A daunting mass of white buildings, going on for miles around the bay, revealed themselves as we crested a hill on the highway. Thessaloniki, Greece’s second city.
It was Sunday and the roads easily navigated. Parking was non existent and many were double parked. Finally a spot for Peds to rest his weary boots under a plane tree, and perhaps offer up a prayer at Agias Sofia across the street.
Once out of the car it was comfortable in the early evening. The light was lovely and bathed the pastel colours of the apartment blocks as they rose in ranks from the sea.
Next morning I popped into Agios Dimitrios, Greece’s largest church, set in its own square of fine white marble and fountains.
The bones of the saint lay inside a strange hexagonal booth built of marble.
Penitants were picking out cotton buds cut in half from a big pile, dipping them in holy water and waving them at various points of reliquary around the building. One woman was kissing and kneeling and bowing at at least six areas of devotion. She either had a lot of bad luck or bad habits.
There was a door into a garden and I stepped through into a cool glade. It was only 9am but the day was clear and the sun already hot.
Back in the church I lit a candle for the cat’s arse. The candle tray was covered by an elaborate extractor hood.
Another email. My second in as many days. The allotments association asking owners to report any dead badgers so that they could be removed and tested for Bovine TB.
The name on my plot’s shed is Ilios which is how Homer nearly always refers to Troy – by it’s ancient name – in the Iliad.
Whenever anyone asked what it meant I was always delighted to tell them that Plot 47 was where I worked like a Trojan. Whatever that meant. Another question I wished I’d asked Mustapha Askin.
Down the street a shop selling knock-offs of famous paintings. Very bad ones. I’d once had a bet with a friend of mine that the Mona Lisa on display in the Louvre was also a fake. The real one in a vault. I wondered if he remembered. He was very old now and lived on the ringing plains of Cambridgeshire. Too frail to travel to London and have lunch in one’s club.
Assiduous readers will know that I am a fan of Attaturk and it turns out he was a homeboy. His house is now part of the fortified Turkish embassy here. But closed Mondays.
I found a bureau that would change my Turkish lira into something that would not lose ten points overnight and walked on. Cash in pocket.
Now along wide boulevards through rose gardens with fountains and past a Roman rotunda to the sea. Where a bronze of Alexander stood.
The promenade was wide and generous. Great town planning. Waterfront blocks had replaced the beautiful old stuccoed buildings lining the ancient harbour. But a few remained.
And the bay still guarded by the White Tower.
I’d wanted to see this so I had put it into Google maps. It said it was a month’s walk away. But that was the White Tower in the Tower of London. idiot! I put on my presence.
Reading the plaque outside I found that it had had exactly the same grisly uses as it’s northern counterpart.
Away from the harbour a small market.
Then Ouzeria Lolas for pork chops and salad. Well…it was now two and I had been up since six.
On the way back I was leaning on the rail idly watching the reconstruction of the Roman forum. One of many large sites protected in the heart of the city. A workman with a big blowtorch was capping off the new pillar bases with a rubber membrane.
I turned to a woman next to me and said, ‘That’s not how they did it in the old days.’ ‘Absolutely not’ she laughed. Regan was from north of Boston and here for a medical procedure. This was her fourth visit. I wished her well.
We agreed that we were conflicted about reconstruction. But I offered that so much space cordoned off for unintelligible ruins would not be a good either.
Every civilisation had built on and over. Shouldn’t we respectfully do the same? Who knew how far off the next apocalyptic event was.
We both agreed that all artifacts should now be returned to stable governments that could protect them.
Good luck with that one.
Thessaloniki then…perhaps not the most beautiful girl at the ball but the one you would be lucky to live a life with.