Reading Plutarch in Geraka

One of the most appropriate passages I’ve ever read about Greece, ancient, Byzantine or modern, is the Introduction to the Penguin Classic edition of Plutarch: Makers of Rome, translated by Ian Scott-Kilvert (1965). I came across this at Princeton in 1989, and it has stayed with me ever since. I take the liberty of transcribing part of the Introduction of the 1965 edition here.

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Two themes dominate the cycle of Plutarch’s Roman Lives, the valour and tenacity of the Roman people in war, and their genius for political compromise. The creators of the pax Romana were first of all children of Mars, and so Plutarch depicts them, often defeated by never subdued, and in the end triumphant over one dreaded enemy after another, the Volscians, the Gauls, Pyrrhus and his elephants, the Carthaginians and their matchless cavalry. Lastly the army moves into politics, the enemies of the Republic become her own legions led by their contending generals, and the clash of arms is only finally stilled when, after the victory of Actium, Octavius Caesar symbolically closes the ever-open doors of the temple of Janus.

This brings us to Plutarch’s second motif, the problems of statecraft and the struggle for power between patricians and plebeian, the Senate and the popular leaders. It is here, for all the ruthlessness of Roman political life, that Plutarch pays tribute to the political instinct, the ability to close ranks in a moment of crisis, which eventually raised this tribal confederation of Italian farmers to the mastery of the world – and the absence of which proved the ruin of the Greek city-state.

The tragedy of Greece and the triumph of Rome form the political poles of the Lives viewed as a whole, and Plutarch passes judgment on his fellow countrymen in a memorably passage from The Life of Flaminius:

For if we except the victory of Marathon, the sea-fight at Salamis, the battles of Plataea and Thermopylae, and Cimon’s exploits at Eurymedon…Greece fought all her battles against and to enslave herself. Every one of her trophies stands as a memorial to her own shame and misfortune, and she owed her ruin above all to the misdeeds and the rivalries of her leaders.

The peculiarly Roman virtues as Plutarch sees them – best exemplified perhaps in the careers of Fabius, Marcellus and Sertorius – include not only courage and the power of leadership, but also generosity and forbearance, the qualities which create harmony between rulers and ruled. But the real source of Roman supremacy and object of Plutarch’s admiration is “the idea of Rome”, a spiritual heritage undreamed of in Greece, which at moments of supreme crisis seems to descend upon the city’s fallible representatives, to work through them and to shape their ends.

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Today, in the midst of a wrenching economic crisis which illuminates the self-destructive tendencies of Greece’s political elite and of many segments of her population, these words seem more relevant than ever.

Ironically enough, Plutarch hailed from Chaeronea in Boeotia, today an otherwise unremarkable village near Levadia we drive by while en route to Delphi. I have often wondered why Chaeronea’s most famous son is not honoured with a museum, or even a simple sign along the road, and why Chaeronea is not on any tourist routes.

Another brief transcription from the summary:

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Plutarch was one of the last of the classical Greek historians. He was born in about AD 45 at Chaeronea in Boeotia, where he later had a schook, and in middle age took up a priesthood at near-bye Delphi.

When Nero visited Greece in AD 66, Plutarch was a student at Athens. He became a philosopher, a man capable of lecturing and discussing on many learned topics, and wrote a large number of essays and dialogues on philosophical, scientific and literary subjects (the Moralia). He adopted the philosophic standpoint of a Platonist, and frequently attacked both Stoics and Epicureans. He wrote his historical works somewhat late in life, and his Parallel Lives of eminent Greeks and Romans is probably his best-known and most influential work (their translation by North was used by Shakespeare as a source for his Roman plays).

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Some additional resources:

MIT Classics Archive (complete Dryden translation of Plutarch’s Lives): http://classics.mit.edu/Browse/browse-Plutarch.html

Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy: http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/plutarch/

Livius: http://www.livius.org/pi-pm/plutarch/plutarch.htm

Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plutarch

Better the Devil you know

The Devil sat down next to me on the Metro at Syntagma station. He wore a shabby blue suit and smelled of leaf tobacco and crisp new 500 Euro bills. I knew he was the Devil, because he had left his Hellenic Parliament pass clipped to his jacket pocket, and his forked tail thrashed uncomfortably as he sat down.

“Good evening,” smiled the lady sitting across from him. He smiled in return and cleared his throat, but didn’t speak. Instead, he unfolded one of those free newspapers and started to read with evident interest.

After a while, I took pity on him, and offered him my Financial Times. He took it with a grateful smile and I, recognising him from the evening news, decided to make small talk.

“So how are we doing?” I asked, not remembering which political party he belonged to.

“Oh, fine,” he said, a sly grin on his face. “Never better! Gold is rising—if I were you, I’d get my assets into gold.”

“Well, gold is a bit too rich for me” I responded. “With a family to support, I spend most of my money on basics–school fees, dentists, taxes.”

“Taxes?” he harrumphed. “Never mind that young man. You’re far too young to pay taxes. Just buy gold. Nothing better. And make sure you bank it in Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?” I gasped “I thought you were in the Greek Parliament!?”

“Sure I’m in Parliament. But just because I’m a servant of the people doesn’t mean I can’t look after myself, you know,” his eye twinkled as he nudged me in the ribs.

“And if I don’t look after myself, who will? Do you really think IKA will pay us when we retire? Besides, I run into Greek MPs in Switzerland all the time. At the end of the month, Zurich is like Kolonaki. There’s always a few dozen slackers hanging around the banks or shopping on the Bahnhofstrasse. Just last weekend I saw Shoeman at Banque Pictet (very sophisticated, Shoeman is–that’s why he became a Commissioner) and Abraham’s Boy buying another gold watch. He can’t seem to get enough Rolex, that villain. And Cave Boy wants to go again this weekend to buy more Zegna ties—he didn’t get enough freebies when he was at the Tourism Ministry.” 

“Shoeman? Bahnhofstrasse?” I stuttered. ”Rolex?”

“Absolutely! Gold is the master of all things. Look around you: central bankers printing money; governments running up debt; manufacturing moving to China and not coming back. Why not gold? You don’t believe in austerity, do you? Balanced budgets? Stable currencies?”

Thinking about it, I had to confess I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen either a balanced budget or a stable currency. And I certainly couldn’t remember when I last bought something made in Greece. Even the garlic sold at the neighbourhood psilihatzithiko was made in China.

“You know, don’t look at it so badly!” he said. “Switzerland is a nice place. Solid. Secure. The trains run on time. You can go skiing in the winter and sailing in the summer. Simple people—most of them are asleep by ten—and a bit boring, but you can do business with them. Not like us Greeks. We are a lively people: we eat to much, sing too loud, and fall in love at the first moment. And if you think there’s a crisis, just try getting into Super Paradise in Mykonos on the weekend. Malaka, not even God could get in there!”

“God goes to Super Paradise?”

“Well, you know what I mean” the Devil smirked. “It’s not so easy being God: delegations arriving from all over the place, every minute scheduled, no time even to fart. I used to be like that, but I gave it up after a while. Too stressful. But I can go back and do it any time I want to.”

“And so now you’re in Parliament?” I asked, disbelievingly.

“Hey, don’t knock the Parliament!” he protested. “We do important work. Just yesterday we approved a Memorandum of Understanding between our Hydrographic Service and Slovenia’s Department of Maritime Affairs. Next week, we will be reviewing a law on electronic prescriptions. And don’t forget: October 28^th is coming up!”

“What happens on October 28^th?” I asked, befuddled.

“What happens on October 28^th? Why, it’s OXI Day of course! On this proud day in 1940, we said “No” to Mussolini. And then we whupped his ass all the way back to Albania. “Aera” our proud forefathers cried, freezing in the snow without even shoes on their feet. “Aera!”

“Of course, these days most Albanians live in Pangrati and we say “yes” to Italian loans. Damn spaghetti eaters. The Astakos project was cancelled because of an Italian conspiracy. They didn’t want to pay double the price for Quatari petroleum gas from Astakos. Another stab in the back.”

“But surely,” I ventured, “you can hardly blame the Italians for wanting a fair price for gas.”

“Why should they?” cried the Devil. “Do Greeks get fair prices? Of course not. Our gasoline is the highest in Europe. Our supermarket prices are twice as high. A self-service frappe at Da Capo costs 5 Euro – 5 Euro, can you imagine? A café crème at Fouquet’s on the Champs Élysées is only 3 Euro!

"Of course, at Da Capo you see all the celebrities: Kougias, Koromila, Kalomira. Who do you see at Fouquet’s? No one. We are richer than the French! Richer and better! We are a proud people! Why shouldn’t the Italians pay us?”

“Er…are you complaining about the high prices, or are you happy to be screwed by those evil cartels Papariga keeps on about?” I inquired.

“I have always been a champion of the working class!” intoned the Devil, magnanimously. “Look at me: I’m just a simple kid from Kastri. My father was a humble economics professor who had to flee during the junta! I worked hard to get where I am today: I have degrees from Amherst, Stockholm, LSE and Harvard! It seems like all my life I’ve been in school. And sociology is a tough subject you know: you can’t just slack off in class or during the vacations. Work is all I know.”  

“Yes, foukara mou, you have seen much hardship.” I commiserated.

“Hardship and xenitia” reminisced the Devil. “But now look at how far we’ve come. Fifty years ago you had to emigrate to freezing Minnesota. Today you can find xenitia right here in Athens. Who says our convergence policy with Europe hasn’t worked?”

“You know, you are right!” I agreed. “Our standard of living has improved dramatically. I was just reading that we have the highest number of Porsche Cayennes per capita, and we have the highest consumption of Scotch whisky after Scotland.”

“Ainte bravo!” cried the Devil. “You see? We are doing something right. And then these ungrateful Europeans come down and tell us we have to live within our means. After we gave them democracy and civilisation. Where would Europe be without us? Even the name Europe is Greek: Europa, who was abducted by Zeus in the form of a white bull. I never stop reminding my European colleagues of this. I tell them, ‘We have embarked on an Odyssey together.’ But they never listen. Not anymore.”  

Suddenly the loudspeaker blared out the next stop: “Nomismatokopeio”

“Well, that’s my stop," said the Devil. “Just have to fire up the printing presses before turning in tonight. Money never sleeps. It’s been great talking with you, young man. Your patritha is proud of you. Pay your taxes and work hard, because Greece needs you. Money exists. People stop me in the street, working class people, who offer me their wage if it can help pay down the debt.”

He jumped up and bounded away through the empty Metro carriage, his shoes squeaking with every step. Behind him, the singed pages of my FT smouldered on the Metro floor. Money exists, I thought. If only I could get some. 

(c) Philip Ammerman, 2010

Letters from the Καφενείο

Vilnius

I spent the latter half of last week attending a conference in a Baltic country where I’ve had the privilege of working since 2004. As you approach from the air to land in the capital’s airport, you can plainly see that this is not a rich country. Few highways cross the countryside; much flat land is uncultivated; forests dot the landscape. This impression of—not poverty exactly, but not riches either—is confirmed as you drive from the airport past the Stalinist apartment blocks and crumbling factories in the suburbs.

Yet the historic centre of the town is a jewel: baroque church spires grace every corner; cobblestoned streets contrast with Scandinavian-designed boutiques; pubs and restaurants are housed in old merchant houses hundreds of years old.

Despite its poverty, the city works. Cars park where they are supposed to park, and don’t park where they aren’t supposed to. Drivers stop for pedestrians at the pedestrian crossings—even without a streetlight. There are sidewalks uncluttered by parked motorcycles, parked cars or signposts. You don’t see graffiti anywhere: not on the walls of the various universities in town; not on the town hall; not anywhere. The garbage is kept indoors until taken out for collection: you don’t see derelict garbage bins spewing their litter onto the streets.

The souvenir shops in the centre feature local products: jewellery made of silver and amber; incredible ceramics; wood carvings, home furnishings and the like. Very little of this is made in China: most of it is made by small artisans known to the sellers, and very often by the artisans themselves. Prices are eminently reasonable: there are high quality, hand-made toys available from just 1 euro, or amber jewellery from 10 euro. There are no Nigerian street-sellers; there are no Chinese stores packed with counterfeit products.

The best business school in the country is a private one. It was started after the fall of the Soviet Union. Today its degrees are accepted by both government and industry. There are no divisive questions of university asylum in either the public or private universities. Private and state degrees are accredited and assessed according to the same system, and have equal value whether in the private or public sector.

Despite the fact that GDP fell drastically in 2008-2009, small groups of special interests do not block the town centre or try to burn parliament. The President and Prime Minister are both elected directly, in contrast to the Greek model where the President is appointed by Parliament. The serving President is a woman who served as a commissioner of the European Union.

The contrast with Athens could not be greater. It was a relief to be in a modest, well-run city which suffers from no delusions of grandeur, and refuses to accept the widespread criminal activity evident in my home city.

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Lunch at Schinias

I returned from Lithuania late on Saturday evening, and on Sunday we decided to take a trip out to Schinias and enjoy the day on the beach. Against my own preferences, but in line with the desire of our guests, we decided to eat at the “Dolphin”, an illegal restaurant on the beach.

The waiter came and asked us if we wanted to see the “grill” (ψητo). This is not the normal use of the word, for he took us to see which large fish could be grilled. His sales pitch was for a sea bream caught on the open sea (as opposed to raised in an aquaculture cage). The price was EUR 50 per kilo, or EUR 80 for the fish in question.

I have to admit, I was extremely irritated, although this is a standard price for “fresh fish”. Perhaps if I didn’t pay the income taxes I pay every year, I could spend the money on his miserable fish instead. But despite the fact that I am a relatively well-remunerated professional, not dependent on the Greek market, and with my own company to boot, I simply refuse to spend EUR 80 on a fish, which probably cost EUR 20 from the fisherman.

Perhaps it was the banality of his manner at offering such an astronomical price for what was clearly a very ordinary product. Indeed, the insouciance with which he and his fellow taverna-owners engage in the same price gouging all over Greece shows that I am far in the minority on this issue.

Yet the bastard got us anyway. When the bill for our sardine & kalamari lunch finally arrived, the cover charge for “bread” amounted to EUR 6, or EUR 1 for every person at the table. Given that 1 kg of bread costs EUR 0.60, he charged us enough to buy 10 kg of bread, while of course serving less than 0.5 kg. A fine margin indeed: If I raised my consultancy fees to the same ratio, I’d be eating at Alain Ducasse every night.

It’s really too bad the average diner is content to spend lots of money for a very average product. Perhaps if we were all a little more choosy and stopped frequenting the greasy spoon tavernas which have become the norm in Greece, they would go out of business or raise their quality.

Or perhaps not, given the rampant illegality and corner-cutting in this business. The taverna in Schinias, for instance, was using the oil of olive seeds (πυρηνέλαιο) rather than olive oil in his Greek salad. And the calamari was probably frozen in Thailand.

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Feeding Ηρα

My weekend finished in a hospital room at the Athens Medical Centre on Kifissias, where my father has been hospitalised following yet another medical condition. He will pull through.

The story that follows is one recounted by my mother: Two nights ago, she was getting a taxi to leave the hospital. The driver asked if she minded waiting for a couple of minutes. He stopped near the hospital, got out, took a can of dog food from his car, and called out the name “Ηρα”. A stray dog, obviously very familiar to him, ran up with obvious delight. He fed the dog a little way off, got back in the car, and drove my mother home.

My mother asked him how long he had been feeding that dog. He answered “Every day for the last 5 years.”  

(c) Philip Ammerman, 2010

Letters from the Καφενείο

Yesterday I learned (from management sources) that a leading global firm with operations in Greece was audited here. The auditors showed up and requested that for the audit in northern Greece, the firm provide the audit team with 5* hotel accommodation, all room/dining expenses paid, a woman in every room at night, and a chauffered car from the hotel to “work”. The firm, which would have passed the audit anyway, but didn't want to get into a protracted legal and procedural battle, gave in to these demands, and passed the audit with flying colours. Yet another facet of business management that won’t make it into the HBR case studies.

Last week, the press reported that COSCO, the Chinese shipping/transport firm that privatised [part of] the port of Pireaus, was complaining about EUR 38 mln in unreturned VAT from the government. The press also reported that for the construction sector alone, there was EUR 1 bln in unpaid VAT. Other acquaintances report massive delays in both VAT as well as European subsidies for investments made. These investments have been audited and approved, but the EU money is nowhere to be found. I have to ask, with reports like this commonplace in local and international press, exactly how much credibility the Ministry of Finance’s revenue numbers have, and whether an official rebuttal or answer should be given by the government on this issue, given its interest in attracting more foreign investment.

Some years back I was drinking a Saturday late-morning beer (those were the days!) with a friend in Kolonaki. The friend, said half-approvingly: “To win this project, we paid the equivalent of 300 Mercedes S-600s.” That’s one for every member of Parliament. Just think of the savings Greece could have if we reduced the number of Parliamentarians from 300 to 200. Or to 150. Or just sub-contracted the job to Luxembourg.

Perhaps saddest of all was the news reported today in Kathimerini, that the Acropolis Museum restaurant was closing. This restaurant, despite some glitches in service, was a marvel, where you could get a cold espresso or a fresh juice for EUR 2.50, in the otherwise cut-throat tourist centre. Apparently the operation was being done using temporary staff, who’s contracts were no longer being renewed. Equally strange was the report that despite EUR 80,000 per month in revenue, the restaurant was not breaking even. Now that Mr. Samaras is no longer Minister of Culture, does this mean that the Museum might hire some employees who are not from Messinia? Whatever the provenance of its staff, expect higher prices. 

Come to Dinner

Last week, I received news that a project in Ukraine that was supposed to start this past Monday was moved to Monday, November 2nd. Being in Athens, I decided to invite some friends to dinner that I hadn’t seen in a long time.

First I emailed Stratos and Olga: Come to dinner. Fifteen minutes later, I received an email from Olga: “Stratos is in Cairo this week, getting back on Thursday.”

Then I emailed Kostas: Come to dinner. An hour later, Kostas calls me: “Re file, I’m at the airport now, leaving for Skopje. I’ll be back on Wednesday, but landing at 21:30, and it will be too late.”

“OK, I said, “how about next week?” “Next week I’m leaving for Bulgaria…will be gone the whole week.” “Kala,” I said, “let’s keep in touch.”

Then I emailed Alexandros and Christiana. Alexandros could make it, but Christiana had a university session after work and would arrive later. I count myself lucky to see them: apart from a totally chance meeting in Thessaloniki last week, we’ve only managed to see each other twice in four years, despite being holiday neighbours.

Luckily, Eri and Christos agreed to join us, and I managed to get the magic number of four friends together.

But then I had to call the cleaning lady. “Jenny, hi, will you come on Wednesday?” “No Mr. Philip. I’m leaving for Canada to see my relatives.” "Great Jenny. When will you be back?" "In three months sir."

In a fit of reflection, it occurred to me that we’ve all become a bit like the Massively Productive Business Executive I knew while living in Paris, scheduling breakfast meetings two months in advance.

But writing this blog post, I suddenly realise that yes, we’ve actually become “Europeans." Our goal of convergence has been achieved:

• The spontaneous visits of friends and relatives has been replaced by rigidly scheduled meetings, planned far in advance and ending early due to the need to wake up for a demanding next day.

• The emphasis on personal contact over a coffee or ouzo has been replaced. Now, we far more available in terms of communication--we are logged on to Facebook or Skype nearly 24/7; we have email and GSM. But while this medium provides ready contact, it is impersonal and superficial, dominated by the technological channel and in some cases can lead to dramatic misunderstandings.

• The days we used to know where our parents would work until some time in the afternoon, and then leave their business and worries behind, are over. We are now in business mode 24 hours a day. If not actually working until 20:00 or so, we are still thinking about work issues. Or logged onto Internet. Or watching TV. Or doing something solitary rather than collective.

• Our vacation habits of decamping to the village for weeks on end are over. We are lucky to get much vacation time at all, and we typically split that between multiple locations over the year. As a result, we have almost no ties to the rural environments our families come from.

So we face a shortage of these two most valuable resources—time and friends—as a consequence of our professional success and our modern lifestyle.

Another irony is that in a time of high unemployment and massive investment in vocational education and training, finding skilled labour in Athens today is practically impossible. Our cleaning ladies travel to Canada and simply can’t be replaced. And if your regular plumber disappears, try finding a new one.

Don’t get me wrong: We had a great dinner! The [new] plumber finished installing a new kitchen faucet 5 minutes before the first guest arrived. We managed to pull off a cleaning job in record time. And I didn’t burn the food.

But the best part of it was enjoying the company of good friends and great people that we all too rarely see. The simple act of breaking the weekly routine and taking time out for something different, for ourselves, was revitalising. It’s a habit we will develop more of.