High life
Honking Greeks
Taki
Ilive in the leafiest northern suburb of the Big Olive, one where building regula- tions are not only draconian, they are also , enforced. There are no shops or supermar- kets, no nightclubs, no buzuki joints, not even a restaurant, and no one can build over three floors. Some of the older houses are real beauties, reminding me how won- derful life used to be in Psihiko and north- ward before the philistines took over.
My house is in the corner of Kalvos and Solomos streets, named after our two greatest poets, both born in the island of Zante. The adjoining streets have names like Seferis, Souris and Palamas, all poets, all great, all dead. The only run-down, in fact derelict, house is the ex-royal resi- dence of Queen Frederika, left to rot by the crooks that grabbed it from the royal family. The landgrab of the king's property is among the biggest scandals in the scan- dal-filled socialist agenda, and one I am reminded of every day as I drive by the once lovely house.
The favourite joke among those of us who remember the good old days of the Fifties, is to ask some of the newer arrivals in Psihiko whether Kalvos or Seferis are in the shipping business, or perhaps in con- struction? Throughout last week I had to endure the roar of nouveaux riches engines as their hideous-looking children gunned them in order to impress.
The other extremely annoying thing Greek drivers do is honk without reason. They honk when they come to a stop sign — more often than not because they don't stop — they honk if one doesn't blast off like a rocket the second a red light changes, they honk when they see friends, they honk, in fact, non-stop. Then, of course, come the dogs. All houses in Psi- hiko have guard dogs, and they howl at each other throughout the day and night. Personally, it doesn't bother me, but all the constant racket does is make the guard dogs useless. If anything, the howling helps the burglers.
Still, the place fills me with nostalgia. May is by far the best month to be in the Olive Republic, with the flowers in full bloom and before the heat turns everything into a brownish colour. Psihiko is lined with oleander, lemon and orange trees, and some of the great old houses have large palm trees standing guard. It is now full of embassies, the largest and the ugliest being the Russian one, as well it should be, hav- ing been built during the Andropov years. What never ceases to amaze me is how we Greeks blew it. Athens was not only the most romantic city in Europe, it was also a graceful capital, designed by Germans and full of neo-classical buildings. The rot began when Constantine Karamanlis, a soi- disant right-winger, came to power in 1955. He wanted progress, which in reality meant industry sprouted around the capital, denuding the countryside while Karamanlis solidified his power centre. The building boom went berserk during the junta years, and the coup de grace was administered by Ali Babandreou — who conveniently moved ever northward and into a house that makes the king's residence in Tatoi look truly Dickensian.
And speaking of misery, I challenge any- one to play competitive ,tennis in Greece and survive with his sanity and dignity intact. Throughout the week I saw people over 35 scream, argue, openly cheat, stage sit-down strikes over line calls, and two old boys over 60 almost come to blows. It was the most disgraceful sight since Clinton took the salute in *Normandy last year. I came back with a cup but I didn't win. I had to default with a severe elbow injury at 5-all in the first set of the semi-finals. A shameful end to a ridiculous quest for glory among a bunch of Vlachs who wouldn't know the difference between a beverage drained from a limp faucet in the crotch of a sickly caribou and Mouton Rothschild 47.
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