High life
The wiles of Greece
Taki
Ithaca henhen one is an author of some 39 odd books, has appeared weekly on televi- sion for a quarter of a century, has written a syndicated column three times a week since 1964 and founded an eminent conser- vative magazine, one probably needs no introduction. But let us assume there are some Chuck and Di fans around whose attention is drawn only by royal shenani- gans, or some of those social X-rays or hunting types whose idea of culture is a piano-shaped swimming pool. A quick update on William F. Buckley would include that he is among the wittiest, cleverest, most charming and cultivated Americans there are, and then some. He and his wife Pat, along with the Evan Galbraiths — he was Uncle Sam's ambas- sador to Paris during the Reagan years as well as the mother of my children, have been cruising on Bushido for the past ten days, only joined by me during the last three. The reason for this was twofold: Bill and Van are serious people who, although they can hold their booze, do not like to get paralytically drunk and stay up all night talking rubbish, whereas I do. They also wake up early and — particularly Bill work on their typewriters, word processors rather, all day.
Needless to say, this makes a lazy-bones like yours truly look even lazier, so I decid- ed to stay in London and work at Tramps for a while. The idea of a week of respectability made me think of Pen- tonville. But as always, I could not have been more wrong. The trip turned out to be a delight, with perfect weather, clean, clean waters, and the most scintillating con- versation I've had since the time my older brother told me all about sex. (It was in the attic of my grandfather's house, and per- haps there's a Freudian interpretation to that.) In one of our stops, in Etea, we decided to drive up to Delphi and consult the Ora- cle. There is no more dramatic landscape in all of Greece — the navel of the earth, as it was called during classical times and even Pythia told us what we wished to hear. Her cave was closed for rock repairs, but a nice tip to our driver had him quickly dispatch a young girl on a nearby rock, who got the answer, 'Bush, Bush', to Bill's and my question as to who would win the American election in November. Then Bill wrote a postcard to his friend the President telling him of Pythia's answer.
We also visited Agamemnon's pile, and Epidavros, full of German students applauding their teacher reciting Goethe. Epidavros has the best acoustics in the world, but please don't advertise the fact. Some son-of-a-bitch from the Big Bagel or El Lay might bribe the Greeks and hold a rap concert in there.
And speaking of the unspeakable, I have not heard the words 'yo mother-f---e, or any Zulu music, for three whole days, just Bach, Scarlatti and Handel, surely the only cure for the ears after one week in Ameri- ca. And no television. And no liberals. In fact, no pollution of the senses or the brain. It is enough to make me believe in respectability, God forbid.
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