Another Evening Out On the Town In Athens

I knew that it was ordained by the gods when he handed me the ticket, mumbling something incomprehensible as he strode by. Totally caught off guard, I only managed to stammer an “Ef haristo” after he was well past. Fumbling my wallet back into my pocket, I turned towards the platform, confidence in my journey’s success blossoming with the free ticket glowing between my fingers.

It was the first time I descended the cascade of steps into the subway without at least two other Americans for company. Now alone, I tried my very best, as a mode of self defense, to channel the spirit of Al Pacino circa “Scarface”: Black long sleeve dress shirt, two buttons open; shoulders and neck pulled back, chest thrust forward; slow, long, deliberate steps, no trace of rush or hesitation; the slightest hint of a snarl, as though carrying something in my mouth without swallowing it. I wanted any potential muggers to know that if they tried to pull anything I would mess them up. Mostly because I knew that if they did I wouldn’t stand a chance.

It’s an eerie, almost exhilarating, feeling, being alone an ocean away from home, immersed in a sea of people chattering in a language almost completely incomprehensible. All the way down the stairs I rehearsed to myself over and over the three Greek words I knew: Ef haristo, paracalo, signomi (please, thank you, sorry). As my roots come from nearby Italy, I figured I could pass for a Greek as long as I kept my mouth shut and didn’t make any wrong moves. I was suddenly hyperconscious of my surroundings: Do real Greeks cross their arms as they wait for the subway? I am I giving myself away just standing here? Should I rest my hands in my pockets like that man across the platform? I uncrossed my arms and casually slipped my hands into my pockets.

With no words by which to judge people and no familiar faces to distract me, my visual perception seemed amplified. Suddenly obvious were the copious amounts of hair under the arms of the father in a tan sleeveless shirt as he shepherded his daughters here and there.  Impossible to miss was the middle-aged rat-faced man who yawned widely to reveal a wide gap between his front teeth just as his young teenage son with the same face yawned the same yawn revealing the same gap.

As the subway squealed to a halt before us, the mass swarmed to the opening doors like a cattle drive, and I thrust myself in with the rest of them. “What is it about these Greeks?” I asked myself as I gazed at the faces in the subway car. They seemed so, so familiar, yet not so. So similar to the Italians I was so used to encountering all the time in my family and family friends, but their features seemed somehow slightly, not “distorted” because that has a negative connotation, but with an element that was foreign. Or was I merely imagining the difference created in my mind by the separate borders of these two countries?

I left the subway and the light of Zeus drew me forward without hesitation--115 steps later (after briefly consulting a map to verify that the light of Zeus was, in fact, leading me correctly) I was at the doorstep of the European Jazz Festival in Athens.

Here I would seek out (and find) the perfect 2 Euro gyro and settle in the outdoor theatre among a sea of Greeks to hear a jazz fusion trio from Luxemburg whose guitarist introduced song titles named after seemingly random things in a delightful Luxembourgian accent (for example, “Tiny Little Insects” and  “Line 1, Door Number 2” inspired by waiting in line at the DMV), a Belgian quartet who spent more time making strange noises on their instruments than coherent melodies, and Athens’ own city big band swinging hard to standards I knew. I would be shocked by how familiar parts of the music were and surprised by how unfamiliar others would be. I would talk to an Athenian native about Greek taste in music. In short, I would have a highly successful evening.