Hijacked in Athens (or Why I Learned Greek)

In 1997 I attended a wedding on the island of Santorini. Despite the romantic tales of Greece, I found the country off-putting. The heat was oppressive, the lackadaisical pace of waiters and shopkeepers irritating, and the transportation system capricious at best. Six years later, I returned with my fiancée. This time the heat wasn’t so bad. We strolled the beaches, seeking clothing-optional coves, collecting commemorative stones. We surrendered to shopkeepers who held us hostage with their hospitality, demanding more than a financial exchange. We idled in tavernas, laughing, sharing stories, unpeeling more layers of our relationship. In three weeks traveling alone together, we never ran out of things to say.

Our final night, we dined across from the Acropolis, dramatically spotlit from below. We relived our favorite memories—Corfu, Crete, Santorini, Mykonos—until the waiter turned out the lights. Three hours later we sat in a dark bus, our backpacks laden with ceramics and stones, sharing a rare moment of silence. Six years earlier, I couldn’t wait to leave Athens and now I was considering buying a second home there. 

It’s hard to separate my feelings for my fiancée (now my wife) from my relationship with Greece, but that second trip felt like a coming home. Strangers had plied us with gifts, men clasped my shoulder, serenading my fledgling Greek with bravos. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to repeat my name. Not Harry. Not Paris. Just Ha-rees, the Greek word for grace.

At one of the last stops, an officious-looking man, a cross between George Costanza and Newman, boarded. The bus seemed to wake up as he checked people’s tickets. When he came to our row, I offered him a ten-euro bill. “Two tickets please,” I said in Greek, as I had done on the islands. 

The inspector stared at the bill as though it were a dead fish. “Tickets,” he demanded in English.

I offered the bill again. He clucked his tongue. After a brusque notation on his pad, he showed me that I owed twenty-nine euros.  

“I thought the fare was four euros.”

“The fine is twenty-nine.”

I tried to explain that the kiosk had been closed. That I tried to buy a ticket from the driver, twice, but he just waved us to the back of the bus.

The inspector lifted his chin, the Greek negative, and thrust the slip at me. My fiancée squeezed my hand. I knew how anxious she was about making our flight. She had never been away from her children and, with the recent 9-11 precautions, we would have just enough time to make it through security.

I refused the slip. “Ask the driver.”

A young Greek woman tried to translate what had happened. The inspector began yelling at her until she was reduced to tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think his mind is right.”

The inspector marched to the front and I followed behind him. The interrogation of the young driver was answered by a flick of his chin. The inspector turned to me, “He don’t know nothing.” 

“Remember?” I implored the driver, “I said, Eisitiria, and you said, Piso, Piso, waving me to the back.” 

The driver stared straight ahead. The inspector directed me back to my seat. 

“Twenty-nine euros,” he said, handing me the slip.

I lifted my chin, mimicking the Greek negative.

The friend of the woman who had interceded spoke up. “He is taking advantage of you because you are a foreigner.” She nodded toward a Greek man who, having slid past the inspector, was purchasing a ticket from the driver. The woman went toe to toe with the inspector, matching him in pitch and gesticulation while the rest of the bus watched. Turning bright red, he launched his fiercest barrage yet. The woman lifted her palms in exasperation. “I apologize from the Greek people.”

At the last stop before the highway, several more people boarded. The driver yelled a question to the inspector. He yelled something back, then leveled his eyes at us. “Policia,” he said, mixing up his languages. “You want policia?” 

My fiancée, who had stayed relatively quiet, squeezed my hand again.

“Just give it to him.”

While the bus continued to idle, I fished through my pocket. I had held onto thirty euros to expedite our arrival next summer. But my sense of injustice was too aroused. “I would love to talk to the policia.”

The inspector gave me a long stare, then yelled out “Pameh!” As we turned onto the highway, he remained in the aisle, shooting us periodic glares. It occurred to me that he had probably forsaken his usual stop to hand us to the authorities. I don’t know how I justified my stance to my fiancee. After all, I was as unbending as the inspector. What I remember most was a sense of helplessness. Up to this point, I had no trouble communicating with the Greeks in English, a little broken Greek and, when all else failed, a lot of body language. And now, unable to clear up a simple misunderstanding, I was being treated like an enemy of the state.

When we approached the terminal, my fiancée whispered, “What if he takes us to the police station?”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her, baselessly.

While the other passengers got off the bus, the inspector motioned for us to stay put. Unable to spot a policeman, he gave the driver the command to go. “Pameh!”

The pneumatic doors closed and my fiancée made a guttural sound only a mother could

muster, “EH! EH!”

Instinctively, the driver re-opened the doors. The inspector yelled louder, “PAMEH!”

The doors began to close again, but my fiancée barked again, “EH! EH!”

I barged past the inspector, descending into the stairwell.

“PAMEH! PAMEH!”

The doors began closing on me and I locked my arms in place, not sure if they would hold. “Get the bags!” I yelled. Somehow, my fiancée shouldered all our bags, including the one that had been too heavy for her. I winced as the inspector blocked the aisle, bracing himself like a sumo wrestler.  In a move that was part Tasmanian Devil and part adrenaline-addled mom, my fiancée swung the bags around the inspector’s flailing arms and deposited them on the curb.

Out on the plaza, a large crowd assembled as the inspector screamed in every direction, “Astinomia!” the Greek word for police. Eventually, a lanky cop strode toward us. He listened patiently to the inspector’s rendition, which lasted a good ten minutes replete with gesticulation. After he had run out of steam, the policeman, barely repressing his amusement, said in English, “This man says, among other crimes, you broke his bus.”

We gave him our rendition, then he asked for our passports. After he had copied our information, he said, “You are forbidden to enter Greece until you resolve this matter with your embassy.”

He returned our passports with a slight smile. “Have a nice flight.”