By Greek law, it only rains on one Saturday between May and September and when it does it comes with such force that a third of the Athenian population get washed out to sea. And so it was that today was that day.
Conventional rain aims to soak you in the traditional way by falling from the sky and catching you if it can, on the way down. Athenian rain is cunning; so cunning in fact that aerial protection of whatever calibre is ineffective. It defies gravity and hammers into the pavement with such force that it bounces right back up at you, bypassing what ever protection you may have complacently assumed would do the job.
The bus deposited us into this vortex of five dimensional rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning that lashed and crashed about Symtagma Square, close to the parliament buildings. Protesters scurried for cover as we made a desperate, electrical appliance saving dash from the bus stop, across the square and into the Metro. It would have been easier to swim the length of the Metropolitain fountain, and probably drier too.
When we made it down to the Metro, we were welcomed by the cast of the next Greek disaster movie. The ticket areas and platforms were awash with a tide of dripping human flotsam, washed in on the surging waters. Even a representative sample of Athens' vagrant canine population had sought shelter there. We waited for Spiros Gyllenhaal to save us but when it became apparent that he was draining his fourth Ouzo elsewhere, we caught the train to Konstantinou and the Hotel Achilleon, were fortuitously, they proclaimed to the world, in an amusingly fitting magnetic fridge magnet, that life begins at 40.
It certainly seemed that way later, as we ploughed through the thirteenth bottle of something toxic.
Tom, Jenny, Adrian and Clare toasted me into my fifth decade at a variety of watering holes in the Greek capital and Adrian even brought fizz to the party as Clare and I enjoyed a few pre-match sharpeners in the hotel bar before the evening's proceedings kicked off in earnest.
Simon was due tomorrow lunch time and the boat hand over was also scheduled at Kalimaki Marina for 12.30pm. But yacht chartering companies are no slaves to the deadline. Invariably, a team of hard working deck hands make everything ready in good time but inexplicably things always seem to get held up by a heavily stubbled Greek type who assures you that the boat papers will be returned from the harbour police in the next half hour.
For 'heavily stubbled Greek type' read picky charter company owner taking an overly detailed interest in the smooth running of his maritime empire. For 'harbour police' read slightly overweight Greek naval fellow packing heat, valiantly assisted by a bevvy of doe eyed underlings in skin tight fatigues. Cumulatively their role is to spend 60 minutes perusing your papers, ask you whether you plan to pump sewage into their blue flag marina, and charge you the princely sum of 1.91 Euros for the privilige.
It would probably be cheaper and quicker for the Greek state to give every yacht charterer 100 Euros at handover and send them on their way. This would dispense with a creaking bureaucracy and protect Greece's precious water cleanliness credentials by expelling beer fuelled yachtsment out to sea promptly, rather than have them loitering in harbour, defiling the town quay with their emanations.
And so it was that we set the stage for tomorrow's battle with The Kalimaki Massive by arming ourselves with blinding headaches and the slightly wired sensation that comes with sleep deprivation; perfect allies in the war against petty injustice.
Happy Birthday me!
Thanks to everyone who helped to make it happen.
Conventional rain aims to soak you in the traditional way by falling from the sky and catching you if it can, on the way down. Athenian rain is cunning; so cunning in fact that aerial protection of whatever calibre is ineffective. It defies gravity and hammers into the pavement with such force that it bounces right back up at you, bypassing what ever protection you may have complacently assumed would do the job.
The bus deposited us into this vortex of five dimensional rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning that lashed and crashed about Symtagma Square, close to the parliament buildings. Protesters scurried for cover as we made a desperate, electrical appliance saving dash from the bus stop, across the square and into the Metro. It would have been easier to swim the length of the Metropolitain fountain, and probably drier too.
When we made it down to the Metro, we were welcomed by the cast of the next Greek disaster movie. The ticket areas and platforms were awash with a tide of dripping human flotsam, washed in on the surging waters. Even a representative sample of Athens' vagrant canine population had sought shelter there. We waited for Spiros Gyllenhaal to save us but when it became apparent that he was draining his fourth Ouzo elsewhere, we caught the train to Konstantinou and the Hotel Achilleon, were fortuitously, they proclaimed to the world, in an amusingly fitting magnetic fridge magnet, that life begins at 40.
It certainly seemed that way later, as we ploughed through the thirteenth bottle of something toxic.
Tom, Jenny, Adrian and Clare toasted me into my fifth decade at a variety of watering holes in the Greek capital and Adrian even brought fizz to the party as Clare and I enjoyed a few pre-match sharpeners in the hotel bar before the evening's proceedings kicked off in earnest.
Simon was due tomorrow lunch time and the boat hand over was also scheduled at Kalimaki Marina for 12.30pm. But yacht chartering companies are no slaves to the deadline. Invariably, a team of hard working deck hands make everything ready in good time but inexplicably things always seem to get held up by a heavily stubbled Greek type who assures you that the boat papers will be returned from the harbour police in the next half hour.
For 'heavily stubbled Greek type' read picky charter company owner taking an overly detailed interest in the smooth running of his maritime empire. For 'harbour police' read slightly overweight Greek naval fellow packing heat, valiantly assisted by a bevvy of doe eyed underlings in skin tight fatigues. Cumulatively their role is to spend 60 minutes perusing your papers, ask you whether you plan to pump sewage into their blue flag marina, and charge you the princely sum of 1.91 Euros for the privilige.
It would probably be cheaper and quicker for the Greek state to give every yacht charterer 100 Euros at handover and send them on their way. This would dispense with a creaking bureaucracy and protect Greece's precious water cleanliness credentials by expelling beer fuelled yachtsment out to sea promptly, rather than have them loitering in harbour, defiling the town quay with their emanations.
And so it was that we set the stage for tomorrow's battle with The Kalimaki Massive by arming ourselves with blinding headaches and the slightly wired sensation that comes with sleep deprivation; perfect allies in the war against petty injustice.
Happy Birthday me!
Thanks to everyone who helped to make it happen.
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