and/or boyfriend nonchalantly straddling the back seat with a cellular telephone glued to an ear, and a large dog or small child precariously athwart the handlebars. This is considered helpful to achieving perfect balance, a national obsession.

Oddly enough (and no one yet has an explanation for this), despite the issuance of a personal road to all drivers, Greece still manages to regularly turn in highway death tolls at or near the worst in the European Union. Something worse than three-and-a-half times the rate in Sweden or the U.K., indeed worse than Italy and Spain, and almost as bad (if you can imagine) as lowly, un-god-like Portugal.

This must be due to some nasty trick the gods have up their sleeves (in cases when they have sleeves). Something anachronistic and inconvenient along the lines of, say, the Laws of Physics.

Go figure.

STILL MORE LOCAL COLOR: STOP SIGNS AND OTHER HELPFUL SUGGESTIONS

Whenever I set out on a trip, whether it is to go up to town to pay my bills or out into the farthest reaches of the Balkan Backlands, I know the most dangerous part lies exactly three short blocks from my home.

That is where another street comes into my street from the left. The other street, which ends in my street in a nearly blind “T” intersection, has a “STOP” sign. Well-placed. Perfectly readable. Legal. Everything.

But virtually no one stops at the stop sign. Almost ever. In this respect, it is like every other stop sign in Greece. It might as well be painted green and say “GO!” Or be made to look like the checkered flag at Le Mans.

It is amazing to me that there are not more accidents at this intersection. I saw one once, and the police and the involved parties were there for about five hours, all afternoon, discussing who knows what, since miraculously it did not appear to be very serious and no one was hurt. For me, passing that intersection is a truly terrifying experience (and, as my friends will testify, I don’t scare easily when behind the wheel).

A Greek friend of mine, while returning from a camping trip in the Northeast with her boyfriend, ran a stop sign while coming out into a main highway. An oncoming car, unable to brake in time, ran into the side of her little 106. Fortunately, no one was much injured, but the other motorist leaped from his car screaming some very basic Greek obscenities, and actually proceeded to strike my friend on the pretext that his pregnant wife was in his car and could have been badly hurt (true enough, of course).

Never mind that, had the relative positions of the vehicles been reversed, he probably would have run the stop sign, too, just as my friend did.

The police were duly summoned, took note of the accident and the subsequent minor assault, decided both parties contributed to the mess, and assigned no fault either to my friend for running the stop sign nor to the other party for striking her. As is usual in such cases, it would remain up to the court, in some distant time into the future (traffic court cases in Greece can be up to three years after the fact, and the responding police officer will not normally be present) to sort out the sticky questions of blame. After all, how could the descendant of a god be actually at fault for anything?

Now a foreigner, that’s another story. If you are a foreigner, you really don’t want to be involved in any sort of an accident in Greece, no matter how minor. It does not matter whose fault it is, it is obviously your fault, and you probably will be hauled off to sit in jail for hours or days until you can somehow extricate yourself.

I brought The Love Bus to a mechanic who had a young fellow of Greek family origin, but born and raised in Canada, as a sometimes helper and English translator. This Canadian – Greek-Canadian, mind you – had come back with his family to live in the ancient homeland, and had just bought a brand-new car. Only to have some old guy driving some beat-up ancient heap slam into the back of it while stopped at a red light.

The police came, allowed for the Canadian fellow’s foolishness of stopping at a red light, excused the old Greek guy for his obvious inattention and the probable poor condition of his brakes, and then zoomed right in on the real cause of this accident: The Canadian had a trailer hitch (as Canadians are wont to do) affixed to the back of his new car, and . . . he did not have a permit for said trailer hitch! There could not be any other possible cause for this accident. It was the lack of a permit for the trailer hitch that was at fault. Case closed.

Almost. The old guy’s Greek insurance company did its best not to pay the Canadian for his damages, offering a greatly reduced sum of money to be doled-out in installments over some time. Hey, times are tough!

The lesson to be learned here is a simple one: If you are going to be silly enough to put a trailer hitch on the back of your car, you better have a permit for it. Or else, when that motorcycle with the drug-crazed 19-year-old driver screams through a stop sign and smashes into you broadside, it clearly will be due to that permit-less trailer hitch and, consequently, all your fault.

Makes sense to me.

TRUE-LIFE GREEK MOMENT: WE DON’T KNOW HOW TO READ THESE

One fine morning during my first summer in Greece, I was tooling northeast in a rented Nissan, late as usual to meet two Yugoslav (such as they still were) girls awaiting me on the island of Thasos.

It was my first time on this road, which passes through a series of seaside resorts frequented by “overseas” Greeks with “D” and “F” and “UK” stickers and plates on their cars and caravans, and I did not realize that, unlike most other Greek roads I had been on, this one was rife with speed traps.

Alas, too late to do anything about it, I fell straightaway into the clutches of the vigilant roadside Radar Gods, and was duly flagged over to join a gaggle of other hapless, already-snagged miscreants.

An officer approached me in something of brusque tone, demanding probably what is always demanded in such cases, but all I could offer was my usual, “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Greek,” in reply.

Immediately his demeanor changed from one of aggression to mild frustration, and he asked, “English?” I sometimes will opt to let the Brits take the heat for my occasional bad road manners, but in this case I knew my Florida license would give me away, so I replied, truthfully, “No, American.”

The officer politely directed me out of the car, and said I would need to have a go with his “English-speaking colleague.” On the way, we stopped by the police patrol car, and he began drawing numbers for my benefit in the dust on the hood.

First, making something of a production of it, he drew the number “50,” and pointed across and down the road aways at a round sign bearing the same number in a red circle.

Then he crossed out that number, using his index finger in the ample dust, and proceeded to draw the number “107,” after which he pointed directly at me.

This methodology clearly had a way of bridging the linguistic and cultural ravines, and I knew right away I had screwed-up by doing 107 kph (about 67 mph) in a 50 kph (about 31 mph) zone, and in the presence of a police radar trap no less.

Never mind that I also was passing on a safety island and a left-turn lane at the time (hey, I’m a fast learner, what can I say, and I was just practicing my recently acquired Greek driving skills). That did not seem to enter into the equation. In fact, it did not even seem to be noticed by the intrepid peace officers.

I stood awkwardly waiting for the English-speaking colleague to issue tickets to a collection of unhappy motorists, ranging from middle-aged men with slicked-back black hair, to a remarkably calm, upscale-looking blond woman with her teenaged daughter. All Greeks, except me, but at least things looked fairly democratic in how they were being run.

Meanwhile, having gone through similar drills in other countries, I was beginning to see how things might evolve and finally, when everyone else had been ticketed and sent away, the officer turned to me.

“You know, you were going 107 when the limit is 50,” he said in passable English, repeating facts I already learned in my earlier lesson in the dust.

“Yes, Officer, I know. I’m sorry, but you know, no one in this country obeys the speed limit.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he readily agreed. “And if you were only going 90, no one would say a thing. But you were driving 107, and that is too fast when the limit is 50 as it is here.”

So now we knew the parameters, at least.

He then proceeded to tell me that he (like, it seems, many police officers in Europe, such as the friendly young officer I met while inadvertently running a red light on the Rive Gauche in Paris late one afternoon nine years prior) had a brother living in Boston, and what a great country America was.

“But here! Ha! Everything in Greece is . . . ” and he used a common scatological term (the word “scatological” is based on a Greek root, by the way) to express great distain for his own country.

I was now put in a position of defending Greece, which I proceeded to do in terms of recent up-beat economic developments and Greece’s entry into the European Monetary Union (while thinking intently about my own monetary condition if he decided to issue me a ticket).

“Things are really getting better here,” I concluded optimistically.

“Maybe you know better,” he replied matter-of-factly. “You’re a businessman. Me, I’m just a police officer. What do I know?”

And with that, he looked down at my Florida driver license still in his hand, a pathetic little plastic thing with tiny, almost indecipherable numbers compared with the great document-like Greek God driver licenses, and he looked back up at me.

And then, with a little flourish, he handed me my license back, saying (in a serious, officious tone, but with the hint of a smile), “We don’t know how to read these here. Now go on your way, but slow down!”

And so I did (once I managed to fish out the car keys from between the driver’s seat and the center console, where they had fallen and disappeared in all the excitement), thankful again for all those brothers of European police officers living in (and undoubtedly sending remittances back from) Boston.

Thank you, Officer, and thank you, Boston. Efharisto, ευχαριστώ!

MA-MA! MA-MA!! MA-MA!!!: RAISING THE GREEK GOD CHILD

My grandfather, who was Italian, not Greek, used to have a saying, which he expressed often at Sunday family dinners, that always endeared him to us:

“It’s better to raise pigs than children, because at least you can kill them and eat them.”

I am frequently reminded of this charming notion when I am forced to confront my Greek neighbors’ little darlings, such as they are.

I do not mean to generalize about ALL Greek children, since I am sure there are some wonderfully behaved and very loveable specimens. I just have not met many of them, so perhaps that is my failing.

Most of the ones I have met seem to be descended more from the gods of the Underworld than anything on, let alone above, the earth’s surface.

A quick review of Greek mythology will reveal that the world as we have come to know it evolved from a condition known as Chaos (Xaoq).

No surprise there, as any foray into the local Carrefour hypermart on a Saturday afternoon will not only confirm, but also show that, despite passage of eons of time, neither has the world progressed very far past this state.

The Greek child to this day still seems to exist solidly in, or very near to, it.

Gaea was the original Earth Goddess (sorry, Jennifer Lopez) who first produced, and then had, ah, relations, with her son, Uranus (hey, what the heck, ya’ gotta start somewhere). But, geez, out popped their incestuous offspring: Three 100-handed giants and three one-eyed Cyclopes.

Uranus had the right idea and, totally against Gaea’s wishes, tossed them all straight into Tartarus, the Underworld.

But I have news for you: They’re back!

You’ll find them on almost any day, and often far into the night, right in front of my window playing in the loudest manner possible, mainly because they know it drives me crazy and they have been told at least 10,000 times not to do it (by me, not their parents).

Where is Uranus now that we really need him?

It is a well-established fact that the Greek child simply does not know how to do anything quietly or unobtrusively. “Quiet,” or anything resembling the concept, forms no part of the Greek genetic structure.

It is considered perfectly normal for a child, of either sex or any age, to stand in one place and shout, at the top of her or his shrill little lungs, “Ma-MA! Ma-MA!! Ma-MA!!!” rather than walk over and address Mama, who is not far away, in a normal tone of voice not readily audible in low-flying jet aircraft.

By the same token, no one (except perhaps the befuddled foreigner, milliseconds before impact) will think there is anything wrong with some 12-year-old overweight little monster racing through a packed store on a bicycle (not his own), oblivious to anyone or anything except himself and his own gratification.

Least of all, said little monster’s mother or father.

When confronted with the unpleasant, dangerous, or just plain rage-inducing behavior of their offspring, most Greek parents (such as they are), will respond with a pathetic look, otherwise usually seen on a small, sick puppy, and the ever-endearing phrase, “But they’re children! What can I do!”

Being clever little beasts – ostensibly more so than their elders – Greek children will exploit this lenient attitude for all it is worth.

My Greek landlady’s wizened father, bless his heart, finally came up with a satisfactory (and, unlike my own, publishable) response to this lame excuse for parenthood.

“What if they were taking drugs?” he bellowed, in their common language, at one mother on our small compound. “Would you just let them take drugs, and say, ‘What can I do, they’re children?!?’ ”

He had hit on a Greek hot button: Drugs. And thereby elicited a flustered, if not particularly decisive, response from the woman.

While probably not nearly as prevalent as they are in North America or some other places, drugs have become a well-established, though seldom discussed, problem among Greek youth.

One Greek friend tells of warning a neighbor about her teenaged daughter’s use of hard drugs. The neighbor, in typical fashion, denied the existence of any problem. Until the day she woke up and found her daughter dead of an overdose. And then all hell broke loose, and she was inconsolable. I am told the cycle is now repeating itself with the woman’s son.

Curiously, no report was ever published of this incident, and most people in this relatively small town know nothing of it (or others like it). When in doubt (or even when there is no doubt), deny, deny, deny.

I don’t mean to be too heavy-handed on this drug thing, but the point is that the permissive, tolerate-anything parenting of children leads to demanding, self-gratifying, and self-destructive adult behavior.

Drugs aside, the results can be seen in driving, smoking, “working,” and just general behaviors (even buying vegetables in the supermarket), all of which fit into these unsavory behavioral categories.

Things, of course, do not have to be this way. In Brazil, where I lived before coming to Greece, society is certainly permissive and creative enough. But almost never will one encounter an ill-behaved, rowdy, or inconsiderate child in public. In fact, one marvels at how well-behaved and polite most Brazilian children are, and wonders how that can be.

If the Brazilians, of all people, can accomplish that with their kids, why can’t the Greeks?

STILL MORE LOCAL COLOR: PAGE 7, PARAGRAPH 2, LINE 3

Your typical descendant of the gods believes in a high level of togetherness, and this belief carries over into the Greek school system, too. Boy, does it ever.

Every public school throughout the country, it is reported, is expected to be on the same page of every lesson every day, and to report daily that they are to the central school authorities in Athens, ostensibly before the 2 p.m. quitting time at the Ministry of Education.

This is considered a positive thing and conducive to proper education. It certainly helps spend tax dollars.

One could argue that it breeds mindless conformity and discourages learning flexibility or creativity on the parts of local school officials, teachers, or students, but now you are really mixing up your concepts, aren’t you?

Rote learning, that’s the spirit! In this case, Plato seems to have more pull with the Ministry than Aristotle.

The same Greek attorney I mentioned in the Introduction to this book, who said she always thought of Americans as stupid, also opined that American education was so very inferior to the Greek system.

Now admittedly it is hard to say much good about the U.S. educational system, even in the face of such a bald-faced challenge, but it was not hard to point out that many Greeks, and almost all non-Greeks in the country, will pull their kids from the Greek public schools and put them in private schools at the first opportunity they get.

This is not due to a perverse desire to pay tuition.

This lawyer did prove one thing, though: Where thinking is not much taught, thoughtlessness prevails.

TRUE-LIFE GREEK MOMENT: HATE PARADES: RAISE ‘EM RIGHT!

As I have mentioned elsewhere, my Swedish neighbor, Sverker, is always good for a true-life Greek moment or two.

Back a few years, when passions were running a bit higher over the name “Macedonia” and who owned it, Sverker went into a local bank to change some money or whatever, and happened to mention to the bank clerk that he recently had been in “Skopje.”

“Skopje,” you see, though it is merely the name of its capital city, is the usual euphemism Greeks use to refer to a certain country on its northern boundary. Greece, through diplomatic brow-beating, has forced the international community to refer to this country by the ungainly moniker of “the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia,” or “FYROM,” for short.

Never mind that the natives of said country refer to it as Macedonia (there, I said it!) and themselves (those not of Albanian or other extraction, at least) as Macedonians. In the convoluted politics and history of the region, Greece claims that only it has a right to the name, concept, or even nationality pertaining to Macedonia, which is the name of its Northern region.

But I digress.

Upon Sverker’s mention of this small, hapless country (or at least its main city), the young Greek clerk, who had every reason to be proud, being a bank teller and all, leaned over the counter, narrowed his eyes to mere slits, and hissed at Sverker through clenched teeth: “I . . . hate . . . those . . . people . . .”

In so saying, he was expressing the up-standing, ostensibly patriotic attitude so deeply engrained in many Greeks from an early age.

When the so-called “Macedonian” question was hottest in the mid-90s, the schools in northern Greece actually organized what can only be described as “hate parades,” when the sweet young tots in their tutelage were marched out on the public streets to express how much they hated their neighbors.

This was considered normal behavior and a proper thing to inculcate in children.

Kind of like if the schools in South Dakota, say, trotted their students out to pledge their undying hatred for their counterparts in North Dakota for allegedly stealing their state’s name.

I think most reasonable parents would not be blamed for pulling their kids immediately from the school system, or perhaps filing suit, for such a cause. But I do not know that happened in any cases here.

I read of a study showing a high level of inter-ethnic conflict and violence in Greek schools, both public and private, and including rural, suburban, and urban schools, throughout the country.

For some reason, the authorities seemed surprised, and even a tad upset, by this.