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In ancient times Athens possessed a wall, running not only around its city, but
all the way down and around its Port of Piraeus.
It possessed two parallel runways that ran northwest to southeast and we always used the longer of the two, Runway Three Three Right, with a length of 11,400 feet.
I couldn’t blame the Greeks for this
over-flight restriction; in their attempt to protect the ancient ruins atop the
Acropolis that were gradually being eaten
away by noise and carbon pollution.
The airport had two terminals: the West
Terminal for Olympic Airways, the national flag carrier, and the East Terminal
for all other air carriers. Both
terminals were tired, antiquated and badly in need of a facelift. Perhaps that’s why the entire airport was
decommissioned in 2001, and everything moved to the new Athens International Airport “Eleftherios
Venizelos,” 19 miles east of central
Athens.
The airline billeted us at the Hilton Athens; where I got a stunning view of the Acropolis and Parthenon, which the Greeks thoughtfully floodlit at night for me, from the open-air rooftop Galaxy Restaurant & Bar.
I also visited the Agora
(Assembly); lying northwest of the Acropolis’ rocky cliff. This was ancient Athens’
market place and center of athletic, artistic,
spiritual and political life.
There is a hill on the northwest edge of
the Agora where stands the well-preserved Temple of Hephaestus. It
remains
largely as it was originally built, having six columns on its east and west
sides, plus thirteen columns on its north and south sides, supporting an intact
roof. Not bad for a structure that dates
back to 415 BC.
Standing on its front porch, I had a
bird’s eye panorama of the Agora, and in the distance the Acropolis and Parthenon. This sight causing me to consider
the millions of lives that had passed through here in the last 3,000 years;
struggling on a daily basis for the necessities of this thing called
“life.” Their ghosts, no doubt wandering
restlessly amongst its ruins, forced me to come face-to-face with my own puny
mortality.
Enough of morbid antiquity, dear reader,
let’s get on with present day Greek life.
Nightclubs that feature laïkó music in Greece are popularly
called bouzoukia (derived from the plural of the main Greek
instrument the bouzouki).
I lucked out in Athens, for two dancers, Jason and Ursula, whom I’d
originally met in Madrid, Spain, were dancing in these bouzoukia clubs. Jason
was a handsome American lad in his late twenties, and Ursula a beautiful redhead
from Ireland. Both introduced me to the “Pláka.”
This is the old historical
neighborhood of Athens, clustered at the northeastern slopes
of the Acropolis, and built on top of the residential
areas of the ancient town. It’s known as the "Neighborhood of the
Gods" due to its proximity to the Acropolis and many archaeological sites. It was also here,
in a bouzoukia, where Jason and Ursula introduced me to a highly exotic belly dancer – an American lady from New Jersey of all
places.
She possessed the tight hard-body of a fit thirty-year-old (even though she was past 40) and when she sensuously moved her abdomen...it rippled with muscles.
She
performed all the traditional moves: dancing with a tray of drinks on her head,
and moving a scimitar, sharp enough to slice paper, up and down her incredible
body. Being a professional entertainer,
she got the crowd to clap along with her, sing with her, and even get up on
stage and dance with her. Both the
Greeks and tourists loved her; tossing tons of bouquets on stage (no broken
plates – by now it was outlawed). The
“Jersey Girl” was the toast of the “Pláka.”
Go figure, dear reader.
Occasionally, I had the pleasure of taking her to dinner – afterwards
ending up in the sack – whereupon she demonstrated moves I previously thought were
impossible for a human body to perform.
The sex was mind-blowing! I’ve
been seriously looking for another belly dancer ever since; unfortunately, so
far, no joy.
On one layover, Olympic Airways leased me their Alouette II, French jet helicopter; allowing me to pilot scenic rides for Jason, Ursula and their friends.
I’d usually zip down the west coast at 500 feet to Cape Sounion, 43 miles southeast of Athens, at the tip of the Attica Peninsula, giving the kids a spectacular view of the Temple of Poseidon on its rocky perch 200 feet above the sea. It was built in 444 BC, at the same time as the Parthenon; unfortunately, not a lot is left standing, only 16 Doric columns.
This is where the English romantic poet, Lord Byron, carved his name.
Honestly, dear reader, tourists can be so trashy.
While thrilling the dancers with these sightseeing hops, I happened across an anomaly further south from the temple; a Greek freighter piled up on the rocks.
Instantly I flashed back to 1963, when, as a budding 20-year-old aviator, I was building flying hours in an antiquated, open-cockpit, Stearman PT-17 biplane.
That summer, flying the biplane, I found
another Greek freighter recently piled up on the rocks off the Palos Verdes
Peninsula south of Los Angeles. During
the next ten years, utterly fascinated as I flew over this wreck, I witnessed
the power of the Pacific as its pounding waves literally obliterated the iron
ship.
So
tell me, dear reader, why do wrecked Greek freighters tend to follow me around
the world?
Jason had an Italian girlfriend (an older, attractive woman) who was a singer
from Rome, with several records and albums to her credit. She had a house in Rome, plus a condo in
Glyfada, a wealthy suburb south of Athens, and a speedboat.
One sunny afternoon in summer, to pay me back for the helicopter ride, Jason took us all for a spin on the speedboat.
He anchored the boat two miles off Glyfada Beach, in order for us to take a swim.
Ursula stripped down to minimal G-strings and slipped into the warm waters of the Saronic Gulf. I stripped to a speedo, snatched up a mask with snorkel, and joined her.
Greek waters are exceedingly crystal clear, and as I floated, glancing
straight down with the mask, I immediately spotted our anchor roughly 30 to 40
feet below. Half of it was buried in the
bay’s sandy bottom, and, much to my surprise, it was dragging; leaving a sandy
plume trail in its wake.
Taking my head out of the water, I looked back at the boat – it appeared
dead in the water – no movement whatsoever.
Then I glanced at Ursula, happily treading water,
face-to-face, chattering away with backstage gossip – totally stationary
also. Placing my head back underwater, I
studied the anchor’s movement; apparently we were in a gentle, ginormous
current moving us all offshore to the west at the ripping speed of one knot.
With my head still underwater, I happened to look up at Ursula once more; making another startling discovery. I had formerly observed her performing topless on stage; presenting an amazing body with beautiful, naked breasts. But as I currently studied her flawless,
dancers’ body, something literally stood out; her nude breasts! I’d never before seen them so high, tight and
perky, with swollen nipples.
What was causing this, dear reader?
Saltwater; boobies really float in this element!
Hey...get off my case...this is important scientific medical research.
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