High life
Supporting the muscleman
Taki
In the beginning it wasn't so bad. I remember seeing Constantine Karamanlis swimming among us, and he almost passed for a gentleman. Others, people like Evangelos Averoff and Lambros Eftaxias, actually were. Then came the Colonels, and although I loved them, even I couldn't very well say they were top drawer. When the Colonels retired Vouliagmeni went through the Arab invasion, and that is when I moved north. The Arabs did biggies in the pools, spat all over the place, cooked on the lawns in front of their bungalows, and imported ghastly-looking hookers from Piraeus.
Then, in 1981, the greatest political trickster and flim-flam artist became prime minister, and Vouliagmeni really became a disaster area. The first thing the socialist stooges of Papandreou did was to move in and occupy the plushest suites of the hotels. Then came the head stooge himself, along with his ghastly family and shrill American wife, and some 80 of his flunk- ies. Like true socialists, they began acting towards others who were paying guests in a manner often seen on Saturday afternoons in English football grounds. In fact, they made the Arabs seem like English dukes on a grand tour in the 19th century. Last week I stopped by with my wife and children in order to show them (the kids) what unpleasant people Greek socialist politicians really are. The staff, who are all friends of mine, shook their heads and told me to forget it. Things simply ain't what they used to be, was their message. And I must say, they ain't.
Even the town itself has changed. There are horrible apartment houses everywhere, and noisy tourist restaurants lining the once quiet streets. And discos. And cars. And water skiing schools all over the place. Which brings me to the point of my story. Back in the good old days, when I used to sail my beloved Bushido, I often dropped anchor in front of Vouliagmeni, and went ashore looking for girls. The beauty of my boat helped, and it became an almost daily habit. The trouble was that by doing it I used to infuriate a water-ski instructor by the name of Grigoris, a blond (probably via Elizabeth Arden) and deeply tanned muscleman, whose manners and general demeanour would rate him a low-lifer even in Beirut. Grigoris would motor over and hurl abuse at me because I dared occupy some of his turf, which — according to him — was all of the Aegean. I used to give as good as I got, and many a time I asked him for his secret blond formula.
Grigoris may have been a ghastly vulga- rian, but he was no fool. He made a small pile pulling rich women around on two wooden planks, and then made an even smarter move by romancing Marianna Latsis, the daughter of the richest and most nouveau Greek. John Latsis is as rich as the Westminster fellow, but unlike the latter he spreads the wealth. In the early Sixties he used almost to bow to me and call me Mr Theodoracopulos. Then, later on, he called me Mr Taki. After the first hundred million he greeted me simply as Taki, and after his first billion he stopped speaking to me altogether. Nevertheless, he is a good man, who has helped many people, including Grigoris. The muscle- man married his only daughter three years ago, and is now a rich Greek gentleman. I even got a glimpse of him in Gstaad last year, and couldn't help giving him a small dig by reminding him that in the snow one leans forwards. (It wasn't appreciated.) The reason I'm going into all this is that Grigoris is now running for mayor of Vouliagmeni, and he has grandiose plans for the place if he wins. Ironically, I am for him, as the mayor of the last 12 years has made the place look like a Cuban whore- house on a Sunday morning. Grigoris has to be an improvement, and as he is now the proud owner of a 200-foot yacht of incredi- ble luxury, he will surely try and keep people out of the place, rather than adver- tise for more smelly tourists as his prede- cessor has been doing. Nothing like 4,000 million smackers and a $20-million boat to make one change one's vulgar habits and values.
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