Turkey to New York, now and 100 years ago.

We normally go to the states once a year for doctors and family. We go direct from Athens non-stop.

This year there were no direct flights from Athens to NY during the winter, evidently they will start again in June.

The decision was where do we connect?

France was out, I hate Charles De Gaulle airport, did not want to do Germany nor the UK.

Turkish Airlines keeps getting great reviews so we decided on Istanbul as a connection to the States. It is a city we love and my Parents were Greeks from Asia Minor…it also occurred to me that Pop made the same trip more than a 100 years ago, more about that later.

The flight from Athens to Istanbul was good, on time, great food even on the short hop, new plane and good service, so far so good.

We arrive and realize it is a huge crazy airport.

Turkish airline personnel speak English…but nobody at the airport seems to, I asked somebody in a uniform if he spoke English and he said, “yes I do” and walked away. I guess he realized I was Greek. We eventually found our gate…even though it changed twice.

A word of warning, if you are flying from Athens and it is a Greek flight your destination is called Constantinople but fly Turkish airways and it is Istanbul.

By the way, Istanbul is Greek as well, it comes from the Greeks saying, “ Is tin Poly” (to the city), the Turks took to calling Constantinople, Istanbul.

It seems to me it would be OK to call it Istanbul at the Greek airport, although I like the idea that we are going to Constantinople.

Flight to the States was great…crowded but not a problem, good food, good drinks, good entertainment, movies, internet…more drinks, more food and we arrive in NY right on time.

I suddenly started thinking about my Father making the trip about 1913 more or less.

My grandfather would send his sons abroad so they would not have to serve in the Turkish army.

Pop made the trip before the Catastrophe in 1922.

I have just a few hints about his trip as well as a bit of research.

The village, Michaniona, is on the Sea of Marmara…at least 6 hours away from Constantinople by ship.

Pop spoke about having been to the “Poli” when he was a kid. Perhaps he went there and took a ship to Smyrna and then took a ship to England.

He once told us, when I was transferred to London, that perhaps he should have stayed there,

a hint that he was there at some point. After all, his older brother Theo Stefanos went to England before, avoiding the Turkish draft as well. When he returned to Greece after the Catastrophe he was called “O Englesos”, I wonder if I have any English cousins, Theo Stefano was the family rascal after all.

It is possible Pop went to the States via England.

He must have worked for some relative when he got to the States and became a candy maker. They usually went to be with a relative and were apprenticed to whatever that relative did.

I do not know what his trip was exactly, but it had to be complicated and long and difficult.

I bitch about delays at airports with a drink in my hand in the first class lounge. Pop took a month at least to make the trip, maybe more. A kid with no knowledge of where he was going exactly, I feel for what he must have suffered.

“Damn it… another dog in a yard.”

While in college I worked for the post office at Christmas time delivering mail.

This was pre Internet and it was snail mail, especially at Christmas time, tons of it.

Two to three weeks of helping the regular mailman.

It was my first government job; my second was the Army a few years later.

Before I go any further, I have to explain something; as a kid growing up in Coney Island, dogs were not part of my life as they are now. Through my wife and kids, all dog lovers I have become pretty much a dog person.

In an immigrant neighborhood where I was raised, nobody had pets, certainly no dogs, maybe a cat for mice if you had a store. Dogs were scary; think of the expression “junk yard dogs.”

I delivered mail in Brooklyn, but a Brooklyn different from Coney Island.

I delivered mail in a neighborhood that had single and double family houses. These houses had front yards with fences around them and they had dogs; big noisy, snarling, vicious, rabid dogs, between me and the mail box, which was usually on the porch. Perhaps the regular mailman knew each dog personally…but not me, to me they were “junk yard dogs.” All dogs were supposed to be dangerous.

There was only one way to deliver the mail, after all, the mail must get through, even though it was

only Christmas cards and life magazines and ads.

I opened the gates and the dogs ran out, free and happy I guess.

I could deliver my load of mail. I have created a whole neighborhood of released happy dogs involved with each other, probably mating and making more dogs for next years Christmas help.

I am not proud of this crappy thing I did, I would like to personally apologize to my daughter Chris (she is a great dog lover, check her blog, thelifeofcaptainchip.blogspot.gr.)

I remember arriving at a house, no yard, and no dog. I start to put some mail in the brass slot at the bottom of the door and I am ambushed by a dog on the inside, he grabs my fingers and I try to pull my hand out and the mail slot closes on my fingers cutting them. Freezing weather, bleeding fingers and the dog is on the inside proudly barking away.

How do I get me revenge on this beast, it actually might have been a tiny poodle, but to me he was a snarling Ridgeback; I get a life magazine out of my bag, I have no idea if they even subscribed. I put the magazine in the slot until the dog gets a hold of it. I then pull him into the door and then ram the magazine in…hoping to skewer him; I must have missed because he continued barking and probably making fun of me, giving me the “paw.”

Aside from the cold and the dogs, delivering Christmas mail was OK, meeting for coffee and killing time so we could go out on a second run and drag it into heavy overtime.

I now know all dogs are not “junk yard dogs’” at least the ones I have in my yard aren’t.

Buying a “round” in an English pub.

When you go to a country to live, or even to visit there are things you have to get used to, some are hard, some are easy.

In the 60s in London, going to the pub was easy to get used to, after work we all ended up at the local pub…even ended up there at lunch time. Thank heavens there were pub hours or we would have been there all afternoon.

Our local was The Adams Arms, or at least I think it was. The lady that ran it was Mrs. Fitzpatrick, she cashed lots of my checks.

Pubs had some things that required getting used to. They served cheese sandwiches and also ham sandwiches…but try to get a ham and cheese sandwich. What would they do with the extra two pieces of bread?

Mixed drinks were impossible; alcohol was sold by the measure. If James Bond walked in, he would have to buy a shot of vermouth and six shots of gin to make a reasonably dry martini. Forget the shaken not stirred stuff, not in any pub I went to.

Pubs seemed very novel to me and sort of “cute”, especially the country ones. I felt that it was 1944 not 1965 and I was a “Yank”. Scotch on the rocks was one rapidly melting ice cube, and if you wanted more ice, they had to send out for it.

What drove the regulars from McCann crazy was the round of drinks thing.

You buy a round and if there are five guys each one buys a round, at least five drinks are consumed.

Sometimes the crowd is even bigger. This then starts all over again, to the abuse of your liver.

I would walk in buy a round of drinks and then leave to the complete consternation of all. They take their responsibility of buying a round very serious.

I am afraid I didn’t respect the rules of the “round” as much as I should have.

I have English friends and they tell me that pubs have changed, the food is better, they have ham and cheese sandwiches as well as great food, OK, and I will take their word for it. They even have plenty of ice and can make a Martini.

I personally like to remember them, as they were when I first was introduced to them. No ham and cheese sandwiches and five ice cubes per pub.

"You can't fire me, I don't work for you."

London in the sixties again –

Three Americans in McCann London, facing weird problems.

Our chairman was a good-looking Irish-American executive, from Bay Ridge Brooklyn.

White hair, immaculately dressed always, the right schools - London was his stepping-stone to much bigger responsibilities.

He seemed like he went to Princeton or Yale, we are talking about a serious senior executive in our company.

He was central casting for a CEO in a movie about American industry.

He was always backlit - great suits that he changed mid-day so he was never wrinkled.

In spite of all that, he was still a good guy from Brooklyn.

Our executive CD was a well to do American that had custom suits, a well-dressed guy. He would have his favorite suit copied at a Savile Row tailor (and they would even copy his baggy knees). His suits were so English they didn’t even fit right, the true sign of an upper class custom-made suit.

I was not as conventional as they were, but certainly not as wild as most of my department, after all it was the 60s in London.

Bell-bottom trousers, multicolored shirts, velvet jackets and cowboy boots, short mini skirts on the women, not hippy American style but London Carnaby Street stuff. That was pretty much the style of our creative department (and we were not the wildest agency in London).

Our boss would stop me and complain about the dress code of the creative department. I would defend them by saying if they dress wild they have to change their outfits every day, you cannot wear orange bell-bottoms twice in the same week. My argument was that at least the creative’s clothes were aired out if not cleaned. The account guys wore the same blue suit every day, probably even on holiday, you couldn’t get downwind of some of them.

He reluctantly accepted my argument, but I don’t think he was completely convinced.

He was in the lift one day going up to his office on the fourth floor; we had four out of the six floors in the building. There was an especially wildly dressed guy on the lift with him - I think he was even wearing glitter in his hair.

Just too damn much swinging London for our grey suited leader.

“God damn it, you are fired! Get out of this building!”

“You can’t fire me dude, I don’t work for you, I am just delivering these Photostats.”

He never tried to fire anybody from the elevator again. And certainly not because of their clothes!

  

Gary and the Corvette

We had some great times in Mexico with Gary and Kay, some stand out a bit more than others.

We had a weekend house in Tepoztlan, about 2 hours out of Mexico City.

One weekend, Kay was away and we invited Gary to come and stay.

As the head of General Motors in Mexico, Gary had access to any car he wanted.

The Corvette was just launched in Mexico and I assumed that Gary would come out to the house in one.

The Corvette, the most iconic American sports car, the Ferrari of the States.

He did, and as he drove down the driveway, top down, I realized Gary was not actually driving,

His driver was.

Somehow a Corvette with a chauffer in a dark suit is not the most common sight especially with Gary in shorts and tee shirt, ready for our pool. A zippy chauffer driven sports car, you got to love it.

If you think about it, this has to be the classiest way to arrive for a weekend in a Mexican mountain villa.

Gary was a classy guy, I remember at my going away party (I was transferred to Columbia reluctantly

By my dickhead of a boss, a Danish guy stationed in Brazil).

Gary stood up and made a very complimentary speech about me,

 While scaring the pants off of my boss.

Another classy move from Gary: this one while wearing a dark suit. Thanks Gary, I really liked that one.  

My first job in advertising...sort of

I started working in summers when I was 14, in Coney Island.

My father had an ice cream parlor there but he didn’t let me work for him, he believed I should work for somebody else since fathers are too soft or much too hard on their own sons.

I went to work for a Greek friend of my father’s and his son went to work for my Pop.

He got the better deal than I did; his father was rough on the help.

My first job was working at a souvenir stand in Steeplechase amusement park, my second year I worked for another friend of my Father’s and his son worked for my Father, this went on for about 3 years.

At 17 I decided to get a job more closely related to what I was studying, I was attending the High School of Industrial Art, SIA. I found a job with a sign painter; I assumed sign painting would be sort of like advertising (I could use my Caslon skills).

I got this job at a sign painter on Ave U in Brooklyn named Gus. It was the first time I worked for a non-Greek, even though he had a Greek name, maybe he would pay better.

The first week I painted backgrounds, mostly white enamel, Gus was a minimalist sign painter. I never touched any lettering. Gus would occasionally let me fill in some lettering he outlined; I was making progress.

He tells me one day that we have to go take down some three-dimensional letters from an A&P in Queens.

This store was on a hill and Gus sets up some ladders, rather precariously; he hands me a screwdriver and tells me to start removing the letters as he scoots up his ladder.

I am terrified of heights and keep dropping the screwdriver and make absolutely no progress in removing the letters.

I tell Gus I cannot do this, I hate heights, especially on a ladder that is precariously balanced.

Gus looks at me sadly and delivers this killer line.

“ Sorry kid, you don’t have it in you to be a sign painter, you better find something else to do in your life”.

Could this be the end of my advertising career so soon?

Brooklyn goes to Ascot

 

London in the late 70s…McCann would sponsor a day at the races, Ascot actually.

We would invite our clients, suppliers and senior staff for a day out. We had a tent with drinks and food.

It was quite a posh thing and it was something new and different for me.

In Chicago we would sometimes take clients to a baseball game. No Champagne, just beer and hot dogs

Now the real problem for Ascot was the outfit, men had to wear a morning coat. The ladies wore flowered dresses with big hats. I naturally had no morning coat so I went to Moss bros. to rent it. Moss bros. was an amazing store…Google it, you could find anything as well as pretty much rent anything in the way of clothes.

I owned a tuxedo since London was a tuxedo kind of place…but I had to rent a morning suit.

When you wear tuxedos or morning suits there are a couple of tests that tell you if they are rented or they are actually owned.

If they fit well and are clean, they are probably rented.

Guys that have their own usually don’t actually fit them any more; also if they have a slight green sheen they inherited them from their Grandfathers or their Fathers.

This green sheen adds a bit of class to the whole thing.

Guys that have their own do not seem to care very much about the shoes they wear…I have seen suede shoes with greenish tuxedos.

It really takes confidence to pull that off, I suppose when you have your own tuxedo or your Grandfather's, confidence is part of the package.

My tuxedos had no green sheen since my Grandfather was a fisherman in Asia Minor, no real call for a tuxedo and certainly none for a morning suit.

There is another test for a rented morning suit, the vest (waist coat) has no back, just straps, a real one has a back to the vest. If it is not greenish and you give him a manly hug you can tell by how the vest feels in back.

Remember no back to the vest and straps it is rented, probably from Moss Bross.

Back to Ascot.

The Queen came in her carriage and opened the event, Prince Phillip was there, I’m sure his morning suit was his own…no need to hug him and check on the vest.

It was a great day, lots of greenish outfits very classy, also lots of well fitting outfits, the Moss Bros. crowd.