Back in the day, in Greece, the excuse for any delay at any government office was as predictable as the morning coffee break: “Not my fault, Sir. It’s the fault of the υπηρεσία (ypiresía), loosely translated into “service” or “agency”. You are at her mercy”
The ypiresía was a mythical beast, invisible yet omnipotent. Nobody had ever met it, touched it, or even knew which desk it sat behind, but it was always to blame. A tax form lost? Ypiresía. Electricity bill doubled? Ypiresía. Passport delayed until next Easter? Ypiresía again.
Oh boy, the hours, days, weeks, and months I have lost from my life waiting in line, arguing with clerks, only to hear at the end the dreaded word: ypiresía. You walk in with hope, clutching a folder bursting with documents. Birth certificates, photocopies, tax stamps, even a letter from your aunt vouched for authenticity. You arrive at the window, present your papers, and for a moment you think you might succeed. Then the clerk frowns, taps her pen, and announces that one document is missing. Or worse, that you do have it, but it is the wrong color paper.
At that point, you know what comes next. Ypiresía. Game over. The door has slammed in your face. In the end, it always came down to the same result: “έφαγα πόρτα”, I ate the door. One of my favorite Greek expressions, and one that bureaucracy serves daily, hot and fresh.
And yet, on the flip side, in a weird way it felt almost comforting. It was nobody’s fault. Ypiresía was like the bureaucratic Zeus, hurling thunderbolts of inefficiency from Mount Olympus. The poor clerk at the counter was just a mortal, powerless against the gods. You couldn’t even be angry at her—she wasn’t the problem. She was just the messenger.
Fast forward to today, and America has caught on. Once again, Greece has managed to shine the lights of civilization into the modern era, just as the Ancient Greeks did centuries ago. Back then, it was democracy, philosophy, and theater. Now, it is the sacred art of excuses. The mythical ypiresía has simply crossed the Atlantic, put on a suit, and rebranded itself as “the computer.” “Sorry, Sir, it’s the computer. There is nothing I can do. I cannot overwrite anything.” Or as the Cuban clerk in Miami once said in broken English: “Sorry Sir. Ma-tsine broken”. This is the code word my wife and I use to this day instead of ypiresia whenever we get a push back.
At first, I thought this was progress. After all, a computer sounds more modern than a faceless ypiresía. But the effect is the same: you are staring at someone who could, with one keystroke, fix your problem, but instead they shake their head solemnly. The machine has spoken.
The difference is that in Greece, computers may exist, but Greeks still do what they have always done: improvise. Bureaucracy here is just another puzzle to solve with a wink, a workaround, and a little imagination.
Take my attempt to rent a P.O. Box at the local ELTA post office in Kalamata. The application form on their screen required a street name and number. That’s right, the Post Office, the very place designed to give you an address when you don’t have one, demands that you already have one.
The clerk looked up at me. “Your street?”
I shrugged. “Leika.” That’s not a street, just a general area of Kalamata, a neighborhood sprawling like spilled olives on a hillside.
“No problem,” he said, typing with confidence. “Gianni Morali 17.”
With that, the computer purred with approval. Application accepted. Keys handed over. Welcome to your new, perfectly official P.O. Box the owner of which is located at an address that doesn’t exist, on a street I have never seen, at a number that means nothing.
This is how Greece works. It bends. It improvises. It is the country where traffic lights are advisory, receipts are optional, and addresses can be invented on the spot to keep the line moving.
Meanwhile in America, the system does not bend. It breaks. The clerk will stare at the blinking cursor, shake their head, and tell you there is absolutely nothing that can be done. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever, unless you bring three forms of ID, a utility bill, and perhaps a note from your mother. USA you are running DOS in an iOS world. Please update your operating system.
And that is the essential difference between America and Greece. In the U.S., the computer is the wall you crash into. In Greece, it is a door you prop open with a made-up address. Somewhere between ypiresía and the computer lies the truth: the human genius for excuses never really goes away. It just changes names.
Footnote: If anyone reading this happens to live on Gianni Morali Street at number 17, please accept my apologies for the sudden flood of misdelivered mail. On the bright side, you are now the most popular address in Kalamata.
No comments yet. We have been waiting for you...