The three rules of Xenia in the land of lustful men, ticket-less travel and stolen purses

By Patty Delgado

Leaving Athens and ending our spring break with only 27 euro cents ($0.36) left in my pocket, I stamped my invalid bus ticket to get to the airport, fully planning on crying to defend myself if approached by a police officer.

Rachel and I sat quietly in our seats, our eyes darting to each passenger in search of a guard in disguise. We actually felt lousy for not paying the required 3.20 euro for the airport express bus.

Greece had stolen Rachel’s wallet, shouted sexual obscenities at me in a meat market, and cheated us out of plenty of euros. But it also gave us free wine, dinner, and cigarettes for the week we were there. In January, we left our campus in New York to study for a semester in Prague. Living in the dismal and gray end of winter, we decided we needed sun and plenty of beaches for our week-long spring break in late March. We planned on flying to Athens, then taking a train to Mt. Olympus and climbing it like bad-asses.

I packed my bags for my Greek vacation expecting to be handed an olive branch filled with delicious kalamatas and a warm “Kopiaste!” welcome. Instead, all we got were some pillars on a hill and many men with dark eyes staring constantly at my bag or my bottom.

Over two thousand years ago, the Greek word Xenia primarily meant the generosity and courtesy shown to those far from home. Kindness to guests was very important to the ancient Greeks because many had to travel long distances from town to town, island to island. Hospitality was their only way of survival.

Modern times have changed that. Now Xenia is a city in Ohio, a fashion boutique in Australia, an investment company in Tel Aviv and a Russian erotic escort service. But, traditionally, as I learned, there are three basic rules to Xenia, the Greek “guest-friendship.”

“In hospitality, the chief thing is the good will.”

                   First Rule of Xenia: Respect from host to guest.

We stayed in Athens for two days initially, checking out museums. On Monday night we took an overnight train to Litochoro, a small town at the base of Mt. Olympus, with the hopes of meeting Zeus, king of all Greek gods. Instead, we were given Periklis, a tall, dark, and shy 35-year-old who owned a hostel called Homer’s Heaven. His hostel was a 10-minute drive from town, on the beach, and completely empty during off-season in late March.

 

The water was freezing, though, oh-so-inviting in the Greek sunlight, and the mountain was covered with a dangerous fog, often fatal for drivers.

Peri, as we lovingly grew to call him, treated us like how Telemachus treated a disguised Athena in the Odyssey. Telemachus said to the apparent beggar, “Welcome, stranger. You shall be entertained as a guest among us. Afterward, when you have tasted diner, you shall tell us what your need is.” In not so many words, Peri just got us drunk. For free.

Tuesday was spent wandering the beach and having Peri’s dad take us into town for pastries. Feeling the need to entertain us, the gray-haired man who hardly smiled drove us to a cafe in Litochoro where everyone knew his name. Without a word he sat us outside and a tray of pastries and espressos were delivered to us. In awe, we shook our heads, wanting to give him money for the dessert. He in return tilted his head and offered us more cigarettes. Then, after eyeing the waitress in a short skirt, the retired banker waved and made his smooth exit. We felt bad that he bought us so much, but being college students we could never turn down the opportunity for free food.

On Wednesday night, Peri drove us in his fashionably small, lime-green Smart Car to a cabin perched on Mt. Olympus. There we dined on beef souvlaki and drank boxed wine next to a roaring fire with men whose names ranged from Adonis to John. I felt like a mortal feasting among the gods.

There were George and John, a pair of sexually ambiguous brothers who, as the night wore on, gave everyone (including each other) a lap dance to the trashy, rhythmic dance music blaring out of portable speakers. Adonis drank bitterly by the fire, and could talk about nothing but his duty in the Greek Navy and computers. James, a gym teacher from Thessaloniki (the second largest city in Greece), became more social the more wine he drank, but cut himself off because he had to teach 13-year-olds the next day. Another George, who recently moved back to Greece after living in the UK for 11 years, wanted to talk about American politics and traditional Greek sayings.

Every 20 minutes or so he’d turn to me and shout over the blaring euro-pop, “Patty! Add this one to your diary!” Like a god handing down his proverbs, he gave me such wisdom as, “If you see food, stay. If you see a fight, run. If you are fighting about food, take the food and run” and “March is like a woman. When you think everything is going well, suddenly the mood changes and everything is different.”

As we left the mountain, Peri, who was probably too drunk to drive, swerved past the NATO soldier camps that were planted outside of the small town. Balanica, the camp, is the place of the final phase of an annual training cycle for the soldiers from March 21 to April 3 this year.

Peri repeatedly slammed his hand against his horn as we drove past because, as he drunkenly explained, it was Greece’s Independence Day from the Turks. Joining in the excitement, we shoved our heads out of the small windows and yelled. Stapled to the trees were posters from the communist party that put a grim tone to our playful, drunken shouts against the NATO soldiers. They read, “Go home, KILLERS!”

On our last night, Thursday, something changed. Rachel, Peri and I sat around a fire in the lounge of the hostel, watching the Brad Pitt film, Babel. Peri was drinking, but I was too tired to join. I left the two stumbling upstairs for bed.  Peri, who had taken care of us like a father and guide, put his hand on Rachel’s knee.

He moved his hands to her neck, rubbing, stroking, and cooing into her ear that his trailer was much warmer than the bunks upstairs while still watching the television screen. Rachel eyes grew wider and her body tensed. She laughed awkwardly and pulled back her curly, blonde hair, an Aphrodite look, to move his hands. He looked deep into her eyes and she sat fidgeting with the full glass of wine he poured her. She stammered out some excuse of needing to check on me, even though I had nothing to drink that night, and stumbled up the stairs. Peri followed.

As she moved for the door, he went in for the kiss. He let his face drop to hers, the alcohol on his breath feeling hot against her cheek. Rachel yelped, “Good night!” and walked quickly into the room, slamming the door. Being known for my ability to sleep through anything, I heard about the incident in the morning.

“So, Peri hit on me last night,” she said, looking over her shoulder to gauge my reaction as we were packing our clothes.

“What?! What did he do?”

“Oh nothing really,” she turned to face me, her voice hitting a higher pitch. “It was kind of sad actually. I think maybe he’s lonely in this hostel by himself. He started touching my shoulders and my back. I just got out of there as soon as I could; I just didn’t, you know, couldn’t see him like that.”

“Goddamnit Rachel, you do this everywhere we go!” I laughed, trying to take the edge off Peri’s less than honorable action. Rachel laughed too and we finished packing, agreeing that our time at Homer’s Heaven was officially over.

Peri awkwardly gave us the bill while driving us to the train station, only looking me directly in the eye. I suspected, after spending time with his father, that it was just the nature of Greek men to be so forward and Peri really felt ashamed that he was refused. I wanted to forgive Peri immediately because he had been so kind to us, but knew in my heart that if I had been in Rachel’s place, I wouldn’t be able look Peri in the eye either.

“A guest never forgets the host who had treated him kindly.”

                   Second Rule of Xenia: Respect from guest to host.

Because we had to leave Litochoro for Athens so quickly, we couldn’t find any train tickets. On Fridays, apparently, everyone who’s anyone goes to Athens for the weekend. Stuck with either another night at Homer’s Hideaway or sneaking onto a six-hour train, we opted for the latter. Peri assured us that, if anything, the conductor would understand that we are lonely travelers and would not throw us off in the middle of the empty fields.

Rachel and I stood on the platform with Peri, and debated. Would we get in trouble? Was it morally right? Is it like stealing? Can we get away with it? We looked at each other, neither being daring enough to say yes or no, as Peri turned to us and said, “The train is coming. Yeah… You should probably run.” The decision was made in that instant and we ran as fast as we could, flying down the stairs, running in the underground passage between platforms, and almost losing our backpacks in our getaway.

Once onboard we had to follow the conductor with our eyes, always staying a car in front of him, until finally right as he was about to come to us and ask for our tickets, we jumped forward to a bar and asked for two Cokes. The bartender looked confused and the conductor passed us without question, assuming he’d already checked us. For the next six hours we hid and slept in the tiny space the stairs next to the exit door make.

We woke up Saturday morning at the latest possible time to still get breakfast at our hostel in Athens. After feasting on stale bread and hard-boiled eggs, we set out for a day of hiking. We strolled through the National Gardens, saw Athens University, stood on the fence of an Olympic Stadium, and climbed the highest peak in Athens. From the top of that peak, we stood with many other travelers as well as old Greek couples selling over-priced prayer beads. We sat and drank up the warm sun, relaxing in the serene moment. Wild pink and white flowers bloomed in spots of grass on the rocks. The scene made the past disappear and we took a moment to adore the country.

On our perch, we saw the plateau overlooking the city where the remnants of the Parthenon stood. It was beautiful and eerie to see how that structure towered over an ancient civilization. The gods who were worshiped there were such an everyday part of life that the tradition of Xenia stems from trying to please them. Legends say that gods traveled as disguised peasants, showing up to villagers’ doors and testing their kindness, like Athena in The Odyssey. If you were a good host, the god would favor you. A bad host fears the wrath of Zeus and Hermes, the gods who ruled over travelers. Which category would Peri fall under? We let this history wash over us with the bright sun, and honored the city that gave us shelter.

“A gift, though small, is always welcome.”

                   Third Rule of Xenia: Parting gift from host to guest

This is when Greece had its fun with us. After our long day of hiking we began a search for food. Our previous companion at Homer’s Hideaway, a girl named Nicole, forgot to pay for her two nights stay and we were stuck with the bill. Since she was now in London, we were broke. In search of something cheap, Rachel and I found a small souvlaki and tzatziki shop near our hostel in Omonia Square that had been around since 1965. The sun still lingered, so we sat outside. After eating and priding ourselves on our courage for sneaking onto a train, Rachel went back into the restaurant to get more bread for the cold, creamy cucumber sauce I bought. Bent over my plate, I stole some of her fried potatoes while she was gone. When she came back, she sat and then immediate stood. “Where’s my bag?”

“What?”

“My bag, where’s my bag?”

The disbelief and confusion left, and panic set in as Rachel’s eyes started to water. Noticing the commotion, the restaurant’s owner ran over with a few of his friends, and in broken English tried to calm us. They told us this happens often in Athens and that men are so deft with their hands they could pull the bag from the back of her chair, where it was hanging, without her noticing. Rachel fell to pieces, only rambling and naming off every item that was in the bag, how much each cost and letting out a moan when she reached her notebook.

“Rachel, look at me, was your passport in there?” I grabbed her shoulder. She shook her head no. The men seemed pleased. They told us to call immediately and cancel the credit cards. Then, we were to find a police station and report the bag stolen. I nodded, only half listening. My ears were ringing and I was secretly thanking the fact that I was too paranoid to remove my purse from across my chest. The men, seeing us both lost in thought, asked, “Do you…money.. money to call?…yes?”

“Oh no, thank you, we’ll be OK. Thank you so much.” The shock that these men would offer money to random girls brought me out of my head. I grabbed Rachel and we walked in the general direction of our hostel. Passing a cigarette stand, I bought a 4 euro calling card with my remaining money and shoved it into Rachel’s hands.

“Rachel, listen, call your parents and tell them to cancel your cards.”

“Thank you,” she sighed through the tears and called her father. Parents know the important skill of how to calm their children down, and Rachel’s dad must have a special secret because within seconds she was relaxed. No more tears, no more credit cards, but plenty of promises to buy her new things. Our next step was to find the police station.

We managed to find our way to the hostel, and were then directed by the very empathetic receptionist to the police station. The building was old and the light cast an ugly yellow tinge on everything inside. We filed a report with a sweatpant-wearing, overly hair-gelled cop who only said, “You lose passport? Don’t cry. No reason to cry. Only little girls cry.”

Feeling cut down and disheartened like our wax wings had melted, we stumbled back to the hostel. The receptionist, from Romania, told us stories about her bag being snatched from her as she was crossing the street. Since she had the passport in her bag, she said she was immediately deported.

She told us to look around the scene of the crime, because often the men dig through the purse only for the wallet and then throw the bag onto the street once they have it. We searched for over an hour with no luck.

Starving because we weren’t able to finish our lunch, we bought 1.96 euro tomato sauce and 0.43 euro pasta and convinced the receptionist to let us use the bar’s hot plate to cook. She agreed, let us in the bar alone, and offered bread and orange juice. We boiled the pasta in the dirty pan used for hard-boiling eggs, and put a little vodka in the orange juice. While we were waiting for food to cook, I noticed a small ashtray full of coins. I assumed it was a tip jar, and showed it to Rachel. We debated on whether we could take a euro, just one, to get half an hour at the Internet cafe and let our parents know we’re OK. Deciding Athens had taken so much from us, we took a euro back–albeit from the Romanian.

As we were checking out, the receptionist gave us the room at a discount price. She looked like she didn’t want to charge us at all for Rachel, but her boss was in the room. Reaching for my credit card, I silently counted the dollars spent over the week, hoping like hell I had 56 euro in my bank.

—-

On Sunday, the last leg of our journey, we couldn’t wait to get out of Athens. Rachel and I sat in silence together, letting the anxiety of the past day leave us with the smell of Athen’s pollution. As we neared the airport, I looked to Rachel.

“I think… well, maybe we should come back and see it in the summer.”

A small smile grew on her face.

“Yeah, it’s probably ten times as fun.” She winked.

 

 

Related Links:

Greece tourist information

Train travel in Greece

Patty Delgado is a third-year student at New York University studying journalism and sociology. She is from San Antonio, Texas.