Greece and the Ægean Islands

by Philip Sanford Marden

It has been spoken of as a noisy city, and it is especially so after nightfall, when the streets are thronged with people until a late hour and the coffee-houses and open-air restaurants are in full swing. Long after the ordinary person has gone to bed, passing Athenians will be heard shouting or singing in merry bands of from three to a dozen, especially if it be election time. The Athenian takes his politics as he takes his coffee—in deliberate sips, making a little go a long way. The general election period usually extends over something like two weeks, during which time the blank walls of the city blossom with the portraits of candidates and the night is made vocal with the rallying cries of the free-born. “Rallying” carriages are employed much as our own practical politicians employ them, to convey the decrepit or the reluctant able-bodied voters to the polls, with the difference that the Athenian rallying conveyance is generally decorated with partisan banners and not infrequently bears on its box, beside the driver, a musical outfit consisting of a drum and penny whistle, with which imposing panoply the proud voter progresses grandly through the streets to the ballot box, attended by a shouting throng. Torchlight processions, which make up in noise for their lack of numbers, are common every night during the election. The Athenian, when he does make up his mind to shout for any aspirant, shouts with his whole being, and with a vigor that recalls the days of Stentor. Noisy enough at all times, Athens is more so than ever in days of political excitement or on high festivals—notably on the night before Easter, when the joy over the resurrection of the Lord is manifested in a whole-hearted outpouring of the spirit, finding vent in explosives, rockets, and other pyrotechnics. Religious anniversaries, such as the birthday of a saint, or the Nativity, or the final triumph of Jesus, are treated by the Greek with the same pomp and circumstance that we accord to the Fourth of July; and, indeed, the same is true of all Mediterranean countries. I have never experienced a night before Easter in Athens, but I have been told that this, one of the most sacred of the festivals of the Orthodox Church, is the one occasion when it is at all dangerous or disagreeable to be abroad in the streets of the capital, and it is so only because of the exuberant and genuine joy that the native feels in the thought of his salvation, the idea of which seems annually to be a perfectly new and hitherto unexpected one.

By day the chief tumult is from the ordinary press of traffic, with the unintelligible street-cries of itinerant peddlers offering fish, eggs, and divers vegetables, not to mention fire-wood. Nor should one omit the newsboys, for the Athenian has abandoned not a whit of his traditional eagerness to see or to hear some new thing, and has settled upon the daily paper as the best vehicle for purveying to that taste. Athens boasts perhaps half a dozen journals, fairly good though somewhat given to exaggeration, and it is a poor citizen indeed who does not read two or three of them as he drinks his coffee. Early morn and late evening are filled with the cries of the paper boys ringing clear and distinct over the general hubbub, and of all the street sounds their calls are by far the easiest to understand.

Most fascinating of all to the foreign visitor must always be the narrower and less ornate streets of the old quarter, leading off Hermes and Æolus streets, and paramount in attractiveness the little narrow lane of the red shoes, which is a perfect bazaar. It is a mere alley, lined from end to end with small open booths, or shops, and devoted almost exclusively to the sale of shoes, mostly of red leather and provided with red pompons, though soft, white leather boots are also to be had, and to the dealing in embroidered bags, coats, pouches, belts, and the like. The stock in trade of each is very similar to that of every neighbor, and the effect of the tout ensemble is highly curious and striking. To venture there once is to insure frequent visits, and one is absolutely certain sooner or later to buy. The wares seem rather Turkish than Greek in character. Of course, patience and tact are needful to enable one to avoid outrageous extortion. Nothing would surprise a shoe-lane dealer more, in all probability, than to find a foreigner willing and ready to accept his initial price as final. Chaffering is the order of the day, and after a sufficient amount of advancing and retreating, the intending purchaser is sure to succumb and return laden with souvenirs, from the inexpensive little embroidered bags to the coats heavy with gold lace, which are the festal gear of the peasant girls. The latter garments are mostly second-hand, and generally show the blemishes due to actual use. They are sleeveless over-garments made of heavy felt but gay with red and green cloth, on which, as a border, gold braid and tracery have been lavished without stint until they are splendid to see. Needless to say, they are the most expensive things in shoe lane. The process of bargaining between one who speaks no English and one who speaks no Greek is naturally largely a matter of dumb show, although the ever-ready pad and pencil figure in it. Madame looks inquiringly up from a handsome Greek coat, and is told by the pad that the price is 50 drachmas. Her face falls; she says as plainly as words could say it that she is very sorry, but it is out of the question. She turns and approaches the door. “Madame! madame!” She turns back, and the pad, bearing the legend 45, is shoved toward her. Again the retreat, and once more the summons to return and see a new and still lower price. Eventually the blank paper is passed to “madame,” and she writes thereon a price of her own—inevitably too low. Finally, however, the product of the extremes produces the Aristotelian golden mean, and the title passes. Indeed, it sometimes happens that the merchant will inform you of an outrageous price and add with shameless haste, “What will you give?” Experience will soon teach the purchaser that the easiest way to secure reasonable prices is to make a lump sum for several articles at a single sale.

Shoe lane, for all its narrowness and business, is far from squalid, and is remarkably clean and sweet. In this it differs from the market district farther along, where vegetables, lambs, pigs, chickens, and other viands are offered for sale. The sight is interesting, but its olfactory appeal is stronger than the ocular. One need not venture there, however, to see the wayside cook at his work of roasting a whole sheep on the curb. Even the business streets up-town often show this spectacle. The stove is a mere sheet-iron chest without a cover, and containing a slow fire of charcoal. Over this on an iron spit, which is thrust through the lamb from end to end, the roast is slowly turning, legs, ribs, head, eyes, and all, the motive power being a little boy. From this primitive establishment cooked meat may be bought, as in the days of Socrates, either to be taken home, or to be eaten in some corner by the Athenian quick-lunch devotee. Farther along in the old quarter, not far from the Monastiri Station of the Piræus Line, is the street of the coppersmiths, heralded from afar by the noise of its hammers. By all the rules of appropriateness this should be the street of Hephaistos. In the gathering dusk, especially, this is an interesting place to wander through, for the forge fires in the dark little shops gleam brightly in the increasing darkness, while the busy hammers ply far into the evening. It is the tinkers’ chorus and the armorer’s song rolled into one. Here one buys the coffee-mills and the coffee-pots used in concocting the Turkish coffee peculiar to the East, and any visitor who learns to like coffee thus made will do well to secure both utensils, since the process is simple and the drink can easily be made at home. The coffee-pots themselves are little brass or copper dippers, of varying sizes; and the mills are cylinders of brass with arrangements for pulverizing the coffee beans to a fine powder. This powder, in the proportion of about a teaspoonful to a cup, is put into the dipper with an equal quantity of sugar. Boiling water is added, and the mixture set on the fire until it “boils up.” This is repeated three times before pouring off into cups, the coffee being vigorously stirred or beaten to a froth between the several boilings. At the end it is a thick and syrup-like liquid, astonishingly devoid of the insomnia-producing qualities commonly attributed to coffee by the makers of American “substitutes.” In any event the long-handled copper pots and the mills for grinding are quaint and interesting to possess. At the coffee-houses the practice is generally to bring the coffee on in its little individual pot, to be poured out by the patron himself. It is always accompanied by a huge glass of rather dubious drinking water and often by a bit of loukoumi, which the Greek esteems as furnishing a thirst, or by a handful of salty pistachio nuts, equally efficacious for the same purpose. The consumption of coffee by the Greek nation is stupendous. Possibly it is harmful, too. But in any event it cheers without inebriating, and a drunken Greek is a rare sight indeed.

Walking homeward in the dusk of evening after a sunset on the Acropolis, one is sure to pass many out-of-door stoves set close to the entrances of humbler houses and stuffed with light wood which is blazing cheerily in preparation of the evening meal, the glow and the aromatic wood-smoke adding to the charm of the scene. Small shops, in the windows of which stand fresh-made bowls of giaourti (ya-oór-ti), are also to be seen, calling attention to that favorite Athenian delicacy, very popular as a dessert and not unlikely to please the palate of those not to the manner born. The giaourti is a sort of “junket,” or thick curd of goat’s milk, possessing a sour or acid taste. It is best eaten with an equal quantity of sugar, which renders the taste far from disagreeable. As for the other common foods of the natives, doubtless the lamb comes nearest to being the chief national dish, while chickens and eggs are every-day features of many a table. Unless one is far from the congested haunts of men, the food problem is not a serious one. That a visitor would find it rather hard to live long on the ordinary native cookery, however, is no doubt true; but fortunately there is little need to make the experiment. One other native dish deserves mention, in passing, and that is the “pilaffi,” or “pilaff,” which is rice covered with a rich meat gravy, and which almost any foreigner will appreciate as a palatable article of food.

Of the ruins and museums of Athens, it is necessary to speak in detail in another chapter. Of the modern city and its many oddities, it is enough to deal here. Rambles through the town in any direction are sure to prove delightful, not only in the older quarter which we have been considering, but through the more pretentious modern streets as well, with their excellent shops, their pseudo-classic architecture, and their constant glimpses of gardens or of distant ruined temples. Occasionally the classic style of building rises to something really fine, as in the case of the university buildings, the polytechnic school, or the national museum itself. The local churches are by no means beautiful, however. Indeed the ordinary Greek church makes no pretension to outward attractiveness, such as the cathedrals and minor churches of the Roman faith possess. Perhaps the most striking of the Athenian houses of worship is the little brown structure which has been allowed to remain in the midst of Hermes Street, recalling the situation of St. Clement Danes, or St. Mary le Strand in London. It is a squat Byzantine edifice, not beautiful, but evidently old, and a familiar sight of the city. Within, the Greek churches are quite different in arrangement from the Roman. At the entrance to the altar space there is always a high screen, pierced by a door leading to the altar itself, and used only by the officiating priest. The altar screen, or “iconastasis,” is richly adorned as a rule with embossed work, and the “icons,” or holy pictures, are generally painted faces set in raised silver-gilt frames, which supply the figure and robes of the saints, only the facial features being in pigment. Images are not allowed in the Orthodox worship, but the relief employed to embellish the faces in the icons goes far to simulate imagery.

The residential architecture of the city finds its best exemplification in the splendid marble mansions of the princes of the royal house, which are really fine, and which are surrounded by attractive grounds and gardens. The palace of the king is far less attractive, being a huge and barn-like structure in the centre of the city, relieved from utter barrenness only by a very good classic portico. But nothing could be lovelier than the deep dells of the palace gardens, which form a magnificent park well deserving the classic name of a παράδεισος, with its jungle of flowers, shrubs, and magnificent trees—the latter a welcome sight in treeless Attica.

One cannot pass from the subject of modern Athens without mentioning the soldiery, for the soldiers are everywhere, in all degrees of rank and magnificence of dress, from the humble private to the glittering and altogether gorgeous generalissimo. The uniforms are of a variety that would put to blush the variegated equipment of the famous Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Boston. These manifold uniforms have their proper signification, however, and they are undeniably handsome. If the Greek soldiers could only fight as well as they look, what could restrain the modern Athenian empire? The army clothes are admirably designed with an eye to fit and color, and the men carry themselves with admirable military hauteur. Most picturesque of all are the king’s body-guard, with their magnificent physique and national dress. They are big, erect fellows, clad in the short fustanella skirts of the ancient régime, the tight-fitting leggings, the pomponed shoes, the dark over-jacket, and the fez. These are the only troops that wear the old-time garb of the Greek. But the dress is a familiar sight in the outside country districts, often worn by well-to-do peasants, and still regarded as the national dress despite the general prevalence of ordinary European clothes.

It remains to speak briefly of the national money, for that is a subject the visitor cannot avoid. The drachma, which corresponds to the franc, is a peculiar thing. If one means the metal drachma, of silver, it is simple enough. It circulates at par with the franc. But the paper drachma varies in value from day to day at the behest of private speculation, and is almost never at par. I have experienced variations of it from a value of fourteen cents to eighteen. In small transactions, when the paper drachma is high, the difference is negligible. When it is low in value, or in large amounts, it is highly appreciable. The fluctuation of this money is the reason for the pads and pencils in the shops, for it is only by constant multiplication or division that the merchant is able to translate prices from francs into drachmas or vice versa, as occasion requires. Naturally when the drachma is worth only fourteen cents, the unsuspecting visitor is liable to pay more than he should, if assuming that a franc and a drachma are synonymous terms. In such a case a paper bill requires a considerable addition of copper lepta to make it equal the metal drachma or the French franc. The difference in value from day to day may be learned from the newspapers. Most bargains are made in francs, and the French money, both gold and silver, is freely used. Nevertheless, the local paper money is very useful, and it merely requires a little care in the use. Particularly is it desirable to know the status of the drachma in securing cash on a letter of credit or on a traveler’s cheque, in order that one may obtain the proper amount and not content himself with an inferior sum in paper; for although the principal banks may be relied upon as a rule to be honest, individual clerks may not be proof against the temptation to impose upon the ignorant and pocket the difference. I would advise the use of the Ionian Bank as far as possible, rather than the tourist agencies, for the latter often extort money quite without warrant, on the plea of needful stamps or fees for “accommodation,” that the bank does not require. Little trouble will be found to exist in the way of false coin—far less than in Italy. The one difficulty is to follow the paper drachma up and down, and not be mulcted to a greater or less extent in the exchange of silver for paper. The copper coins, which are either the five or ten lepta pieces, occasion no trouble, being like the Italian centesimi or English pence and ha' pennies.

One not uncommon sight to be met with in Athenian streets is the funeral procession—a sight which is liable at first to give the unaccustomed witness a serious shock, because of the custom of carrying the dead uncoffined through the city. The coffin and its cover are borne at the head of the procession, as a rule, while the body of the deceased, in an open hearse, rides joltingly along in the middle of the cortège. To those not used to this method of honoring the dead, the exposure of the face to the sight of every passer-by must seem incongruous and revolting. But it is the custom of the place, and the passing of a funeral causes no apparent concern to those who calmly view the passing corpse from the chairs where they sip their coffee, or idly finger their strings of beads. The beads which are to be seen in the hand of nearly every native have no religious significance, as might be thought at first sight, but are simply one of the innocuous things that the Hellene finds for idle hands to do. They are large beads, of various colors, though the strings are generally uniform in themselves, and their sole function is to furnish something to toy with while talking, or while doing nothing in particular. There is a sufficiency of loose string to give some play to the beads, and they become a familiar sight.