Athens: Not Just a Stopover

That one day I would be writing a story for our travelling section I had never anticipated, because – unlike my friends who live in their suitcase and travel the world far and wide – I have been sedentary in recent years, except for my daily travels in cyberspace and the occasional astral travel…

But here we were, at the beginning of October, Amiten and I, sitting in the plane heading for Athens. It is about an hour’s flight, something we had done before, but just part of a longer flight – the compulsory stopover. It is late evening already, we see the lights following the coast of the southern tip of Corfu, then a lot of darkness until we see the wide extention of lights of the capital – some patches of darkness of the hills in the middle of town.

Marga collects us at the airport. We had met before, in May, at Easter time, when she had visited Corfu with her partner Mridu – and it is easy to spot her curly black hair in the waiting crowd. We drive in a luxurious black BMW for about three quarters of an hour on broadly lit and wonderously, beautifully winding roads with hardly any traffic, the kind of roads where driving becomes pure pleasure (I would have loved to be at the steering wheel!).

Osho Serendipity Institute

We arrive at a building in the woods, not far from the coastal route, but far enough to only hear the sound of the wind in the surrounding pines and the occasional nocturnal bird (it is not the owl they say but they cannot name it either). Our ‘guest room’ turns out to be a small flat, with living room, bedroom, kitchen and shower. After a little nosing about in the bookshelf – I never expected that so many Osho books had been translated into Greek – it is time to go horizontal.

The next morning the whole surrounding shows itself in full colour under the first sun rays. The mist still rising from the trees around us. The top of the fronds are at eye level, being on the first floor: palm trees, olive trees and a centuries old twisted Mediterranean pine tree. With tea cup in hand I sit on the vast terrace taking it all in. And in the distance – the sea. I feel so beautifully rested, no phones, no emails, no laptop. Marga and Mridu mentioned that many visitors feel the Buddhafield there. So that must be it! A sense of being in a place we already know, not a new place where we first have to first build up the energy so that our aura feels relaxed, safe and happy.

It’s time to explore the centre – with my new tablet in hand. (As I later discover, the camera is not its best feature but the resulting photos, with its light distortions and colour changes, give a good impression of the lightness and energy there. Of course, the centre being off-season they do not show the hustle and bustle of people but rather the quietness – which was exactly what we wanted… and remember, you can stop the slideshows from running by clicking on the Stop button.) So here I start: at the bottom of the steps to our flat I notice a sign saying “Z the B Café.” This explains the many cups and silverware in our kitchen, the long dining table on the veranda and the many sofas on the terrace. An artistic red a black metal fence separates the passage from the neighbour’s land.

Further up a pond with a fountain at the centre, surrounded by small orange plastic chairs to meditate. The session tent: an open space yet with the feeling of intimacy and safety. On the floor a painting by Mridu waiting to be finished. Turning to the left a large open space, stone slabs with spots of paint – that’s where the painting workshops must take place, and when I lift my head I see a wonderful pine tree with many twisted branches as if it wanted to inspire the painters below to take courage in drawing unexpected turns in their lines.

Further on the smoking temple with happily painted clay yoghurt pots. Greeks are heavy smokers (not even the European smoking ban has managed to keep them in check!), but I later hear that also the non-smokers end up sitting here in the breaks because it is best company!

In the trees I see little artistic objects hanging from the branches here and there. So much is happening in this garden, that it is difficult to judge the actual size of it. It probably appears much larger than what it is.

In another area with a comfy sofa I meet Mridu who has just started picking the olives from her many trees. (She is the gardener and she is the one who turned this old family property into what it is now.) The olives are so big that you can pick them one by one and I love to give her a hand. They will make succulent olives in brine.

Marga comes from the office and we catch up on politics and discuss further possibilities how to use the potential of their place also in winter. One thought comes up and that is to offer it to anyone, but we are specially thinking of those world-travelling group leaders, to spend a few days of rest, seclusion, sunshine, sea side and good food. So, in a way Amiten and I are the guinea pigs to test if this would work – and this article is, in a way, my ‘report’ about the experiment.

From where I am seated under the olive trees I can spot another sitting place, and another at the end next to the vegetable garden, then the formal hedge at the entrance running from the gate to the house. I also see the baby palm tree on the border, the one I had seen on a video, dancing. It suddenly starts moving and I walk closer to it. We stand mesmerised around it. I move my hand close to it and I feel a strong tingling on my hand. My rational mind would love to experiment with a box which would isolate it from the tiniest gusts of wind. I study the shape of the leaf more closely: maybe it is the convection which catches the slightest current of air and makes it turn. Whatever – the idea we like best is that it is moving because of the energy in the Buddhafield. Just behind the dancing plant is the meditation room. Indeed, from where the group leader would sit, it would be in direct line with the plant, although at a distance of about 10 meters, because the hall is quite large.

For dinner we are invited to a typical Greek dish on the porch outside the meditation hall: butter beans in vegetable sauce after an array of never-tasted-before starters. And there is no way to get the recipe out of them! They got it from the chef who comes to prepare the meals for their workshops. And did you know that the Greeks ‘water down’ their meals with stiff drinks like ouzo? We are served raki, a pomace brandy made in Crete. I think it fits better than wine.

Athens

The following day is planned for a visit to town. That is Marga’s task and she does a wonderful job. We arrive in Athens after a half hour drive on beautiful roads – again I mention the roads… Not only because I am accustomed to the pot-holed tarmacs of Scotland and the ones in Corfu, but I feel that these roads have such beautiful, elegant curves, and they remind me of my first and only drive on Mevlana Road, the road we built for Osho’s afternoon drive to Patanjali lake on the Ranch.

We drive through manicured suburbs and keep wondering where the crisis is. I do see some empty shops here and there with ‘to rent’ signs, but it is all so ‘together’, clean and tidy. Shiny white building fronts, yellow awnings shading the balconies from the sun. Not a spot of paper in sight. Marga agrees that this side of town is the ‘posh’ side, but there is really a lot of ‘poshness’ in Athens!

First task is to find a parking spot in one of the side roads of the main artery. We do eventually find one on a curb and take the underground to the centre of town – the way this sentence turns out does not do justice to the experience, because… In excitement I ask Amiten to take photographs of the stations: laminated metal all over, displays of old Greek statues, metal benches with read trimmings… “We did not come to Athens to take photographs of the underground, we came to see the Akropolis!”

But the Akropolis is a bit of a disappointment: two cranes are up and the front of the temple is covered up by scaffolding, and when we see the hordes of tourists (still in October!) queue up the hill, we say, “We will visit it next time.” “I am happy to hear you are coming back!” is Marga’s reply.

Another one of the ‘musts’ is the new Acropolis Museum which certainly stands up to its reputation. The best part, for us, are the vistas across town and up to the Acropolis. Despite all the art history lessons (or maybe because of them) I cannot feel a connection to the artwork we are looking at – and the same happens to Amiten. So maybe, no past lives in Greece then.

Marga takes us on a wonderful tour, to places unknown to tourists, to the old town, the Plaka. Stairs and slopes, arty roads with lots of graffiti. When she sees Amiten taking photographs of the graffiti she takes us to a section of town which is full of them!

The open antiques fair, art galleries in secluded courtyards, and then comes a little shop, touristy maybe, but who cares? It has copies of little statuettes of the geometric period (7th century BC). I spend the best part of an hour in there trying to decide which one not to buy. I end up taking one with closed eyes: it is a little clay mountain goat, probably a children’s toy. “So maybe a past life there,” Marga proposes, “and next time I will take you to the display of the sculptures of that era, to the National Archaeological Museum.”

When she senses we need a little sit down, it is time we had a taste of rakomelo (I learn it is a drink based on the raki we had the other night but with added honey and spices). We sit on a terrace above a very trendy coffee shop from where we can gaze straight at the Akropolis. The Greeks have very good taste not only for clothes! I know this because whatever fashion item I have ever bought in Greece they always get the big thumbs up from my sisters who live in Milan….

After a lot of meandering in narrow streets we come to a wide pedestrian road, the Ermou, and bang in the middle of the road sits a little brown Byzantine church. By poor luck it was saved from destruction to give way to the traffic at the time. Now that the road is exclusively pedestrian, we hardly feel the obstruction. It was built in the 11th century but exudes a freshness too irresistible not to visit inside. It is so small that there is hardly space for half a dozen people to walk around. So delicate the feeling, an alive sanctuary which has managed to resist not only the bulldozers but also the hurried vibes of us tourists.

At the end of the Ermou comes the Syntagma Square which I knew from the news articles about the riots and demonstrations. Now, a calm Thursday evening, people strolling about, friends meeting, people texting. To the left the imposing Grande Bretagne Hotel where, according to Marga, the journalists were observing and the photographers taking shots of the events. In front of us the Parliament. We happen to arrive exactly on the hour when the guards change at the Memorial to the Unknown Soldier. Stomping guards in wooden shoes with pompoms, long-tailed caps – and rifles. Another metro ride to the car and back home.

Temple of Poseidon

The following day is reserved for rest, a walk on the beach and, at sunset, a visit to the Poseidon Temple on Cape Sounio. Mridu takes us, at a bit more moderate speed, in her fancy little Alpha Romeo. Again beautifully winding roads along the Aegean Sea. It is much further away than I had thought (actually just 10 km) and the wait makes the sense of anticipation grow. Finally we see the temple in the distance; it stands on a rock plunging straight into the sea. The white pillars contrasting against the blue sky.

Park the car, pay the ticket and there it is already. Despite the bus load of loud and rude Eastern European tourists, the three of us fall into a state of silence and feel the fragrance of the place. It is very delicate, a hush rather than a message. What a wonderful place this Poseidon has chosen for himself, and to be on time for the sunset is a bonus! Mridu tells us that for one of their groups they had come to meditate on a flat spot on an adjacent outcrop and watched the sun go down between the columns of the temple.

We hear from Mridu the story about Athena and Poseidon and this is the rendering of what I remember: Two gods, Poseidon and Athena, were worshipped and there was the dispute which one of the two should take on the reigns of the city. Athena won the ‘competition’, the Akropolis was built for her and the city received the name from her: Athens. Poor Poseidon was relegated to the tip of this peninsula. Athena was involved in wars and battles whilst Poseidon rested meditatively on this rock surrounded by the Mediterranean on three sides, enjoying the rising and setting of sun and moon over the sea. So, who has won the ‘competition’ in the end? we ask.

The Gazi

Our final day starts with a visit to the annual arts and crafts fair taking place at the Gazi, the renovated buildings of old gas works, now almost in the middle of town. No resemblance to any arts and crafts fairs I have every seen before. This country seems to be well ahead of its time. These are stands of the most modern interpretations of what one can do with gold, silver, clay, cloth, felt, paper, soap and photography. The young vendors are the artists themselves who take pride in what they have done and are keen to hear our feed-back. It is a pleasure to buy from them, not only because the goods are irresistible but because we know that whatever we pay will all go to them.

In the converted gas tanks I discover exhibition stands and conferences for people who are looking for jobs (same vibe as those I visited in Scotland). Interesting was a stand of an Australian government agency giving advice for immigration.

A coffee in plain air watching the strolling Saturday morning shoppers. Young men, each one with the same small plastic bag. “It’s from a computer shop,” Marga notices. Time for lunch now, even Amiten drinks the ouzo on ice which accompanies the meal. Mridu and Marga take us to this even more impressive metro station. The train will take us directly to the airport, they tell us. Hugs and kisses, good bye, smiles and a sense of completion.

Back in Corfu, our little blue car waits at the airport, nicely washed down by the rains which had poured down while we were away.

Punya, Osho News

serendipitygreece.com – www.facebook.com/oshoserendipity

Read our Profile of the Osho Serendipity Institute