Can I Love You?

With Christina Boutari enjoying
 The Grand Reserve
 

It all started with a glass of Grand Reserve with Christina Boutari at a one of kind North end upscale Greek resto.   It was a wine flight featuring new offerings from the Boutari wine appellations.  She was on a North American tour, as the Ambassador of her family business.  Lovely and charming, we had a moment that will be seared in my brain for an eternity.   A group of us were invited and I decided last minute to attend because it was round the corner from my mums house and typically these events don't happen North of city and certainly not in my hometown.  

Boutari was making the rounds and greeting guests and when she made her way to our table she chose a wine for us to sample ahead of the flight.   In her perfect English with the sweetest of Greek accents she says directly to me, "I think you'll like this one."  My group and I were delighted that we were having a personal tasting with her and anxious to try one of the new arrivals. But she only poured for me and insisted that I'd adore it.  Odd.  I take the glass from her and do my best impression of a wannabe sommelier, swirling the glass and taking it up to my nose.  And as I do, my heart skips a beat and begins to race.  I inhale deeply and I'm transported to my parents dining table. In a flash I can see the Sunday dinner spread out and the familiar wine bottle being opened by my father.  I know this wine and I know it well. 

My eyes welled up unexpectedly and I tried to hide it.  "What is wrong?  Have I chosen incorrectly? she asks.  I felt exposed and vulnerable and not wanting to come off as a snob, I beamed up at her and exclaimed in a shaky voice, "This is a classic!  It's the Grand Reserve, isn't it?"  I prattled on trying to conceal that while I may physically be sitting next to her, mentally my mind has taken a trip to the spirit world...or has the spirit world come to me? Yes, indeed it was my father's all time favourite wine.  Dad's 'go to red' that never disappointed and always made an awesome gift.  I haven't tasted it for a least 10 years and there I was having a glass with Christina Boutari herself in a restaurant 3 minutes from my dads house.  Startling.

And then it happened again.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare was sitting lonely atop a pile of bargain bin priced hard cover books.  I stopped and did a double take and stared at it for a moment.  I was in a massive hurry, cutting through the downtown subway tunnels to make my Bloor train.  The tunnel shops were busy and people were whizzing past me but the world just seemed to stop as I zeroed in on this book. My hand reached for it and it felt like a veil was coming down over me.  That familiar book, its colour and size, its pencil sketch of Shakespeare, those thin almost newsprint pages took me back 25 years when I was a young girl dusting the window display at my dads bookstore. The Heritage Shop, on Yonge Street, was only up and running for one year, but what an indelible year indeed!  Part bookstore, part art shop, it was his best and worst business ever. 

The clerk interrupted my mind trip, "Hey, how did that book get into the outside bargain bin?  Oh well, it's $3.99!  Crazy right?  It's asking you to love it...", I put the book down.  The clerk picks it up, holds it out to me and continues "...or maybe its asking Can I love you?"  The colour drained from my face and a chill ran up and down my spine.  "I beg your pardon?  What did you just say?  Why would you say something like?  What do you mean?" The clerk stepped back and I stepped toward him, clearly making him uncomfortable.  "I don't know, just said it, don't take offence, just sounded poetic...the book made me say it!" He started to laugh and I started to feel ill.  "Are you alright?" he queried and offered me to come in and have a seat and glass of water, but all I could choke out was, "'I'll buy the book."

It was a one-two punch.  I was winded for the rest of the day.  Finding the book, or more like the book found me, was one thing, but when those familiar words, Can I love you, tripped out of the clerks mouth...I knew it was no coincidence.  What kind of a question is that?  Who says that?  My father did.  It was his catch phrase.  His trump card.  I never did understand the question and what kind of a response did he expect? Was it rhetorical? Nevertheless, I've never heard anyone, before, during or after, ever ask that question. 

Why I haven't thought of The Heritage bookstore in decades is a mystery!  Gosh, I had great fun then and met some real interesting people.  The book and art suppliers were an eccentric bunch and dad enjoyed introducing me because I had practically read all the books in the store, Lord knows he hadn't.  The courage my father had!  Truly.  English as a second language and the only thing he'd ever read from cover to cover was the daily newspaper, but there he was selling The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, amongst other classics, without a flurry of doubt and with complete confidence.  Wow.  I do remember this one book supplier, Wil, that frequented the shop on his off hours to chat with dad.  What a card!  He totally loved my dad!  And now that I look back on it, I wonder if he was writing a book of his own and profiling my dad for a character! I guess I'll never know, but dad as a character, is multi-faceted and you can't deny the tension that a love/hate relationship so deliciously provides for good story telling.

My girlfriends think its time we take a road trip to Long Island...and it wouldn't  be for the ice-tea! LMAO!  Although I'd likely need a very tall cold Long Island Iced Tea, if we were to ever get an audience with the Medium that resides there.  Too funny!  For those of you who don't know her, she apparently speaks to the dead.

A couple of friends are unabashedly addicted to the Long Island Medium, Theresa Caputo and her TV show on Sunday nights.  It certainly is entertaining and I've become curious, considering all this "paranormal activity", yet cautious. My experience with the paranormal is limited and I'd like to keep it that way!  I'm not so sure I should consider a trip to visit Caputo to find out what, if anything, dad is trying to communicate to me.

I'm not an overtly spiritual person and I'm rather quick to dismiss any ambiguous sign or symbol that could be interpreted as a form of communication from the other side.  But how can you ignore this?  Sure, I've dreamt of dad a lot since his passing, especially now that I'm building this Greek House and they have left me frightened.  But I'd always conclude that they were, well...just dreams. However, these events are certainly not ambiguous!

But wait, there's more.  Yes, that's right and as worn out, distraught and confused as I am, the rains in Kalamata this Spring brought a delightful, miraculous, thoughtful and hopeful sign.  Irises. 

Irises, from my Uncles description,  aren't seen around Messinia.  And there aren't any small animals, like squirrels, that would have dug the bulb up and transplanted them onto the Verga property.  And even if there were, the soil isn't any good for growing much of anything especially these delicate and elegant flowers.  The only catch here in laying claim that my dead father had something to do with this, is that his favourite flower is the Sunflower.  However, having said that, this flower has become significant to me these past two years and the portrait that my dad gave me of himself year ago has a pewter frame of iris flowers!  Not to mention that I've always enjoyed them in print form by Van Gogh and other impressionist artists and they have adorned my walls for several years and have brought me great joy.  From what I understand, there are about a dozen of them, a sparse amount, surrounding my large Greek House as if to give it a gentle embrace.  I'm overwhelmed.

February, March and now April all brought harbingers of dad's presence.  This being the fifth anniversary of his death, I  must admit, has been a positive reflection.  I am quite grateful that I've been able to remember him and even experience him in softer, quieter and gentler ways.

And it isn't until this very moment that I finally understand this quote,  "If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die."

And I guess in this case, destiny demands that every moment has a purpose.

.

Perfect Imperfections

Perfect.  What a deliciously alluring, seductive, tempting word.  Purrfect. A word that Eartha Kitt owned and would growl out on demand of which I've had the personal privilege of hearing.  In most cases, perfect, is hard to achieve, almost impossible.  We can only strive to be perfect, always falling short for most, and for the rare few, just out of grasp.  But is it really something to aim for?   And for which part of your life do you pour all your energies in to perhaps reach perfection? Wealth, health, relationships?  Something's got to give, right? 

Well, this house is certainly not perfect.  Except for this ceiling.  There is nothing more perfect than this ceiling.  Ok, I may be exaggerating...the house location is perfect and the view!  Lord have mercy, the view is beyond perfection!  But I had no control over that.  My father did, and he chose perfectly.

Every piece of the coffered ceiling  was cut and placed by hand, no prefab mouldings here.  A true coffered ceiling of this calibre adds the best of architectural details and elevates the worth of the house.  There can be no flaws in its geometry and I threatened Boufeas (my mihanikos) that if there was it would be horribly obvious and would have to be taken down at his expense.  He was leery at first because he said that this was a Greek house not an English house and we don't install these types of ceilings.  Having taken him again outside of his comfort zone and having to admit that he never erected one, he cleverly discovered that our foreman, Dimitri, was quite the expert on coffered ceilings.  Perfect.

I always admired the look of a coffered ceiling and how it truly does finish a room and make it grand.  The house's main floor high ceilings presented me with a rare opportunity to indulge and completely surrender to this fantasy.  It was a true labour of love, as most all good things worth fighting for are, and in this rare instance resulted in pure magic!  It was worth the wait and the cost.  It is by far, the best feature of this house.  When I finally saw it this summer, it took my breathe away.  Success!

And isn't it funny that when you want something real bad, you start seeing it everywhere!  Like a new car that you're thinking about purchasing and you see it at every turn. As many times as I've visited the Acropolis, it wasn't until this last visit that rocked my world.  As I looked skyward up the long length of the doric columns, I was delighted to only discover, you guessed it, coffered ceilings! They were suddenly everywhere! Up high running across the top of Parthenon and various other temples on the grounds, and pieces of it, down low on the ground, on its sides.  Despite dissenting voices, I couldn't help but grin and giggle as I stood there and relished that my house indeed was as Greek as it was going to get. Heh, Heh...perfect.

Am I a bit of a perfectionist?  Perhaps.  And as a culture, we tend to reward perfectionists for setting high standards and trying to meet them which is addictive.  And while I said that the ceiling is perfect, I also admitted that the house is not.  Success in some areas and failure in others.  Perfection may always equal success,  but will success bring you perfection?  Arianna Huffington was in Toronto recently launching her new concept called, the Third Metric, at a fundraiser for Women's Brain Health Initiative.  And while I do admire her willingness and ability to reinvent herself, something that I always strive for, I find this concept of taking success to another new level, a little abstract and pedantic.  Nevertheless, something she said resonated with me.  That "failure is not the opposite of success." 

 



I immediately thought of my hot yoga/fitness practice.  While its great for slowing down my monkey mind and building physical strength (success), I am otherwise absolutely horrible at it (failure).  Try as I might, I will likely never be able to do  the scale pose asana, the peacock asana, the standing splits or any kind of splits!  But I have learned to at least make an authentic attempt and reflect inward.  Trust that wherever you are in your pose, that is exactly where you need to be.  Imagine that in your minds eye that you are performing the pose/asana perfectly. 

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius

and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

Marilyn Monroe

I am learning that perfection doesn't have to be something that everyone sees, but rather a feeling a connection, to something or someone.   And that we treat it as a rare gift, because it sustains us and feeds into other parts of our lives.  It makes us feel more normal, more creative, more inspired and more strong.  Trying to live an authentic life is way more difficult than yoga asanas and building houses, but I am learning to try and be successful in smaller portions and aspects of life.  I am learning not to fear failure because its not the opposite of success!  It is after all, our imperfections that we relate and bond with one another. It is how we handle our failures and weakness that makes us truly great.

 

I close my eyes and imagine that my Greek house is perfect.  I imagine away the pergola, the window wells, the retaining walls, the front door, the kitchen door, its illegal status and that there is no window on the west side of the house.

I love my Greek house... and all its perfect imperfections.

 

It's not like it's Plato's Olive Tree!

View from the dining room

There is this olive tree on my property that I've been threatening to cut down.

It stands right outside my dining room picture window.  I've said repeatedly to whomever would listen that it obstructs my view of the mountain and the yard that my boys will eventually play.  The only person on my side is Theo Yianni.

Τραβήξτε το από τις ρίζες του με το τρακτέρ που έχετε εδώ τώρα, έτσι ώστε δεν θα φυτρώσει ξανά. "Remove it by its roots," exclaims Theo Yianni,  "with the tractor that you have here now so that it won't shoot up again".  At first Peter Boufeas was horrified at the idea of cutting it down and shocked that I would even suggest it.  But now he just rolls his eyes and smiles every time I suggest such a thing.  Olive trees are like that.  They can get injured and look like they are near death, yet miraculously sprout new shoots and will even bear an olive or two in a short time.  They are like the mythical phoenix, they rise from the ashes. (yes, its very dramatic, lol)

Even with Boufeas' indignation, I found the opportunity recently to express my concern about the olive tree and its unfortunate spot on the property, with the foreman, Dimitri. 

He is a slender man, middle aged, with a bushy moustache and a solemn look.  Seems to me that he hadn't smiled in a while and who can blame him considering the current economic crisis he finds himself and his country in.  And it was yet another rainy, moody day on the mountain when Boufeas first introduced me to the foreman Dimitri, which didn't do much for anyone's disposition. 

Coffered ceiling sample

I began to ask him about the very decadent lux coffered ceiling that I'm considering having installed and of which he himself had done the sample.  His answers were short, to the point and unemotional.  Hmm.  I told him that I liked his mill work and that indeed it will add fine architectural details to the interior.  He nodded, thoughtfully.  Hmm.  I moved to the dining room picture window  and commented on how foreboding the mountain looked today, especially knowing that it was once an active volcano.  The foreman Dimirti, spins on his heel and looks at me with a raised eyebrow. 

He seemed pleasantly surprised with my knowledge of his town, little does he know that I excel at Trivial Pursuit, lol.  Quite satisfied with my ability to finally break the ice with the foreman, we actually chatted about the dormant volcano and our mutual affection for the Taygetos Mountain.  But it wasn't until I turned once again to the window and proclaimed, half jokingly, that I will indeed cut down this dreadful olive tree, that I got the most visceral of reactions!  

All I hear are gasps from the men that have accompanied me.  George Giannopoulos, mutters, "Apokliete", (No Way),  the Architect Dimitri, turns to Boufeas and quizzes with disgust, "what is she going to cut down?" Boufeas just breathes out and says, "here she goes again" and runs a hand across his forehead in exasperation.  A look of horror washes over the face of  the foreman Dimitri and challenges me rather aggressively, "You will do no such thing!" 

Plato's Olive Tree now lives in Verga, Kalamata

I proceed to tell the foreman the reasons for my disdain for this particular tree, but he begins to offer alternatives like, pruning it to make it less imposing.  Perhaps we can build a small rock wall around it as to encourage people to sit underneath it for shade, was another.  I could not be swayed.  I drove the point further by suggesting, with a chuckle,  that I will need firewood for my three fireplaces and this tree would be a good place to start.

"Look", the foreman pressed, "its one of the oldest trees you have on the property and it has the most olives on it too!  What does that say to you?  Doesn't that mean anything to you?  To cut an olive tree down is blasphemy."

Blasphemy.  How do you respond to a person who has just described the cutting of an olive tree as blasphemy?  I take a moment.  It's quiet as I contemplate the future of the tree and turn to the foreman and say with a great big smile, "Fcku, it's not like it's Plato's Olive Tree!"  Γαμώτο, δεν είναι ελιά του Πλάτωνα!

Hearty laughter echoed through my cavernous house.  The foreman Dimitri especially impressed and amused by my reference, responds with great joviality, "You never know, it could be!  It very well could be, Tzaki!"

Actually, no it really could not.  I've actually seen Plato's Olive Tree and it's not in Verga.  And the craziest part about me making that comment was that two months later, on Thursday January 17, 2013, the real Plato's Olive Tree was cut down...for firewood!  And part of me went with it.  Have you ever been on a pilgrimage? I have.

I was 14 years old when I caught partway through, an obscure BBC documentary with a very passionate white haired bearded man, talking about an unlikely landmark in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.  As he was dodging traffic, with horns blaring, he managed to cross the road and convey that he indeed is standing next to, wait for it....Plato's Olive Tree.  "Behold", he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

I was memorised.  What is this?  Where is he?  "I'm going", I said to myself and nothing was going to stop me.

I was 15 years old when I stood in the presence of this unremarkable and rather ordinary olive tree. What made it interesting to look at though wasn't just that it was thought to be more than 3,000 years old,  but that it had been nurtured back to life after being hit by a bus in 1976.  Which almost happened to me trying to find it!  At the time, its gnarled trunk had split into four pieces. From what I understand, the largest of these was taken to the Agricultural University of Athens, where it has been on display ever since.

Legend has it that the tree was part of the alleys that surrounded Plato’s Academy, and it was among the twelve olive trees that marked the twelve gated entries to the property. This part of Athens was later, and still is, named ‘Eleonas’ (olive grove) because of those ancient olive trees.  The Iera Odos (Sacred Way) lies on the ancient route between Athens and the town of Elefsina (Eleusis). The remains of Plato’s Academy lie near the tree, giving the area the name Akadimia Platonos.

Where the original Plato's Olive Tree once stood

And now nothing remains there, except for a big hole.  Local media reported that it was very likely uprooted and stolen to serve as firewood.  Hmm.  Fuel costs have sky rocketed and due to austerity measures the majority refuse to pay the increase and have resorted to heating their home with a wood-burning fireplace or stove.  It was calculated that the stolen part of the tree weighed more than 1,000 pounds, nevertheless it was removed without anyone taking notice.  Imagine that.

And it truly boggles my mind that Greeks would do such a thing, especially considering how revered and sacred the average, non-school of Athens, olive trees actually are to the majority of Greeks...and I do mean majority, not just my small cross section of natives!

I cried when I read the news report that the olive tree under which Plato is believed to have taught his students 2,400 years ago, is now gone.  And I bet I know someone else who cried too.  It is blasphemy, Dimitri the foreman was right. 

How can I ever even consider harming my "Plato's" olive tree?  That's its rightful name now.  I won't ever cut my olive tree down now, I could never ever! Αποκλειεται! Apokliete! 

My Olive Grove, all trees intact and lovingly maintained!

.


 

I Almost Forgot

Leave it to Google to remind me of my youthful influences.  Just seeing the pictorial tribute to Odysseus Elytis with the Olive Tree, a Vineyard and a Boat, had me inhale sharply and made my heart race.  A wash of Theodorakis music played in my head and nostalgia created a lump in my throat.  Who else can do this, but a poet!

A few loose pages of poems tucked in between an old tattered book, travelled across the Atlantic in my mum's book bag.  Eventually, "Sun The First Together With Variations on A Sunbeam" (Ηλιος ο πρώτος, παραλλαγές πάνω σε μιαν αχτίδα, 1943) found its way on top of the old HiFi turntable console, a place of honour, next to Robert Frost.  Poetry resonates deeply with Greek people and my parents were often walking testaments to this.  He wasn't just any poet.  He won the 1979 Nobel Prize in Literature.   

As I grew older I appreciated his poetry even more once it was put to music, of course,  by legendary Mikis Theodorakis.  "Axion Esti-It Is Worthy" became an anthem of sorts to the modern Greek of 1964 and beyond.  My dad, even though he wasn't very modern, connected some how to Elytis words. And through the wicked combination of Elytis and Theodorakis I also found a connection... with my dad.  

I almost forgot.

He'd pop the tape in the car and we'd listen to the music during the morning weekend drive to open the restaurant.  He'd ask, "do you understand what he is saying here, Tzaki?" If I didn't understand he'd stop the tape and try to translate the word, the meaning.  And dad was spot on, with the meaning of Elytis.  Dad said that he is speaking to 'us', not the ancients or about the ancients, but to me and you. 

And indeed Elytis, "Unlike others, he did not turn back to Ancient Greece or Byzantium but devoted himself exclusively to today's Hellenism, of which he attempted - in a certain way based on psychical and sentimental aspects - to build up the mythology and the institutions. His main endeavour has been to rid his people's conscience from remorses unjustifiable, to complement natural elements through ethical powers, to achieve the highest possible transparency in expression and to finally succeed in approaching the mystery of light, "the metaphysic of the sun" - according to his own definition."



Look its plastered!

Psychical and sentimental indeed describes Elytis work and aspects of my father that I've never considered.  And perhaps it also describes me and my Greek house.   (Which has progressed considerably and I must update you on!)

And today's modern Greek has forgotten the wave of positive influences that Elytis had on the attitude and worth of self.  It's 101 years from his birth, holding a book, poems in flight and Google has shown Odysseus Elytis in his quintessential sailor's hat with the Olive Tree, a cluster of grapes and the Boat.  Why?

Because Elytis had once said, "If you deconstruct Greece, at the end you will see that you are left with an olive tree, a vineyard and a boat. Which means that you can rebuild it,"   Wow, his words just jump off the page considering the climate and chaos that Greece finds itself.  Thanks for reminding us Google.

And my mum's book of poetry has lost its cover.  It has yellowed and its tips have turned in; it is well thumbed.  It now sits proudly on my office shelf along with Frost, Tennyson, Noyes (nothing beats The Highwayman) and a full collection of Dr Seuss.

 

My House, My Little Home, My Poor Little Shack

This Verga house, in the beginning, can only be described as a pile of bricks, debris, a shelter for wayward goats and sheep with major structural faults and illegalities. But as each day goes by the bricks are being secured with mortar, the debris is being cleared, the obstructed views are being corrected, the earth is being turned over and pipes are being laid. Life is being breathed into an otherwise forgotten and abandoned part of my life, one that I had resigned to always being ramshackle and unrepairable. I guess the same could be said about my relationship with my father. And even though he has passed on, I've discovered that the connection is still very much alive.

I had a strange dream the other night. I woke around 2am and I felt like I had just run a marathon. It was disturbing, foreboding and I felt...little.  It seemed quite real to me and I lay there in the dark hoping that the ominous energy in the room would dissipate and allow me to catch my breath.  Oddly, the energy felt familiar, like it knew me... and I it; this has happened twice before.

You see, I was visiting my mother over the weekend and I had slept in my dad's room. Could the energy be... my dad?  Is he in a bad place?  Is he trying to communicate displeasure about something?  Do I even believe that it was a visit from him or was it just a dream; a bad combo of a scary movie, greasy pizza and cheap wine?  A very good friend suggests that no parent would come back to frighten their child, if it were possible to come back at all.  I have not been in my dad's room for any real length of time since his death.  It still smells like him.

He wore Channel and sometimes I open and sniff the bottle that he left behind. And when I do, my brain floods quickly with flashes of dad always in a crisp shirt and his gold Omega watch, ready for work. I sniff again and I can hear the crack of his voice as he chastises someone. The scent lingers in my nose and this time I see and hear him trying to teach me about hardships of life and consequences of poor life choices.  Huh? I start to laugh at that memory.

Over a double Greek in the morning with a φρυγανιά με μέλι (fregania me meli, toast with honey) he would find time to wax philosophic with me as I quickly attempted to put my shoes and coat on and seek refuge at the University. Like all good Greek men, they like to school you, using 'funny' Greek sayings and dad was textbook.  His favourite, Πρέπει να βρέξεις κώλο να φας ψάρι, "You have to get your ass wet to eat fish." And to that he would add the tag line, "do your best and be the best."  I shake my head just writing it.  Its etched in my brain, indelible in my psyche. Perhaps I should have put that saying in his obituary. lol.

Seriously though, because dad never missed a day of work EVER, I thought a great opening line for his obit would have been, "Stopped working on April 26th, 2009...etc".  My brothers cringed.  What?  It's quirky and truthful and a testament to what he loved best in his life.  You can use the opening line, if you like it, Σου το χαρίζω, because my brothers ended up writing the standard text.  "Passed away on April 26th, 2009...etc.", yawn.

Dad had his mornings free to do banking and make phone calls, but most times I would find him sitting at the kitchen table, turned sideways in his chair, looking out the large sliding glass door at the end of the family room.  He would sit as if in meditation admiring his estate for long stretches of time and the silence would be broken with a loud sigh, "Αh", and then he would mutter one of his Greek sayings almost inaudibly, "My house, my little home, my poor little shack", Σπίτι μου, σπιτάκι μου, φτωχοκαλυβάκι μου.  No matter what place you call home, there is nothing like it.  And his obsession to build this Greek House has now become mine. 

I admittedly have been consumed by the details, the progress and the future outcome of this Verga house.  Striving to make it "the best", it occupies my waking thoughts and likely interferes with my REM sleep.  I have called upon my father many times, in anger, in confusion and in sadness;  especially during the early discovery process of the status of his Greek estate and all the shards that were left for me to pickup.  And I can hear my father's voice answer me with  "Every beginning is difficult", Κάθε αρχή και δύσκολη.   There have been tough situations throughout these 3 years since his death that I had asked myself, "what would dad do, or even say?"  And who knew that all these 'funny' Greek sayings that had seemingly washed over me actually ring true on every level of my present. 

I know precisely what dad would say to me now and I don't need a phantazma  (φάντασμα , apparition) to deliver any messages, "Since you've  joined the dance, you must dance",  Αφού μπήκες στο χορό, θα χορέψεις. And its a good thing I like to dance, because I'm doing a lot of it.

And today as I prepare my father's kolliva (κόλλυβα, memorial cereal grains for the dead), adding the pomegranate seeds, the toasted slivered almonds, the sweet cinnamon sugar, raisins and all the aromatics to the wheat pearls, I can't help but think,  would he like it? Is it too wet, too dry, too sweet...is it the best?   Of course it is.   I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm always trying to do my very best.

A Corruption Pricelist? Priceless!

Having spent the entire day working at my house in Verga, Peter Boufeas returned to his, frustrated, knackered (his word) and rather put off.  Unusual state for him to be in?  Perhaps, but not when you've been dealing with the local trades people in Kalamata. 

He sent me a late afternoon progress report, which I always enjoy reading.  Straight forward, to the point and matter of fact.  He writes:
1. All walls are finished.
2. Pergola at front has been removed.
3. Rocks are on site to begin rock wall building.
4. Plumber has started work outside to connect septic tank and water runoff.
5. Earthworks nearly completed.

Perfect, sounds like a banner day.  But wait, he continues and launches in on two separate encounters, both with local suppliers, that sent him round the bend; one for the fireplaces and the other for the pipes. He ended up telling the one guy to get lost and the other to stick the pipes ...well, you know where.  I can feel his frustration, because how is he supposed to provide me a cost estimate and ultimately a solid quote for the completion of the house, when these suppliers choose to triple the price on items, rather than honour the original price tag.  You just can't do business that way.  Or can you?

Did these local suppliers expect Boufeas, well me, to provide “fakelakia” (φακελακια  little brown envelopes) to secure their word and that they would honour the original quote?  A resounding yes!

Believe it or not, Greeks paid an estimated 554m euros in petty bribes in 2011. A National Survey on Corruption in Greece was published recently by Transparency International Greece, and what I found rather amusing in the report was that they also provided a "Corruption Pricelist".  Almost like a crib note or cheat sheet for those of us who are novices in the art of "greasing the palm" or  the more sophisticated term, "transactional lobbying".  But seriously, a corruption pricelist?  Priceless!

People have built careers on the success of this subcultural, if not main stream, bribery culture. But according to the report, the Greek financial crisis had an impact in the amount requested and paid in “fakelaki” (little brown envelopes) in 2011; 78m euros less than in 2010. LOL. So basically the "bribery business" is also taking a hit due to the austerity measures!  Too funny, the script writes itself, lol.

Nevertheless, the report found that the amounts spent on petty corruption remain significantly high, with hospitals, tax offices and planning offices (License construction bodies/Settlement of illegal building) the most likely places in the public sector where bribes are paid.  Lucky me.

The report also provided a profile of those who pay bribes.  The usual suspects are mainly male, aged between 45-54 years old, educated, live in Attica and are self-employed or employers.  Well, that sounds about right!

The survey also noted that citizens are now more likely to deem the non-issuance of a receipt as corruption. Really?  That seems rather hard core actually,  because it happens quite often here in Canada.  But the penalty here for even a suspicion of attempting to bypass/evade taxes is an immediate seize on your bank accounts.  Only "the stick" here, never "the carrot".

What I also found fascinating is that “Transparency International Greece" actually exists! It also promotes the "implementation and protection of whistle-blowing so that citizens can be empowered and effectively participate in the fight against corruption by reporting complaints," so says their mission statement. Maybe Boufeas (http://www.naquatec.gr/), should sit on the board of directors.

And on a positive note, the report revealed that a significant percentage of respondents said they had refused requests to pay bribes in 2011. 25.3 percent for public-sector services and 21.6 percent for the private-sector services.  Maybe there are more like Boufeas than I had originally thought.  And that he isn't alone on his crusade to drag Greece kicking and screaming into legitimacy.  And here in lies his frustration, because it is such a small insular group that on some days he surely feels that he is shovelling sand against the tide.  My Kingdom, my Kingdom for an honest mihanikos! 

I can appreciate and share  Boufeas' frustration.  Trying to follow the rules in a country where officials  seems to make them up as they go along is a huge drain on my energy and my faith in humanity.  One fakelaki (φακελακια)  here, voila, my house is legal.  Another fakelaki (little envelope) passed across a table there, voila a building permit.   But it takes an equal amount of energy and willpower to resist the dark side. 

Greece is at a crossroad and so am I.  I'd love to take the path of least resistance, who wouldn't?  If I take the true path, the path less followed, the path paved with good intentions, I tell the corrupt tradesmen and bureaucrats to take a flying leap into the Messinian Bay. I'll end up paying more in the long run, but my house will be built on a solid foundation, albeit a more expensive foundation.  Peter Boufeas, the angel on my one shoulder whispers, 'take this path.'  My former mihanikos, PI, the devil (the old Greece) on the other shoulder, smiles wryly 'take the well trodden path, koukla.'  This is the path that ultimately led Greece to where it is today.

Still, I think I'll keep the "Corruption pricelist" handy...just for fun...really.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>  Corruption pricelist 2011
		Type of service	From	Up to
Public sector	Public hospitals	Procedure/surgery	€100	€30,000
		Speeding up of case	€30	€20,000
	Tax offices	Arrangement for financial records audit	€100	€20,000
		Issuing of documents	€15	€1,000
	License construction bodies	Issuing of a construction licence	€200	€8,000
		Settlement of illegal building	€200	€5.000
Private sector	Health services (hospitals, clinics)	Procedure/surgery	€150	€7,000
		Medical tests	€30	€500
	Vehicles	MOT inspection	€20	€100
		Driver’s license	€40	€500

.