TO GREECE
[Illustration]
Leaving Crete behind, the steamer turns her prow northward into the
Ægean toward Greece proper, and in the early morning, if all goes
smoothly, will be found well inside the promontory of Sunium,
approaching the Piræus. One ought most infallibly to be early on deck,
for the rugged, rocky shores of the Peloponnesus are close at hand on
the left, indented here and there by deep inlets or gulfs, and looking
as most travelers seem to think “Greece ought to look.” If it is clear,
a few islands may be seen on the right, though none of the celebrated
ones are near enough to be seen with any satisfaction. Sunium itself is
so far away to the eastward that it is impossible at this distance to
obtain any idea of the ancient ruin that still crowns its summit.
Although to enter Greece by way of the Piræus is actually to enter the
front door of the kingdom, nevertheless, as has been hinted heretofore,
one may vote on the whole that it is better to make this the point of
departure instead of that of initiation. Leaving Greece as most of us do
with a poignant sense of regret, it is not unfitting that we depart with
the benediction of the old Acropolis of Athens, crowned with its famous
ruins, which are to be seen even when far at sea, glowing in the
afternoon sun, and furnishing an ideal last view of this land of golden
memories. Simply because it makes such an ideal last view, leaving the
crowning “glory that was Greece” last in the mind’s eye, one may well
regard this point as the best one for leaving, whatever may be said for
it as a place of beginning an acquaintance with Hellas. It must be
confessed that to one approaching for the first time, save in the
clearest weather, the view of the Acropolis from the sea is likely to be
somewhat disappointing, because the locating of it in the landscape is
not an easy matter. Under a cloudy sky—and there are occasionally such
skies even in sunny Greece—it is not at all easy to pick out the
Acropolis, lying low in the foreground and flanked by such superior
heights as Lycabettus and Pentelicus. Hence it is that the voyager,
returning home from a stay in Athens, enjoys the seaward view of the
receding site far more than the approaching newcomer; and it must be
added that, however one may reverence the Acropolis from his reading, it
can never mean so much to him as it will after a few days of personal
acquaintance, when he has learned to know its every stone. What slight
disappointment one may feel on first beholding the ancient rock of
Athena from the ocean, is, after all, only momentary and due solely to
the distance. It is certain to be removed later when closer acquaintance
shows it to be the stupendous rock it really is, standing alone, and
seen to better advantage than when the hills that wall the Attic plain
overshadow it in the perspective.
As the steamer approaches, the loftier heights of Hymettus, Pentelicus,
Parnes, Ægina, and Salamis intrude themselves and will not be denied,
framing between them the valley in which Athens lies, obscured for the
time being by the tall chimneys and the forest of masts that herald the
presence of the Piræus in the immediate foreground. That city is as of
yore the seaport of Athens, and is a thriving city in itself, although
from its proximity to the famous capital it loses individual prestige,
and seems rather like a dependence of the main city than a separate and
important town, rivaling Athens herself in size, if not in history.
Perhaps the most trying experience to the newcomer is this landing at
the Piræus and the labor involved in getting ashore and up to Athens;
but, after all, it is trying only in the sense that it is a matter for
much bargaining, in which the unfamiliar visitor is at an obvious
disadvantage. As in all Greek ports, the landing is to be accomplished
only by small boats, which are manned by watermen having no connection
at all with the steamship companies. It would seem to be the reasonable
duty of a steamer line to provide facilities for setting its passengers
ashore, and in time this may be done; but it is an unfortunate fact that
it is not done now, and the passenger is left to bargain for himself
with the crowd of small craft that surrounds the vessel as she is slowly
and painfully berthed. The harbor itself is seen to be a very excellent
and sheltered one, protected by two long breakwaters, which admit of
hardly more than a single large vessel at a time between their narrow
jaws. Within, it opens out into a broad expanse of smooth water, lined
throughout its periphery by a low stone quay. While the steamer is being
warped to her position, always with the stern toward the shore, a fleet
of small boats, most of them flying the flags of hotels in Athens or of
the several tourist agencies, eagerly swarm around and await the
lowering of the landing stairs, meantime gesticulating violently to
attract the attention of passengers on deck. Little that is definite,
however, can be done until the gangway is lowered and the boatmen’s
representatives have swarmed on the deck itself. There is time and to
spare, so that the voyager has no occasion to hurry, but may possess his
soul in patience and seek to make the most advantageous terms possible
with the lowest bidder. The boatmen, be well assured, know English
enough to negotiate the bargain.
Despite the apparent competition, which ought by all the laws of
economics to be the life of trade, it will doubtless be found quite
impossible to make any arrangement for landing and getting up to the
city for a sum much under twelve francs. That is the published tariff of
the hotels which send out boats, and if one is certain of his
stopping-place in Athens he will doubtless do well to close immediately
with the boatman displaying the insignia of that particular hostelry.
But it is entirely probable that any regular habitué would say that the
hotel tariff is grossly out of proportion to the actual cost, since the
boatman’s fee should be not more than a franc and the ride to Athens not
more than six. As for the tourist agencies, they may be depended upon to
ask more than the hotel runners do, and the only limit is the visitor’s
credulity and ignorance of the place. Whatever bargain is made, the
incoming passenger will, if wise, see to it that it is understood to
cover everything, including the supposititious “landing tax” that is so
often foisted upon the customer after landing in Athens as an “extra.”
These are doubtless sordid details, but necessary ones, and matters
which it may prove profitable to understand before venturing in. Having
dismissed them as such, we may turn with more enjoyment to the prospect
now presenting itself.
Piræus, as all the world knows, is the port of Athens now as in classic
times. Topographically it has three good harbors, the Piræus proper,
Zea, and Munychia—the latter name also applying to the rocky promontory
which juts out and separates the harbor from the Saronic Gulf. It was on
the Munychia peninsula that Themistocles in 493 B.C. erected a town, and
it was Themistocles, also, who conceived and carried out the scheme for
the celebrated “long walls” which ran from the port up to Athens, and
made the city practically impregnable by making it quite independent of
the rest of Attica, so long as the Athenian supremacy by sea remained
unquestioned. Thus it came to pass that, during the Peloponnesian War,
when all the rest of the Attic plain had fallen into the hands of the
Lacedæmonians, Athens herself remained practically undisturbed, thanks
not only to the long walls and ships, but also to the fortifications of
Cimon and Pericles. The Athenian navy, however, was finally overwhelmed
in the battle of Ægospotamoi in 404 B.C., and the port fell a prey to
the enemy, who demolished the long walls, to the music of the flute.
Ten years later, when Athens had somewhat recovered from the first
defeat, Conon rebuilt the walls, and Athens, with Piræus, for a space
enjoyed a return of her ancient greatness and prosperity. The Roman
under Sulla came in 86 B.C., and practically put an end to the famous
capital, which became an inconsiderable village, and so remained down to
the Grecian risorgimento. The present city of Piræus, and the city of
Athens also, practically date from 1836, though the old names had been
revived the year previous. Up to that time the spot had for years passed
under the unclassic name of Porto Leone.
Inasmuch as the fame of Athens and her empire rested on the navy as its
foundation, and inasmuch as the navy made its home in the waters of the
Piræus and Munychia, the locality has its glorious memories to share
with the still more glorious traditions of the neighboring Salamis,
where the Persians of Xerxes were put to such utter rout. It was from
this harbor that the splendid, but ill-fated, Sicilian expedition set
out, with flags flying, pæans sounding, and libations pouring. And it
was to the Piræus that a lone survivor of that sorry campaign returned
to relate the incredible news to the village barber.
The harbor of the Piræus is generally full of shipping of all sorts,
including steamers of every size and nationality, as well as high-sided
schooners that recall the Homeric epithet of the “hollow ships.” Some
are en route to or from Constantinople, Alexandria, Naples, the ports of
the Adriatic, the Orient,—everywhere. The Greek coastwise vessels often
bear their names printed in large white letters amidships, familiar
names looking decidedly odd in the Greek characters. All are busily
loading or discharging, for the Piræus is, as ever, a busy port. Under
the sterns of several such ships the shore boat passes, its occupants
ducking repeatedly under the sagging stern cables, until in a brief time
all are set ashore at the custom-house. That institution, however, need
give the visitor little apprehension. The examination of reasonable
luggage is seldom or never oppressive or fraught with inconvenience,
doubtless because the visitor is duly recognized by the government as a
being whose presence is bound to be of profit, and who should not,
therefore, be wantonly discouraged at the very threshold of the kingdom.
Little is insisted on save a declaration that the baggage contains no
tobacco or cigarettes. The porters as a rule are more tolerant of copper
tips than the present rapidly spoiling race of Italian _facchini_.
The sensible way to proceed to Athens is by carriage, taking the
Phalerum road. The electric tram, which is a very commodious third-rail
system resembling the subway trains of Boston or New York, is all very
well if one is free from impedimenta. But for the ordinary voyager, with
several valises or trunks, the carriage is not only best but probably
the most economical in the end. The carriages are comfortable, and
capable of carrying four persons with reasonable baggage.
Little of interest will be found in driving out of the Piræus, which is
a frankly commercial place, devoid of architectural or enduring
classical recommendations. The long walls that once connected the port
with Athens have disappeared almost beyond recall, although the sites
are known. Nor is the beach of New Phalerum (pronounced Fál-eron) much
more attractive than the Piræus itself. It reminds one strongly of
suburban beach places at home, lined as it is with cheap cottages,
coffee-houses, restaurants, bicycle shops, and here and there a more
pretentious residence, while at least one big and garish hotel is to be
seen. The sea, varying from a light green to a deep Mediterranean blue,
laps gently along the side of the highway toward the open ocean, while
ahead, up the straight boulevard, appears the Acropolis of Athens, now
seen for the first time in its proper light as one of the most
magnificent ruins of the earth. The road thither is good but
uncomfortably new. When its long lines of pepper trees, now in their
infancy, shall have attained their growth, it will be a highway lined
with shade and affording a prospect of much beauty. In its present
state, however, which is destined to endure for some years to come, it
is a long, straight, and rather dreary boulevard, relieved only by the
glorious prospect of the crowning ruin of Athens something like four
miles away, but towering alone and grand, and no longer dwarfed by the
surrounding gray hills. Still this route seems to me infinitely better,
even to-day, than the older road from Piræus, which approaches Athens
from the western side without going near the sea, but which is not
without its charms, nevertheless, and certainly does give the one who
takes it a splendid view of the imposing western front of the Acropolis
and its array of temples, across a plain green with waving grasses.
Approaching the city from the Phalerum side serves to give a very
striking impression of the inaccessibility of the Acropolis, showing its
precipitous southern face, crowned by the ruined Parthenon, whose
ancient pillars, weathered to a golden brown, stand gleaming in the sun
against the deep and brilliant blue of the Greek sky. Those who have
pictured the temple as glistening white will be vastly surprised, no
doubt, on seeing its actual color; for the iron and other metals present
in the Pentelic marble, of which it was built, have removed almost
entirely the white or creamy tints, and have given in their place a rich
mottled appearance, due to the ripe old age of this shrine.
Aside from the ever present prospect of the Acropolis and its promise of
interest in store, the road to Athens is devoid of much to attract
attention. The long, gray ridge of Hymettus, which runs along just east
of the road, of course is a famous mountain by reason of its well-known
brand of honey, if for no other reason. Halfway up the gradual incline
to the city there is a small and rather unattractive church, said to be
a votive offering made by the king in thankfulness at escaping the
bullets of two would-be assassins at this point. On the left, and still
far ahead, rises the hill, crowned by the ruined but still conspicuous
monument of Philopappus. Situated on a commanding eminence south of the
Acropolis, this monument is a dominant feature of almost every view of
Athens; but it is entirely out of proportion to the importance of the
man whose vague memory it recalls.
Passing the eastern and most lofty end of the Acropolis, the carriage at
last turns into the outskirts of the city proper and traverses a broad
and pleasant avenue, its wide sidewalks shaded by graceful and luxuriant
pepper trees, while the prosperous looking houses give an attractive
first impression of residential Athens. The modern is curiously
intermingled with the ancient; for on the right, in the fields which
border the highway, are to be seen the few remaining colossal columns of
the rather florid temple of Olympian Zeus and the fragmentary arch of
Hadrian, the Roman emperor in whose reign that temple was at last
completed. It is peculiarly fitting to enter Athens between these ruins
on the one hand and the Acropolis on the other, for they are so
characteristic of the great chief attraction of the place,—its immortal
past.
The city proper now opens out before, and as the carriage enters the
great principal square of Athens, the “Syntagma,” or Place de la
Constitution, handsome streets may be seen radiating from it in all
directions, giving a general impression of cleanly whiteness, while the
square itself, spreading a wide open space before the huge and rather
barnlike royal palace, is filled with humanity passing to and fro, or
seated at small tables in the open air, partaking of the coffee so dear
to the heart of the Greek; and carriages dash here and there, warning
pedestrians only by the driver’s repeated growl of “empros, empros!”
(εμπρός), which is exactly equivalent to the golf-player’s “fore!” And
here in the crowded square we may leave the traveler for the present,
doubtless not far from his hotel,—for hotels are all about,—with only
the parting word of advice that he shall early seek repose, in the
certitude that there will be some little noise. For the Athenians are
almost as noisy and nocturnal creatures as the Palermitans or
Neapolitans, and the nights will be filled with music and many other
sounds of revelry. To be sure, there are no paved streets and no
clanging trolley cars; but the passing throngs will make up for any lack
in that regard, even until a late hour of the night.
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