Conversations in Greece: Politics and Quiet Spaces

“Two hours in a dark room where no one talks to me.”

That’s what I wanted after my return from a trip to Greece. Brian and I like to explore unfamiliar places and find similarities to life at home while we’re there. I (more than Brian) like talking to strangers along the way. I asked every person I met in Greece, “How are you?” and, because I’m an American in a time when half of my country probably doesn’t care how I’m doing or even worse, maybe wants me to do poorly, my query was sincere. Each Greek I asked (plus two Albanians) seemed surprised at my ordinary question, but I was curious. Curiosity opens up conversation, which was the idea. I asked a lot of questions and no one ever refused to answer, even if our mutual language barrier meant we used lots of gestures and the vocabulary of three-year-old kids. Greeks love to discuss everything from politics to the  proper way to drink the anise-flavored spirit ouzo (1. always outdoors 2. with friends and family 3. while celebrating something — anything will do.) 

Every Greek I met (without exaggeration) wanted my thoughts about the USA, our current president and America’s future. They are well-informed about American politics. Do you know the name of Greece’s Prime Minister? I do, but only because I googled it after a particularly humbling conversation with a Greek bartender at Brettos in Athens’ Plaka. (BTW, the PM is that cute-as-a-bug socialist, Alexis Tsipras.) “America will get through this,” every Greek assured me. Unsaid was the rest of that thought: because American must be okay. Because the world is counting on you. 

Thanks to our shared introversion all this conversing drains Brian and me. Quiet spaces are where we replenish our energy. In our small flat, we split up — Brian goes to the den, I retreat to my writing desk in our bedroom — and we happily write or pay the bills or plan our next trip. Alternatively, we head for that dark room, a movie theater, where we get free popcorn refills and a chalice of Coke Zero larger than my considerable thighs. Our local movie spot is Alamo Drafthouse, which is famous for its rules: “Don’t talk. Don’t text. Don’t arrive late.”  It’s rumored that even Madonna got kicked out of the Drafthouse for using her cell phone. That’s not a problem for us. Sometimes we put our phones on silent and forget about them for days until we wonder why no one loves us. At the movies, we melt into our chairs, muscles relax, eyes adjust to the darkness. “Eighth Grade” appeared on the screen last weekend and everyone in the theater shut up. Actor Elsie Fisher showed us the cringe-worthy moments that make middle school a hotbed of anxiety. I forgot about politics and other things that wake me up at night.

Greeks are used to waking up to bad news; they have had a rough go of it lately, and by lately I mean basically forever. They’ve been invaded by Venetians, Ottomans, Nazis and hordes of tourists. They have suffered inexperienced and corrupt leadership. Members of the European Union accuse them of being lazy. Economic crises have been de rigueur. Unemployment runs at about thirty-five percent. In June 2015, Greeks were limited to withdrawing €60 from their bank accounts each day. €60 doesn’t take you far in a city like Athens. The phrase “Austerity measures” rolls off the tongues of politicians, and people in the streets use it too, often preceded by “fuck these…” Graffiti and political street art is everywhere, especially in Athens. Entire neighborhoods claim the Antifa label. Greeks don’t like being bossed around. Who does? 

Not me. I became a feminist in seventh grade, too late for bra-burning but before Roe. I expected to be the boss of my own self by now, of my own body, but I am still fighting that fight. Being a woman my age in 2018 America is a strange mixture of empowerment and are you effing kidding me? Recent events forced me out of my writing chair and into the streets. I’ve attended sign-making parties. I have marched. Not just for myself and the way I’d like to live, but for friends and family and people I have never met. I’ve  protested at the Texas capitol, talked to a senator’s staff and had countless conversations with friends who agree with me and friends who don’t. I’ve been part of debates on social media that are mostly name-calling and trolling and aren’t debates at all if I remember high school with any accuracy. It’s been an exhausting couple of years.

Three movies in three days. That’s how much time Brian and I needed in dark theaters last weekend. We didn’t talk, but because we watched movies about life and love, about mental health and about the power of Fred Rogers, we found ways to communicate. A nudge to say, You saw that, right?  Hands clasped in understanding. An arm-gripped when — spoiler alert — one of the triplets in the documentary “Three Identical Strangers” kills himself.

I’m not as certain as my new Greek friends about America’s future. But, because of Greece’s history and what they have wrestled with for thousands of years, I listened to them. They made me feel hopeful. I also like that they don’t just talk about politics. Greeks love to discuss food (the eggplant dish called Imam melts in your mouth; it’s amazing.) They wanted to know what parts of their country we were visiting and had opinions about which areas of the country are most authentically Greek. In case you’re wondering, the Peloponnese Peninsula in the south and Epirus in northwestern Greece were the clear favorites.

Now that I’m home from my travels, I am writing more than I have been in a long while which makes me happy. I want to make other changes, too. To balance conversations with friends and sitting in silence. I want to discuss food more often. I want to cook my own version of Imam and I’d like to share every morsel with people who will love it as I do. I want to talk less, listen more and, every now and again, spend a couple of hours in a dark theater.