Remembering (Olympic) Athens 2004

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

“When then-Prime-Minister Simitis announced triumphantly to the country on 5 September 1997 that Athens had won the right to hold the Olympic Games in 2004, many Greeks groaned. Of course, it was an honor, a vindication of national pride after losing our hubristic bid for 1996 on the strength of sentiment alone. But we knew, even then and even before the events of September 11, 2001 would catapult security costs into the stratosphere, that little Greece could not afford the bill. And that, as with the simplest construction project, the bill would far exceed the budget.” Diana Farr Louis 

by Diana Farr Louis

ANDROS Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—8/6/2012—When then-Prime-Minister Simitis announced triumphantly to the country on 5 September 1997 that Athens had won the right to hold the Olympic Games in 2004, many Greeks groaned. Of course, it was an honor, a vindication of national pride after losing our hubristic bid for 1996 on the strength of sentiment alone. But we knew, even then and even before the events of September 11, 2001 would catapult security costs into the stratosphere, that little Greece could not afford the bill. And that, as with the simplest construction project, the bill would far exceed the budget.

Nevertheless, we resigned ourselves to our fate and welcomed the fact that projects that had been languishing on the drawing board started to take shape. That did not stop us complaining a lot about the razing of vineyards and olive groves for our much-needed new airport in the fertile Mesogeia district, the dug-up roads that never seemed to get asphalted, and the interminable disruptions on the subway system, parts of which hadn’t changed much since their inauguration for the first Olympics in 1896. We made rude remarks about the oversized arches of Calatrava’s stadium and the money wasted on a flamboyant pedestrian overpass by the same architect.

We were cynical and critical for years but, in 2004, just months from the start of The Games, we became worried. Would the preparations ever finish? Would we look ridiculous, have to call the whole thing off? The whole city was a construction site, the new facilities nowhere near completion, and even the important road from Marathon to the Old Marble Stadium was a shambles of pits and abandoned machinery.

In the meantime, we’d had a change of government. PASOK, in power since 1981 (apart from three years of a New Democracy coalition), ceded command to ND and we had hopes the conservatives would bring greater efficiency, as well as the typical fears about changing horses in midstream.

Having to live with our appalling traffic and increasing anxieties was bad enough, but we also had to contend with vicious comments from abroad. The British press, especially, was withering in its dismissal of Greek capabilities, sending spies to check on progress at the stadium and even warning readers not to attend: The Athens Games would be a fiasco.

The Greeks, masters of the last-minute miracle, remained confident in their ability to pull it off. But by June, my husband and I had decided to flee to Andros for the summer and leave the &%#@% Olympics behind.

“Joy of the People,” my spouse, had not a twinge of regret but, as opening day drew closer, I began to receive calls from friends in Athens, many of whom had enlisted as volunteers.

Their comments whetted my curiosity: “You won’t believe it, the city is so beautiful.” “There are flags waving everywhere. It’s going to be great.” “All that’s left to do are some minor finishing touches.” “Come.”

I finally decided to lift my personal boycott. JotP remained adamant: he simply couldn’t be bothered and said he’d rather watch events on TV.

In my 24 hours in Athens, I didn’t get near the Olympic Center, nor did I see any sport that interests me, like swimming, diving, or track. Instead, my oldest friend in Greece had found tickets for beach volleyball in the late afternoon—her husband had helped to design the venue at Faliron Bay—and some dressage and show jumping the next day.

Oh well.

I continue to object to beach volleyball as a sport of Olympians, but watching it in person was unimaginably fun. The building was packed, not an empty seat. OK, the men went to ogle the chicks in their bikinis. (F & I would have loved to ogle the guys, but they were overclad in loose T-shirts and baggy shorts.) That disappointment aside, we found ourselves behaving like teenagers at a high school match, leaping up and roaring with the cheerleaders, keeping time with the pop music, and generally beaming from ear to ear, regardless of who was playing or winning.

Buoyed up by exuberance and E’s satisfaction at his building’s performance, we took the Special Olympics bus into town and got out at Syntagma Square. The place was vibrating with happy crowds milling about, foreigners and Greeks sharing jokes, experiences, addresses, impressions.

At one of the souvenir shops, I met an American woman whose daughter was an athlete from the Midwest. “You have such a marvelous city, such friendly people, the best we’ve ever met,” she shouted above the din.

We threaded our way through Plaka’s narrow streets towards Monastiraki and found ourselves next to the Roman Forum, where a stage had been erected next to the Tower of the Winds. Among the rows of chairs, there was not an empty seat, but we squeezed into a spot to the left of the stage and I snagged an empty column base for my derrière. We were lucky to get in. After the concert began, more listeners pressed against the fence, trying to get a view as well as an earful.

With the Acropolis glowing above us, the ochre buildings of 19^th-century Athens surrounding us, the bell-like voice of Elli Paspala (one of Manos Hadjidakis’s protegées) and the spirited violin of Evanthia Reboutsika (who composed the music for the film “Politiki Kouzina”/“A Touch of Spice”) transfixing us all, there was no better place to be for that hour.

The concert over, we continued slowly on to Monastiraki and down to Theseion where, in a square usually filled by artisans and flea-market vendors, another singer was belting out old Greek favorites. I never caught the name of the performer, but her husky notes and infectious rhythms had half the spectators dancing in the street.

By now it was after midnight but, instead of turning into pumpkins, we slid into the one free table at an open-air restaurant opposite the Ancient Agora for supper. If we’d been younger, I know we would have stayed up all night, party-hopping through the city.

For one month, Athens was the navel of the universe and it fulfilled all its promises. It was the orderly, hospitable, traffic-jamless, garbage-free metropolis we dream it might always be (until the day after the curtain descended on the Paralympics).

On that day, a friend watched as all the blue recycling bins on her street were lifted into the maw of a garbage truck and swallowed in their entirety. They disappeared from the city and did not return until perhaps four years later. Athens did possess a recycling plant, but its equipment had proved deficient (just one of our numerous scandals).

It was to be symbolic of the way we trashed our glory.

In the coming months, we discovered too that no plan existed for using most of the purpose-built Olympic venues. Some were bought and converted into, say, a mall or a theater; the Olympic and Press Corps villages eventually became either low income housing and gated estates; but many facilities just crumbled into a parlous state and became the haunts of junkies and thugs. Maintenance is rarely provided for hereabouts, alas.

However, it is not fair to say, as did the Guardian Weekly (27/07/12), that “almost the only useful remnant . . . [Athens has to show for the Games] is a stretch of motorway.” That expressway, which spans Attica, has slashed driving times between east and west, north and south, and has been a real boon. Without the Olympics, we might still be thinking about constructing the new airport, the suburban railway from it to Corinth, the gorgeous Metro with the mini-museums in its stations, the tram, and the artist-designed “new” stations on the old subway line. Less visible gains were a heightened sensitivity to the needs of the handicapped, a grasp of the pleasures of volunteerism, and a recognition of the role played by immigrants, Albanian builders in particular.

Without the Olympics, we might never have known what we are capable of.

If there were any way now of recapturing that response to the challenge, that vision, that sense of working together for the common good, I know Greece would be able to claw its way back from the current economic abyss.

Recipes

Here are some easy, very Greek snacks to eat while watching the London Games (or anything else for that matter).

Watermelon & Feta 

Pile a platter with triangles of succulent peeled melon and bite-sized chunks of tangy feta—a marriage that would be blessed by Zeus and Hera. Don’t forget to wear a bib.

If you want a more elegant version for a proper lunch, add some sliced red onions, torn basil leaves, and olive oil, and you have an unusual, colorful salad.

Feta Dip With Garlic 

Simply mash some feta or other fresh white cheese in a bowl with olive oil, a mashed garlic clove, and a big pinch of oregano, and take it to the TV with some Greek breadsticks made with olives or sesame seeds. Good smooth as mayonnaise or chunky.

Sun-Dried Tomatoes with Bite-Sized Cretan Barley Rusks (Paximadia)

See if you can find a brand called “To Manna.” Kythera Island rusks, also made by them or other firms, are also delicious.

You could also spread them with Gaea black or green olive paste.

And to accompany these nibbles, why not a tall glass of ouzo, well-iced and diluted with lots of water (to taste)?