VOLUME 6: MARCH 2004

6.8: The Talking Statues of Rome 3/29/2004

The more reserved Hiberianized Roman Catholics used to be shocked at the sight of an Italian RC (almost always a woman) conversing with a religious statue (usually, but not always of the BVM) on some side altar in church. It smacked of idolatry, a residue of those pre-Christian Roman days of temples for all sorts of imported deities from Greece and Egypt, and of home shrines for tutelary gods available for convenient verbal supplication. Italic peoples liked their gods up “close and personal” and lending an ear to their devotees.

Talking to statues and idols goes way back, and is not uncommon in many societies. But statues talking to people is a rarer occurrence. Rome has several taking statues dating back to the Middle Ages when the city was ruled by some nasty Pope-Kings. The lore about the talking statues includes the hypothesis that such statues spoke on behalf of the common people, especially when the politics was such that a loquacious person might end up as a test dummy for Inquisition torture implements for offending a powerful pope. Better a statue “utter” seditions and maledictions.

Pasquino today, still with something to say

In a little piazza nearby the renowned Piazza Navona stands a visually unremarkable statue from antiquity. All that left of the statue of “Menelaus with the Body of Patroclus” is a torso and badly damaged head. But its fame owes not its lack of beauty, size or completeness, but its renown as Rome's most famous “talking statue,” called Pasquino. Now Rome's talking statues do not actually speak; they communicate by way of the more well known Roman predilection for wall writing, or as it has become known, graffiti .

Pasquino's name actually has nothing to do with the real name of the statue, but is the name of a tailor who once has his shop nearby. Nevertheless the graffiti that used to appear on the walls beside him, or on the statue's base, are often “attributed” to him. Who would haul a statute off to prison or the gallows? Many books have quoted Pasquino as if he were the real author of a stream of clever epigrams and puns that continue to be posted to it since it was unearthed in 1501.

When the Barbarini Pope Urban VIII plundered bronze from the Pantheon to make the columns for the main altar in St. Peter's, Pasquino bore the pun: “Quod non fecerunt barbari, fecerunt Barbarini” (what the barbarians didn't do, the Barbarini did). Another time, he satirized Pope Innocent X's sister-in-law, the less that holy Olimpia, with the cleaver play on her name: “Olim pia, nunc impia' ”(Once pious, now impious).

So to be worthy of a attribution to Pasquino the anonymous author has to employ not simple invective, or insult, but had to compose a clever satire, pun or lampoon. Such remarks would then be worthy of being called a pasquinade.

Another Roman talking statue, called Babuino, resides right on the street that bears hiks name, Via Del Babuino, not far from the Spanish Steps. Babuino's head comes from some other statue, but is sufficiently unhandsome to live up to its name, The Baboon.

One of Babuino's cleverest pasquinades was composed to strike a punnish blow with the name of Napoleon Bonaparte when the French were plundering Rome, and The Baboon declared, rhetorically in Italian this time : “I Francesi son tutti ladri? Non tutti--ma buona parte.” (Are all the French thieves? Not all, but most of them).

Babuino , the Baboon, with friend. (The Baboon is on the left).

Among the other ther talking statues were called Il Facchino (the porter), Marfario, a reclining statue of a river god that one pope stuck in a museum to shut him up, and Madame Lucrezia, who was actually the large bust of a priestess of Isis. But these days most of the sayings of Rome's talking statues seem to lack the cleverness of those of old. Recently, Babuino had one saying commenting on Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi: “ porco ladro” (pig thief). Accuracy is a necessary, but not sufficient, element to qualify as a pasquinade.

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6.7: Copaganda: The Unsettling Rise of Police Cordiality 4/27/04

Remember Rodney King? Remember Abner Louima's torture with a broom stick by members of the NYPD, not long after others of the boys in blue ventilated unarmed Amadou Diallo with 41 rounds? Or—back to LA—the video of highway patrolmen teeing off on he heads of a bunch of illegal immigrants?

Yes, I know that these were probably exceptional, and highly newsworthy misdeeds of those sworn to “protect and serve” that tarnished the reputations of their brothers and sisters who do dangerous and dirty work for pretty low remuneration. There are a lot of cops out there, and the laws of averages dictate that there are going to be some rotten apples, maybe slightly higher than rip-off CEOs or Halliburton number tricksters.

The bystander citizen operator of a video cam or the cameras on news helicopters have been an unsparing eye in many of the high-profile cases of police brutality. But now the police have installed them in some of their cruisers to record their activities, and some (maybe some have been “edited” out) of these to make cable reality shows of “hot pursuits” and pull-overs. It had to follow that the police would begin to “produce” their own reality shows.

I don't know if you have had a chance or the interest in viewing one of those COPS programs on cable. I've gritted through a couple of them out of sociological interest, wondering whether there is a point to them other than the reality TV inanity of this stuff. But what caught my interest was that they seem to focus exclusively on the chasing, apprehension, and almost amusing overly “proper” treatment of what are uncharitably called “trailer trash” and “low life,” –semi-illiterate druggies, drunks, wife-beaters and other social dysfunctionals who almost always seem to have pockets full of syringes and lottle bags of dope. These kinds of people are really out there (Jerry Springer's talent searchers know where they are, too), and the guys do seem to look like Billy Bob Thornton found Robert Downey Jr.'s stash, or the women are all trying to out-“monster” Charlize Theron.

But if the perps seem a bit “over the top,” the cops seem like they're right out of the Officer Clancy finishing school. They reply to filthy curses with “Thank you maam”; struggling druggies and drooling drunks are addressed as “gentlemen”; screaming violent families are calmed with a zen-like cool restraint; and always, the heads of perps going “downtown” are carefully guided into the rear seats of police cruisers lest they bump their tender noggins and forget their Maranda rights. Rodney King would think he landed on another planet.

Is this cable TV reality feeding American voyeurism and the need to feel superior to a cohort of stupid, mean and unfortunate social bottom feeders, or is it subtly composed propaganda masquerading as “documentary”? Or both. Gone are the mirrored aviator sunglasses and the Bull Connor demeanor, these cops display a boy-next door benignity even with their Kevlar-coated burliness. No more “good cop/bad cop,” now it's “good cop/even nicer cop.” On the cable COPS show we ride shotgun, cruising the mean streets of some city, waiting for a call, scrutinizing that corner drug deal, that suspiciously weaving pickup truck, or waiting for the radio's incomprehensible dispatches. Snippets of the cop's politically-correct philosophy give way to radio crackle and he insouciantly says: “we're on our way to a 467 on the southside where a wife allegedly cut her throat on a knife that her estranged husband was holding.” (I just made up the number 467, which probably means “cat stuck in tree.”).

Many years ago, when I was studying Sociology, I read about something called the Hawthorne Effect. It was similar to Heisenberg's physics "principle of indeterminism," in which the very act of observation of something changes the behavior of what (or who) is being observed. The Hawthorne experiments proved the effect for social situations. The question then becomes: what would have been the real behavior, had we not been watching? Maybe you can only get the answer to that one the next time you're pulled over as a suspect on a DUI. Just hope that they used an episode of COPS and not the Rodney King tape as a training video.

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6.6: Welcome to the People's Republic of Halliburton 3/26/2004

It is almost amusing watching the Taiwanese whacking each other in their assembly chambers and brawling in their streets over a 2/10ths of one percent separation in the vote between their presidential candidates. Although the margin is considerably larger that the 537 Florida votes of 2000, when the Democrats sat on their hands and let Antonin Scalia, who had a family member working for the Boosh campaign, hand the presidency to a dunce. American democracy is of the finishing school variety, not the rough and tumble sort of the Taiwanese or the Koreans. Things couldn't have turned out worse for us if we settled our election in the streets,.

In the summer of 2001 I gave lectures a four universities in Beijing on behalf of the California State University system. The lectures were on U.S. Public Administration, a subject that the Chinese had asked to hear about because they were presumably going to “adopt” American methods of urban public administration. They probably asked the wrong guy.

I told the large and attentive audiences (via sequential translations) that adopting U.S. methods of public administration was not as easy or simple a matter as the way in which they had adopted American methods of business and industry. (I had been driven around Beijing in a Jeep Cherokee built in a Chinese plant just outside Beijing; it seemed identical to the American built version.) I argued that American PA was constructed on “democratic principles” and that therefore the American methods and techniques wouldn't work until China installed some Big D in its system. I felt a little like the guy who stood in front of the tank in Tiananmen Square a dozen years before. But they smiled, applauded, and maybe didn't get it.

The Tiananmen dissidents didn't get the Big D they were after in 1989 either. They may yet get it another way, if their “economic democracy” can build them a middle class that might make it work there. And, given how messy democracy can be, the wait might prove to have been salutary. In any case, the U.S. is more interested in a stable China than one that might be more worrisome by becoming more democratic. Last week, Spain, formerly one of the longest running dictatorships of the 20 th Century, flexed its democracy and may now join France and Germany, also democracies, in the coalition of the “unwilling.”

Our current “leadership” blathers about bringing the Big D to the Middle East, even at the point of cruise missile; but deep down those practitioners of realpolitik know that democracy is messy and unpredictable. When the power is all in the hands of a despot you just need to take his head; but when it is in the hands of the people you can get something as messy as . . . well . . . post-Saddam Iraq. So our present administration remains cozy with putatively “democratic” Pakistan, with the Saudi monarchy, and with a bunch of non-democratic countries that have the resources, markets, or cheap labor pools that are a boon to American business interests. When it comes to profits, hypocr acy trumps democracy just about every time.

America talks a lot of Big D, but it walks a lot of Little H. Anyway, after the “selection” of 2000, who the hell are we to be hucksters for democracy.

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6.5: Is this a Great Country, or What? Part II 3/13

Ask Your Doctor

In Hong Kong, where I have spent some time in recent years, doctors are not only permitted to write prescriptions, they are also allowed to act as their own pharmacists and sell you your medicines. Detect a possible conflict of interest here? Well, one of the results is that Hong Kong people are probably the most over prescribed users of antibiotics in the world, running the risk of becoming immune to their effects. They take them for just about everything. So when an infection sets in from one of those notorious Asian-spawned viruses one day, there may be nothing in the antibiotic arsenal to fight it. It could be a pandemic waiting to happen.

Doctors can't do that in the USA. But “Big Pharm,” the drug companies, have other ways of enlisting them in turning us into a nation of junkies. Just “Ask Your Doctor.” That's the mantra repeated ever more frequently on television and other media these days. You may be sitting there watching people be jerks on your favorite reality show and feeling pretty good when on comes a commercial telling you that maybe you don't feel so good, or could feel even better if you just “Ask Your Doctor” about some medicament made by Big Pharm and given a fancy Madison Avenue name, like Celebrex. Now ain't that a cause for “ cele bration.” They're great at coming up with clever names.

How about Vioxx (“Ask Your Doctor”) Clairitin (“Ask Your Doctor”), Prilosec (“Ask Your Doctor”), Viagra (“Ask Your Doctor”), Zyrtec (“Ask Your Doctor”), Soma (“Ask Your Doctor”), Zantac (“Ask Your Doctor”), Pravachol (“Ask Your Doctor”), Paxil (“Ask Your Doctor”) Zoloft (“Ask Your Doctor”) Chloricidin (“Ask Your Average Teenager”) THG Steroids (“Ask Barry Bonds”), Vicodin (“Ask Rush Limbaugh”), etc. etc.

The problem with these drugs is that you have to ask your doctor because often the commercials for them do not tell you what ailments they are for. The commercial just show people happily dancing, playing, or giving each other romantic looks after presumably taking these preparations. Their names are designed by focus groups to be remembered, and sound benignly “medical,” not to be descriptive. (Wouldn't names like Sneezarrest, Flexin, Poopejex, Ouchbegone, Styphynit, and Chilloutin be more descriptive?) So you know what you have to do, right: “Ask Your Doctor.”

Or, Ask Your Lawyer. Because if Big Pharm neglects to tell you that there may be some “contraindications” to the goodies they are pushing they could be liable (although their lawyers get paid a lot more than your lawyer) if you have some nasty side effects. So in (very, very fine) print, or right on TV they will warn you: not to take their drug if you are pregnant or nursing, have glaucoma, have diabetes, have recently been in a coma, have recently been in a Toyota Corolla, have high blood pressure, have a GPA below 3.0, have had a psychotic episode (or seen a psychotic episode of The Sopranos), have voted for Ralph Nader, have jaundice, red rashes, blue veins, or mauve drapes. They caution you that you may feel dizzy, drowsy, feverish, poorly, out-of-sorts, or deep regret for taking this medicine; you may experience dry mouth, hot flashes, chills, sexual excitation, a desire for pepperoni pizza – and this could happen all at once – in which case you should immediately contact your physician or Pizza Hut. You should not use this medicine is you intend to operate heavy machinery, a Hummer, or nail clippers, go sky-diving, put any appendage down your garbage disposal, or program a VCR. You should not . . . “We're interrupting this list of precautions to bring you a breaking news report that President Bush will ask Congress for legislation to deter high school athletes from using performance-enhancing drugs . . .” Now back to: if you experience double vision, you should cover one eye and continue to read these precautions. You should not use public transportation, or work near an open flame if you experience excessive flatulence from this medication. If you feel any of these conditions might be life-threatening you should immediately . . .

Yah, we know: “Ask Your Doctor.”

Reluctantly, I pop a few pills each day myself. There are some things that people must take for their ailments. But they could probably feel a lot better if they just watched less television.

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6.4: The Silly Man of Bari: A Travel Memory 3/12

In 1979, Patty, pre-teens Laura and Lisa, and I sat in our car in a piazza parking lot in Bari, Italy, waiting for the American Express office to open. No sooner had we parked when the face of a gaunt, wild-eyed young man wearing a conductor's kepi appeared in the side window. He babbled something beyond my minimal Italian, but I "capisco-ed" enough to discern that he was assessing me a 200 lire parking fee. I paid, and he stuffed a little white ticket under the wiper blade of our VW Rabbit.

Fifteen minutes later he returned, and we went through the routine again. At a similar interval he was back again, and again I paid. The American Express office, which was manned by Italians (meaning there is no telling when it might open) was becoming obscured by the little tickets under the wiper blade. When the man returned a fourth time, I showed an expression of reluctance to pay, but coughed up the lire anyway.

We are only talking 12 cents a time here, but by the seventh or eight assessment I had run out of lire, which is why I was waiting for American Express to open in the first place. When he seemed to take my inability to pay for a refusal to pay the young man became a little unruly, spouting streams of speech-impeded Italian and flailing those eloquent Italian gestures. I rolled up my window, but he then moved to the other side of the car to harass Patty for the money. When she rolled up her window he poked his head into the back seat through the girls' window. They cringed and I decided it was time for paternal protection.

“Don't hurt him, dad, he just looks scary,” Lisa said, as I yanked his thin, little body away from the car. But he still couldn't understand my poor Italian when I tried to explain that I was out of money. When he tried to force his way past me to return to the car I grabbed him by the collar, which brought forth some Italian expletives I did understand. He struggled, screamed and cursed. And I cursed American Express for not opening.

Just as I was considering having to do my best Muhammad Ali “sting like a bee” on this much smaller opponent an elderly gentleman came by. “Is there a problem?” he inquired in slightly-accented English. I held fast to the collar while I explained. The old man then re-explained the situation to the attendant in gentle, but admonitory tones. The grumpy attendant straightened his clothes and man sauntered off to find some other parked cars.

The old gentleman stayed on for a moment to say that I wouldn't be bothered any longer. Before he left he apologized for my having been harassed and explained, twirling his finger at the side of his head in what must be a universal signification for mental disturbance, that the attendant was, as he put it, “a 'silly man',” and he had been given the parking attendant job so that he would have something useful to do. “He meant no harm to your daughters, I know this silly man,” he added with kindness and wisdom.

I often think of the silly man of Bari, almost every time I see some poor soul huddled in a doorway, or panhandling, or raging at some demons that torment their troubled minds. In America they are often regarded as “wackos” and “nut-cases,” and are feared, shunned and ridiculed. I know, I have even been to blame myself.

I think that there was something sympathetic and benign in the term “silly man,” although the politically correct may find fault with that. And it seemed a humane thing to do for the community to have found that scrawny, zealous parking lot attendant in Bari something socially useful to do.

Sure, problem of mental illness is more complex and complicated than this; there are cases that require clinical treatment and hospitalization, not just a simple job to do. But it seems that somewhere between institutionalization and tossing our mentally ill onto the streets with a prescription for Prozac or Lithium, we have not come up with a humane treatment for many sufferers. The problem has roots in the inadequacies of the health care system in general, as well as our misunderstanding of mental illness, resulting in too much fear, insensitivity and neglect.

We may also need to take a good look around at the “crazy” world we've constructed and remind ourselves that the line between sanity and the lack of it is a blurry one. Come to think of it, that parking attendant in Bari had every reason to believe that that American who spoke incoherent Italian, pulled his pockets inside out, and grabbed him by the throat, was mentally disturbed, or at least a “silly man.”

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6.3: The Passion of the Boosh 3/6

Now that John Kerry has all but cinched the Democratic nomination the Booshies can begin unleash the hundreds of millions in Republican campaign contributions/kickbacks. Predictably, the first spots, purchased for four million, featured Boosh as the putative hero of 9-11, with perhaps the unexpected angry reaction by the families of lost fire fighters that a guy who weaseled himself into that role after lagging in kindergartens and hiding in holes in Nebraska, just might be exploiting their miseries for political gain.

Less expensively, a letter has been making the rounds on the Internet, whisked along by the American Christian Taliban, about what a saintly (hmmm, maybe even more highly placed) dude we have in the White House. In case you might have mistakenly swallowed poison today and need an effective regurgitive I provide you with the following excerpt:

With all sincerity, and partisanship aside I tell you: This is a special man! There is a peace and a Godliness about him. It radiates from him. It is the only reason that I was able to remain calm. It was more than the adrenaline I've felt when I've met other famous people. A goodness flows through this man. He has more than my vote in November. He has my respect, my prayers, and my gratitude. Whatever your political affiliation, and whether or not you agree with his decisions, you should take comfort in the fact that--despite recent press attacks--this is a man of integrity who makes decisions because he believes that are RIGHT, not popular. He makes these decisions with a heavy heart and through prayer. I don't mean to go on, and on, but I truly believe this was a blessing from God that should be passed on. Laura Lefler, Office of Senator Lamar Alexander

Ain't it awful when that stuff comes up through your nose.

Just how this cowardly liar and tax benefactor to the money-changers in the temples of American greed achieved this apotheosis is (excuse the metaphysical reference) a miracle born of public relations and a growing theopathic polity aided in their quest for post 9-11 messiah by the cinematic Gospel of Matthew, Mel, Luke and John.

We will doubtless be exposed to more Second Coming of the Boosh vomit inducers in the coming months. But those who might be ready to shout blasphemy at my take on this ludicrous garbage I invite to Google over to “The Passion of the Christ” and check out the dozens of commercial spin-offs and movie tie-ins, many licensed by Mel Gibson. But in the event that you might want to order your pewter cross nail pendant (with Isiah 53:5 inscribed on the side) before they sell out from the Share the Passion of Christ website I provide this link. I got mine; I think it will make an effective chad puncher (although I confess to thoughts of more Gibsonesque uses).

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6.2. Whither the Urban Erogenous Zone? 3/5

One of the ways we make complex phenomena more understandable and familiar is to compare them with human traits and characteristics. Take cities. For example, we ascribe personality characteristics to them, such as a “pushy” New York, “bawdy” San Francisco, “sedate” Charleston, “sensuous” Paris, etc. We also liken parts of cities to human biological systems: downtowns are referred to as the “hearts” of cities, open spaces as “lungs,” streets comprise the “circulation” system, implying not only that cities have similar characteristics as we humans, but also that it is somewhat “natural” that they have them.

Like people, cities also possess a feature that is accorded less metaphorically reference than these others—“the erogenous zone.” And, like people, cities are often less at ease with this zone than they are with their hearts, lungs and circulation systems. The erogenous zones of cities are those districts or areas in which are to be found, often juxtaposed, such so-called “adult” land uses as “X-Rated” movie theatres, peep shows, pornography book stores, massage and “rap” parlors, baths, and nude dancing bars, often with pimps, prostitutes and drug pushers in between.

Since the first cities some 10,000 years ago almost all have had an erogenous zone or zones, even the great religious cities. In fact, there were times in urban history when the line between the “sacred” or temple district and the “profane” or extra-temple area, was quite vague. Indeed, there were places where the temple and the brothel had the same address. Over various periods, and in various places, urban erogenous zones they have been permitted or proscribed, persecuted or tolerated. Like other land uses in cities, they would not have continued to exist had they not served some social purpose or need, whether those purposes were considered by some to be socially acceptable or not.

In recent times, partly because of the resurgence of religious fundamentalism, the spread of sexually-transmitted diseases, and because of the spread of adult land uses beyond the confines of inner city grey areas, city officials have come under increasing pressure to “do something” about the erogenous zones of American cities. Many citizens would prefer to see them banished from their municipalities, but the U.S. Supreme Court has already ruled that, however much it may seem to attenuate the concept, adult land uses fall under the protection of “freedom of speech and expression.” While this decision has the effect of legalizing the erogenous zones it does not leave them free of regulation, since the court's ruling does allow cities to protect nearby areas from potential deleterious impacts of x-rated land uses.

City planners and lawyers have come up with some ways the appease those who fear their cities will need to change their names to Sodom or Gomorrah. One approach, employed in Boston, was to create a zone and restrict any adult land uses to that zone, prohibiting them anywhere else. The other, first used in Detroit, forbad adult land use to locate nearby schools, residential areas and churches. These approaches have been upheld in the courts and the Detroit approach has been much copied.

They seem to have worked in many places. Urban erogenous zones have been shrinking and many of their land uses dying out. Propriety seems to be returning to our cities. So what will become of the erogenous zones, which cities have had for thousands of years? Have methods been found to eliminate them for once and all? Probably not. Will cities that do eliminate them lose convention business? Maybe. Will pornography and sex crimes disappear along with them? Very unlikely.

Perhaps the biggest threats to the erogenous zones of cities are not from outraged citizens, the clergy, or zoning ordinances. X-rated videos and home VCRs, and most recently the Internet, with its vast array of pornographic we sites have already spelled the demise of many adult movie houses and peep shows. Any pornography or paraphernalia that an adult book stores and sex shops used to offer can be mail-ordered, and; out-call massage, escort and entertainment services provide the real thing for those still undaunted by the threats of venereal diseases and AIDS. Paradoxically, these developments may be turning the residential areas of our cities into the primary locations of X-rated land uses. It seems that cities will continue to have erogenous zones in one form or another—as long as people do.

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6.1 : Never on Sunday, or Monday, or. . . 3/1

It's a blurred margin that separates the traveler's desire to interact with his foreign hosts and the cautious reserve to prevent falling prey to scams and hustles, or worse. I stepped into the blurry zone at one corner of Athens's Syntagma Square that is lined with deluxe hotels, expensive cafés, travel agencies and other business concerns, and, on its East flank, the Parliament and former royal palace. It is as likely a place as any in the city that one might encounter a familiar face from back home.

The little old man who approached me reminded me very much of my late grandfather, Sebastian. I'm told that I have a few Greek corpuscles coursing in my veins, so this genial old guy with the wiry build and wisps of gray hair on his leathery dome seemed as much kin and kindly.

Having observed me checking out the bus schedule so I could escort my small group of ‘students' to the National Archeological Museum he offered his assistance.

“You are from America,” he declared with only a trace of accent.

“Yup, and I'll bet you're from Greece.”

He smiled. “California?” he asked.

“Right again.” I lowered my gaze to meet his eyes. At the level of his eyes was the easy clue of the logo and address of a San Diego café silk-screened on my T-shirt.

“Athens?”

“No, Pireéfs . . .Piraeus,” he replied.

“Close,” I said, deciding to not to mention that I am originally from New York.

“Which bus do you want?”

“The one that goes to the National Archeological Museum.” He showed me the bus number, nut then said that one just passed and the next wouldn't be along for thirty minutes.

“Well I guess I'll march my group down the street and we can kill the time watching the Evzones at the Parliament.

“Why don't you have them go there, and I will buy you a cool drink. I like to talk about America. I lived in Chicago for almost ten years.”

“Where?” I inquired, not wanting to end up in one of the expensive cafes or bars on the square.

“I have a bar. It's just over there,” he said, pointing to one of the tall buildings lining the square.

“Your bar?”

“Yes, my family's bar. Please, let me but you a drink.”

It sounded better than seeing the Evzones again in their rather silly-looking white pleated skirts, white blouses and tights, and shoes with red pompoms. They looked more like cheerleaders for some high school in Iowa that the highly-trained and tough warriors they were reputed to be. I told the students to the Parliament and I'd meet them there in twenty minutes.

The old guy's bar was only about fifty yards away, not on the square, but in a little courtyard behind the façade of the office building that was accessed through a tunnel-like corridor. Anyone not knowing exactly where they were going would walk right on by. He ushered me in to the small, cozy bar with a half-dozen bar stools and a couple of booths.

“Be seated,” he said, motioning to one of the bar stools, “I will use the washroom.”

I plopped my camera bag atop the bar, sat down, and quicker than one could say Heidi Fleiss, there was a hooker on the adjoining stool with her hand on my thigh. And before you could say Dolly Partonopolis the most buxom lady bartender in the hemisphere had splashed out drinks for me and the wayward daughter of Aphrodite.

“Damn!” I hissed through clenched teeth. I looked around frantically, for “Gramps,” for a moment thinking that he would be my way out of here. But he had greeted the bartender and said something in Greek as we entered. The devious little pimp! How dare he look like my grandfather. I wanted to wring his lying throat.

My throat, however, was a bit parched from the Athenian heat and dust, and now the anger welling up in me. Reflexively I grabbed the glass in front of me and took a gulp. Straight gin! They must think I'm British. My next thought was: that was stupid! You have no idea what the hell that gin is laced with and you might be floating around on some Olympian cloud in a few minutes! Panic was added to my fury.

“Where's the guy I came in here with?” I demanded of the bartender. She just looked blankly at me and said something in Greek to the hooker. Her hand had moved upward a bit and I pushed it off my thigh.

“You don't like me?” Aphrodite moaned, making her eyes big above a hint of a pout. It was the first real look I took at her and something in me said: “Hey, this is a rather nice looking girl. She was actually quite pretty, and to her credit she hasn't gotten her outfit at Trollops-R-Us.” She also had that sort of vacant look behind those olive eyes that can evoke a dangerous combination of sympathy and lust. Fortunately rationality trumped libido.

I started to say, “What's a nice girl like you doing in . . .” when she put her hand back on my thigh. I went to push it off again but she grabbed it had held on. When the bartender came over and topped off my drink it occurred to me that Miss Aphrodite had not touched hers. Panic was going to win the contest of my multiple emotions. I yanked my hand away.

“You don't like me?” she repeated. Maybe that's all the English she'd been taught.

“I'm just crazy about you, but can we can discuss our wedding plans after I take my group to the museum? Sorry, gotta go.” I reached for my camera bag.

Simultaneously the bartender growled: “You pay now,” as Aphrodite moaned her little mantra once more. I slid off my stool.

“Pay now, twenty-five dollars for three gin.” I couldn't help noticing that as she said this she was swabbing perspiration for a good ten inches of cleavage with the bar rag.

“Sorry, ‘gramps' said he was buying the drinks. I wouldn't want to insult his generosity.” She dropped the bar rag and seemed to be reaching for something under the bar. For what? A club, a gun, maybe a call button for a couple of guys named Hercules and Ajax? I wasn't going to wait around to find out.

I heard her yelling something in Greek as I slammed the door open. The courtyard was empty, and I wasted no time getting though the tunnel and back out into the bustle of Syntagma Square.

Later, in the National Archeological Museum we were standing before the magnificent gold burial Mask of Agamemnon, one of the treasures unearthed by Heinrich Schliemann. The chiseled features and close-set eyes reminded me of my grandfather, and his pimp look-alike in Syntagma Square. I made a fervent wish that the latter would endure a fate like the fabled king of Mycenae.

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