Athens, the thirteenth day
Aug. 25th, 2011 08:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hawkwing_lbThis morning I went to the National Historical Museum on Odos Stadhiou. On the way, I passed a bookshop, Ianos by name. Being as little able to resist the call of a bookshop as mythical Greek sailors were able to resist Sirens, I went in.
The SFF section is, I sorrow to report, dominated by Terry Brooks, Wizards of the Coast, Stephanie Meyer and Charlaine Harris. So I moseyed along to the children's section, and picked myself up a very young person's historical introduction. To what part of history, I know not, but it has something about Byzantines in it.
So. The National Historical Museum. It's for Greek history after the fall of Constaninople. Which essentially means it has about two lines, Ottomans were here, and a couple of pieces of armour, and then launches straight into the War of Independence.
(The lack of importance attached to the Turks never fails to amuse me. Those three centuries? Nah, nothing happened then. Oh, creation of a national 'Greek' consciousness, how very created you were.)
The War of Independence was fought by moustaches. I mean, by heroic Greek types. Who all had extremely luxuriant moustaches in their oil-paintings. Twirlably long. Most of them look a lot like pirates, actually, as items marked uniform of Greek freedom fighter tend to be very brightly coloured with tassles and gilt: not at all what you'd imagine the rank and file to wear.
The nineteenth century in Greek history is possessed of a confusing array of battles, land and sea; at least two imported kings, Otto and George; territorial expansion and consolidation; and several moustachioed parliamentarians and metropolitans. Then we arrive at the 20th century, Prince Constantine, the Greeks in the Balkan Wars, the First World War, and the Greek invasion of Turkish Asia Minor (which ended in Greek defeat and the forced exchange of populations). We also arrive at Eleftherias Venizelos, the parliamentarian who forced Constantine to abdicate twice - the second time permanently - and the dictator Andreas Metaxas, whose only fondly remembered act is his response of No to an ultimatum from Mussolini, leading to a war (which Greece lost).
I took many moustachioed pictures, and spent some time chatting with the lady at the ticket desk - an opportunity to practice my Greek with a forgiving conversation partner! - and bought another book, this one an English explanation of the museum's exhibits. (You watch. One day I'll write a travel book.)
Then I came home, did laundry, and avoided my packing until K. asked me if I'd like to come help her herd the students from the study tour up to the Institute from their hotel for an evening of "Welcome to the Irish Institute! We have pizza!" Sure, sez I, seizing the excuse to avoid packing some more, and had a nice forty-minute stroll across Athens in the cool of the evening. (I didn't say Come on, folks, this isn't the old ladies' walking tour more than once. I consider this to be an example of miraculous self-restraint.)
I ended up hanging out in the grown-ups' corner with C.K. and J.D. and the A.D.'s partner, feeling very old. I'm not more than two or three - four or five, at most - years older than most of these students, but damn if they don't all seem so very bloody young. Appallingly young. (I wasn't this young and uncynical. Was I?)
After they cleared out, we elderly sorts, all six of us, hung around for clean-up and looked at some of the A.D.'s funny archaeologist pictures on the institute's projector, and laughed about terrible puns. I like these people. They're weird in the right sort of ways.
And now the internet acts up, so I've saved this to post tomorrow morning. (And you'll just have to deal with the confusion of tenses, because I'm heading off to catch a bus.)
The SFF section is, I sorrow to report, dominated by Terry Brooks, Wizards of the Coast, Stephanie Meyer and Charlaine Harris. So I moseyed along to the children's section, and picked myself up a very young person's historical introduction. To what part of history, I know not, but it has something about Byzantines in it.
So. The National Historical Museum. It's for Greek history after the fall of Constaninople. Which essentially means it has about two lines, Ottomans were here, and a couple of pieces of armour, and then launches straight into the War of Independence.
(The lack of importance attached to the Turks never fails to amuse me. Those three centuries? Nah, nothing happened then. Oh, creation of a national 'Greek' consciousness, how very created you were.)
The War of Independence was fought by moustaches. I mean, by heroic Greek types. Who all had extremely luxuriant moustaches in their oil-paintings. Twirlably long. Most of them look a lot like pirates, actually, as items marked uniform of Greek freedom fighter tend to be very brightly coloured with tassles and gilt: not at all what you'd imagine the rank and file to wear.
The nineteenth century in Greek history is possessed of a confusing array of battles, land and sea; at least two imported kings, Otto and George; territorial expansion and consolidation; and several moustachioed parliamentarians and metropolitans. Then we arrive at the 20th century, Prince Constantine, the Greeks in the Balkan Wars, the First World War, and the Greek invasion of Turkish Asia Minor (which ended in Greek defeat and the forced exchange of populations). We also arrive at Eleftherias Venizelos, the parliamentarian who forced Constantine to abdicate twice - the second time permanently - and the dictator Andreas Metaxas, whose only fondly remembered act is his response of No to an ultimatum from Mussolini, leading to a war (which Greece lost).
I took many moustachioed pictures, and spent some time chatting with the lady at the ticket desk - an opportunity to practice my Greek with a forgiving conversation partner! - and bought another book, this one an English explanation of the museum's exhibits. (You watch. One day I'll write a travel book.)
Then I came home, did laundry, and avoided my packing until K. asked me if I'd like to come help her herd the students from the study tour up to the Institute from their hotel for an evening of "Welcome to the Irish Institute! We have pizza!" Sure, sez I, seizing the excuse to avoid packing some more, and had a nice forty-minute stroll across Athens in the cool of the evening. (I didn't say Come on, folks, this isn't the old ladies' walking tour more than once. I consider this to be an example of miraculous self-restraint.)
I ended up hanging out in the grown-ups' corner with C.K. and J.D. and the A.D.'s partner, feeling very old. I'm not more than two or three - four or five, at most - years older than most of these students, but damn if they don't all seem so very bloody young. Appallingly young. (I wasn't this young and uncynical. Was I?)
After they cleared out, we elderly sorts, all six of us, hung around for clean-up and looked at some of the A.D.'s funny archaeologist pictures on the institute's projector, and laughed about terrible puns. I like these people. They're weird in the right sort of ways.
And now the internet acts up, so I've saved this to post tomorrow morning. (And you'll just have to deal with the confusion of tenses, because I'm heading off to catch a bus.)
