Flashback to 2007. I was flying from Los Angeles to Athens, armed with optimism, sneakers, and the misplaced belief that European efficiency existed outside of glossy brochures. What followed was a 24-hour crash course in chaos, bureaucracy, and human comedy.
Tick tack, tick tack…
8:30 p.m. — Boarding begins at LAX. AF 234. Chaotic, but nothing unusual. Next to me sits a funky Frenchman, age twenty, sporting a beard, five rings, a dozen bracelets, and three cell phones. I feel under-accessorized.
9:20 p.m. — Departure delayed. Missing bags. Not one bag, not two, but four containers of them. A full hour later: “Voilà, found them!” We take off.
The food? Acceptable. The wine? French. The service? Also French, which means warm smiles punctuated by shrugs. We land late in Paris.
5:35 p.m. — My connection to Athens leaves in 35 minutes. The stewardess points me to a video screen for information. It’s blank. Merci beaucoup (thank you very much).
5:46 p.m. — Sprinting through Charles de Gaulle. Two gate agents shrug and say, “You can try to catch it. Maybe the flight is late!” Encouraging!
6:06 p.m. — I reach the gate. Greeks are loudly debating whether the bus will take us to Athens or detour through Paris back roads. At least it feels like home already.
6:50 p.m. — On board. Good wine, good laughs, and an American girl heading to Santorini whose bags never made it but whose spirits are lifted by two cheerful Frenchmen. It feels like a Louis de Funès movie.
10:37 p.m. — Athens. Bags? Not mine. To Swissport for a claim. Tick tack, tick tack. By 11:24 I’m sprinting across the airport with one euro to spare for the last train into the city.
11:39 p.m. — On the train, comedy resumes. A lady misplaces her red suitcase, mistakes a Russian couple’s black one for her own, sparks an international incident, then recovers hers and apologizes—in French. Apparently all Russians are fluent in French.
12:19 a.m. — Passing the American Embassy on foot, I count four policemen, three cigarettes, and two cell phones, none of them actually facing the building. I feel extremely safe.
12:34 a.m. — Hotel check-in. No Internet. “Since Thursday,” the receptionist explains cheerfully. “They might fix it next week.” Of course.
Morning. Breakfast. Still no Internet. I try Vodafone. They ask for: Greek ID, Greek address, Greek electricity bill, Greek phone number, and my Greek tax ID. I offer my U.S. passport. They laugh. I try my parents’ phone number. Wrong name. My brother’s number? Unlisted. Maria’s number? Success! But still, they want my tax ID.
So I march to the tax office (elevator broken, naturally), beg for my number, and emerge victorious. Back to Vodafone. Contract signed. I am now officially Maria, taxpayer, Vodafone subscriber, and proud owner of a 3G card.
Meanwhile, at the store, an old man is arguing over his bill, it’s €50.60, but he insists it’s wrong. He’s right. It’s €50.61. Another customer demands Vodafone explain why his friend isn’t picking up his calls, and if they can kindly provide him his new number.
By early afternoon, I finally coax the hotel’s technician into changing the Hotel firewall. Miraculously, the Internet works. Files are sent. Business can resume.
Tick tack, tick tack. Only 18 hours late.
That was 2007. My takeaways:
French airports are obstacle courses.
Greeks assume every bus might take you from Paris to Athens.
Russians argue in Russian, apologize in French.
Greek policemen guard you with their backs.
Vodafone will only believe you if you are Maria.
And yes, eighteen years later, I can confirm: little has changed. But progress made, this is home and I love it.
Siga-siga,
Nick the Greek (nobody would dare say my last name in America)
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