Greece past and present

Epidavros - a mere 2400 years old, or so

I had several memorable holidays in Greece as a child/teenager. It was (and still is) one of my father's favourite places. There was the Corfu holiday where we hired scooters (my brother and I on the back of the adults) and skidded off the road - twice - amazingly without injury. The hospitals at the time were full of tourists with the top layers of skin missing from falling off scooters wearing shorts and t-shirts on Greece's (then) notorious dirt roads. Of course we were all wearing shorts and t-shirts. 

On another Greek holiday we got to know Sarah, assisted by large quantities of shared G&Ts in a tiny rented room on Rhodes. Sarah was shortly afterwards to become dad's second wife - and my stepmother. Another year was the holiday where a Greek lad became enamoured of my rather beautiful French pen friend, and my father was paranoid she was going to get pregnant, leaving him to face her furious Gaelic parents. She didn't.

And Greece was the destination for the only holiday my brother and I took alone together. During the day he sunbathed methodically and read the Economist in our shared room, and I pottered off looking for beaches (on a scooter). Then we met up for dinner every night. We had a great time.

Voidokilia Beach, where, according to Homer, Telemachus was welcomed by King Nestor when searching for his father, Odysseus.

Actually, I think that might have been the last time I went to Greece - some 30 years ago. I can't think why it took so long to come back. It is just the most amazing place. Greece has great weather, beautiful scenery, crystal clear blue sea, lots of beaches, picturesque churches everywhere, nice food, friendly people*. The accommodation is good (though more expensive than I remember), you can drink the water from the tap, enough people speak enough English to make communication easy, and there are a plethora of walks through olive groves, over stone-covered hills, along dramatic gorges, past picturesque churches and little mountain towns, and down to idyllic coves.

Just some ancient church in Mystra (also below)

More than anything, there is this AMAZING, turbulent, cultured, world-changing, war-embroiled, complicated history. Civilisation in Greece is just SO OLD. And the old stuff is everywhere. It's fabulous.

Thanks to Geoff for all the photos on this page

* Yes, I know... Greece also has a contracting economy, a debt crisis and over 23% unemployment (compared with the European average of 8%). A dire economic situation has exacerbated by the arrival of hundreds of thousands of refugees from Syria and elsewhere. But selfishly, as a tourist, you don't see the sort of bad stuff happening on the inside. Just the fabulous bits on the outside.

Nafplio harbour

In which I regret my misspent youth in London - and try to make it up, just a little

I lived in London in the 1980s. It was a great place. It had lots of pubs. I helped the local economy by visiting at least one pub on an almost daily basis. Our local was the Asylum Tavern in Peckham (on the site of a former mental hospital). Then at lunchtime there were half a dozen to choose from within easy walking distance of my work at the famous intellectual magazine Metal Bulletin.

London also had galleries, museums, theatres, a world-famous opera house, arthouse cinemas and exotic restaurants. But despite the best efforts of my mother to broaden my horizons, mostly I just went to the pub.

Which is a shame really, as now I live in New Zealand I miss the opportunity of all those amazing galleries, museums and theatres - on tap, seven days a week, 364 days a year. I miss the pubs too, but less.

So, during a very brief stay in London catching up with lovely family and friends, I did sneak into a couple of galleries. First Tate Britain, where I gazed at Henry Moore and wondered, not for the first time, how he can make vague rounded lumps so obviously human. Brilliant.

Then after lunch I went to the Royal Academy, which has a clever exhibition, Matisse in the Studio, where they link his artistic work with the objects he collected, and point out how the latter influenced the former. Sometimes it was just that he put his favourite things (a French chocolate pot, a Venetian chair, a Moroccan wall hanging etc) in his still lives, or as backgrounds to his portraits. Here is the pot that he used to make his hot chocolate, et here it is again in this painting. Spot the differences. 

The curators also demonstrate how Matisse's growing ethnic collection - from African sculpture and masks, to North African fabrics, to Chinese calligraphy - influenced how he painted. Like the contemporary woman sitting in a chair, whose long neck, pointed triangle breasts and ramrod straight posture are just like those in several of his African figurines. Or how the paper cut-outs he did at the end of his life resemble Chinese characters. 

A piece of Chinese calligraphy, which Matisse kept in his studio as inspiration, surrounded by his own later paper cut-our work. Spot the similarities.

I would never have noticed, but display the two side-by-side and even I get the gist.

The exhibition has received a bit of bad press, slated by one Guardian reviewer, for example, as being at best a trivial collection of uninteresting nick nacks, and at worst a celebration of an artist misappropriating ethnic art for his own (sometimes sordid) purposes. 

Fortunately I'm not an art critic. I thought it was great.

And then I went to the pub.

Just call me "The Matriarch"

September 7 2017 was an amazing day. The sort of day that happens occasionally when you are travelling. When you experience a tradition in a new country, and it's exciting and unexpected. Normally you are an onlooker, a witness. This time I was an integral part of it. Mandow as Matriarch, in a Japanese baby-welcoming ceremony. It's something I'll never forget. 

Oddly, despite me being in Osaka for more than two weeks before it happened, the experience was as unexpected as if we'd stumbled upon it in some unknown South American village.

True, we'd been kinda building up to something for a while in our Osaka household. But Ben and I didn't have the least idea what we were building up to. Saho's mum talked about a family meal. Then she talked about a kimono photo shoot. A kimono expert arrived at the temple and we tried out different colours for the robes, the collars, the stiff sashes round your waist. It was like dressing up for adults. Fun.

Playing at dress-up

Then things started to appear which might or might not have been something to do with it - a temple hanging with Zen's name and birth date, some baby gift bags. Yuri (Saho's mum) made up other gift baskets, with nappies, cuddly toys, balloons and flowers, and put them in the temple. A baby chair was prepared at the head of tables there. Smart clothes arrived for Haruma, Saho's 3-year-old brother.

Saho and Yuri make up gift baskets

It was starting to look like a bigger event than Ben and I had thought. 

The day dawned and we were told we should start getting ready at 9am. At 9.15 we were called through to a small room off the temple and inside were three (yes, three!) kimono dressers, plus a hairdresser, and a mass of activity. Over the next few hours, the three women in the family (Saho, Yuri and me) got into our kimonos, got our hair done (I don't often wish for long hair, but I would have loved a proper Japanese hairdo, with combs and flowers!).

A tad of hair envy. Saho looking amazing

Ben got the same treatment, minus the hair. 

I say "got into our kimonos" as if this was an easy thing; until that day, I had no idea how complicated it is to wear a kimono. I definitely needed a dresser or two to sort me out - I just stood there like a medieval princess. First there were special white socks, made with a tuck between the big toe and the next one along which makes it possible to wear the Japanese jandal things. Next a white robe, then an additional collar, then the kimono - making sure to wrap the right side over the left first, as doing it the other way means death. Then there was a confusing mass of steps involving ties and underbelts and overbelts and bits of stiff cardboard - mostly round my waist. And finally there was the beautiful waistband thing, with its complicated looped fastening at the back. Then I had my hair done and I was ready. Saho and Yuri went through similar lengthy dressings - even Ben needed help. Only Yoshi Saho's step-dad got dressed on his own - presumably all this is old hat for him. He's in robes every day.

I wonder... who dresses the dressers?

I'll say it now: a kimono is not a practical garment. You have to walk like a penguin, kneeling down is hard, breastfeeding (for Saho) would have been impossible. Even bottle-feeding was a bit fraught; we were all paranoid about Zen throwing up on our kimonos - a lot of arms-length burping went on that day. 

The photographer had arrived sometime when we were getting dressed, and was busy filming the preparations. Then around midday, three hours after we started getting ready, it seemed  things were happening. I was sat down on a low chair, and given Zen to hold. A white collar was put round Zen's neck and then a long black robe was put round both of us. Why me, not Saho, or the other grandmother - the one who had organised the whole event. No, as mother of the baby's father, I am the matriarch, and therefore got to be centre stage in the photos - with Zen, of course. It was all very exciting.

At last, the Matriarch!

Meanwhile, a feast was being delivered and laid out on the table. We each had our own set of dishes - little bowls of Truly Astonishing Japanese food. Soups and lot of different bits of fish and seafood, pickles, rice. Haruma had a sort of temple Happy Meal, and Zen - aged three weeks had a little tray of dishes. (Click across for some photos of the food.)

Then Zen was placed in his chair at the head of the table and I sat on the floor next to him,  took a piece of fish on my chopsticks, and touched it to his lips. I don't have a photo of my moment of glory, which was perhaps a good thing - digging out a morsel from a whole fish with chopsticks, in front of an audience, isn't easy - well I didn't cover myself in chopstick glory, anyway. But still, everyone clapped. Perhaps from relief. And we all got down to the serious business of eating.

And it was only then that Ben and I found out what was going on. This was Zen's "Okuizome" ceremony. I should explain. Okuizome is the second of the three major milestones in a Japanese baby’s life. The first, "Omiyamairi", happens on the one-month anniversary of his birth, and involves a visit to a shrine to pray for health and a good future. The second, “Okuizome”, or “first meal” usually takes place after 100 days; however Saho and her family kindly did it very early (three weeks) so Ben and I would be there. Okuizome involves a celebratory meal, during which the baby’s grandmother on the father’s side takes a small piece of fish in her chopsticks and touches it on the baby’s lips. Sometimes she does the same with fish and soup and other things, but I didn't. Perhaps they realised my chopstick skills weren't up to it. The ritual (hopefully without the soup and vegetables) ensures that the baby will eat well during his life.

(In case you want to know, the third milestone, Kodomo-no-hi or Children’s day is celebrated on the baby’s first May 5th (the fifth day of the fifth month).)

In case you REALLY want to know more, there's the video too, where in 15 minutes of glorious technicolour you can see the build-up, the dressing, the photoshoot, the ceremony - and Mandow in her new role as Matriarch. Don't all shout at once.

Goats, vending machines and people that just won't smile when you walk past - even when you are dabbing in a kimono

Sometimes it's little things that highlight differences between where you live and a new place. This was what happened for me on my regular walk from Saho's place to the supermarket or train station. Like a picture in miniature of all sorts of stuff that's quite different from Auckland. Or London. Mostly not better or worse, just different. Here's what's I see:

Lots of temples: There's one attached to where we live, there's another right across the street, and there's a small shrine right by the station where people seem to say a quick prayer getting off the train.

People in face masks on bikes. Why? Surely you can't infect anyone with your cold when you are riding along... And there wasn't any noticeable pollution.

No one saying hello as you walk past, or even smiling. Is it politeness? Rudeness? Indifference? Not wanting to intrude? I used to play a game of deliberately smiling and saying konichiwa when I met someone. I rarely got any response. Even when Saho, Ben and I tottered around the neighbourhood dressed in kimonos, dabbing in a sad fashion, no one even grinned. Inscrutable.

Dabbing isn't dead. Spot my fine handbag

Rice fields in a built-up area. I like that.

Flowering water lilies, in a bath, in a back street. I like that even more.

A goat in the garage. I feel a bit sorry for him. Or probably her.

Signs on the pavement reminding pedestrians not to crash into a bike. "Wowser nanny state", is what my former boss Warren Berryman would have said. Not even knowing about the goat.

People leaving stuff out, without it being nicked. For example, the lady from the plant shop leaves a whole lot of her pots out overnight. And these onions are just hanging there right next to the pavement.

Vending machines on every corner (well lots of corners). No one even thinks about vandalising them. While I'm on that topic, I must tell you one of Ben's stories from his time at a Japanese school last year. He said his classmates (year 12 kids) were super-obedient about the rules - wearing the right uniform, doing their homework, keeping the school tidy etc. The only deviance: the rebellious boys would go into the toilets at break time and (wait for it...) put gel in their hair. Naughty!)

Eating or drinking while walking along in the street is Very Bad Manners in Japan, so you buy your drink, consume it on the spot, put the can in the recycling bin, and head on your merry way.

The Hotto Motto takeaway. Don't you just love that name? In English, not Japanese, of course. I can't imagine calling a takeaway that in Auckland though.