Los Gatos Weekly-Times

Vacation became season in Hellas

By Carl Heintze

In every lifetime, I suppose, there's got to be at least one vacation in hell. I've had mine and I hope it is the first and last. The so-called vacation was in Greece, but the Greeks are not to blame for what happened.

Greece and Greeks generally are hospitable and friendly, and most of them speak some English. It's a requirement now in all Greek schools. So Greece is a nice place to visit. It is made for tourists. Indeed, it exists mostly because of tourists; tourism is the major industry. Tourists arrive and depart in droves, in armies, of all nations and persuasions.

The Acropolis, the centerpiece of tourism in Athens, the Greek capital city, is an example. One climbs to its flat top, and it's like climbing the Tower of Babel. Platoons and companies of Germans and Japanese pass, led by their guides talking their native language. There are Italians, Americans, Brits, you name it; every country in the world seems represented. Each national unit marches up the steps to the top of the hill, snaps a picture or two of the Parthenon, the principal attraction, or snaps a picture close up with the Parthenon in the background and then descends to the streets below.

This same spectacle, with smaller numbers, takes place in Delphi, where the Oracle is reputed to have issued ambiguous prognostications, somewhat like the horoscope you read in the newspaper; in Olympia, where the Games began; in Mycenae, at the Temple of Poseidon, and so on.

The same thing happens on Greek islands, of which there are many, and which sometimes appear to have been put together by Walt Disney: cute, odd little white houses with blue shutters hugging one another and the seashore. No one can possibly live in them, you think, and in many places this is true. They are, instead, the shops which seem stocked with a standard set of postcards, gold or silver jewelry, imitation Greek pottery, icons and T-shirts.

Then there's the food. It's wonderful: all the Greek dishes you've experienced in Greek restaurants, only better. The Greeks can cook and they cook well. You can eat sitting outside in the evening or in the afternoon, at or near the sea, embellished by Greek wines (not bad) or German beer. But although the food is excellent, the prices aren't. A cup of instant coffee (known to the Greeks as Nescafe) costs about $2, and that's what it is: one cup, no refills. Cappuccino and espresso cost about the same.

But none of these things contributed to my season in Hell--or Hellas, if you prefer. Most of my trouble came about because before we left for Greece, I managed to do something nasty to my left knee. I don't know how I did it; I thought it would gradually get better, but, naturally, it did not and so I limped through much of Greece without benefit of cane or crutches.

A good part of our travel was by bus. I managed to get a place in the rear which I defended against all comers and where I could put my leg out, but there was still a lot of climbing and descending to do.

And then the scourge of all bus travelers appeared: the bus cold. It was brought aboard the bus by a woman who said she couldn't handle medication and so hacked and spat and coughed until half the bus, including me, had succumbed to it.

Each morning we fellow bus-cold sufferers would gather to compare our symptoms and complain. It didn't do any good to do either, although I think it made us feel a little better. Letting off steam, I suppose you could say, although it was letting off the end result of bronchitis for most of us.

Finally, the trip appeared to be over, and I found myself thinking that I wasn't going to die in Greece after all, that I was really finally going to be home again in my own bed, hacking and sneezing in the confines of my own room.

I thought that until it came time to board the Olympic Airways plane for home. It was due to leave Athens at a little after noon, in time to catch a United flight direct.

Only, because this was my season in hell, it didn't. It appears Olympic has two Boeing 747s. One was on its way to Montreal, the other was supposed to be going to New York. But it wasn't. It wasn't going anywhere for six hours because its brakes didn't work right.

Security is a big problem, every time we entered or left the confines of the waiting room, we had to stuff our bags through the X-ray machine, four times in all. There's more, but I desist, lest you think I am bitter.

Finally, we got away. Ten hours later, we landed at JFK, in time, of course, to miss our West Coast connection. So we spent another six hours holed up in the United terminal, trying to sleep on benches or sometimes the floor. Then we caught the first United plane out in the morning to San Francisco.

I could have kissed the sweet California earth when we landed. And that's what I did on my vacation. As I say, it's nothing against Greeks or Greece. I don't much like their airline, though.

Carl Heintze is a frequent contributor to the Los Gatos Weekly-Times.