Instalment 1 of 7
On believing Bull, reform club arrogance and bus stations…
If an audience is led to believe that someone is an
authority on a subject, they will believe in any amount of waffle spouting from
the perceived expert’s mouth. For approximately 15 minutes, you will have a captive,
gullible audience at your disposal, willing to be beguiled, quite complicit actually.
After that a sprinkling of subject appropriate jargon, seasoning the monologue,
may stretch it a bit. Be taken in by your own bullshit however, and it won’t be
too long before the cracks begin to show; people begin shifting in their seats,
the first snort and then the inevitable cat calls commence.
Over coffee in Café la Ville, bridging the canal in Little
Venice, Oncle recounts how he found himself, together with his guests, having
tea at the wrong club in London, just a few doors down from his own watering
hole, where he holds full membership. It was only until the tea set arrived
emblazoned with ‘The Reform Club’s insignia that the significant error brewed
upon them. Of course the staircase did appear to be in the wrong place and the
doorman was different. But Oncle hadn’t visited in a while and well in London,
restaurants, shops, entire establishments change hands and are redecorated
literally overnight. Time never equals money more, when the rent is being paid
in Westminster.
It is true that he had informed the doorman, upon entering
that, they probably wouldn’t recognise each other as Oncle hadn’t been visiting
in a long, long time and well he does have a touch of stroke induced
short-term memory loss. However, more to
the point Oncle did mention in passing, as he hobbled through the lobby, that
he had been a member for eons and eons. Oncle is 85.
Fact is, nobody asked for membership identification. Age +
infirmity + the fact that London must be the most nauseatingly politically
correct capital in the world might have accounted for suspension of doubt on
the doorman’s part and he could have been feeling bored or lazy or just be new
to the job and anxious not to offend. Nevertheless, the whole premise of
belonging to a club hinges on exclusivity. I suspect there were –not quite so subliminal- codes
and signifiers at play here other than age respect. The right accent to
begin with, (this is Class Conscious land) an assured manner, assuming the
subtle arrogance of birth even. These nuances are inbred and inborn, innate,
the passport pay off for enduring the hazing and idiosyncrasies of a public
school education.
This takes me to Whistler and Mr. Bean. Anybody who has seen
the first Mr. Bean Movie will know what I’m talking about. Courtesy of an
in-flight movie I very worryingly found myself empathising with Rowan Atkinson’s
alter ego, which led me to reminiscence
about a similar escapade on Mount Athos in Greece. I now know I have at least had two Mr. Bean
moments in my life. The first one involved destroying the green leather inlay
on a priceless Louis Quatorze mahogany writing desk belonging to my English ‘A’
level, private teacher. In the movie Mr.
Bean wreaks similar havoc on a Whistler painting, whilst trying to wipe off
some snot he has sneezed onto the canvas. However this first incident
(involving an auntie Polly who could only demonstrate love through over feeding),
is deserving of a blog posting in its own right (see 27th August
Posting on WackyWarrybee). My second Mr. Bean moment also concerns the ‘Whistler’s
Mother’ painting in question.
Unwittingly our hapless anti-hero, ‘Dr.’ Bean finds himself
being introduced as an ‘authority’ on Whistler (or something like that) and is
propelled to a podium where he must accompany the unveiling of said painting
with a few choice sentences. Mr. Bean rises to the occasion, touches a
universal chord by alighting upon the ‘mother archetype’, he prevaricates and
mumbles for a couple of minutes and
keeps it short (audiences appreciate brevity). Because the audience have received
him into their subconscious labelled ‘expert’, they are primed to respond to him
benevolently and despite the fact that the twaddle he has muttered could have actually
been uttered by any Tom, Dick and Harry, they clap enthusiastically.
Where am I going with this? Ok so in my synaptic manner we
take a detour to my own Mr. Bean ‘Whistler’ bullshitter moment. The incident
occurs four years before the release of the film and the artwork in this
scenario is Byzantine.
We are now on a flight to Athens in 1993, when I was blessed
with the glib and boldness of youth
I have always had an obsession with the ascetic life.
Unfortunately despite an enormous amount of goodwill, wishful thinking, and leg
numbing perseverance, numerous retreats (Catholic,
Protestant Buddhist, Hindu ,Ananda Marga, Greek Orthodox ..the lot) later, I
find myself –well, in this life at least- not cut out for the monastic mode of
being. You can’t fault me for trying.
Anyway, from the moment I had heard of Mt Athos, I was
hooked. I knew I was going. When was just an issue of time and money. The 1993
edition of the ‘Rough Guide’, to Greece informs me that only 10 ‘non-Greek
Orthodox ‘ visitors are allowed on the
peninsula on any one day. My eagerness to just go coupled with an inherent
inability to read the small print, means I gloss over the fact that to be eligible
to join the ranks of these lucky 10, one had to be either a member of the
clergy (any creed will do), a theologian or a scholar of either art, architecture and stretching it -
philosophy.
The red tape is daunting. I must first obtain a letter of
recommendation from the Maltese department of religious affairs. The Curia? Is
there such a government department in Malta? I should also I surmise (if my
memory serves me well: 1993 is a sadly long time ago, and I stand to be
corrected) contact the Greek Embassy in my country of origin to indicate my
interest in visiting Mount Athos. Hopefully they would then fax my letter of recommendation
to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Athens, who would in turn, pending
approval, issue me with a visitors pass,
valid for a maximum of four days. This was in pre-internet days and obtaining
any information was sketchy and arduous. No one I knew had ever been to Mount
Athos.
Full of enthusiasm I locate (with enormous difficulty) a
large broom cupboard that passes for the Greek Consulate in Malta. Eureka! Up a
musty stairwell in an anorexic alleyway, in the Baroque Capital of Valletta, I
am told by this ‘office’ which doubles up as a shipping company , that they
don’t deal with this type of ‘request’. Months later, I discover that I am the
first Maltese(r) who is not an art historian (officially), and definitely not a
member of the clergy (of any denomination) to have visited Mt Athos or at least
I’m told as much. Hence the lack of ‘visa’ enquires concerning Mt Athos and the
perplexed stares (“why would you want to bother, just go to Mykonos”) from the
broom cupboard. I am instructed to knock on Athens’ door.
In Athens I am rewarded with more baffled looks, from the
consulate there and fobbed off to Thessaloniki. In the interim I decide to do
the backpacker thing and embark on some island hopping to Mykonos (abused
pelicans and stretches of nudist beaches), Santorini (honeymooner paradise,
island of sunsets and sunrises), Delos (sanctuary of the Gods) and Ios (Ireland
overseas) drink my retsina, sizing up restaurants by the Greek feta salad
staple, returning to the mainland to explore Delphi and the ‘hanging’ monasteries of Meteora. However all the time I am itching to go to Mt
Athos. It has become my holy grail, and
my trail leads me onwards and upwards to Thessaloniki.
Rucksack deposited at the main youth hostel there, I set off
on a daily pilgrimage to the Ministry for Northern Greece, in an increasingly
frustrating mission to get my hands on one of these 4 day entry papers. There
is always some bureaucratic glitch, and my papers never seem to be in order. I
am instructed to return to Athens and obtain a letter of accommodation from the
Maltese Consulate there. I am fed up of all this to and froing and stand my
ground. Athens isn’t exactly round the corner.
In the meantime, my days are spent playing the waiting game,
watching the fishermen haul in their catches, and the freight ships unloading
their cargoes, impatient to be on the move somewhere. In the afternoons I scurry
back to the hostel where I am marooned, which has become base camp for
returning Greeks and foreigners from Mt Athos. Unfailingly, all of them bring
back an aura of serenity, of peace and spiritual blessing. ‘Spaced out’ is how
I would describe it. I interrogate each of them, “How was it?, how did you get there?, where did you stay?, what’s it like?, what do
you have to do to get there?, are there any rules?, is it every bit as beautiful
as it is cracked up to be? is it true that even the animals are same sexed?, what
do they give you to eat (important= do I need to take provisions)/”, and so
forth. My questions are gauche, overeager and jar with the stillness they bring
with them. I want to go go. It becomes increasingly frustrating when ‘pilgrims’
who have arrived much later than me at the hostel, get their hands on permits
relatively easily whilst mine clutch procrastination.
There is one small consolation. Another guy - a New Yorker,
round about my age or younger, a peroxide blond skateboarder, all skin, bones
and acne, wearing a ripped Nirvana t-shirt - seems to be in the same
predicament as me. Given his appearance, and the fact that very other word is
an expletive, I feel I have a smug edge over him and I can’t understand why he
doesn’t tone it down, like dye his hair for instance, given the ecclesiastical pursuit.
It’s hard enough to get in as it is. To make matters worse, somehow the
authorities see us as one unit, as we show up to the same office very day,
demanding the same document.
Eventually we decide to join forces and take desperate and
drastic measures to acquire this all important paper permission. We decide on a sit in or lay in, call it what
you want. Every day we lie prostrate in front of the door to the Minister of
Culture’s office. Every time the minister or whoever she is, wishes to enter or
leave her office she must perforce walk over us . For some reason we are not harassed,
or dragged to our feet. The guards are bemused. They tell us to get up. We do
but as soon as they have moved out of sight we lie back down. This goes on for
two days. The police are not called in. There is no media. Simply because we
are a nuisance, or perhaps we are not asking for much or for anything to be
given free of charge, possibly as a reward for persistence ( a noble
objective)- doubtful this one- or simply more to the point, because the lethargic
bureaucratic machine could not tick us off into boxes (clergy or otherwise) ,
anyway, for whatever the reason, we are finally issued with papers. So happy
are we with our daring and plotting, we both fail to look at the boxes we have
been parcelled and crossed into. The papers (which in my mind carry the weight
of a Papal dispensation) have been issued with hallowed access to Mount Athos on
the morrow. Excitedly euphoric we have to pack and figure out which bus to
take.
It is early, something like 5 am when we slink out of the
hostel. Somehow we have miscalculated the time it will take us to get to the
bus station. In the dark we read the map wrongly and walk down a parallel
street to the one we should have turned into. This throws us and soon we are
jogging back, trying to retrace our steps. Carrying more luggage than my
companion and panting, I begin to lag behind. My skateboarder friend has an
advantage. He offers to carry my luggage while I catch up. He has the map and
leads the way. Clattering to a stop, a street sign looms familiar. Have we been
here before? When I look back up the boulevard, my companion has disappeared. I
hurry up turn the corner but I do not espy him. I call out his name and start
running blindly. However the city unravels into an unfamiliar maze and the
further I wander, the more lost I feel and become.
The sun rises and It dawns on me that I have missed the 6am
bus, the only one that would have enabled us to transverse the peninsula in
time to catch the once daily pilgrim crossing to Mt Athos. I suddenly deflate,
my steps grow heavy and slow down. Another hour passes and I dejectedly recall
that I have literally given away my suitcase and my life it contained therein.
I have no money, no map, no passport, no bus ticket, no clean underwear, no
toothbrush and no identification but what I do have is my Athos entry permit in
my breast pocket, close to my thumping
heart.
I now find myself on a traffic Island in the middle of a
busy industrial estate, No body speaks English. I can’t explain my predicament
to anyone and I can’t point to anything, say a map and ask to buy it. Anyway
there are no shops in sight and this I remind you is Smartphone-less 1993.
Despair turns into resentfulness
and doubt raises its ugly head. Did my comrade from Brooklyn catch the bus? Did
he have this all planned out? Did he get us lost on purpose?.Did he make off
with my money? It’s not fair, he was the one with the bleach job after all!... and
so my thoughts go round in circles, spiralling out of control.
All the people I have managed to
stop have shaken their heads in incomprehension. I feel like crying and I do cry
tears of futile frustration. So near, so far. Ulysses constantly thwarted en
route to Ithaca. A policeman joins me on
the roundabout and commences to redirect traffic. I rub my eyes and feel
calmer. I feel like I’m in a trance. Disassociated from my feelings of panic
and resistance, woebegone, why me, wishing things to be otherwise, I suddenly
feel the sun on my neck burning. Life is thrown into immediate sharp relief. I
am reconciled to my fate. There is nought to do but accept my predicament. Life
goes on and once this epiphany of letting go is over, once you allow yourself
to be in the moment, circumstance previously so stuck and contrary, begins to
flow.
I approach the policeman. We
establish that what is all Greek to me is all English to him, and go down a
list of languages..Me: Italiano? ..No!
(him). Him: Allemagne No! (me). Me: Espagnol No!, (him). Him Francaise?
Francaise? (me). Francaise!!! Francasie!! Pour l-amour de Dieu! Qui! Qui! Qui!
I’m ecstatic, I hug him. Francaise! Huh! Who would have thought! And then,
suddenly, before I give myself 2.5 seconds to jump aboard the self-doubt wagon,
I’m off. Rolling my eyes, accent egoute! accent whatever, I’m spouting, gushing
and reeling off ‘perfect’ French. “Je suis perdu”, blab la blab la, “Ou e le
station de Autobus pour alller..”blab la dib la. 10 minutes later I am on my
way to the bus station, having hugged the non-plussed traffic warden yet again.
But where had it come from?, this school boy French, so perfectly remembered. I
hadn’t uttered a word of French since my half hearted attempt at an O-level
eight years previously. Goes to show, that marvellous thing the sub conscious
brain.
Amazing neurons. Possibly
everything we learn is stored somewhere in the brain and in moments of great
need, once the stress is dispensed with, whatever requires recalling, comes
forth to the surface to be utilised. One day I might be able to similarly
justify those enforced years spent learning Algebra which I have utterly had no
use for so far.
I now leisurely make my way back
to the bus station. I am in a state of Grace. I do not question or ask myself
why I have chosen to go to the station and not to return to the hostel. I guess
I thought I might find my luggage there, even the skateboarder waiting for me,
though somehow I doubted the latter. But surely if he was true, he would have at
least left my luggage with the station master. After all I was his companion in
protest and he owed me that consideration .............(to be continued)
Instalment No 2: online next week
