Becoming American
Why I Was Something Else
It was a slip of the tongue which did not escape my mouth, but it changed my view of myself. With this one word I knew I had lost something of my Americanism. I was reflecting upon something I had heard about Greece’s cooperation in the American led response to terrorism following September 11, 2001. Being in Greece and on vacation, I did not have my usual sources of news nor the interest in taking time away from vacationing to focusing on such things beyond what I picked up through idle conversation. So as I reflected on Greece’s agreement to allow foreign military aircraft through its airspace and the cessation of military exercises in these fly–over areas, my mind formed the words “our airspace.”
There were reasons I was identifying with the locals more than might the usual American vacationer in Greece. I was traveling in the company of Greeks—my friend Βελισσαριος and his family, friends, and aquaintenances; living in their homes; and participating in their personal lives. My more ordinary tourist activities were both flavored with local perspectives and interspersed with the activities of the locals. Because of my years of schooling in classical Greek I was able to make more sense of the Greek I saw on signs, maps, and groceries. My familiarity with and interest in Greek mythology enriched my visits to the many places I did visit along with the tourist crowds as well as the places less frequented.
Let me give you an example. My path to the Areopagus began years ago. Since reading of Odysseus’ return to Ithica and his wife Penelope following the Trojan War, I have been strongly moved by recognition scenes: of Odysseus by Penelope, of Odysseus by his dog, of Orestes by Electra, and others.
Odysseus reluctantly joined the Achaian Greek force led by Agamemnon. He attempted to feign insanity by sowing salt into his fields behind his plow only to be revealed sane by not plowing over his son, Telemachus, when he was placed in front of the plow. Such was his love of his way of life but moreso of his family! Upon his return he found his wife Penelope faithfully awaiting his return.
In contrast, Agamemnon returns home not to a waiting Penelope, but to a wife, Clytemnestra, who had taken a lover during her husband’s absence at war. This rival kills Agamemnon with Clytemnestra’s assistance. Son Orestes returns home from a foreign land, finds his sister Electra at the grave of their father grieving that his death has gone unavenged, and kills his mother and her lover.
Most people remember Orestes primarily for his matricidal act, but I think of Orestes primarily as a brother because of the recognition scene of Orestes by Electra. I once dreamed I was Orestes being recognized by Electra. This dream occurred when I was struggling with how I should relate with an “Electra” in my life, whether as brother, friend, or better friend. Alas! I did not dream of Odysseus. My Electra was not my Penelope.
So I wanted to climb the Areopagus. It was here that Orestes was put on trial for the murder and somehow I felt his dread of condemnation as I made my way up that hill.
I was later to learn more about this part of Orestes’ life from the Greek artist Βιργινια Τσακαλοτου. Two days before my Areopagan climb, I met Βιργινια at the baptism of the children of a mutual friend of hers and Βελισσαριου. Because of her brother’s absence, I was also able to attend in his place the catered dinner reception which followed the baptism. That brother’s name is Orestes.
Other ways in which I became Greek were less easy. The afternoon of my fourth day in Greece my American eating habits were finally killed off. It was past noon sometime, perhaps 12:30, perhaps after 1:00, and lunch was suggested. My stomach and I assumed we would be eating imminently and prepared ourselves thusly.
In the kitchen Βελισσαριος and I assessed the food situation and decided we could not have a proper lunch without more bread developed a grocery list including bread and a number of other things we wanted since we had to go shopping anyway. A quick walk to the bakery and Αλφα Βητα Grocers ... would only slightly delay lunch and I heartily signed on with the idea.
Before we could leave Βελισσαριου mother, Φοτινι, returned and our departure was delayed. Some details of her outing were discussed and more items were added to our grocery list.
Finally we made it to the bakery and grocery. This was my second trip to Αλφα Βητα. I had been a couple of days before with Φοτινι during my first day of feeling a little Greek. There is something about running simple errands, hobnobbing with the hoi polloi, and greeting friendly storekeepers with “γεια σας.” Later in the day I would make my third trip (this last time alone without Greek speaking accompaniment) to buy the things I either forgot to get or did not want to take lunch–delaying time to buy along with our bread.
Back at the condo Φοτινι had departed again. Βελισσαριος found something left out on the counter and popped it into the oven. As he began to take his shirt off indicated it would take about twenty minutes... would I help him cut his hair? My stomach and I, unable to shift out of lunch gear to barber gear so quickly, launched us all into a very mildly heated discussion. Βελισσαριος was willing to start lunch with what didn’t require twenty minutes preparation, but said he would prefer cutting his hair before his mother returned with helpful haircuting suggestions. I was quickly won over to the idea, and so lunch was delayed again.
The last time I helped Βελισσαριος with his hair I had all my equipment—electric razor, attachments, hand mirror,.... We did this with comb and office shears. By his feel and my look we discussed our way most of the way through a fair cut before Φοτινι returned alarmed that her dish prepared for lunch was in the oven before she had added the proper finishing touches. So while she removed the dish, allowed it to cool, and repared the damage, the haircutting was finished up. Of course Βελισσαριος then wanted a shower for which he had plenty of time due to the setback in lunch preparation occurring in the kitchen.
Alas! Lunch would be delayed yet again. As things were being carried to the balcony table, Βελισσαριος dropped the bottle of ouzo he specifically wanted to introduce to me, and the cleanup began. Cleanup was followed by the hunt for another bottle of ouzo before we all finally sat down to eat.
No delay or inconvenience was too great for something so important as eating a good meal. I found the Greeks this way about other things as well.
The traffic was one of the first things I had to get used to. On the way into town from the airport, I noticed the unruliness of the traffic. Particularly the motorbikes made their own traffic laws as they regularly made their way inbetween cars whether stopped at lights or speeding along between intersections. Of course many cars were driven differently than I usually drive them.
One evening about 10:00 (it must have been before our third meal of the day) Φοτινι and I taxied quite wildly through town to the public children’s hospital to visit friends of the family, Mohammed and his wife, whose child had a urinary tract infection. After waiting some time for a taxi, we ended up sharing one with someone who got on before us and departed beyond. We took off down the main drag making stop and go progress in the always heavy traffic. At one point our driver shifted over to a frontage road gaining a bit on the traffic only to reenter the heavy traffic of the main road again several blocks further down, but once back in the heavy traffic he immediately cut across all the lanes to make a left down a small street... only to turn again onto an even smaller one. Once back on a major thoroughfare again I relaxed a bit and felt around once more to see if I could find a seat belt, but there was no time for that. We took another quick turn onto another one of the many tiny one–way streets never big enough for two lanes except when the extra room was jammed with parked cars. At one point we found ourselves speeding down one of these streets heading straight into the headlights of an oncoming car. Our driver flashed his lights even as he realized we were heading the wrong way down the one–way street. This of course took us into another sharp turn and another narrow street and so on and on the traffic flows.
It is quite noticable how many of the motorbikes are driven by males with females on behind. Never was it the other way around. Sometimes there were bikes with no males at all, but never a male on behind. Despite my not driving much like the Greeks, I did begin to realize that I bicycle in Washington, DC a bit like some of them. Perhaps I could fit in here even when it comes to driving.
In one of my postcards back to friends in America, I observed: “I’m beginning to feel Greek. [Athens] is really growing on me.... My instinct is to lose fifteen years, get a motorbike, and blaze around the city every evening with a hot babe behind me holding on tight. Instead I go to a Greek Orthodox baptism, make the sign of the cross before meals, and take pictures of churches, temples, and sanctuaries.”
Many people I know in DC modify their work schedules arriving at work at very early hours in order to avoid the heavy traffic of the normal rush hours. It occurred to me that the people I met in Greece are unwilling to let something like traffic affect how they live their lives. Living is more important than traffic.
And so I was Greek. It made sense to me. Life is more important.