After an hour's flight from Rome, I find myself in the teeming port city of Brindisi on the Adriatic coast. Suddenly I feel like I am in the Third World. The main street of the dock area, a pedestrian zone, is crawling with people — young, old, Italians, Greeks, Albanians, Africans, Turks — all talking loudly, gesturing, arguing, laughing. It is here where boatloads of immigrants, most of them illegal, arrive in Italy from Albania and ex-Yugoslavia. The street is lined with cheap neon-lit cafés, money changers, travel agencies offering tickets to Greece, Albania and Turkey, and — of course — a McDonald's.
I cool my heels in a seedy café for a couple of hours then board the Blue Star 1, a large Greek passenger ferry that will make the overnight trip to Patras. I make a tour of the ship. The travel agency brochure bills it as a "luxury" ferry, complete with swimming pool, casino, discos, restaurant and cinema. Yes, well ... The pool, located on a chilly open deck, is empty. The casino consists of 10 slot machines. The restaurant and cinema are closed for the night crossing. The disco bar, staffed by taciturn, grim-faced waiters, is unbearably depressing, with its pulsating Greek pop music and strobe lights flickering over the empty dance floor.
At 7 a.m., I am awakened by the first morning light and gaze out of the porthole to see a group of craggy Greek islands go by. They are stunning, with steep mountains rising straight from the sea, their rocky facades turned rosy gold by the rising sun, their peaks enshrouded by clouds. You can see why the ancients believed that gods lived on the mountain tops in that misty frontier between heaven and earth.
At 9:30, we arrive in Patras, a gritty, nondescript port city. I board a bus and strike up a conversation with a young woman who is headed to Athens for the weekend. Her name is Vasiliki. She is 23, attractive, speaks several languages, has a university degree — and works as a barmaid in the local casino. "To get a good job in Greece, it is not enough to be smart. You have to know someone."
I am full of questions and Vasiliki seems happy to talk. "What are Greeks passionate about?"
"The people I see are passionate about gambling. Sometimes when I give them drinks, someone will make me a compliment. But then he leaves the bar right away because he is passionate about the game. Sometimes they stay 24 hours at the table, no eat, no drink. There are a lot of beautiful men there, but you can't see them because they are obsessed with gambling."
"What else are Greeks passionate about?"
"Greek people, we like conversation. We talk a lot. We want to learn from other people. We like to go out, have a nice time, celebrate. We don't like to stay at home."
"Do you think of yourself as a European?"
"I don't feel European. We're different from other people. We celebrate differently. We LIVE our lives. Other people live a program — they work, they go home. We have no program."
"And what are Greek men like?"
She smiles. "Greek men want to have a lot of women, but want his wife to live only for him. My husband wants to go out with his friends, wants to compliment other girls. But if any man flirts with me, he wants to kill him." Fortunately for my life expectancy, my stop comes up. I bid adieu to the fair Vasiliki and get out in the fishing village of Egio.
NEXT: TIME goes gambling
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