AN AD MAN IN GREECE

2012-01-31T17:48:00.000+02:00

I have been called all of these titles.

Having lived all over the world and being called a number of things, some even respectful.

I was thinking the other day about them. In the States it is pretty much mister, unless you are a Doctor or a Professor, which I am not.

Spanish speaking countries have the Don also the Mafia seems to have it.
In Spain there was only one Don in the office and that was the president, Alfredo. Years later when I visited the office, having run some offices myself, I was greeted at the airport, by the company driver as Don Gregorio. I have to tell you, it was pretty damn good, and I really liked it, Don Gregorio.

In Mexico, age sort of gave you the Don title, although in the office it was the shoeshine guy, Don Tomy that had it and me. I was happy to share it with him…he was an institution in the office, and probably did a better job than I did, he never lost any clients.

Japan…I never understood what I was called but want to believe it was respectful.

While visiting the village my parents came from in Asia Minor I was called Effendi, thought that was pretty amazing.

Italy was Dottore, pretty much to everybody, and I thought they were all doctors…they also had a lesser one, Licensiado.I was always Dottore, even in the parking lot. I picked up my car one evening and gave double my normal tip, some sort of thousands of lire, probably an extra dollar. The attendant immediately straightened up and called me Commendatore.The next day I was Commendatore in the parking lot by all the attendants and I remained that as long as I was in Italy and gave two-dollar tips.

I have to try that someplace else and see what happens.

Greece has Kyrie as the most common but there is the noble Archonda.

Obviously there are other not so polite ones, although all the countries I have lived in seem to have those.

A Golden Wedding Anniversary...or is it?

2012-01-26T11:02:00.000+02:00

We just celebrated our 50th Wedding Anniversary on Jan 14th, 2012 in Athens.We had an amazing time and were surrounded by our kids and close friends here in Athens. We received notes, gifts and well wishes from relatives and the friends we have made over the years from all over the world. It was really a wonderful experience. Our marriage has been an even more wonderful experience. We met at college, Pratt, in 1955. Just writing this makes it sound even more unbelievable, 1955…I was 18 and she was 17, I am 74 now, do the math. My God we have known each other since the beginning of time and been married for 50 of them…we are one week into our next 50th.Here is the minor doubt…when we married in the Three Hierarchs Church in Brooklyn, our usual priest was unable to perform our marriage ceremony due to a family crisis and that day another priest married us instead. No problem… although he did have a problem pronouncing my wife’s first name…Jeannine came out Tsannninnee and variations of that every time he said her name duringthe service, Sanninee, Tsanni, and even his version of a Greek one.I often wondered if our marriage is actually valid, although on the paperwork, I think it was spelled correct. Hmm, I wonder.

Contraptions and Technology

2011-11-17T00:01:00.004+02:00

We are in New York City, having just had my Gamma Knife procedure.

I spent over a month anticipating the procedure, being anxious about some new activity from my tumor. I knew it was going to grow, but not that fast, I should have outlasted its growth. Now, three years post brain surgery we decided on the Gamma Knife treatment.

This is an amazing procedure, slightly misnamed by calling it a knife. It seems the inventor was a surgeon and wanted the reference of a knife. It is non-invasive surgery, though. Two hundred plus, non-lethal, gamma rays come into your head from different directions and focus carefully on the tumor, with all their power, to zap it and delay any re-growth. This is really super futuristic stuff! Something is affected, even removed from your skull without any seemingly outside intervention, science-fiction stuff, remember the Hulk…that was Gamma rays.

Before all this high-tech stuff, it is necessary to have an MRI so they can see the exact position of the tumor. Now the weird stuff starts, they have to put a contraption on your head so you can keep the same position during the MRI and later when they radiate your tumor. Accuracy is very important. The last thing you want to do is miss.

You are in the midst of one of the highest tech kind of medical procedures in the world; really 22nd century stuff…suddenly your neurosurgeon and an assistant approach you with something that looks like a Civil War relic. A metal cage type thing, that seems to have been made by an amateur blacksmith, which is supposed to be screwed on to your head.

I am given a sedative and some Novocain as well as my favorite, a medical lollypop, and then my neurosurgeon starts acting like a mechanic and screws this cage on to my head…yes I did say screws it on, into my skull. It seems to me that something a little less primitive could be developed to hold my head steady so that the Gamma rays hit the tumor accurately.

During the procedure I had a 4-hour wait with this contraption on my head, between MRI, calculation of the rays and then the actual Gamma knife procedure. I was part of three patients that were scheduled for the procedure. I was to go last since my tumor was near my left optic nerve and they required a little more time to prepare. Needless to say I got bored and made a paper mustache to wear on my rig. It seemed to have made a difference to some of the somberness that existed in the ward. Paper mustaches will do it every time.

This was an incredible experience. I am sure they got it. We will have confirmation in about 3 months when I have an MRI to check on the condition of the tumor, but I feel very optimistic. Let’s face it, if it still is there, we come back and do it again…by then the “contraption” will be redesigned and be comfortable as well as light and not have to be screwed on. And maybe it will come with a mustache!

Mr. Chow’s…great food, great chairs

2011-10-15T11:40:00.006+03:00

It was the 60’s in London; the Americans are here, at least in the ad business…also the film business.

The only time the two American communities met was in Hyde Park on Sunday mornings.

There was a softball field reserved for Americans, a reward I think for something we did a while back.

Every Sunday there was a soft ball game played by the movie guys, we came to watch, at least I never saw the ad guys playing ball.

The film being made in England at the time always determined the players.

The best game I saw was when the film “The Dirty Dozen” was being made.
Everybody was there that morning, including Mohamed Ali; I think he was still Cassius Clay then. A great day, a good game, then the Sunday ritual continued, across the road to Mr. Chows in Knightsbridge.

Mr. Chows was a popular restaurant and very“ trendy,” a nice 60’s word. Trattorias were very popular in London during the 60’s, so were Chinese restaurants, Michael Chow combined the two, Italian waiters serving Chinese food made by Chinese cooks, both groups were very vocal and emotional and could not understand each other which made for the basic entertainment of the place, lots of yelling and arm waving in short bursts.

Sunday Lunch was the ritual, we would go after the game with some friends and our young son for a great lunch, and every table had various members of the film and ad community. The really famous and the ones that thought we were famous, remember it was London in the 60’s.

Food as usual was terrific and we never found out what that fried green stuff was, seaweed, parsley, still have no idea. Everyone enjoyed the drama of watching a Chinese chef make fresh noodles in front of us all with flair and abandon. The Italian waiters did their little number blaming the Chinese cooks about something or other, lots of checking out the real celebrities…a normal Sunday lunch.

We had invited our group to our house later that afternoon for “ TEA”, our version of it…a bit English, a bit American…and maybe slightly Greek.

I suddenly realized that we didn’t really have any chairs that we liked around our Eames table at home. I always liked the chairs in Mr. Chow, Michael, the owner was there and I asked him where he got his bentwood chairs, and he said Czechoslovakia, or maybe Romania and laughed.

He told me he had some in the basement, about 50 extra ones…that was all I needed to know. Negotiations started.

“ Michael I need 6, I need them now.”
“ I can’t sell my chairs.”
“ Come on Michael…we invited people over for tea.”

20 minutes more and we agreed…I think I paid nine pounds a chair.

The chairs were cheaper than lunch for six.
We had all come in my R type Bentley, it was London in the 60’s after all.

I told the doorman to get a cab for us; we loaded the chairs in the cab and told him to follow us.
Off we went, six people in my Bentley and six chairs in a cab following us.

We still have those chairs, they have traveled the world with us and now my daughter has them.

When you go to a restaurant and you like the food, look around maybe there is something else you want to take home with you.

Take out chairs…I have to try it again, there is a Greek taverna with terrific chairs near us, come to think of it the tables aren’t so bad either.

http://www.hydeparksoftball.com/5.html

"X" marks the spot

2011-10-07T16:53:00.004+03:00

Three years ago they found a benign tumor in my skull just above my sinus cavity.

I had three options, wait and see what happens (not for me),
We could have major surgery, going in from the top of my skull, removing the entire tumor,
Or, slightly less invasive, cut over the eyebrow and go in from the side and get as much as you can.

We chose the 3rd option knowing that it would eventually grow back but it would not be a problem in my lifetime.

It is growing, faster than we thought it would, damn thing is not going to beat me.

I have been having MRIs periodically and they showed that it is growing slightly faster than expected.

Before it becomes what it originally was, and would require invasive surgery again, there is something that can be done.

Gamma Knife seems to be the answer, non invasive in spite of the knife in the name. It is a focused controlled radiation treatment…they zap it out evidently. It has to be accurate and really on target otherwise it destroys stuff it is not supposed to.

I have been reading about it and it seems to be a remarkable procedure.
I spoke to my surgeon’s assistant and asked about timings, since it will be done in the States. She said your appointment is the 8th the procedure is the 10th and you can fly back to Greece on the 12th. Pretty amazing stuff. Needless to say we will stay in NY a little longer, just in case he missed.

I had a pretty incredible experience before we found all this out.

I sent my MRIs to my surgeon in the States.

He emailed me on Saturday the 10th of Sept, the weekend of the 10th anniversary of 9/11.
That in it self was amazing, he also emailed the surgeon he recommended for the Gamma Knife surgery.
His email included all my MRIs. It is now Sunday and the other surgeon is answering, discussing my case with my original surgeon.

The secretary is sending me copies of everything to keep me informed, everything is decided, when, where, the works-and this is the weekend of the 9/11th anniversary.

I am awed by their commitment and dedication.
It still knocks me out.
These people are incredible.
I have to admire the commitment they have to their work.

Thank heavens they are my guys.

Pop's store

2011-09-14T16:09:00.014+03:00

This started out as a description of my Father’s store in Coney Island. It will change I think, as I go along.

The store, the Paradise ice cream parlour, was in Coney Island, on Surf Ave. 1604 next to the RKO Tilyou,
across from Steeplechase Park, between west 16th and 17th street.

We lived around the corner on Mermaid Ave., whoever named the avenues in Coney Island was a genius, Surf Ave, Mermaid Ave, and finally Neptune Ave.

The store burned down in the 50’s, I remember Pop told me that he saved my prize Schwinn Phantom bike, and not to worry about it.

Pop was a classic candy maker. As a young immigrant he was apprenticed to some relative in Massachusetts, who taught him the craft.

He made his own ice cream and chocolates that we sold by weight.

It was also a luncheonette; we came straight from school to the store, it was home for us. Mom and Pop never left the store alone from 9 am until midnight or later. We did have an hour or two at six o’clock in the evening when we all had dinner together at home.

The store was open 7 days a week 365 days a year; my parents never took a vacation together. The Paradise was the center of our lives. My sisters who were older than me worked there after school and weekends as waitresses, I was too young, but I did wear an apron and acted like I worked there.

Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving we had Santas, rabbits, Easter eggs, and turkeys made from chocolate, obviously the appropriate ones for each holiday. Mom decorated them with jellybeans for eyes and decorative frosting, and then wrapped them in yellow cellophane. It was a family event.

We would watch Pop make them and take them out of the molds while hoping one would break so my friends and I could have some chocolate.

If none broke Pop would break one saying it was “no good” so we could eat it, he never acknowledged that it was a perfect one he broke for us.

The store had double doors, display windows on either side in front; there they would show the different candies and seasonal displays.

When you got inside, there was a marble counter on the left with 10 or 12 stools. That is where you got sodas, ice cream sundaes even coffee and pie or some sandwiches. There were usually two old Greeks sitting at the end of the counter having coffee, the typical Greek thing anywhere in the world.

On the right was the cash register and long display cases with the different candies, some in boxes as well as loose ones…at the cash register, near the exit where you paid your bill; you could also buy cigarettes and cigars.
I think we sold cigars since Pop was a cigar smoker: I started to smoke by stealing cigars from the display case, White Owls as a matter of fact.

After the counter we had the booths, 6 on either side as well as 5 on either side in the center, an island of 10 booths, 22 booths in all.

We even had a phone booth in the back and the rest rooms.

Just before the booths began, we had an amazing juke-box, Pop thought it would help business, all it seemed to do was make the waitresses dance around.

I remember, “Shrimp boats are a comin”, by Guy Mitchell, shows you my musical tastes.

Beyond all that we had the kitchen, there was a wood burning fire to melt the chocolate in a bain-marie set up.

This was where all the great chocolates were made on long marble counters, were he poured the melted chocolate to cool.

It was an amazing room, it smelled great, and it was dark and moody, just like chocolate.

The chocolate came in twenty-pound slabs from Nestle in Switzerland.

My connection with Nestle remained for 40 more years. They were a client of McCann’s and I did ads for them in eight countries. I wonder what Pop would have made of that. I guess I am a sort of candy maker as well, at least a candy ad maker.

I still am reminded of Pop’s great candies when I have a piece of dark chocolate.

The overall feeling of the store was classic, small tile floors, probably had the Greek key design border, pressed tin ceilings, hanging fans, booths made of dark wood, marble counters, decorative display cases, beveled mirrors…very art nouveau, and even a couple of tiffany type lamps.

Some relatives, even older than me if that is possible, have confirmed this description.

Now here comes the problem…I remember the store pretty well, I also thought I remembered Pop’s sign, a big hanging neon sign.

Evidently when I found this photo of the street, it seems my memory was a little off; the movie house sign was mistaken in my mind for my fathers sign. Pop’s was a little more discreet, still pretty big…but not the monster I drew.

I guess we remember things better or sometimes even worse than what they really are.

A New York Deli...in Tokyo?

2011-08-25T18:13:00.006+03:00

In 1970 I was sent to our Tokyo office for three months to fill in as Creative Director.
A short time in an amazing place and we have some great memories.

Japan was full of contrasts, just as something made sense and you thought you understood it
…everything changed.

While there a friend asked me if I wanted a pastrami on rye and an egg cream. This may seem like a normal question in New York but not too normal in downtown Tokyo.

I am a kid from Brooklyn, a pastrami on rye sounded great, so where do we get it in Tokyo?

He was an expat and lived in Tokyo for years, if anybody knew where, he certainly did. He took me to a typical street and we entered a building that led to a typical NY deli.

Surly, sarcastic waiters that were Japanese, that in itself was pretty odd.
Corned beef and pastrami in the showcases, rye bread and mustard on display, soda machines and behind it all was Ann Dinkins.
She was a flamboyant woman from New York, maybe even Brooklyn; at least that is what her accent told me.

It turns out, she came to Japan years ago with her husband as an expat, he had died and she remained in Japan. She was very much at home there and decided to make herself even more at home, she opened a deli.
To give it the right atmosphere, Ann trained the waiters to be sarcastic and surly and at times I thought they even had a NY Jewish accent. They would sigh and say” oy vey.”

She told me it was good for business and there was no staff turnover, due to their attitude, they could not get jobs anywhere else.
There is not a great deal of demand in Japan for sarcastic waiters. Good job Ann.

Ann also had the exclusive rights to import meats to Japan; it seems the royal family liked pastrami.

Just one of the bizarre things we enjoyed in Japan in 1970.

Today there is a NY deli, but it is in Disneyland Japan, I bet there are no sarcastic waiters there.

It just is not Ann Dinkins.

Extracting the urine or taking the piss

2011-08-08T11:34:00.005+03:00

I like the expression “ extracting the urine”.

I have a friend, a Greek that lived in London for over 40 years,
Instead of saying taking the piss, he says, “ extracting the urine.”
Sounds like a classy way to say that I am bullshitting.

I have a tendency to make stuff up; I suppose it is lying, although I see it as creative and enjoy doing it.

The lies are like, Columbus was Greek, the turkey is an indigenous Greek bird, you can swim after you eat if you ate seafood, stuff like that, not really nasty lies, fun lies.

They are mostly entertaining not harmful. I am about to tell you how to do it; there is a basic simple rule.
All great lies, bullshit, crazy stories, have to have a basis of truth. A germ of truth gets people nodding their heads and sort of accepting the rest, no matter how preposterous, as a matter of fact, the wilder the better.

Don’t swim after you eat…it is ok if you eat seafood, simple version.

Columbus was from the island of Chios, sounds crazy, until you say Chios was part of the kingdom of Genoa, since we have heard that Genoa was the home of Columbus all our lives. Hmmm, could be true.

Turkeys are from Greece and were taken the new world by Columbus, why would one of the best Greek wines, Hadjemichalis use a turkey as his logo if it was not an indigenous bird. I actually know why, so do not write me and tell me why. Also it is called a turkey by mistake since Chios is close to Turkey.

Although one of my favorites is that the famous cold cut Armenian store in Athens, sells great vanilla ice cream.
No touch of truth to make it more acceptable, just a very trusting target. This does not happen often, so you really need a touch of truth normally.

So if you want to make stuff up, it is fun, remember the basics: a touch of truth to make it slightly more logical, and a convincing presentation. You sort of have to believe it yourself, convince yourself, before you can convince others.

As you all know, the ostrich is from the Argolida.

The two Costas go to the Royal Wedding

2011-08-05T21:44:00.004+03:00

In Porto Heli, where we live there is one famous Costa. He is the ex king of Greece, Constantine, or sarcastically referred to as Costakis by the locals that are not royalists; the royalists actually refer to him as Your Majesty.

However, there is another Costa, a friend of ours, he is Greek and has lived over 40 years in England and worked at a public, Eton type school. He has retired about a kilometer from us here in the Argolida.

Evidently Kate’s brother went there and invited some of the staff from the school to the wedding, including our Costa. This obviously was pretty exciting for us, and I promptly told the whole town about our Costa going.

So our little village in Greece had two going to the Royal Wedding, and both named Costa.

This had to be unique, cannot imagine any Greek village, even Athens having two Costas going to the wedding.

Off he went, electronic ticket, first class, stayed overnight at the dorms of the school, limo to the wedding.

We were glued to the TV, watched every minute of the festivities hoping to get a glimpse of our Costa, or even the ex King, no such luck, lots of famous people but not the two Porto Heli Costas.

We enjoyed it and were amazed at the manners of the crowds, and wondered what would have happened if they were all Greeks.

The next day we were invited to our Costas house at midday for a drink and mezedes to hear about his amazing trip.

Some other friends were there and we assumed to celebrate Costas return, I also was hoping for some souvenirs from the event.

I, as is my manner, sat next to Costa and asked him a load of questions.

“ Who had the biggest hat?”

“Did the Queen greet you?”

“Did you have good seats?”

“Did you say hello to Elton John?”

“Did any queen say hello?”

I was so involved asking questions, that I never noticed that the rest of our “ friends”, sneaking in, dressed in fake royal gear and waving paper Union Jacks, singing “ we fooled you Greg, we fooled you, Costa never went.”

It finally dawned on me, this was an elaborate joke…and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. They were all in the know; Jeannine and I were the only suckers. I was being paid back for all my years of practical jokes.

Costa never went, this was mainly his wife’s idea, and quiet, sweet Gwen got me. Who knew she had that side to her, you never really know people.

How do I get back at them? Do I just let them worry and get them when they are least expecting it, or let them anticipate my revenge forever…and maybe not do anything? I have to think about this.

In town at the cafenion, I maintain that Costa went to the wedding, I do not want to make a complete ass of my self.

Hmm…what will be my revenge?

The first dive of the year, dolphins and lepers.

2011-07-13T14:48:00.012+03:00

I had my first dive of the year with my son, my daughter and her boy friend as well as my dive instructor John.
My daughter and her boyfriend were visiting from NY. We were all looking forward to the dive, it was a great day, the sea was calm, I was anticipating this day all year long.

We went around a point near the fish farm and saw dolphins; they were frolicking in the sea. I guess they were waiting for the meal they were about to have from the escaped fish from the farm. I have seen them in the sea before, but they normally take off as soon as anyone approaches, not these guys, they swam around the boat and as they do, raced us. An amazing start to the day. After about twenty minutes they disappeared just as quickly as they appeared.

We were all set to dive, even more so than before.

We dove off a small island in front of Korakia; I think it is called Korakia Island. We commonly call it the Leper pottery island, there are pottery shards around the island and due to its remoteness, I made up a story, as is my wont to do, that the potters were lepers. OK, OK a pretty dumb story, but it kept us smiling.

Back to the dive, amazing visibility, John our dive instructor stayed with me and kept me at about 8 to 9 meters, no deeper due to my surgery a couple of years ago. The rest of the group dove deeper; they are younger, healthier and better divers. John and I had a great dive and found a small octopus, wonderful creatures.
John had to spend quite a bit of time keeping me from going deeper,
( the blue just looked more beautiful the deeper you went ).

Dive was great, now the problem starts, how the hell to get back on the boat, there is a ladder and it is more than adequate for most people. I cannot do it, I would have to be hauled on board like a dead walrus or put the ladder on the back so it is lower and with a bit of help get in like a normal person.

I would actually like an escalator or an elevator…they all keep talking about a crane; needless to say I am not so keen on that.

I wonder what it would cost to put an escalator on board?

Kitsou, Kitsou, Kitsou and Costa

2011-07-13T14:01:00.005+03:00

Here is the thing, I find out that all, or most of the donkeys in Greece are called Kitsou…and it seems they always have been called Kitsou.

Our cat in Coney Island in Pop’s store was called Kitsou as well. When Kitsou died and we got a new cat he was called Kitsou, fortunately we never had more than one cat at a time. Seemed strange at the time, all Pop said was it was easier if they (the cats) were all called Kitsou. Sounded normal but I never asked why Kitsou and not Puss or something like that.

All this seemed pretty strange so I did some research, locals as well as Google, both in Greek as well as in English. This is what seems to come up, and for a change not violently contradictory.

The locals tell me all donkeys are called Kitsou in honor of a thief in the 1800’s called Kitsou who rode a donkey.

Google tells me his name was Kitsou Davelis.

There was another Kitsou that was a hero during the Greek war of Independence from the Turks. I cannot get his last name, but I am trying. Any help would be greatly appreciated.

It seems this Kitsou went to the Turks and asked for a donkey, he was sarcastically asked what he would give for this donkey and he said a Turkish prisoner. It did not go down to well with the Turkish authorities.

Knowing Greece a bit, the first Kitsou could have been the hero; thieves in those days had a pretty glorious reputation.

I am still trying to get to the bottom of the Kitsou mystery. I wonder how it got to Coney Island?

Horses in the olive groves.

2011-06-26T18:57:00.004+03:00

I do not know why this is so surprising to me. Goats, sheep, dogs, donkeys in the groves makes some sort of sense.

Our area is almost a suburb of Athens; it is the Hamptons of Athens…at least that is what it has been called.

The locals have prospered selling land for villas to Athenians and foreigners. They had donkeys and horses; at least their fathers did, before the BMWs and the Mercedes they tool around in now.

For many years there were no horses around here, yes on the island of Spetses for the carriages that take tourists around, but not here on the mainland.

There seems to be an influx of horses now, the locals have even started an equinine club, horses seem to be all over the place. They show them and ride them around…not quite England, but close.

They ride them with a sort of western saddle with lights, especially at night, which makes sense to me.

It might be a nostalgic desire to return to their roots, a little like the wealthy ship owners having traditional wooden fishing boats “kaikia “ instead of “ gin palaces “.

I guess if you think about it, it makes perfect sense, horses and kaikia, I will have to go back to making candy, just like Pop did, or get a kaiki like Papoo.

Connections and coincidences…all the time

2011-06-15T16:59:00.004+03:00

I know all about the connections you make through the net, social media, blogs etc.

Yeah, yeah, I know six degrees removed from everybody, five from Kevin Bacon, for God’s sake.

Combine that with coincidences that happen every day and it is starting to become unbelievable.

I have come to accept the amazing amount of connections due to the Internet.

Friends from 60 years ago Google you and find you, friends that through social media are able to connect with each other.

Many of our friends on facebook are out of our past; most would have been lost without the ease of the net.

We had our high school, fiftieth reunion thanks to the Internet. The ability to find people has been geometrically multiplied due to the net.

I can accept that, even though it is something that previous generations could not even conceive of.

This blog has resulted in finding relatives that I did not know even existed, people that have shared a common past, it still knocks me out.

What I find is the connections made through coincidences, even more amazing. OK, maybe that is what six degrees of separation is all about, but there are coincidences that are nuts.

I was on a beach in Porto Heli, Greece, at a bar naturally, and a guy about my age came for a drink. He was obviously English, socks and dessert boots and shorts; I asked were he was from. After a few moments we established that he was in the film business and his wife, on the beach, had been in advertising in London when we were there.

After about ten minutes she asked me if I knew her ex husband, not only did I know him, we worked together in London in the 60s. She and her ex husband had a daughter and she is married to a Greek and has a summer home ten minutes from us. We have all become great friends…no Internet involved in this one.

We have a guy that works on our pool that is from Edipso, on the island of Evia originally; I have relatives there (my grandfather went there after the catastrophe in 1922.) I had lost my cousin’s phone number and asked George if he knew anybody there that might be able to get her phone number. He called his sister who happened to be married to a guy who is a first cousin to my cousin’s daughter. Sounds complicated but it is simple, we now have the number and are in touch.

I think in some bizarre way I am related to George, but he still takes a week to come to the house to do some work. Since we are related he does not treat me better, actually worse. Pros and cons to this thing.

Our architects wife, who is from Chicago, and we used to shop in her fathers grocery store there 45 years ago.
Figure that one out.

There are tons more, my friend from NY whose daughter is dating a Greek guy, whose parents have a house one kilometer from ours.

It just goes on and on, maybe because we lived in so many different countries, maybe because we have met so many people over the years, maybe because I talk to pretty much to everybody I meet, maybe, maybe, maybe.

The more you think about it the weirder it gets.

Who knows, I only know it is great, and I am looking forward to the next surprising connection or coincidence.

Share some of your own coincidences or connections…the weirder the better.

"Pay the cab and what's for Din-Din?"

2011-06-05T15:59:00.005+03:00

That was the normal greeting when our friend, Stan, arrived to see us in London after one of his exotic holidays.

When the holiday was really exotic he would also ask for a doctor, or at least an appointment. We never inquired too much about why…but the sheets were burned, or at least washed in scalding water a couple of times, after he left.

He had a buddy from college that became a multimillionaire, who would take his six best friends, Stan included, on an incredible holiday every year to exotic places…obviously all expenses paid for, private jet, yachts, great hotels, great food, women…the works, hence the request for a doctor.

Stan was a great friend: he unfortunately died young at 54. He was a very successful New York artist later in life. When we first met, I was a beginning art director and he was a photographer’s rep. He came to the office to show me his photographer’s work, about 3 in the afternoon, we ended up having dinner at our apartment in Brooklyn until about two in the morning. This was the start of a great friendship.

He had bought a parking structure on Downing Street, a mostly Italian area, I am not sure if it was part of little Italy in the village. If you think about it there is no better space for an artist than parking building. No interior walls and tons of space, exactly what you need. He had to do quite a bit of work to make it habitable. I am sorry I do not have one of his tee shirts or overalls, ‘The Downing Street Erection Company” was the name of the company that he started, to do the renovations.

It was a great house, 5 floors of lofts 20 ft. by 100 ft. workspace and amazing living space…loved it.

While in London, he would go to Moss Bros, a unique English store that rented all sorts of formal attire as well as sold vintage military clothes, it also had sort of normal clothes. A great store, I wonder if it still exists.

It does exist as a chain as well, I googled it.

I remember it in the 60’s. Stan would buy Scottish regimental trousers in these wonderful plaids. With a double-breasted blazer, suede shoes, they looked great, although his Mickey Mouse tie kind of ruined the look.

He was a colorful character and always bought and wore outrageous outfits. He told us these bizarre outfits were used mainly when he was called for jury duty. Not entirely true, he often wore these incredible vintage outfits around town. Yellow check suits with two-tone shoes, were not that rare with Stan. I never saw him repeat an outfit. He certainly had enough room for his clothes in his converted parking lot.

When I was in NY, on my yearly trips, Stan would occasionally take me to see various buildings he was interested in, they ranged between empty movie houses and once we even saw a vacant synagogue.

His mother came to see it and she said he obviously fell in love with the railings…he eventually bought his great parking building.

He was looking for a station wagon type car in England to buy and take back to the States…something big and different. The nearest car he found to what he wanted was a Rolls Royce hearse; I do not remember why he didn’t buy it. A shame, it would have completed the parking lot he owned in NY.

He was an amazing character and a good friend, I have a very clear image of him telling us that the Museum of Modern Art as well as the Whitney had accepted his work to be in their collections, the same week, unbelievable.

We will forever miss his arrival in whatever country we were in, and his standard greeting, “ Pay the cab and what’s for din-din?”

Our doctor in London use to ask about him often…I wonder what went on when he went over there?

Google Stanley Landsman and see his works as well as an interview with him.

I never went to see him when he fell ill; I thought it was something minor, I will always regret it.

"Did I go to that High School?"

2011-06-05T15:50:00.007+03:00

Reunions are murder. I go there and mistake everybody’s kid for them. I did that at the church youth club’s reunion. I walk in and say hello to the first person I see and call her Cookie and ask how she has been to be told that her mother is Cookie.

It gets worse at our High School reunion, I go, but do not really remember going there as a kid. It is the fiftieth reunion and my attendance at the school is vague. There is a nametag with my high school yearbook photo, so I guess I went there. Two of my good and pretty much only friends from high school insist I went there. They have photos of me and my yearbook picture pretty much proves it.

My memory seems to be in conflict with the facts.

So many American movies celebrate high school. The athletes who remember their glory days, the prom, the glee club and all that stuff is missing from my memory.

I go to the reunion…a bunch of old looking people, some though have their youth showing through and I recognize a few. More proof that I really went there.

I do remember the test to get in; it was harder to get into than Pratt, which supposedly has an exceptionally hard entrance exam. This school that I vaguely remember is SIA the High School of Industrial Art.

Forcing myself, some stuff does come back. A girl I was interested in, way back then, is now a Great-grandmother,
God how does this happen? OK I know how it happens; I mean how does it happen, a great-grandmother.

The school was divided in two buildings, one on 51st street between Lexington and Park; the main building was in the 70s off Third Ave…this was a very urban school. We didn’t have any sort of campus, no gym, no stadium…nothing like the suburban schools, although we did have the city.

In spite of vast gaps in my memory I do remember the gym teacher, he was called the gym teacher but he taught social dancing, mambo and rumba especially (we were a very ethnic school) and also a bit of calisthenics.

I told you we were a very urban school, but in a great neighborhood.

The gym teacher’s name was William Weintraub, I found out he had a square dance band and used the name “Wild Bill Wayne.”

This was great, I was the head of the church youth, the THY, and we were throwing a square dance. I gave the job to the gym teacher - William “Wild Bill Wayne” Weintraub. He guaranteed me an A in gym, first and only time I got an A in gym.

I had some other proof that I went to that school. Throughout the reunion people would come up to me and say “You still drawing horses Greg?”
I still am.

I really went to that school, the most accurate proof was that the great-grandmother that I used to have the hots for, still ignored me.

I was back in high school.

Aristotle taxi company

2011-05-22T23:53:00.002+03:00

I have taken cabs all over the world, some of the drivers I was actually able to understand. Since I like talking and will to everybody I meet…cabbies are great. They all have an opinion, not necessarily connected to any actual knowledge they may or may not have.

They drive all day, usually in horrific traffic, and meet all kinds of people and have plenty of time to think and form their opinions, half-baked or not.

They are a source of information as well as observations. They are like a gallop poll; they have heard hundreds of opinions, and give a summary of them. I really enjoy taking cabs.

In NY the divider that used to be between the driver and the passenger has pretty much been taken down. When I used to fly into NY from Mexico, I would take a cab that was usually driven by a Greek or a Mexican. Both would make you feel you were in their home country. The language was totally a mix between NY and Greek or Mexican. Malaka bullshit and hijo de puta shithead. Since I speak both languages I would chat with them on the way in, usually the Greeks moaned about the Mexicans and vice versa. I never got any great wisdom from them, but lots of passion.

English cab drivers are amazing, they practice for two years, it is called, “the knowledge,” and they pride themselves on knowing every street in London, quite a feat. We lived in a small new street in Knightsbridge. I took a cab and surprisingly he did not know the street, when we got there after I directed him he confessed that it was one of the very few times he did not know a street. I said, “you learn something new every day.” He looked at me and in a cockney accent; he said “I didn’t learn anything new yesterday, gov.”

In Japan my taxi rides were pretty silent, other than the hisses and hiiii from the drivers periodically.

Greece has it’s share of surprising cabdrivers, other than the ones that refuse to take you, because they are not going anywhere near your destination. There are a lot that discuss politics and their cousins in America. The situation in Greece, as you know, is pretty terrible at the moment; most everyone blames the government, and the cabbies that I take unanimously agree.

The other day in a cab, driven by a very dignified driver, I was told the solution for Greece and it’s political problems. He said, “ the politicians are all useless and corrupt; they are all the same, two families with their cronies running everything.” There are no new guys on the horizon; they do not have an Obama. The driver said, “fire them and hire foreigners to run the country; treat Greece like a corporation and get professional managers to run the country, an Austrian for example as the prime minister, some guys from Switzerland for seats in the parliament as well as English, Germans and some Chinese ministers as well.”

All foreigners, not a drop of Greek blood in any of them. It seemed so natural and right; nationals should not handle politics. We have to get foreigners that are hired to do the job, if they screw up they are fired and we hire another pro to do it. Can’t fire an elected official.

This cab driver seemed to have given this quite a bit of thought, as wacky as it sounded, it made sense to me.

We can have courses in the best universities, prime minister 101, major in finance minister. I suspect there are some problems to this but I cannot seem to think of them right now. We seem to have tried everything else; maybe if we treat the country like a big international corporation, we can have some success.

The solutions of a lot of our problems are probably driving around in yellow cabs all over the world.
Philosophers all.

Let’s give it a shot, couldn’t be worse than what we have now.

“I do not believe you are here on holiday, I think you are here to work, sir.”

2011-05-14T09:33:00.003+03:00

Since I have always traveled a great deal, I have run into customs and immigration guys all over the world.

Usually there is not any great problem. In the old days you could even be a wise guy with them without any great fear of being arrested or worse.

I remember once returning to England from a couple of days in Paris and being asked at customs if I had anything to declare. He could not believe that I had not bought anything, cigarettes, lighters, booze, perfume, nada, nothing, I had not bought a damn thing!

Finally in desperation, he seriously asked me “what is that bulge under your jacket?”

You guessed it; I said with a smirk that it was a gun then quickly said it was a joke; after all it was the UK in the 60’s when the police did not even carry guns.

He said,” I know sir, please go into that room to be searched.”

If you say something like that today chances are a search is the least of what will happen.

A friend was returning from Tokyo to New York via Fairbanks Alaska, it was the early 70’s and there were no scanning machines at that time yet. He was being padded down by a State Trooper, arms around him checking for anything behind his back, Harry has a bigger mouth than I do, he asks. “Do you get kissed often doing this?” Try that today and you will not make the flight to N Y, or any other one.

When I was transferred to London in 1965, it was the year our son Paul was born; the situation was a bit complicated….the company had wanted us in London 4 months before but I kept stalling, we wanted our son born in Chicago. Eventually, they insisted I go before our son was born. They would have all my documents, working papers, etc. ready for me by the time we were ready to move. Sounded good. I went for a month before all the documents were ready as a tourist, found an apartment, organized everything or so I thought and returned for the birth and baptism of our son.

My wife was incredible, our son was 30 days old and we are going to live in a foreign country, not many women would do that.

We arrive in London ready for the new adventure. The first person we meet in England is the immigration guy, a little short guy wearing, if I remember correctly, a brown shirt. That should have tipped me off.

He looks at our passports and asks what we are doing there; I say, “We are on holiday.” Remember, I returned for a second time after just a month. He looks at us, me, my wife and our 30-day-old son. He stands up as tall as he can and asks,

“Are you here to work?”

I like the idiot I am, stand up taller than him, and say, “We are on holiday.”

“I do not believe you sir, I think you are here to work.”

At this point we are put in a waiting room, with a bunch of people from all kinds of countries in ethnic dress, to be sent back on the next plane, I am insisting on first class tickets.

Lots of luck on that one.

I get to a phone and call our office and speak to the company lawyer.

“If you do not get me in before they throw me out, forget the damn job.” I yell at him.

One hour later the little guy in the brown shirt comes in and says, “Have you changed your story?”
He also asks me if I am sorry to put my wife through this. Jeannine jumps to my defense and tells him, while waving our son around, that we are detained in this room with all these poor, pathetic people because of him, not me.
Go get him Jeannine.

I tell him that he knows that I am legal. He only wants me to apologize and tell him the truth, which I am not about to do. Finally, one hour later he lets us out of the room and into the country. The lawyer is outside with the correct papers; I am pissed off at him as well.

I really handled that one wrong, for years in my mind I have been blaming the agent, maybe I should have just told the truth, or the company lawyer should have told me about my papers being OK.

Today things are different…do not come up with smart-ass comments, no matter the temptation.

Beware of short guys with brown shirts in airports.

My favorite ad.

2011-05-08T19:46:00.004+03:00

I have probably made hundreds of ads myself and been responsible for hundreds more, for some reason this one is my favorite.

I did it in Chicago in 1964 with a great copywriter I worked with, Shari Lee Mason.

We had the Marshall field account (a famous department store), we didn’t have the retail business but we did have the image account, which ran in the New Yorker magazine once a week.

For the Christmas season we had to do an ad for the toy dept. No way were we going to do the traditional corny ad of happy kids with tons of toys.

We worked on it for a while and came up with the normal junk, kids and toys.

Shari suddenly asked, “What about the toys?” She wrote the line, “Every toy should have a child.”

We knew we had something special. For me, the only visual was a crying teddy bear.

I decided to do it in black and white like a charity ad…no color, everything non Christmas.

The client loved it and even had plastic tears glued on the teddy bears, when they were sold the tear was removed.

Loved that ad! I have done more famous ads and certainly bigger and more elaborate ads for bigger clients; this still is my favorite ad. I think we made the perfect balance between picture and words.

We made people see something they knew in a different way, which I think is the definition of creativity.

"Xappy Birthday from da Tsicago office."

2011-05-02T22:30:00.004+03:00

Belly dancers play a pretty big role in my life, from going to the Egyptian Gardens and the Port Said in NY during the 50’s and the 60’s to various birthday parties as well as events that completely embarrassed me.

A friend sent a belly dancer to my office in London, it was 1967, I have to admit I lost it; I was absolutely a stuttering idiot.

This is something I have done many times to other people, but I could not handle it at the time.

If you take the piss out of people you usually are not very good at having the piss taken out of you.

When we were in Chicago, about 1963 or 4, my boss was Jeane Bice, terrific boss. The head of Interpublic at that time was the great Paul Foley. Interpublic was in NY in the Time Life Building.

Paul’s Birthday was that week and all the offices were obviously sucking up and sending “creative” birthday wishes. Billboards in NY, ads in the NY Times, radio commercials etc. Jeane says come up with some ideas. Great! Here is my chance to be noticed or fired.

My group comes up with all the normal ideas and then we remember Paul was in Turkey during the war and loved that part of the world.

Here is my chance to look good. “Why don’t we send him a belly dancer to the office?”
“Great idea, organize it.”

I call the Egyptian Gardens in NY and tell them what I want. It will cost $300, but I have to pay before she will dance, none of this ‘bill me later crap’. I have to arrange the head of traffic at NY McCann to meet the dancer, Zoroumba, in the lobby of the Time Life building and give the money to the drummer, who will be there with her.

It must have been a rather sinister sight…money being handed over to some big guy with a drum and a heavily made up girl in a trench coat, in the lobby of the Time Life building at 3 pm.

We were not there, we are in Chicago, and the head of traffic calls up and tells us we are a big success. Detroit had a stupid ad in the Times, LA did a radio spot, a poster from Atlanta…but ours lasted two hours! Paul kept throwing money at her and later went to the Egyptian Gardens with the IPG directors.

I wonder if that is why I got promoted and sent to the London office in 1965?

Boy, am I glad I waited.

2011-04-24T12:16:00.005+03:00

More about hearing aids.

I have been criticized for waiting so long before getting my hearing aid; I kept putting it off, for all kinds of reasons.

I am glad I waited; finally they are tiny and neat, not like the old ones.

Imagine trying to get around wearing one of these…my kids would have been happy, they would at least know I was wearing it.

I think I have joked around enough about hearing aids. Mine was not absolutely necessary, I could sort of function, but it has helped in a number of ways. I do not get as agitated when different things are going on around me, which in our life seems to be quite often.

It has been just enough extra hearing to make this difference. I never realized that this seemingly little bit of correction would help so much.

If you need one…do it, before they get even smaller, God knows how or where you'll wear it.

The best-dressed kids in Coney Island…maybe all of Brooklyn.

2011-04-17T20:23:00.007+03:00

Looking at these photos I realized that my Mom was amazing, being a seamstress in Paris before she married Pop, she had talent, skill and incredible energy.

My sisters had great clothes and lots of them; I even had some pretty great outfits.

Mom was the busiest person I have ever met, she worked in the store, cooked and sewed and probably did a million other things I did not know about. We were well-dressed kids, Mom and Pop were sharp as well.

Every outfit we had, Mom made. I remember, I was about 12 or 13 and pegged pants were big, she made me a pair and even added pistol pockets (flaps on the back pockets shaped like pistols) very cool at the time, would probably be pretty cool now. I am sure my love of clothes comes from Mom.

These photos are all taken in the early and mid thirties, there is no doubt in my mind, we were the best-dressed kids around.

Maybe my attraction to country and western music comes from my Greek cowboy outfit Mom made for me…love that shirt.

" Honest Boss, it is important to go to Cannes, for the work!”

2011-04-16T14:32:00.003+03:00

The first time I went to Cannes for the ad festival was in 1966 or ’67.

A good friend, Lew, a photographer living in London, came over one evening and asked Jeannine, “ Can Greg come out and play,” Jeannine said of course and then he asked, “ For six days?”

You have to understand how insane the request was, since we had our son who was only about 18 months old.

Jeannine was amazing and said yes when she found out it was for the Cannes festival. Most people think it is good professionally.

This is the time of year most ad guys are trying to convince their boss that going to Cannes is essential for the work. OK, to some extent it is, you meet people, see lots of ads…and some of them are even good, not many, but some are great.

We drove down in an MGB, two big guys in a tiny car with a spanakopita Jeannine made for us for the trip.
She continued being amazing, even though she would be alone for a week with our baby…she is an Albanian Saint and a great cook.

The trip was long, cramped and boring, big Citroens were passing us when we were doing 90 as if we were parked. These huge French cars seemed to be full of people looking very comfortable smoking cigars…or at least that is how I remembered it. I started to plot how I could avoid going back in that mini car. I could fly out of Nice, anything to avoid that tiny car and the disgrace of being passed by everything, even French tractors.

We get to Cannes, amazing place…on the sea, just like Coney Island and there the similarity ends. The south of France, amazing villages with great restaurants, wonderful hotels, the views are incredible.

God makes these incredible places and for some reason populates them with creeps.

We went to Saint-Paul de Vence for lunch one day at this incredible restaurant Colombe d’ Or, owned by Yves Montand and his wife Simone Signoret…and they were there, I am a kid from Brooklyn and Lew ain’t much better…unbelievable. I could not imagine that such places existed.

Monte Carlo casino was the same night…we gambled and Lew actually won, about 250 bucks. He cashes in his chips and asks for a bodyguard to walk us to his car, no wonder the folks there are such creeps, they have to deal with the likes of us. We get to the MGB, stashed behind every fantastic car in the world and we crawl out of Monte Carlo, having trouble going up the steep hill to get out of town.

During all these experiences vast amounts of wine was drunk and we were probably a bit drunk ourselves, most of the time.

The next morning we see some locals playing bowls, patonk, I think it is called there. We start a game ourselves when the locals leave, there are four of us, all loud mouthed Americans, we must look local since we are wearing French sailor shirts and wearing espadrilles.

A guide with some tourists pulls up and begins to describe this very local game to them,
at this stage Lew says in a loud voice, with a NY accent, to me,
” Come on shithead it is your turn.” Naturally the guide and the tourists take off.

You may be curious about the ads we saw…I do not remember any ads I saw that time in Cannes, but Cannes was great and so was the South of France. If the festival was in Finland or someplace like that I probably would have seen all the work.

I have been to Cannes other times and have seen the work, and actually learned something. It was never like the first time, with a good friend in a remarkable place doing and seeing remarkable things.

Next time I will tell you about the lesbian bar in Haute-de-Cagnes.

If we had only done it in a comfortable car it would have been even better.

SSSHHH, don't yell, I can hear you.

2011-04-03T14:48:00.001+03:00

Something I can now say easily, before I had to train everybody to speak louder, not anymore.

This is now a brief continuation of my previous blog that got such a response.

There is supposed to be 10% of the population that is hard of hearing…but a lot less wear hearing aids.
The comments on my blog showed that a hell of a lot more than 10% of my friends have a hearing problem.

I also got comments from hearing aid blogs through out the states…who knew that they existed?

I write these blogs for the education of my family and the entertainment of friends and acquaintances…now it seems this last one was a help to many readers. It was not the objective but I am glad it helped.

I think I should negotiate a commission for all the hearing aids that might be sold through my blog, or at least a big discount on my second one, which will probably be purple.

I had a problem with my hearing aid and went to the distributer in Greece, since I do not have an audiologist here.

Great service, showed me stuff I did not know, cleaning and adjustments etc. Knowledgeable guy…good to know there is somebody so close to help me out when I need it.

I just want to underline that this thing in my ear has been a tremendous help, not just physically but emotionally as well; I think that I am calmer and less grumpy.

A hearing aid is like a tranquilizer in my ear, it also calms everybody around me as well…better than Valium for everybody.

WHAT? I don't need a hearing aid, talk louder.

2011-03-17T17:06:00.002+02:00

I have been saying that for years, but it seems I did need a hearing aid. Not something I wanted to admit to, I did not want to be a deaf old geezer, vanity again.

Everybody in the family has been after me,
“Dad you need a hearing aid.”
“Lower the TV, it is too loud,”
I was hearing this for years. I was convinced my wife was whispering from the kitchen to make me crazy, people spoke softly so I couldn’t hear; paranoia was setting in as well.

Instead of accepting that maybe I might be a little hard of hearing, I was convinced everybody was out to make me believe I was. The conspiracy theory was alive and well…they are out to get me; it might even be a government plot.

A few years ago my kids got me an old hearing aid, those big horns that you stick in your year to magnify sounds. It was a joke, but not really…I guess it was a huge hint.

I went for a hearing test four years ago, took about three hours. I thought I did pretty well until they told me I missed about half of the sounds. Both ears are bad, but in completely opposite ways, right hears upper sounds, left, just the opposite. Not only would I be an old geezer with a hearing aid, I would be an old geezer with two hearing aids. Screw it, let everybody speak louder, there is a volume button on the TV after all.

The complaints continued same as always, the whispering continued. I had to accept, it was me, and I had to do something. I went for another hearing test. The only good thing was that it was exactly the same, as before, it was not getting worse. This time the doctor did not recommend that I wear two hearing aids, one would do.
It could have been technical progress by the hearing aid companies, or the doctor figured one may not be perfect, but it would be better than nothing.

I did it, I got one…it is tiny and not noticeable at all. I even got the piece behind my ear the same color as my hair,
Old geezer silver. What amazed me were the colors, somebody is wearing a purple hearing aid.

Now, how does this work? I have to confess, I do not wear it always, I do not hear the difference, but the whispering from the kitchen has stopped and the volume on the TV seems to be much too loud.

The crazy thing is I don’t seem to be as pissed off as much and the word WHAT is not used nearly as much.

Little by little I will use it on a more regular basis, later I may even get a purple one for my other ear.

Mama goes to the MOMA

2011-02-27T22:55:00.002+02:00

While I was at Pratt, it must have been in the late 50’s, I took my mother and my eldest sister to the Museum of Modern Art. I was presuming a bit, but I thought they might enjoy it, even though I was not sure about Mama’s reaction to some of the art.

Going into the city was not something my mother did often; she would go in to go to the department stores for fabrics, this would at least be a day out. I assumed my sister would enjoy the museum; she was a dietician and worked at the VA hospital and was incredibly well read.

We got there and it was fairly crowded, we got in and started to go around to see the permanent collection and then make our way to the exhibitions. My sister was not that happy about the museum, I guess she was more traditional and conventional than I thought she would be. I was surprised because I thought she would really enjoy it.

Mom took her time and wandered around the exhibitions not saying very much, but what she said seemed to make sense. She was a creative person; making her own clothes and my sisters, when I was small she even made my clothes. She seemed to identify with some of the work, especially the abstract expressionist work.

She really got excited when she came upon the Picasso’s; she looked at them for a while. She turned to me and said, in Greek, “ta xero afta”, she told me she knew this work. I was surprised to say the least, how did she know this work. She told me when she lived in Paris after the catastrophe; she would see this work at a gallery on her way to the workshop she ran as a seamstress.

These things come out at the weirdest times. By the way, she told me she went to see Lindberg land when he flew the Atlantic in 1927. More stuff I never knew.

The MOMA was no big deal to Mama.

She would have loved the Smithsonian; it has the “Spirit of St. Louis.”

When we were nuns

2011-02-19T16:43:00.005+02:00

We lived in Mexico from 1984 until 1994. The Brazilian embassy had a carnival party every year. They knew how to throw a party and the Mexicans knew how to party.

We were invited and the same dilemma came up, what to wear?

Brainstorm, since everybody goes virtually naked or at least very sexy, we would go as nuns. Jeannine would make a perfect nun, I on the other hand had a big mustache and smoked a cigar, a not so perfect nun, not bad, but not perfect.

I tried on my outfit in my office, at that moment, a client, Irish-American, GM marketing director walks in on me.

He panics; my outfit brings back memories from his Catholic School upbringing…it might be my mustache or my cigar. He thinks I am sister Margarite. My outfit works, it passed the test. He recovers has some water and leaves my office shaking his head.

He must have some wild memories of sister Margarite.

That night we drive to the party, I am sitting in front with our driver, Jeannine was in the back. A city bus pulls up alongside of us at a traffic light. It all seems calm, people glance in the back of the car and see a good looking nun with gold wire framed glasses, then they see me, mustache, cigar, nun’s habit. Double takes are the least things that happen, poking neighbors, pointing, signs of the cross and finally laughter.

We are going to be a hit at the party. I am ready to take on the others with their revealing costumes.

We get there, caipirinhas, food, great music, lots of bare quivering flesh…a typical carnival party, love it.

Our outfits are well received, laughter, funny comments, mostly about my cigar. We are pretty much the most covered up couple there, and the only ones without feathers or sequins.

The competition starts, dancing and judging for the best costume. There is a shortlist and we make it to the final ten. The next dance is the lambada, we are great, I am groping my dance partner, the little nun with the gold wire rimmed glasses, she is sexy as hell and really getting into it, lots of moves…we just might have a chance to win this. We are getting applause and being toasted…this might be our night.

Our only real competition is a near naked couple with strategically placed feathers and sequins, who unfotunately dance pretty good.

DAMN, they win first prize, we come in a close second and are pretty happy with that, the church has held its own, at what is in reality a religious festival.

Not bad for a couple of nuns from NY in Mexico at a Brazilian carnival party.

Do not fly through Charles de Gaulle

2011-02-14T21:33:00.002+02:00

Last December we were going to NY, we were booked to leave on the 15th from Athens, direct to NY.
Three days before we heard about an air controller’s strike for the 15th. We changed our flight for the day before, the 14th, it was not direct and it was via Paris. Athens to Paris, Paris to NY. It seemed easy enough. We had an hour in Paris to change planes, same terminal, no big deal, or so I thought. The dreaded Charles de Gaulle airport suddenly is going to change all that.

I remember this airport and all the hype it got when it was built in the mid 70’s, it was modern and did not look like any other airport at the time. They have added on to it for the past 30 years, some of it isn’t even connected to the original; maybe it is not even in Paris. This monster airport has grown in a seemingly haphazard way. Parts of it have even collapsed.

The people that work there do not seem to have an idea of where anything is, certainly not any of the gates. But I am getting ahead of myself, back to the beginning of our trip.

We started very early, 3 am, by taxi from Porto Heli to go to the airport for our flight to Paris at 7am. Tiring but no big deal. Flight to Paris fine, considering today’s flights. Cramped, crowded but on time. We now arrive at the dreaded Charles de Gaulle airport. We land nowhere near the terminal; the plane lumbers around the airport and finally stops at some bus station in the middle of nowhere. We load on the bus and off we go to more or less where the plane originally landed, I think.

Into the terminal and the search begins for our gate for New York. I ask and am told different directions, the signs lead us outside, we rush around, the wheel chair we ordered for Jeannine is nowhere to be seen. We end up on the sidewalk outside; we go back inside and through the security check for the second time in France.

I finally go crazy at some guy that tells us to go outside and enter the terminal next door. Suddenly a man in a suit appears and reassures me that we are in the right place, but we have to hurry since the plane is loading. “It is close,” he says, we take off, sort of running, more like staggering. I have the hand luggage, two small bags, that weigh a ton by now and a computer bag. Jeannine, who supposedly needed a wheelchair, takes off to the gate, running to make sure they wait for us, for me especially.

We get there and are told there are some passengers still missing; also some of the crew cannot find the plane. We stumble on board and find ourselves in first class, this plane had two doors, and we got in the first one. First class looked pretty good and I asked if we could upgrade, the flight attendant told us it was full and could not do that, even when I offered one of our kids.

We got to our seats and were pleasantly surprised; roomy, pleasant attendants, drinks, movies, it just might be ok, in spite of starting from the dreaded de Gaulle airport.

The trip, after the insanity of de Gaulle airport is pleasant, normal and we get to NY fine.

It has been one of the longest trips we ever made, door to door.

I will never go through that airport again, I will also try not to even have it as my destination. There has to be another way to get to Paris.

Komboloi...or Fiddle Beads.

2011-02-06T11:08:00.012+02:00

I know, I know, before you all tell me, they are worry beads, not fiddle beads. Since Greeks like to play the game of being worriers, when I think they do not really worry, I would rather call them fiddle beads, fiddle being a better word to describe how they are used.

The history of the Komboloi is readily available, the most important thing is that they have no religious use, they are the only beads handled that are not for praying. They originated from prayer beads, Buddhist, to Moslem, to Catholic (rosaries), then our beads, the newly named fiddle beads. The name komboloi is derived from the komboskini; the knotted prayer strings that Greek Orthodox monks make for praying. Komboloi means knot and word, but they have no religious use, maybe just the opposite…it is really an idler’s object.

When we first came to Greece in the early 60’s, older men, usually from Asia Minor, working-class, only used Komboloi. Everybody else fiddled with something, key-chains, string…anything else that you could fiddle with. Today it seems they are popular in all classes. They are available in periptera for a few Euros or in specialized collectors stores for up to thousands of Euros. They are collected by all levels of people and have lost some of the Rembetico connection, although maybe that is one of the attractions, for me it is.

Amber ones to be stroked and caressed due to their fragileness, Faturan ones to be handled rougher, and twirled aggressively. Komboloi are made out of everything, from precious stones to camel bones…I love them. They seem to bring me back to my roots, Asia Minor, where they originally came from.

My Father was too Americanized to use them; he was a calm guy and didn’t worry or fiddle. I, on the other hand use them often. I even had a set made to give away as a company gift; it had our logo on it “the truth well told.”
I have to admit, I got the idea from Tom Pappas when I fist came to Greece to help open McCann, he gave me a set of fiddle beads with the Esso Pappas logo on them.

The komboloi are used all over Greece, while having a coffee and a cigarette and using your cell phone, the twirling of the fiddle beads is deafening. You have to be a real Greek and done time in the Greek Army to really know how to do this…I am practicing, but without the Army, this may be a lost cause

The Hadjibirbilakis, the Birbilakis, the Birbils,

2011-01-29T16:30:00.004+02:00

While looking at some old photos, I was curious to see if there were any physical resemblances. Do I look like my Father or my Grandfather does my son look like any of us? The span is Asia Minor, NY, and Greece, a fisherman, a candy maker, an advertising guy and a painter. I often think what would have happened if there was no catastrophe, would we all have been fishermen?

I was named after my Grandfather and kind of think I look like him. My son was named after his Grandfather, my Dad…and he kind of looks like him.

This unfortunately is as far back as we go on my Fathers side, I think I can go further back on my Mothers side, I have to talk to some cousins in France.

I have friends and I read about people that can trace their roots for hundreds of years. I wonder what is back there in my family roots, do we actually go back to Crete and before that, what?

It ain't Brooklyn Blackie, but it is Brooklyn.

2011-01-29T13:42:00.005+02:00

I had a tattoo done while we were in NY this Christmas. My daughter’s boyfriend took me to a tattoo parlor in Brooklyn, not Coney Island unfortunately, but it nevertheless was Brooklyn.

It seems there are no more tattoo guys in Coney Island, El Greco, Brooklyn Blackie and the rest of them are gone.

We went to a parlor called the 3 Kings, great work, lots of heavily tattooed people tattooing other heavily tattooed people, men and women. I was, as usual the oldest guy there. I wanted an octopus on my shoulder; my wife designed one based on the ancient Minoan vases. Larry goes there often, he is one of the heavily tattooed guys, and he recommended one of the artists there, a heavily tattooed Josh.

Go to their site and see the place and the work. Three Kings tattoo, Brooklyn. A great place.

I imagined the place to be seedier with sawdust on the floor and lots of beer cans all over. Nope, nothing like that, a clean, well-lit place with drawings and paintings on the wall, each artist has his own station. Lots of paper towels and boxes of rubber gloves, also plenty of tracing paper with designs on them.

We did have some seediness, after Larry’s tats we did go and have some vodka and bourbon, in a great local bar, and then went for my tattoo.

I still fancy the idea of becoming an apprentice tattoo artist…I would like a nickname. These new guys don’t seem to have nicknames, I wonder why? The old guys all had nicknames, and great ones; my favorite is still Brooklyn Blackie the electric Rembrandt.

Papou sends his sons abroad

2011-01-05T22:10:00.007+02:00

This blog evolved from my daughter’s request to have me tell some of the family stories. It actually was supposed to be a video memoir, which I didn’t warm to. This is about my Papou, in Asia Minor just before the catastrophe of 1922-23.

I was named after him Grigorios Polichronis Birbilakis, Greg Birbil seems a very poor translation, I should go back to the original, it is impressive as hell.

Back to Asia Minor.

It seems that the Greek men were drafted into the Turkish army; they were Turks so they were draft able, being Greeks though they ended up in the work battalions, which was the equivalent of a death sentence.

My Grandfather ( Papou) having some money, being a prosperous fisherman, would send his sons, my father and my uncles abroad, to avoid being drafted, not unlike going to Canada during the Viet Nam war. Pop was sent to the States to avoid the draft; he was in America when the catastrophe happened. My Uncle Stephano was sent to England, and when he returned to Greece after the population exchange, he was forever known as the Englishman, (o Englesos).

My Mother’s family did the same; her oldest brother was killed while in one of those dreaded work battalions in the Turkish army, after that, all her other brothers were sent abroad. My mother’s family ended up in France because one of her brothers was in Marseilles, avoiding the draft. His name was Cariofilis Alexandridis, he filled out a French form wrongly and was forever known as Alex Cariofilis…so was my Mom’s family in France, and their last name disappeared in the morass of French government bullshit.

My Father was in the States at the time of the catastrophe, I can only imagine what he went through, no info, not really knowing what was going on…no CNN, no Internet, he must have felt so alone. He never spoke to me about it, I never asked and now it is too late.

My Grandfather and the people from the village apparently landed in Edipso on the island of Evia, their first stop in Greece…an old lady in Nea Michaniona told me they arrived on the last day of August and were allowed to use the hotels until the spring, then they had to leave and find someplace to settle. My Papou and some of his family as well as some others decided to stay, they built houses and to this day I have cousins there. The rest of the villagers went to Nea Michaniona, outside of Salonika.

I really have to go there again to get more info, although I was told that the steamship that brought them to Edipso, had one caique, fishing boat, on board, it belonged to my Grandfather. There is also a photo I seem to remember that I saw at a cousin’s house, it is the funeral of Papou, and he is on his caique so people can pay their respect.

I have to get a copy of that photo.

I have to also get more information, once you start you realize how little you know and how complicated it is to get the additional information; the oral sources are about to or have died out.

I should have asked more and listened more when I was a kid.

"Old age is no place for sissies." Bette Davis said that.

2010-12-28T02:00:00.002+02:00

In Brooklyn it is “old age sucks.”

This is our yearly trip to NY, to see the doctors and “OLD” friends.
It is a concentrated time of checkups, probes, and tests,
We do it once a year, our friends, stretch these visits out over the year.

Everybody we see seems to have something wrong with him or her, including me.
Aches, pains, pills, orthotics in your shoes, hearing aids, increased prescriptions, injections for sugar, prostate exams, gall bladder operations and God knows what else.

It is bad enough we have these things, but we talk about them to each other. It seems to be the main topic of conversation. I really cannot stand it but I find myself doing the same thing. This has to stop, much as I care for all my friends, the last thing I want to know about is the number of pills they take or their gall bladder operation.
I love them but enough is enough, basta, ya, finito, let’s talk about women or fishing or politics, anything.

A friend told me we are like an automobile, we are born like a perfect Mercedes, and over the years it requires servicing. At a certain stage it isn’t a 6,000-mile checkup, it is a lot worse, engine block cracked, needs major work. I figure I am at the million mile checkup, should be able to last another couple of thousand miles if they can figure out what that weird noise is.

OK, now here comes the crazy thing, I just read a report that our happiness and contentedness increases after the age of 50 and continues to go up for the next 20 years or so. It seems we do not worry about success, getting ahead and all the things we anguished about when we were in a developing stage. It sort of makes sense, we are what we are and are relaxed about who we are…a good feeling.

It seems odd to me, at a time when we are seemingly falling apart, we are happier and more contented than any other time in our lives.

It all comes down to a very simple thing; if you have a great mental attitude and are OK with yourself, the physical does not seem to matter much. A few aches and pains are nothing compared to the feeling you have that the rough part is over.

I think being “young” is no place for sissies.

Mom and Pop go to Greece on their "Honeymoon"

2010-12-16T14:43:00.004+02:00

My father went to the States in 1912 or so. My grandfather, in Asia Minor, would send his sons out of the country when they became draft age. The Greeks there were drafted into the Turkish work battalions, basically a death sentence.

Pop’s brother was sent to England, and was forever known as “O Englesos,” the Englishman.

Pop went to America and became a candy-maker; he was in the States when the catastrophe happened in 1922.

Mom and her family went to France and eventually settled in Paris where she was a seamstress.

In 1928, Pop went to Paris and married Mom, I wrote a blog about that, April 7th, a very funny situation, the Francophile Greeks were shocked by Pop and his American ways and especially by his American suits,
“O Americanos” was what they called him until the 50‘s.

It is also, what they call me in Porto Heli.

After the wedding, in Paris, they went to Greece to visit family, my Father’s family were living in Edipso, on the island of Evia, and in Nea Michaniona, near Salonica.

The photo above is in Edipso, with my uncles and Aunts and various kids, who I assume are my cousins.

Family that is really unknown, this vague connection through old photos. This is just one of the results of the kind of emigration that was forced on people and spread them throughout the world. You will find Asia Minor Greeks all over the world, from Argentina to the States, France as well as Canada and Australia, and we know our relatives through photos like this, just sort of know them, not really well.

I have been to Edipso and met some of the people in the photo, 36 years later.

Mom told me that Pop was not happy about the visit; he does not look very relaxed in the photo.

It seems he had been living in the States about 10+ years, and seemed to have trouble adapting to seeing his family in Greece.

He had been sending money very regularly, and everybody seemed to think making money in America was easy.

The fishing boats, that he paid for, were on the beach and not being used, Mom told me Pop spent a day pouring water on them since they were dry and rotting. Meanwhile some of his relatives were in the Cafenion, complaining about the lack of plentiful fish.

Pop decided that their stay had to be cut short, he did not want to stay and be more disappointed by his relatives.

He felt that they believed he had it easy, “it was not difficult to make money in the new world.”

He worked 7 days a week and all sort of hours. He did that all his life, and I remember his hours at the store.

It was a naïve way to view life in America, lots of work, lots of money, easy life.

My mother took on the role of sending money to his relatives, Pop never did it personally, ever again.

It is a shame that his trip to Greece ended so sadly, he never talked about it, but Mom told us with tears in her eyes.

I wonder what he would have thought of today’s Greece?

The role of the computer in creative departments

2010-12-10T18:03:00.003+02:00

There is no way that I will be an idiot and claim the computer has no role in agencies, I am old but not that old.

The computer has changed things in the creative department…not all for the best.

Somehow the computer is too perfect, it makes presentations look too finished. We use to make a thing called layouts, magic marker on layout paper. It showed the idea in a simple way; it required a little imagination to see it finished. That was the secret; you were able to use photographers, designers, etc. to make contributions to the idea. It was a collaborative project, it was better.

Today the computer shows it finished, as it will appear; some of the magic is gone. I think the art director is limited to what he can find on the Internet, what he can swipe. The clients are not required to imagine anything, sounds good but is it really better?

I heard a story about an agency that had an electricity shortage, it was a few hours, the creative department came to a standstill, and even the copywriters could not work. Whatever happened to pencils and paper? Ideas should be able to be created without depending on computers.

In our Columbian office, no computers are used in the morning, just layouts, paper and pencil. The computer is used to finish ideas up, for presentation.

An agency in Brazil, a great one, has banned computers in the creative department. Just roughs, “show me the idea” screams the creative director, “not your skill on the computer.”

I think we might be depending on the technology and not the content. We are paid to make people see things in a new way, things they already know. Technology is wonderful, but it is not what we are paid for, we are paid to make relative connections with the consumer on behalf of our client’s brands.

The digital agencies have yet to reach their potential creatively.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, a communication idea, content, will never be made by a computer programer, no matter the program.

"There is a universe in the basement!"

2010-12-03T17:32:00.006+02:00

When I was in Japan, our financial director, a Japanese, a very formal elegant man, for some absurd reason took a liking to me.

He invited me to lunch with the head of Johnson & Johnson, an Englishman that I had been working with, on the next years campaign.

This was not a very normal thing, certainly not for me.

The client arrives to the office, for a meeting, it goes well, we then take off for lunch. We go in the financial directors car to a huge skyscraper downtown. It looked like a normal office building, without a restaurant in sight. We drive into the underground parking and go down about three stories. It looked like a normal parking lot, cars, attendants, numbered slots, all very much as you would imagine.

We pull up to an ornate, traditional wooden carved door, no signs, and three stories down. Attendants rush out to take the car and we are ushered into the “restaurant.”

We enter a world of sunshine and natural beauty. It is amazing, flowers, birds flying around…little tiny houses, bridges with little streams. It is raining over one of the small houses. All this three stories underground, unbelievable, talk about theme restaurants.

There is a whole universe down there.

We are led to a small house on stilts. It is where we are going to have lunch; there are two waitresses per person there. Drinks are served, no sooner do you take a sip when you are handed a fresh drink.

The meal is unbelievable; dozens of beautiful and delicious plates are served, each more amazing then the last.

This magnificent service goes on for at least two hours, the formal Japanese financial director loosens up and starts telling jokes, thank heavens there was no karaoke, we would have all done Elvis.

The most amazing thing about this meal was, no bill appeared, our car was ready when we left, we were handed beautiful presents, and addressed by name by the hostess.

Service, magic environment, wonderful food…all in a parking lot.

Synthesis or fusion?

2010-12-03T09:13:00.017+02:00

This article appeared on Gourmed.com. It is an interview with my wife, by Panos Georgoutzos.

It is about the girl I met at art school, the one that prepared salty dolmades for my father, at our engagement party. She has grown into an amazing cook, and I am sure her skill in entertaining, has been a great help in my career
as well as in our life in general.

My size proves it as well as our kid’s ability to cook. This is her view on food and cooking.

“I loved the pumpkin soup we had last night. I love you too.”

Jeannine Birbil is an American of Albanian Epirot descent, whose maternal grandfather came to America in 1904. She was born in Massachusetts and was raised in NYC. Attending Pratt Institute she studied Fine Art & Illustration, and is an illustrator. She is married to an American of Greek descent, a born Brooklynite. They met at Pratt, and have 3 grown children. Due to her husband’s job, in Advertising, they have lived, for the past 45years, in London, Madrid, Milan, Tokyo, Johannesburg, Mexico City, Bogotá, and finally Athens. They now live in Porto Heli, a beautiful port, in the Peloponnesus.

Since Jeannine loves to cook, this seems to be a perfect formula for a fusion cuisine. Her creativity, the spices, the ingredients, the dishes, the local customs, the restaurants, the friends, all this multicultural exposure have helped make her dishes unique and a true fusion.  You cannot live in all those places and not shop. Jeannine has an extensive collection of dishes, glasses and various china wear, that she uses constantly. Among her favorite dishes are the colorful Talavera plates that she commissioned in Puebla, Mexico.  As a child she learned traditional cooking from her grandmother, mother and father. Her creativity, her travels, and her interest in cooking have done the rest.

-What is your relationship with food? How did you come to love cooking?

I just love it. It is such an absorbing creative experience. I love the colors and the presentation of food is important to me. It is like painting a portrait and food is the medium. Living in so many countries as my family and I have, it’s always about what influences you bring together from all these different cultures into your cooking. Once when I was very young, visiting my grandparents I opened the fridge to get some milk for breakfast and I saw three lamb heads sitting there staring at me. You could say that it was a disturbing thing for a little girl of 5 or 6 years old to see. Instead of being scared, I was truly curious to know what my grandmother would do with them. She expressed her distaste and told me that my grandfather was the one who would cook and eat them. Intrigued I sat beside him at the table watching him enjoy this odd meal and he offered me a taste expecting me to say no, but I was more than willing to try. He gave me the best part, the soft, tender and succulent cheeks and they tasted wonderful. This experience triggered my curiosity and all my interest about food.

-So, which countries have influenced your cooking?

All of them!

-England too??

(laughs)…Well… yes! When we lived in England in the 60’s, food wasn’t a priority. If you wanted to go out and dine, you could only go to the center of London, where all these foreign restaurants were. English food was all about steak and kidney pud, roast lamb or roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, which although are hearty nourishing meals I don’t find them very challenging. I did learn to make great scones though and I always looked forward to the sweet cinnamon glaze on a tasty hot cross bun. Having tea and dainty sandwiches at Fortnum & Mason and strolling through the food halls of Harrods was a marvelous, elite experience. However England has changed and an interesting cooking culture has emerged. They now have some superb young chefs that have incorporated international elements to English cuisine and have done a wonderful job.

-Others?

Spain. I loved Spanish food. In season, flavorful artichokes and peas sautéed with Jamon Serrano give a lovely salty, robust flavor to the vegetables. I still dream about the wonderful parrillada’s (a seafood platter) we enjoyed. Seasonal asparagus and wild strawberries from Arranjuez consume you for weeks. I learned how to make paella and now I love to make it in so many different ways. Also, Mexico for me has probably the most varied cuisine outside of Asia. As varied as the Chinese cuisine. It is a fabulous fusion of traditional Spanish cooking mixed with New World foods and indigenous preparation. Chilies are a very basic element that I incorporate into my cooking from my years in Mexico. At first I assumed that they are used in all Latin America but they are not that popular outside of Mexico. I realized that for the Mexicans, having more than 50 varieties of chilies, they are almost sacred. So I really like using chilies. I have to be careful in Greece, because not everyone loves chilies… Mexico was a real experience, and I kept as much as I could from that cuisine. Italy was wonderful too. Of course, there I learned how to use all kinds of ingredients to make pasta and a variety of risotto and especially how to use basil as an ingredient in sauces and pesto. As you know Greeks traditionally never use basil to cook with.

-What about Greek cuisine. Has it made any impact on your cooking?

Of course! It was my first cooking experience watching my mother and grandmother make those famous large round Epirus cheese and spinach pies. I stood by as a child mesmerized as they rolled out the filo. I loved the squishy, soft, tactile feel of the ball of dough my mom placed in my hand as I watched and eagerly tried to imitate their filo making. Here is an amusing story involving my Greek cooking. When my husband Greg and I were engaged, his family came to our home for the engagement dinner. I knew that his father loved dolmades so I decided to make them for the first time. I found a recipe and did everything right except for one very important detail. I didn’t know that the vine leaves are kept in brine and so I just rinsed them a bit under the tap, instead of soaking them. And if that wasn’t enough during the cooking process my father, a terrific cook himself, lifted the lid of the pot and to my horror added even more salt…My dad had never made dolmades either but was laughing when I told him how salty the vine leaves already were. When I tasted them I really had second thoughts about whether to present them to my father-in-law to be, but in my vanity to show to his family that I too can roll dolmades prevailed and in the end I served them. Unfortunately the first dish offered to him was my dolmades. Everyone was staring at Greg’s father for approval as he took the first bite, he paused and then someone asked him what he thought of the dolmades. His reply was: “The bride is very beautiful”. He didn’t touch another thing for the rest of the evening! (laughs)

-And how do all these influences come together? What is the result?

I use ingredients from all these cuisines together. I can use up to six different spices in one dish and people will go asking me “what is this”? Sometimes I even forget, because I’ll just grab 4 or 5 jars and go “oh, that would be alright to mix…” Most of my dishes are originals.
.
-So we come to the word “fusion”. Is that what your cooking is all about?

My husband doesn’t like that word…(laughs). Well it’s very difficult to find another word to substitute that. My way of naming my cuisine is “synthesis”, which is actually a Greek word.

-Which are your favorite dishes? What do you usually cook at home?

When I have friends over I love making Greek food. I make all the traditional dishes like moussaka, pastitsio or roast lamb. But I also improvise a lot. I make dishes with a twist from my international cooking background. I make a mean ceviche, spicy and colorful using fresh Greek fish and a wonderful oyster mushroom dish sautéed in olive oil with spring onions, chopped garlic, chili guajillo (a tasty, dried, calm, flavorful chili that you soak) coriander leaf and tequila. I love to marinate chicken or sliced turkey breasts in orange juice, fresh garlic, finely chopped ginger and curry with a dash of soy sauce. Sometimes I will use fresh limejuice instead of orange juice and combine lemon grass, just a touch of soy, you don’t want to overwhelm this dish with too much soy sauce, ginger, garlic, spring onions, a dash of white wine and a few fresh chilies as I sauté the chicken breasts in olive oil. I always use olive oil, which we harvest from our own olive trees and a variety of chilies, that I grow in pots on my terraces.  As a variation you can cut the marinated chicken breasts into strips and sauté them in olive oil and chopped garlic along with strips of finely cut sautéed sweet red peppers and onions for a variation adding cumin and a dash of vermouth. There is no limit to what one can do with food. Creativity, imagination and fearlessness are the only tools you need. Know your herbs and experiment using cloves and cinnamon with meats, something that Greek chefs have been doing for centuries. Besides, always remember that cooking is fun.

"A noble but dumb animal...just like Royalty."

2010-11-30T13:55:00.014+02:00

Do not get me wrong, this was said to me, by a Caballerango, (a horse-wrangler) in Mexico, at the Domecq ranch.

I actually love horses; at least I love drawing them.

While running McCann Mexico we got the Domecq account, specifically the Presidente Brandy account.
It is the largest selling brandy in the world, by volume. Mexicans drink it with Coca-Cola.

It was really a big coupe for an International agency, since it was such a traditional Mexican account.

We also handled the Coca-Cola account. There were millions of drinks served in Mexico that we had a lot to do with.

They always used the Spanish horses in their advertising, horses that they bred, originally in Spain. In Mexico they had bred a version called the Azteca, (Google it for more information).

We recommended a campaign where the horses were free; normally they always showed them controlled by a rider or a handler with a long lead.

These horses running free was no easy feat, they are not used to being free in large open spaces. We naturally wanted them running on a beach, what did we know?

We are going to shoot the commercial in Florida, on this wonderful open beach. We arrange for the horses, Spanish ones, locally from a breeder.

The Caballerango comes from Mexico with us to handle the horses.

The first thing he tells us is that we need boats in the sea, since the horses, once in the water, might swim straight out to sea. The last thing we want to do is lose one of these expensive beautiful animals, by drowning. “Sorry, the horse swam away.” To crazy to even contemplate. We get the boats, four to be safe.

The boats are positioned, out of shot, and we release the horses. We work all day to get the shots we need, without losing any horses. Yes, the boats were needed, those animals once in the water headed for Cuba.

Remember what the Cavalarango said.

The Mexican director, Pedro Torres, did a great job, In spite of the “sea horses.”

The horses were beautiful and noble, maybe just a little dumb… I do not know anything about royalty.

"We tried Bill...we tried."

2010-11-30T13:40:00.007+02:00

Our head of International, during the seventies, was an ex Marine that had served in the Pacific during the Second World War. If you wanted to do a casting of an ex-marine, he would be perfect. He was a tough looking guy with a great stare, and when he spoke you listened.

I once turned down a job in a market and jokingly asked him if he would hold it against me, his answer was, “I am not sure that I won’t.”

Not much of a sense of humor, a real tough guy. He was a good guy though, in spite of his demeanor.
He had a great memory, and seemed to remember everybody he ever met, names, family, everything.

He did have one weakness, because of his military service, he never went to visit our Tokyo operation, number two in the world at that time. Finally he was convinced that he had to go, considering his position in the company, and especially that of our Japanese operation’s size.

He finally goes to our Tokyo operation while on a far eastern tour. He is received very graciously as is to be expected. He meets the major clients, sees the impressive agency presentation. He seemed relaxed, the Japanese manager sends him on a tour of Tokyo, and a ride on the bullet train to get a feeling of the country, Kyoto, Mt. Fuji, a very impressive couple of days. He stayed in traditional Inns had hot baths, massages, ate Sushi, the works.

When he gets back, they give him the traditional cocktail party, clients, staff, suppliers and diplomats.
While at the party he makes an observation to the Japanese manager, a very cool guy, that the country seems very crowded, buildings all over the countryside and asks the population of Japan. “ It is about 120 million people” says the manager. He thinks for a while and says to the manager, “you guys need more land.”

With a small shy smile our manager turns to him and says… “We tried Bill, we tried.”

No matter who you are, just think a little bit before you say anything…remember.

“We tried Bill, we tried.”

Opening an agency in Greece

2010-11-29T08:52:00.004+02:00

We opened our agency in Greece during the Junta. It was the late sixties.
The same person, Tom Pappas, represented our two most important clients, Coca-Cola and Esso; he was a Greek American that came back to Greece for the business opportunities.

He was a very important guy in Greece at that time and his name carried lots of weight, as I found out at the airport when I arrived.

I had previously come to Greece before the Junta, and the airport was a very casual place. I remember sheep on the runway and people coming to the plane as we landed. I may be wrong about that, but that is the image I have. It was a different Greece before the Junta. I arrive and realize the difference when my passport is requested a few times, the airport personnel were much more buttoned up, almost an imitation Switzerland.

I was really happy to be back in Greece and was using my crummy Greek. Finally I get to customs, I spoke to him in Greek, big mistake. I had a can of film, commercials for Esso and Coke, as well as my suitcase.
He immediately said open your suitcase, and asked me what various items were. He asked about very simple things, shoes, shirts shaving kits etc. He was a supercilious shit, very impressed with his uniform. I finally got a little sarcastic, when he asked what something was, I said. “Here is something you have never seen before in your life, it is trousers and a jacket that match, it is called a suit.” He went nuts and attempted to remove a gun that he didn’t have. Lots of screaming, I immediately became an American and forgot my Greek, I innocently asked in English “what was the matter?” I was really nervous about having to explain the reel of commercials I had with me.

In those days Greece had tourist police, they wore a shiny metal helmet and spoke various foreign languages. Fortunately, one came over; he spoke English and asked me what was wrong? The customs guy kept screaming that I was Greek, and I kept asking. “What is he saying, he seems really upset.”

The cop asked what I was in Greece for and I used the then magic name, I said, “I am here to see Tom Pappas.” Things changed immediately, straight out to a taxi and I continued the innocent Gringo. “How much will a taxi cost to the Hilton?” He said it would cost 30 drachmas, or some ridiculously low price.

He then told the cab driver were I was going and the cost he quoted me.

A not very happy cab driver took off, looking in his mirror at me. I tried to engage him in conversation with my Greek that had mysteriously come back. No response, or a reluctant nod occasionally. At 30 drachmas on the meter he shut it down, about half way to the Hilton. I told him to keep it on, no way was he going to do that, he did not know who I was, secret police, CIA, or what.

These were difficult times in Greece, everybody was afraid; people could not congregate, 5 people or more, and the cops showed up. Everybody seemed nervous and apprehensive.

When we got to the hotel, I tipped him generously to make up for the fare that he didn’t charge.
I finally got him to talk a bit, once he realized I was not secret police or the CIA, he told me how hard it was under the Junta. He drove me around for the next few days that I was in Athens. I remember that and find it strange that some people today remember the Junta with nostalgia.

Finally I go to the meeting with Tom Pappas with my boss, the head of Europe. We present what we are doing on Esso and Coca-Cola in the rest of Europe. After questioning me about my Greekness, where my family was from, where I grew up in the States etc., he suspiciously asks, how come the only Greek working in Europe, me, happens to be working on the two accounts he runs. He finally reluctantly believes that I do. We get the accounts and open McCann Athens, with a great Greek partner.

He gave us sets of worry beads with the Esso Pappas logo, the only place in the world where Esso has another name attached to it.

I am amazed it wasn’t also called Coca-Cola Pappas.

Very weird businesses trip too, at that time, a rather weird place.

I refused to come to Greece then to run the agency. I eventually did, but much later.

Be wary of customs agents in countries with a Junta.

Hailing a taxi in Tokyo and Athens.

2010-11-21T14:18:00.005+02:00

Tokyo, 1971, I was there as creative director for three months, until the one they hired got his working papers. I was on loan from the London office. I was treated incredibly well; they really know how to make somebody welcomed. I had a driver that picked me up every morning, a house with a housekeeper, everything to make my stay easier.

Japan is a beautiful country, with very polite people, nevertheless it is the other side of the moon, just as you think you understand everything, something happens that reminds you how different it really is.

OK, let me get back to the title, taxis here and there.

As I said, mornings a driver picked me up to go to work, he arrived spot on time, white shirt, black pants, a tie and white gloves, absolutely immaculate. He was available all day to take me wherever I had to go.

At night I did not go straight home, stayed late and then went out with some of the guys, restaurants clubs, bars, massage parlors, etc. After all it was Tokyo, and the early 70s.

At night, I would take a cab home, or somebody would drop me off at the house.

One rainy night, on the Ginza, I tried to hail a cab. It was pouring, but I was still optimistic, there were hundreds of cabs going by, and it was not that late. Cabs are stopping for people up the road as well as down the road. They just zoom by me to somebody down the road. I started to think it was a racial thing, do not stop for the Gaijine, especially in the rain. I do not remember how I got home, but I must have.

I was told the next day, by my secretary Mariko, that when it is raining or there aren’t many cabs, you hold up two fingers when you are hailing a cab, you would pay twice the price. Great system, I couldn’t wait for the next rainy night to try it out. I hold up two fingers, the preverbal English, “up yours”…it works, the cab stops, takes me home I pay twice the price, well worth it.

I am now in control of my destiny at night, at least I can get home.

It is very late one night, pouring rain, and my two fingers are not working, no cab is stopping or even slowing down, they just are zooming by me. I am a little drunk and I figure out if two fingers don’t work, maybe five fingers will work better. I hold up my open hand and point to it with my other hand, screeching brakes, tires smoking, cabs stopping, they would have thrown out any passengers they already had. A new way to hail a taxi, five fingers, seemed to work all the time. I must admit, I did try to play the innocent and only pay what was on the meter, it didn’t work, they could get really pissed off, rightly so.

What do Tokyo cabbies have to do with Athenian cabbies? When you try to hail a cab in Athens, he might slowdown as you jog alongside, telling him where you want to go, if he is polite he will flick his eyebrows up and speed away, otherwise he will just speed away. There is an independence to both groups.
I have to try the two-finger technique here and hope he hadn’t lived in England.

If he doesn’t stop the two fingers work just as well ”up your's vre.”

When our commercials were film.

2010-11-15T17:27:00.012+02:00

When I was in Spain, during the early 70’s we had a tobacco client based in Hamburg, Germany.

They produced a black tobacco cigarette for the Spanish market called Aguila.

They let us create the launch commercial in Spain. Not much of a spot. Lots of flags marching and eagles flying around, the music was basically triumphant, based on the hymn,
“Battle Hymn of the Republic."

You have to remember that this was the early 70’s, still during the time of Franco. This slightly military type commercial appealed to the local Spanish client and the German client as well.

We shot the commercial in England. In those days there was no video and films were 35 millimeter. We presented by projecting the spot, like in a movie house.

We were late; I had to go to Germany to present the spot there, so we could make the launch date.

I go to their offices, a brand new building with the latest facilities for meetings and viewing. A great cinema, windows are darkened with the touch of a button. There are all sorts of automatic things for slides, films, and overhead projection. A state of the art facility, the best I had ever seen. The three senior clients and me, in this slick huge room.

We are all set to see the spot.

The projectionist, in a white coat, takes the film, marches off to set it up, and show it.

Lights are dimmed, and nothing, zip, nada, not an image, we are all dumbfounded.

The projectionist comes running down, very agitated and a little pissed-off. He starts whispering in German to the marketing director, It seems the film does not work. I am told it is because it is a Spanish film, I tell them it is an English film and I saw it the day before in Madrid and it worked perfectly. Back and forth, your fault, no your projector sucks, no, it is the latest projector from Leica, blah, blah, blah.

We all calm down and I decide to present the commercial as best I can. We gather around a desk lamp and I hold up the film and start passing the film through my fingers, so that they can see the images. I pass it a little faster so that they can see the movement and pace; meanwhile I am humming the music.

We are talking 24 frames for each second; a sixty second commercial is about 90 feet of film, almost 30 meters.

I keep this up for the full spot; we are up to our knees in film. I show it to them again and again, trying to get the movement right and humming like a crazy man. This bizarre act goes on for about an hour, film all over the place.

They finally approve it and even congratulate me, I think for my humming.

Of all the presentations I made in my 40+ years in the business, this by far was the wackiest. I think I can pretty much present anything after that.

Fortunately the desk lamp worked.

"If you do not buy this campaign we will jump out of the window!"

2010-11-14T15:13:00.005+02:00

That is how my partner for many years ended his presentation to the head of Coca-Cola for Europe.

John had probably just read George Lois’s book.

This was London in the 70’s.

After presenting six new commercials, done from the squatting position, a little like a praying mantis, while smoking a Woodbine cigarette and shaking his hands in the air in front of his head, John was very intense and passionate when he presented, he managed to get the head client to squat as well.

During the course of his presentation, the whole room of various brand managers as well as our account guys got down in the squat position. This was triggered by the head of Coca-Cola assuming the position first, not necessarily by the quality of the ads, even though they were pretty good. The intensity of the moment manifested in this amusingly ridiculous scenario.

I managed to avoid the squat position, since John was in complete control of that group. I enjoyed his act, even though I had seen it before and could never hold the squatting position for very long. I was always amazed at John’s ability to so mesmerize our clients in this way.

I did react when John volunteered us to jump out of the window if the commercials were rejected. It seemed a bit much since he had never taken such a dramatic posture before.

Our offices were on Howland Street, near the Post Office Tower, McCann had six floors including the basement.

As soon as John made his closing remarks, I started to laugh, not nervously, but out loud since we were in one of the conference rooms in the basement!

We would have had to jump up ten feet to impale ourselves on the spikes surrounding the lower floor.

John knew exactly what he was doing and was playing the whole meeting for a wacky opportunity to use this line.

No New York ad men were going to be more passionate than us.

John gave me a conspiratorial smile when I started to laugh; reminding me that the room we were in was in the basement. An iconic moment.

We sold the ads.

Was it the hat or the head?

2010-11-07T20:09:00.005+02:00

One of the sharpest and funniest guys I ever met worked at McCann. We worked and traveled together many times. He was an International co-coordinator as well as regional director, a big shot. He was an old time ad guy in the good sense. He loved martinis, and claimed he still had the first bottle of vermouth he ever bought, opening the bottle in the other room was enough vermouth for his martinis he said. He really liked them dry.

One his many talents was his presentation skill, he always had the appropriate opening, sometimes a great relevant joke or a pertinent story.

At an international coordinators meeting in Madrid he told what I thought was a great joke.
We were at a famous flamenco restaurant, and after a great meal and traditional flamenco music and dancing, he opened the evening session, not really work, but prizes and welcomes to the new guys. We had the restaurant to ourselves, about a hundred people, from the New York office and all our European offices.

He took the stage, in the flamenco position, hands ready to clap, head back looking over his shoulder, and said
“Why is an international coordinator like a flamenco dancer?
He is stamping out a fire while he applauds himself, as he watches his ass.”

One of his great stories took place in New York in the 50’s, Madmen era.
They all wore hats in those days. These three guys and their paranoiac boss had lunch pretty much every day.
The boss decided he needed a new hat and they stopped at Brooks Brothers on the way to the restaurant, where he bought a new fedora, perfect fit.
As they continued to the restaurant, one of them lingered behind and bought two more exact hats, but one was one size bigger and the other was one size smaller.

They go to the restaurant, check in their hats and coats but they replace the boss’s hat with the one slightly larger.
After the traditional two martini lunch they head back to the office, the boss gets his hat and it is a little large on him, not a great deal but noticeably larger. Has his head shrunk after his meal? They get back to the office and replace his hat with the correct one. That evening he goes home, hat fits fine.

Next day they get ready for lunch and they slip him the smaller one, he puts it on and starts to get agitated, his head seems bigger when he is hungry. They continue this for about three days, his head seemingly bigger when he is hungry and smaller after he eats.

He takes some sick days off and checks with his doctor about this bizarre illness. Head expands when hungry, shrinks after he eats.

He also did something to somebody in our Italian office, the deputy general manager hated garlic, can you believe that? He stuffed his phone receiver with garlic, every phone call was slammed down with a disgusted comment about the guy that was calling and his breath.

There are many Stu stories, he was funny, smart and he was a good friend.

"Dos fried eggs me feta...vre."

2010-11-01T23:22:00.005+02:00

When you think of a traditional American restaurant; in many cases it is a diner. In reality, it is probably owned by a Greek, and 70%, down from 90%, are.
.
The Greeks that arrived in the 60's and 70's worked in the then, very American diners. They started in the kitchens, washing dishes, eventually working their way up and then buying them. They were the nearest things to a Greek kafenion for them.

At that time, the immigrants were farmers, so they knew how to run a business and many had Asia Minor roots, so they knew how to deal with different people.

There is no diner that does not have some Greek dishes, even though it has a selection of hundreds of choices, menus that seem like books with dessert displays that are huge. Nevertheless, you can be sure that there will be a spanakopita, or something with feta on the menus and baklava in the dessert display.

The names will give you the hint of the origin of the owners, the Diana, the Acropolis, the Spartan manor, etc
.
Greeks owned diners for years; unfortunately, as their children grew up and became lawyers or doctors or stockbrokers, they showed no interest in going into a business that required a 24/7 commitment.

These diners are now being sold to the next generation of dishwashers and cooks, no longer Greeks, in most cases Latinos or Orientals. Obviously this will have its effect on the menu. As one Greek owner of a diner said
”Once the Greeks are out, the diners will not be diners anymore.” He is probably right; the menus are a truly unique mixture of very American food and Greek touches.

Until then, the food has a strong Greek influence, in spite of it being the most American of restaurants. I wonder if the new owners will realize that feta and eggs, or spanakopita are not American dishes, perhaps they will keep them on the menu. I wonder if the customers will keep asking for the Greek infiltrated items on the menu. I like the idea of a spanakopita becoming a firmly entrenched American dish. I also wonder if the language of the diners will change, will we still hear, the counterman, usually a Mexican, saying, ” dio fried eggs, vre.” I hope certain things remain, but I also am looking forward to the new ethnic dishes that will appear on the diner’s menus, perhaps with a bit of feta.

If you visit the States and feel an urge for Greek food, go to the most American of restaurants, the Diner. You may, very well have the best Greek meal that you can have in the States.

If you tell the owner you are from Greece, the coffee and the baklava, will probably be on the house.

It is olive picking time...that means olive oil. "probably the best oil in the world."

2010-10-30T22:25:00.004+03:00

I have spent most of my life not giving olive oil and olives much thought. Being Greek, they were on the table at every meal. My parents came from a fishing village in Asia Minor, fish were important, I guess they had no olive trees, so I did not hear anything about the romance of the olive tree.

That changed radically when we started coming to Greece regularly. We would see these large green cloths on the ground under olive trees and people in the tree and on the ground “combing “ the tree and the olives being gathered on the cloths. I was still not entirely into the olive tree mentality.

We retired to the Argolida, home of the best olive trees and the best oil, not only in Greece but also in the world, according to the locals. I am use to hearing that, about everything, oil, wine, fish, their kids, everything ”best in the world.”

The humility of the Greeks is one of their most endearing qualities.

This time of year is the olive picking time, major topic of conversation at the coffee shops, olives and local elections. The rain was good, too much rain, the mayor is a “malaka” the guy running against him is a “bigger malaka”, this year will be good for the olives, a good crop, not as good as two years ago. Back and forth, but even a bad crop will still make the best oil in the world, that stuff from Kalamata and Crete is junk.

The truth is that this is an amazing area for olive trees and has been famous since ancient times, with trees hundreds and even thousands of years old, maybe they are right about the quality, I am not sure it is the best in the world but it is pretty incredible.

We planted olive trees, but not enough for oil; we do prepare the olives for eating though, maybe not the best in the world, but pretty good.

Early in the year is the pruning period, it is an art, the branches are cut to open the tree up to the sun, and they say a bird should be able to fly through it. Every three years or so they prune them very severely, you suddenly see trees that seem to be just a trunk with a couple of branches; they seem to have overdone it. Those trees in a couple of years are full and gorgeous, and full of olives. The trees are amazing, beautiful shapes, so strong, and properly looked after they will give fruit for thousands of years.

The best part is going to the olive press, fresh oil, bread to taste it with and some wine. We all stand around and make sure we get our oil, all of it. Those guys are fast and some oil that belongs to you always seems to disappear.

It really is wonderful, olives that you brought, transformed into extra virgin olive oil, the same thing that has been going on for thousands of years.

I also like the qualifications of the oil; it is all dependent on the acidity, extra virgin, virgin, 100% pure.

I wonder what the difference between extra virgin and virgin, can you be purer than pure, I guess you can if you are olive oil. Sunday we go to the press with some friends and their olives: the oil will be great, I know it. “ The best oil in the world” especially if it is yours.

"It's woman's day, what do we do for them this year?"

2010-10-21T18:43:00.002+03:00

When I first arrived in Greece, I had lots to do and things to try and understand. Clients, staff, international crap, and getting use to this place, so out of the blue comes the question, “it is woman’s day, what do we do for them?”

It seemed like a weird question, but what the hell, what could we do for them?
I remembered in Mexico, woman’s day was pretty easy; the bosses got the secretaries coffee and flowers etc.
No big deal, but as we all know “Greece is different”.

We brainstormed and came up with flowers and Champagne, not very creative.

The PR gal says, “what about a male stripper”? What is Greece coming too, love the idea, do we have the Arxidia to do it?

Here is the idea, we got all the women into the conference room, me, the financial director, and the head of client service are the only males there.
We serve drinks and give them each a rose, silence, quizzical looks, they think we are nuts, all 40 of them.

At this point our male stripper is supposed to come in dressed as a cop and arrest the financial director.
Pretty good idea, he then starts to dance and strip, we get out and the fun begins.

Our stripper comes in on cue, but he is dressed as a sailor, and tries to arrest the financial guy, evidently he could not get a policeman’s outfit. Pretty funny anyway, by now the women realize something is up, especially when he gets up on the conference room table.

We get out and listen at the door, screams, laughter and yelling, some from the stripper. They are hitting him with the roses that still have thorns on them. He is evidently on the table with a rather chubby secretary; we later find footprints on the ceiling. The screams and laughter go on for close to an hour, seems it is a success.

Periodically some women step out fanning themselves and going “po, po, po.” the receptionist comes out with the stripper’s underwear on her head.

I am suddenly worried about husbands, brothers, fathers, all the Greek machos, have we gone too far?

I am relieved when some of the older women come out and thank me. I figure we are safe, if nobody says anything we will be OK.

Later the stripper’s manager wants more money, the stripper is scratched and bleeding, he will not be able to work for a few days, and the roses were put to good use.

Every year after that, the ladies waited for woman’s day, what would the Americanaki come up with this year.

We could not afford the Chippendales’, the only thing that would have topped our policeman dressed as a sailor, stripper.

We resorted to Champagne and flowers; they were always waiting for more, no sailors, policemen or soldiers.

I wish we could have seen and filmed the show; it would have been a hit on you tube.

"Get in line or I am going to leave without you or your cars".

2010-10-15T16:12:00.005+03:00

On our first trip to Greece we were exposed to many new experiences, the
Ferryboat was one of them. This was 1964, and aside from my experience with Greek rental cars, weird Opels, with gearshifts that were connected with wires -the ferryboats and the loading of cars on them was a nail biting experience.

While getting my rental car on board I was directed by a guy dressed in an old navy outfit, probably from world war one, “ella, ella, a little more”, “enough” the enough, came after I smashed into a car that was loaded just as precariously as I had been. I got out and asked a crew member what was that all about, he told me the guy had nothing to do with the ferryboat, he just liked to direct cars on to the ferry. The real crew got a big laugh at this guy’s loading technique.

Without a doubt the best ferryboat story happened in Edipso over Easter on our first trip to Greece. We wanted to leave on Monday, after Easter, but were told by my cousins that we should leave on Tuesday.

I assumed it was a sin or something to travel on the Monday after Easter. I was not about to question such an adamant suggestion.

Monday morning, my cousins go to the taverna that overlooked the port and the ferryboat slip. They started to take chairs and line them up on the terrace with the best view.

We then all went to take our places; drinks and mezedes were on the tables. My wife and I sat there not knowing what to expect, cars were lined up ready to load up, and the ferry was pulling in.
At this point all hell broke loose, the cars all moved in at once from all directions to be the first on board, crew members are trying to restore some semblance of order, no luck, cars are jockeying for position, grandmothers are being used as buffers on the newer cars, there is still lots of fender benders and fist waving, as well as screaming, with slamming doors prior to the threatening of fights. It was a great scene.

The captain of the ferry is screaming through a loud speaker, threatening to leave without any cars, he even pulled out about twenty meters to show he was serious. He stayed there for quite a while.

A little semblance of order takes place; it would be considered chaos in Germany but order in Greece. Finally they start to load the cars, the village idiot is directing traffic, so are the two cops of the town, and they seem to be doing just about the same thing, not very much. Somehow the ferry gets loaded, to the cheers of the people at the taverna, wine is drunk, we toast each other and cry out “Xristos Anesti, Christ has risen, Alithos Anesti, verily he has risen”. A new Easter experience, not very religious but a hell of a lot of fun, the villagers seem to look forward to this all year.

The ferries today are not nearly as much fun, there are no wackos directing traffic, well actually there are, but they lack the color and flamboyance of the old days.

I wonder if Monday after Easter is as much fun as it was.

Earthquakes, here and there.

2010-10-11T19:23:00.008+03:00

For some reason it seems we have had our fair share of earthquakes, both in Mexico and Greece as well as some minor rumbles in Japan, and even in Milan.

They are frightening, but I remember the funny stuff, which is usually a relief after you realize that you are still alive.

Our first was in Greece in 1964, on the island of Evia, our first night after visiting relatives in Edipso. They were upset that we had checked into a hotel and not stayed with them. At about 5:30 in the morning the room started shaking and the thick wooden door was bowing as if it was made out of cardboard. Jeannine leaped out of bed, naked, and started yelling at me to get up and get out. I evidently was very cool and told her to wake me up when there were cracks in the walls, besides I said “If it was serious, my cousin would come and get us”.

I am pretty good at major crises; I fall apart over small things.

Jeannine finally got me up, we dressed and started to go downstairs, we found my cousin in pajamas and slippers running upstairs, I guess it was serious.

The rest of the day was spent pretty much out doors reliving the quake and waiting for the aftershocks that were sure to come. They came, quite a few of them. Edipso, had about 30 yards of sidewalk, it was, after all, 1964.
A woman was on the sidewalk and when the aftershock came she fell off the 6 inch curb. She managed to do the sign of the cross three times before she safely hit the ground; I guess doing the sign of the cross works.

The next earthquake was a very serious one in Mexico, in 1985, really catastrophic, 8.1 - enormous. One of the most serious to hit a major city, we lived in an area that did not suffer any major damage, but we did bounce around quite a bit.

We had some guests, actually from Greece; I figured they knew about earthquakes. When it hit, it was morning the kids had gone to school, safely, to another area that was not affected. We all ran out of the house, the maid, her daughter, my wife and my friend’s wife, all on the lawn away from the house, waiting for Nick. The door finally opens, and there in the doorway is a naked Nick. He takes one look at everybody on the lawn and runs back in the house. After what seemed like ages, he comes out with pants on, but also a cup of coffee. A Greek without his coffee cannot start the day, unbelievable.

That earthquake has many stories, not funny, but very touching. The people of Mexico City reacted in an amazing way, civilians
helped each other, unfortunately the authorities were slow to respond.

The next earthquake was Athens in the 90's, it was bad, but after Mexico it did not seem so bad. My office was on the 6th floor and we had three floors to our company. I was in my office with a colleague, when the earthquake hit, he immediately dove under my desk, correct action but not if the desk is a glass slab. A rather sheepish Andonis came out when I reminded him the desk was glass.

Everybody got out safely and we all congregated at the snack bar across the street, cell phones were put to great use. Everybody was OK, especially after we ordered drinks.

My wife walked over with our hysterical dog, which by now had calmed down. He evidently had relieved himself about twenty times on the way over.

I know how he felt.

Earthquakes and Greece seem to go together like octopus and ouzo.

Ramblings on what a Creative Director is

2010-10-07T11:57:00.012+03:00

This was written by me in the early 80’s for a worldwide managing directors meeting.

A creative director does not have to be the best creative person in the Agency. He has to know good stuff and has to obsessed with getting it. He has to be a leader. He has to be a manager (art directors seem to have more experience managing work loads because they work with outside suppliers more).

He has to inspire. He mustn’t compete directly with his people. He must have the ability to help develop ideas that are mere germs.

Al Scully use to say his job was “ to create an atmosphere where gold medal ads could be created, but if that wasn’t happening to at least create a bronze medal ad himself “. He must be the champion of certain standards.

A great creative director is like the editor of a magazine. He doesn’t necessarily write it but his are the standards, the vision, and the focus for all. He has to defend his people but he also has to be ruthless.

An agency like McCann has a variety of creative needs, with some accounts you have to work smart, with others you have to strive, because you can, to do great work. A creative department needs to have a variety of talents, the mechanic to the high flyer.

Probably the biggest mistake we make is promoting a great creative into being a mediocre or even a terrible creative director.

I believe an agency must have one creative director. 3 or 4 creatives reporting to a manager is not the way. Creatives need a leader, a champion, actually so does the Agency. Client service people need to know and have an ultimate person to go to. Creative, media, research and planning, and finance need a head, they are all crafts. Client service people can function without a department head, not sure why, but they can. The other departments need a head.

A creative director doesn’t even have to be the highest paid guy in the creative department. He can hire specialists, a great art director, a great copywriter that gives the agency something it needs, not necessarily people that will stay forever, but hired guns for a problem. I worked for a great creative director in Chicago that hired some talents earning more than he did. Made the manager crazy, but it solved a serious problem we had, they eventually went on their way, as most gunfighters do.

An agency is a balance, it must have a creative director or the balance is off, that goes for all the other crafts. If the manger comes from the creative side it still needs a creative director.

I don’t believe you can train a great creative director, you can guide him, motivate him, help him be better but you cannot create one.

The biggest mistake, the biggest demotivator, the quickest way an agency style, not a clients style is to have a creative director who still wants to be a creative and compete directly with his people.

He must be a magnet for great people in the market.
He must be a teacher and a mentor.
He must be respected by everybody in the agency, not necessarily liked, but respected.

Good creative people without great creative directors, get beat up, leave, or worse, do mediocre work.

We believe the agency lacks good creative people, the truth is we lack good creative directors.

Lastly the desire to do great work is not only the creative directors responsibility, but also everyone’s, manager, department heads, financial director. It is after all what we are about. It is what we do.

20 years later, I would not change any of this, but I did say this blog was going to be one sided.

The revenge of an Archimandrite, serious stuff

2010-10-07T11:39:00.006+03:00

When I was a kid in Brooklyn, I was an altar boy at our church, I was even the head altar boy. We needed an extra altar boy, he had to be tall, since the robe we had was a long one. I went down to the Sunday school and picked a kid to be an altar boy. He was about three years younger than me. He was to be the junior kid, in the gang of altar boys. It was a gang; we after all had access to the communal wine (which as I remember was Manoshevitz kosher wine).

I, as the head altar boy got to carry the incense burner (themiato), next to the Priest. The others carried various banners and crosses; the junior carried a mere candle, the lowest of the low.

Many years later I went into advertising, and that tall kid became a Priest not only a priest but an Archimandrite, he turned out to be a great priest, perhaps because he fit the robe we had when we were kids and altar boys.

We remain good friends, he blessed the little chapel we have on our property here in Greece. He taught me a lot about our heritage, religious as well as cultural.

About eighteen years ago, he presided over the baptism of our grand niece. We went to the church in Brooklyn where he is the Archimandrite. We had some little girls holding candles around the baptismal font, as is the custom. One of the little girls was having a problem with her candle. Father Eugene asked me to hold the candle in her place.

He came around the font chanting and carrying the incense burner and shaking it with wonderful enthusiasm, the bells on it were ringing, making a beautiful sound. All Greeks know this sound.

As he came around he whispered to me “ Now who has the candle and who has the incense burner?”

He waited over forty years to get his revenge.
Those Archimandrites never forget.

Convertibles...read the instructions jerk.

2010-10-03T12:42:00.006+03:00

I love convertibles, but I only owned two, and crazily enough I owned them in England.
It always seemed to be raining and I remember always having the tops down.

We lived in countries that called out for convertibles, Spain, Italy, Mexico, South Africa and now Greece, nevertheless always closed cars, I wonder why?

Whenever I traveled I always rented a convertible, LA without a convertible is like a garden without flowers.

Must have one.

I was in Nice once going to the Cannes festival. I rent this great big French convertible at the airport.
It was delivered to me with the top down and the rental agent starts to tell me how to put the top up,
I brush him aside; give me a break, I know how to do that.

By the way, I also never read instructions, so you know what is coming.

I am zipping along the highway and it starts to pour, how the hell do you put the top up on this weird French car.
I pull up under an overpass and try to put the top up, impossible, no way to do it, I am in France so nobody is going to stop and help me, at least not a Frenchman. Thirty minutes later, the rain stops, I make it to the hotel in Cannes, slightly damp but with the top down, after all it is the south of France. Never figured out how to put the top up, fortunately it didn’t rain again. I smugly turned it in at the airport, top down.

The Car in the photo was one of my favorite cars, an Alvis from the sixties. Our other convertible was a MGB, when we first went to England, nice, but too small for us.

When we moved to Madrid, the Alvis stayed in London in a friend’s garage.
Lew drove it down a couple of months later, top down, same story, could not get the top up, fortunately no rain.

He did get a terrible sunburn on his baldhead.

Lew arrived with a newspaper hat on his head.

We have to learn how to put tops up, read the instructions, jerk.

We really enjoyed that car in Spain, finally a convertible, in a place that needed one.
Didn’t drive it much, it was in the country illegally, when we did though it was marvelous.

The last open car story did not happen to me. A good friend told it to me.

I am not sure I believe it, but I would love to think it really happened.

There was this guy, a Greek in West Africa; he drove a small Fiat 500, the real old tinny ones.

He has a date, and tonight is the night, he is going to get lucky, it is a done deal. This girl is ready for him.
They drive to a secluded spot by the sea, she insists nothing is going to happen unless he opens the sunroof, no view of the sky no hanky panky, zip, nada.

He gets out to open the car up. Two hours later, the roof is open.

She asks what took so long and he holds up an old fashioned can opener, the car had no sunroof nor was it a convertible, but now it is.

I doubt this, but I would love to believe it. You probably could open a 500 with a can opener.

"I don't have a name day, nobody sends me flowers"

2010-09-30T16:14:00.002+03:00

When I was working in Greece, where name days are even more important than birthdays, I had a client, he was Swiss and worked for Nestle, he was the chief marketing officer, he complained to me one day that he did not have a name day. It seems he was not getting flowers or presents once a year like everybody else.

I diligently looked up Greek saints; after all he was a client, but also a friend. No luck, no Greek saints called Ray, or Raymundo. What a great opportunity to create a new saint. Ray was in charge of all Nestle brands, but we worked with him mostly on Loumides, Greek coffee.

We had to create a reason for this saint, we decided that Raymundo brought coffee to Greece and that was reason enough for sainthood. There would be no Cafenia, no intense discussions, no Greece as we know it today, without St Raymundo’s contribution. Real reason for sainthood.

I have been a creative guy my whole career, art director, creative director, all my life creating ads, commercials etc. I never had the opportunity to create a saint. This was a terrific opportunity, not too many ad guys get to create a saint.

We decided to make this saint coming to Greece on a boat, from the east, and holding a cup of Greek coffee. We debated if there should be a parrot on the boat, but decided that would much too commercial, after all we are talking about a saint, St. Raymundo.

A saint without an Icon is impossible; we had to have an Icon. I went to see an icon painter that had done some icons for me as presents. My first problem, he was willing to do it, but he could not put a golden halo on this figure, he would lose his icon license or something. We finally settled on the design.

Now we had to write the declaration for this saint, almost a saint, since his icon had no golden halo.

One of our creative directors wrote it up, with all the pomp that these things have to be written up with. We aged the paper, not worrying that it was printed up off his computer. We also decided that his name day would be December twelfth. It was the day everything was finished by, seemed like a good day.

The Icon, document and flowers, with a note saying Chronia Polla, was delivered to Nestle, never again would Ray have any complaints about not having a name day and not getting flowers. Another satisfied client.

All of you remember the day; the twelfth of December is St Raymoundo’s day. Send flowers and notes, after all he was responsible for an indispensible part of Greek life.

For a few drachmas more...

2010-09-18T15:33:00.003+03:00

We first came to Greece in the early sixties and visited relatives in Edipsos, on the island of Evia, a small Greek town.
We were there a few days and I went to the barbershop with a cousin for his twice-weekly shave. I never had a barber shave me; I was looking forward to it.

When my turn came, the barber asked me if I wanted a shave with a view or not.

The shop went quiet, they all looked at me to see my reaction. The barber continued his sales pitch, he said “ for a few drachmas more”, I could have my shave with a view of the sea.

How could I resist, I said “naturally with a view”, how were they going to do that, since we were on a side street. The barber’s chair was moved to the street and turned to the left and looked down the street to a glimpse of the sea.

I was seated in the middle of the street, facing the sea, not a bad view of the sea; I also was not a bad view to most of the town, sitting there like a goof.

The young boy that was helping the barber ran out with a bucket of hot water, some towels and a brush and soap. I was lathered up and got my first shave from a barber. I had a view and a great shave, it was worth a few drachmas more. It really was worth it when the raki came out with all the customers as well and we toasted my view.

I have had many professional shaves throughout the world, never was I asked if I wanted a shave with or without a view.

It seems like a great sales pitch.

"What the hell is my name Pop?

2010-09-14T10:30:00.005+03:00

When my father came to the States in the early nineteen hundreds, he like so many had his name shortened or even changed by the immigration guys. I am sure he would have accepted any name, Smith, Jones, Ramirez, or Shapiro, anything, just to get in.

He ended up with a shortened version of his Greek name, Birbil, but what was the original? When I was a kid I was not that interested, I just added an - os when I wanted to give my Greek name, Birbilos. In Greece I used Birbilis, it was common and I was able to use it easily.

When I was a kid, my father told me that we were originally from Crete and had been moved to Asia Minor in the late seventeen hundreds. The village in Asia Minor was Mixaniona, on the Sea of Marmara. It supposedly meant not Chania, but I have been unable to get much information about that.

Back to the name, when I wanted to get my Greek nationality, I had to prove that my father was Greek; his papers in the States had him down originally as a Turk.
No amount of reassurance from the Greek Church in Brooklyn was enough for the Greek government. I had to have a copy of their wedding certificate, they married in Paris in 1928, how do I do that?

I have cousins in Paris, they said, “no problem”, I thought it is never going to happen. They went to the church in Paris, Agios Stephanos, and in five days I had the copy of their wedding certificate.

Low and behold, Pop’s name was down as Birbilakis, Cretan as all get out.

So my Greek name is Birbilakis, Grigorios Polichronis Birbilakis. Some moniker. I did some more checking and many of the refugees from Mixaniona have - akis at the end of their names. Pop as usual was right, we were originally from Crete.

The Turks are responsible for Greek last names, they gave us last names so they could tell where we were from. The -aki at the end of names in Crete were an insult, it meant little, it was Birbilaki, little Birbil, (the word Birbil is the name of a bird, a Nightingale or the sound it makes). The Greeks added the s to diminish and even eliminate the insult of -aki. No more little captains, little birds, or little anything.

The Greeks from various parts of Greece have specific last names, if you were from Constantinople your ending would be -oglou (son of), if from the Black sea area it had an ending -des, this went on all over Greece. You can identify pretty accurately where Greeks originated from by the ending of their names

I am in the process of getting in touch with the town council of Chania, in Crete to see what information I can get about when the move happened. I am not too optimistic, maybe I should check the churches there, they seem to function a lot better than the government.

If I make any progress on this I will let you know. Any ideas will be greatly appreciated.

There ain't no Olive trees in Coney Island

2010-09-06T17:27:00.005+03:00

As a Greek from Brooklyn, my vision of Greece was Olive trees, a view of the sea, Cypress trees, and a small church.

My parents were Asia Minor Greeks, they were obsessed with the sea, we lived in Coney Island, I am sure the sea being so close was one of the reasons they settled there. No Cypress trees and certainly no Olive trees in Coney Island.

When we visited the village in Turkey where they were born I do not remember any olive trees, they all lived off the sea, fishermen, all of them. I suppose the cemetery had Cypress trees, but I do not remember them.

My vision of Greece certainly had Olive, and Cypress trees, as well as a church.

We bought a piece of property in the Argolida, near Porto Heli, big Olive tree area and plenty of sea views.

The property we bought, for some reason, was the only five stremmata piece in the Argolida with no Olive trees, no Cypress trees and no church, nevertheless we have an amazing view of the sea. That is something I could not have fixed, the rest we could do something about.

I found out that Olive trees could be transplanted, moved from one area to another.
Had we planted seedlings, my grandkids would have seen mature trees.

We transplanted two and three hundred year old trees, exactly where we wanted them. We have one at the top of the driveway. A friend told us we were very lucky to have found that tree in such a perfect location, he is a lawyer so what can you expect. He could not conceive of moving such a large and old tree.

The Cypress trees as well, were transplanted, a much easier job than the Olive trees. We also built a small chapel, named for my wife’s late brother, Agios Demitrios. Our son painted the frescoes in the church, more about that later.

I wanted our very modern house to look like it was dropped in the middle of old stone walls, old Olive trees and an old stone chapel. It worked.

It helped being in advertising and supervising photo and television productions.

“You want an Olive tree there, you got it”.

“Old stonewalls, no problem, you got it”.

“Cypress trees there, near the front door and here, you got it”.

I realized building a house is a lot like doing a TV commercial, what you want, you get, and you pay for it.

Back to the Olive trees, they have been in this part of the world for thousands of years; it is inconceivable to imagine Greece without them.

We make olives to eat and even make or own oil, although we have to steal some from abandoned fields to have enough olives for a decent amount of oil.

I have become a Greek when I talk about my Olives,

“The best oil, and just taste that olive, and you cannot buy stuff like that”.

I sort of even believe it.

The sea, Olive trees, Cypress trees, old stonewalls, a stone church, what more could a kid from Brooklyn want?

I could use my own water and not have to have it shipped in by truck. We did dig a well at the beginning and we found part of our view, sea, even crabs came up.

No real complaints, not too many guys from Coney Island have their own Olive trees.

I often wonder what Momma and Pop would think.

The cell phone and me.

2010-08-31T08:40:00.006+03:00

I look around now at how many people are carrying cell phones, even more than one phone.
Different carriers, different countries, different models. iPhones, Blackberries, normal ones, camera phones and God knows what other kinds there are.
The iPhone was very in before it was available in Greece. People had them from the States and had somebody “break” it so it worked in Greece. Now that it is available in Greece it has lost some of its cache. I think the models that are not available here yet are still in, if you have one that you hacked or had it done.

My first cell phone was in Mexico around the 80’s, it was a giant Motorola that weighed a ton: called a tuvla (brick). It was hardly mobile. Fortunately, I had a driver, Arturo, who carried it for me. You had to find a signal to use it, usually in the middle of an open field and it seemed to be always raining. It was a really unique experience to be able to make a call from wherever you were, sort of. As I remember it, when you had reception the phone was great, worked like a charm.

I grew up in the days of rotary dials, we didn’t have one at home and used the pay phone in Pop’s store.

Ah, progress! I soon had a really portable one, it even worked in the car. One of the first in Mexico. I think Arturo got tired of carrying the Motorola tuvla. He had some connections and got it for me. Mexico is a little like Greece; it is all about whom you know.

One day, my boss from Brazil, who ran the South American region, was on a visit. He came about three times a year to break my balls.

We leave a Coca-Cola meeting, it all went well and he was a little disappointed, he was hoping to get me on something.

We get in the car and he notices the phone, Brazil did not have them yet. He asks if he can call his secretary in Brazil, and we do. He then proceeds to dictate a fax for her to send to me from Brazil, about the meeting, while I am in the car. It had nothing to do with the actual meeting. It seemed bizarre to me to tell me about a meeting we just attended, by fax from Brazil, while I was three feet away from him.
He said it was better to have everything in writing, even though it wasn’t very accurate.

I liked faxes; you could always deny you got it, not like e-mails, which came much later.

Ah, Jens, what a character. He once called his secretary in Brazil to call the receptionist of a hotel we were staying at in Mexico to complain about something. I was in the next room. He really didn’t trust me much.

Cell phones became an obsession, they were a great help, but also very easy to call about nothing. “I am in the car” “we are about to land” “I want fruit for dinner” you have heard them all, trivial crap, rarely of any importance.

I admire people who do not have them, how do they do it?

I jump in the pool and while I am underwater I check to see if my phone is in my pocket. Unfortunately, it sometimes is.

The phone shop says the summer has started when the first customer comes in with a soaked phone.

It is nice to see a shepherd on a donkey with a cell phone to his ear, probably telling his wife what he wants for dinner.

The average Greek has more than one and the tables in the coffee shops look like a Japanese display of every phone available.

I think in a country of 10 million people there must be 30+ million cell phones, not unlike the number of chairs per capita.

I now have an iPhone with more things on it than computers the size of buildings had twenty years ago.

I use about five percent of it’s capacity and I am looking forward to my next upgrade. I want it all, especially on my cell phone, even though I cannot understand how to use it all.

Brooklyn Blackie, the Electric Rembrandt and me.

2010-08-26T17:52:00.011+03:00

I grew up in Coney Island, during the 40’s and 50’s. Tattoos were big there, sailors soldiers and all sorts would come to have a great time and some to have tattoos. There was a stretch of Surf Avenue and Stillwell Avenue that had a slew of tattoo parlors.

As a kid they all seemed very sinister and dangerous.
They all had great names, Brooklyn Blackie, the Electric Rembrandt being the most famous, but his brother, I think was El Greco, they obviously saw themselves as artists and they were.

As a kid I liked to draw, I would copy the flashes (the samples of the designs they did) that hung up in the windows and entranceways to the parlors.

It was hard to see what was going on inside but you could see into the waiting areas. It was always young guys waiting for their first tattoo, as well as some older guys with many tattoos already. I am sure the young guys, when they got home to Iowa or someplace would have to explain the nudes with sailor hats, tattooed on their arms, with the name of the ship they were sailing on, to their Moms.

I do not remember if I copied the nudes, but I did copy the sailing ships, the horses and the anchors.

Ballpoint pens were new then, but available. They came in colors as well, black, red and blue, good tattoo colors. I used to draw tattoos on my friends arms and shoulders, little 10-year-old kids strutting around with some pretty cool, ballpoint pen tattoos. They lasted a few days at least, Friday was bath night. If Sharpies were around they would still be on some of those kids.

I think I thought about being a tattoo artist, I would be the Coney Island Greek, tattoos for those in the know.

Years later I got a tattoo, my wife’s name in rope with an anchor.
It wasn’t a Brooklyn Blackie unfortunately. Later I added forever on it, against a friend’s advice, he thought forever should only be added on your deathbed, bring the tattoo guy in instead of the priest. He has been married three times, but I risked it, so far we have been married 48 years, that is almost forever.

My daughter’s boyfriend has quite a few tattoos, and I am encouraged to add a few. We went to a tattoo parlor in Athens. Great guy, really nice work and I like the name of the parlor, Honest Tattoos, it ain’t Brooklyn Blackie, the Electric Rembrandt, but it is a pretty good name, although I wish he played softer music. In Coney Island the tattoo parlors usually had the baseball game on the radio.

It may not be too late to become a tattoo artist, I will ask Tasso if I can apprentice with him.

To be continued...

...more crazy glue stuff

2010-08-18T21:08:00.008+03:00

The crazy glue held!

2010-08-18T16:58:00.008+03:00

After almost two years without diving, due to my brain surgery, yesterday I dove.
It seems like the crazy glue held, we only dove five to six meters, and my skull remained intact, nothing seeped in or out.

Everybody, my son and daughter, their friends and my dive instructor handled me with kid gloves, very concerned and very caring. Visibility was amazingly clear. It was beautiful and as great as it was the first time.

I think that everybody was concerned because of the keyhole surgery on my skull at the right side of my temple, the piece is glued in and the pressure under water could have an effect. As I said we only dove to six meters max, after ten meters the pressure is double that on the surface, at twenty meters it is triple the pressure. I am sure John, my dive instructor, will not let me go too deep this year.
He is in cahoots with my wife and probably my doctor, thanks John.

My daughter, Justine was here with her boyfriend, who dove for the first time, he was amazed and obviously loved it. We all remembered our first time by his descriptions. I do not know how many of you dive, but it is a mind-altering experience (no wiseass comments about tequila doing it as well).

I started very late, I must have been 67 or so, if I could, I would have been diving all my life. John’s son and nephew have been diving since they were 6 or 7 years old, lucky kids.

"Another bleeding white haired Yank..."

2010-08-12T20:15:00.011+03:00

London, 1965, we are three Yanks sent to London by NY. Jack, who is head of the London office, and later head of Europe. Big white haired Irish American guy. Great looking, very neat, account guy type. Good boss, funny at times, without meaning to be.

David, executive Creative Director, elegant, wealthy, waspy, white haired guy, wore custom made suits. His suits were copies of his older suits and so well done that the bags and sags of his old suit was diligently copied. His new suits looked exactly like his old suits, amazing tailors on Savile row. He drank a bit. He only made sense before lunch, but insisted on presenting to clients after lunch.
More about that later.

Me, I was the youngest, had a bit of white hair, but was the kid of the group. I was deputy creative director. I liked the deputy part, felt like I was in a western.

We had a wonderful tea lady, Gladys, she and her friend went around the building twice a day serving coffee in the morning and milky tea in the afternoon.
When she was introduced to Jack, by the very serious financial director, after having been presented to Dave and me, she said “another bleeding white haired Yank.’’

She taught me to drink milky tea by putting a little Scotch in it , quite a bit when we started and slowly less and less until I could finally drink the stuff. She told me she taught quit a few Yanks to drink it like that during WW2. She probably taught them more than that, she was something in 1965, I could imagine her in the 40s.

Jack was a stickler for dressing right at all times, he had 2 of every suit he owned and would change into a fresh version after lunch, he always looked great, never wrinkled and always perfectly back lit. He was in the elevator one day and fired some guy wearing orange pants, boots and a crazy shirt with dreadlocks. Turns out the guy didn’t work for us and was just delivering some stats.

Jack called me up to the office one day to complain about the outfits most of the creative department wore. It was after all London in the 60s. I was at my best and told him if you wear a puce shirt, maybe you do not wash it but it gets aired out since you can’t wear it twice in a row. I also told him the account guys in the blue suits never changed, and you could not stand down wind of some of them, same suit and they probably wore them on holiday as well. He reluctantly accepted my argument and never mentioned the dress code of the creative department, he did sniff when he was with the account guys.

We were working on a new business pitch once, we had a spare floor and the team was camped out there working away, 2 days and nights we were a mess,
Jack came to visit the troops at about 9pm one night. He was going out to the theatre and was wearing a tuxedo, he looked great and so did his wife who was in a gown. He was big enough to realize how preposterous this was and left very quickly before there was a revolution.

One last story about those days. David the CD, always had to have lunch before a major presentation. It was always the same, two martinis before, two scotch and sodas with his steak and two brandies after, he always had lunch at the same pub.
One day the meeting is going to be at 11:30, the client insisted, not Dave’s normal two in the afternoon. I have to get the pub to open at ten in the morning so he could have his normal lunch, and be ready to present at 11:30. He felt he was only good after lunch, so we just anticipated everything. Ah London and the Yanks.

"Make believe it is vanilla ice cream...''

2010-08-06T14:32:00.017+03:00

One of the terrific things about my job was the access I had to some of my bosses, some were almost legends in the business. They were just a phone call away. Obviously you could not abuse this, when you were in real trouble, make that call; If you didn’t, and could not solve the problem, they always said’’How come you didn’t call, I could have fixed it.’'

We were in the situation of losing a large international client when I was in Madrid. We were pitching against four agencies. We made the call, the head of Europe flies in and sets up a meeting with the client, who flew in from Germany, for the meeting.

I and the Spanish chairman are not allowed to attend the dinner.
We hang out at the hotel, really nervous, but optimistic that Phil will solve it.

He comes in at 12:30 am, and we head for the bar. He tells us it is all fixed, I have to develop a campaign that can be used throughout Europe, and we have to give the client a German speaking account guy. Phil is feeling very smug about his sucess.

I only had to beat 4 agencies in Spain to keep the business, now I have to create a campaign for all of Europe, thanks a lot Phil.

We kept the business, I did not create a campaign for Europe, I just beat 4 agencies in Spain and Phil takes credit for saving the account for us, maybe he did. If I didn’t call him and we lost it, we never would hear the end of it, even though for the next 6 months he kept reminding us of how he saved our ass on Henkel.

Years later I am working in Mexico, difficult client, brilliant but really rough on the Agency. I am at my wits end, he keeps sending shit our way, about everything, the work, the commission, the people, anything he can think about.

I pick up the phone and call our international chairman, a legend in the business.

‘’Gene, I am eating a lot of shit on this account, what do I do?’’

This is the top guy internationally, he instantly says

’’Make believe it is vanilla ice cream and ask for another scoop.’’

That’s it? I ask. He immediately answers ‘’forty years experience kid, that’s it.’’ He hangs up.

.

Names can be a burden

2010-07-28T17:34:00.009+03:00

I grew up in Brooklyn and hung out with a lot of Greek kids in our area. Our parents, God bless them , gave us some great names. Pericles, Alexander, Sotiris, Constandino, Grigorios, Sophocles, there was even Aristotle. The girls fared no better, Aphrodite, Zina, Persephone, Ourania, Iphigenia, and Athena to name a few.

Try living with some of these names in Brooklyn, at school, or in the Army.

I do not believe it was just a Greek thing, our Italian friends had some beauts as well.

In the Army, my capitan was named Deatherage, he could only be an Army officer, a cop, or a killer. He wasn’t even a Greek, it happens to all of us, names.

Our names became a burden or a dream to aspire to.

Not always successful, a rather plain girl with the name of Aphrodite.

Sophocles was one of the worst students I knew.

As for Pericles, he was a poleman for the electric company.

Names become a yoke around our necks sometimes.

Our parents proudly gave them to us, perhaps we will not burden our kids as much, but my son is Polixronis, I hope he lives up to it.

I somehow cannot imagine a future Greek kid called Biff. We will still burden our kids with some beauts.

We give names, I suppose, to help define our dreams for our kids, at least in most cases.

In South Africa, my driver was called Zero, he had brothers, you guessed it, One, Two and Three. Not too many dreams there.

Our gardner’s name was Smart, you could imagine his parent’s dreams for him, although not very successful.

Our Greek names are not just different to the ear, but they all mean something, usually from ancient Greek history or the Greek Orthodox Church, you know, those Saints.

Whatever your name is, see it as a blessing, even though your friends are making your life miserable.

One of the good things about living in Greece is that Grigorios seems fairly normal amongst the other names.

Sometimes it is all in your head

2010-07-28T13:52:00.007+03:00

A couple of years ago we were in NY, while there we were having our yearly medical check ups. I was fine, overweight but OK. I mentioned, I was having a little trouble with my balance. Our GP decided to have me do an MRI to see if there was any problem with my inner ear. Next day he tells me, no problem with my inner ear, I breathed a sigh of relief until he told me there was a benign tumor in the front of my brain, just over my sinus cavity. See sometimes it really is all in your head, even if it is benign. Here we go again.

He recommended a surgeon, and he said, “He is not only a great surgeon, but a great doctor.” Surgeons have the reputation, especially brain surgeons, of being arrogant and not necessarily having a great bedside manner. They are in a very exalted position, they go into the brain, they have some respect for heart surgeons, and less for general surgeons. They are the top. As one said, “We have no spare parts. The heart guys do, and so do the general surgeons.” I understood our doctor’s comment that he was a great doctor as well as a great surgeon.

I went to see him and he spent more than an hour with me explaining as well as telling me what my options were.

1. Do not do anything and monitor it, could result in symptoms later.

2. Go in from the top of my skull and try to remove it all.

3. Less drastic, try to remove as much as we can, with a less invasive surgery.

We decided on 3, go in from the side of the skull and remove as much as we can, since this is a slow growing tumor.

I was all set for that and then he tells me to have a second opinion. It seemed unnecessary to me, I liked and trusted him, and I even loved his outfit.

I did not need a second opinion, but he insisted.

I went to see the head surgeon (he was a head surgeon as well as head of the surgery department). He obviously was a skilled surgeon, but did not have much of a bedside manner, he was the typical surgeon, five minutes and he said we go in from the top and get it all, I also did not think much of his suit.

When you pick a surgeon amazing things matter, some incredibly important and some seemingly less important.

This was an incredible, caring guy that spends time explaining everything, not only to me, but also to my wife and kids.

He made an incision over my eyebrow, opened my skull on the right side and took as much out as he could of the tumor, almost the whole thing. It was an eight-hour operation. He was very pleased, so was I.

I did have one complaint, I expected to have scars all over my skull, and I had no bragging rights, who would believe I had such an amazing operation.
No Frankenstein scars, he didn’t even shave my eyebrow, nada to show off and get sympathy drinks.

It was actually 100% in my head, but not anymore.

Love that doctor, and his great outfits. His nurse told me his wife picked them out, even so, he had style.

When I went to see our GP a few days later, he took me around raving about my surgeon, to his associates. I had to explain that I was a pretty remarkable patient as well, I deserved a bit of the credit, and I dress pretty well at times.

I was not allowed to dive for at least a year, will do it this month, let’s hope the piece he took out and replaced stays put, otherwise there will be more stuff in my head.

Is the turkey a Greek bird?

2010-07-11T20:49:00.006+03:00

A few years ago we were invited to a friends house for Thanksgiving, here in Greece. The guests were a group of not only Americans and Greeks but also a variety of nationalities. I was asked by the hostess to come up with something to tell the guests about Thanksgiving. She knew I would come up with some convincing lies, hopefully entertaining.

There is a Greek winery called Hadzimichalis, I brought some bottles, they use a Turkey as their logo. That was the start, how could a Greek company use a bird as the logo that was not indigenous, not possible.

The turkey has to be Greek.

Now, how did the turkey get to North America to be supposedly reintroduced to Europe?

Simple, since Columbus was Greek, he obviously took turkeys with him on his trip of discovery. People believe that he was Italian, supposedly because he was a Genovese. Genoa was the center of a kingdom that included Chios and other Greek islands. It is obvious that he was from Chios. He would have taken Greek seamen from the various islands and when he passed the Peloponnesus, he stocked up with turkeys for fresh meat on the trip.

There is other proof that he was Greek, he went to the new world three times and insisted he had found the new route to India. Must be Greek, he was as stubborn as could be, he never admitted he could be wrong.

Back to the turkeys...

The trip was shorter than they expected, they arrived with a bunch of turkeys and released them in North America, to stock up with other types of animals for the trip home.

Another aside, while in NY one year, during the Columbus day parade, I, asked somebody watching the parade who looked like he was out of the Sopranos, why were there Italian flags in the parade? He turned to me and told me Columbus was Italian. When I insisted that he was Greek, for a second I thought I might be in trouble, he started to back away to try to escape this lunatic, me. I got away from that OK; just dumb Greek luck I guess. Do not tell Italians that Columbus was Greek, they have no real sense of accurate history, and you just may get thumped.

At the dinner, some people were laughing, some believed it and all the Greeks were assuring me that he was truly from Chios. It is heavily documented on the Internet and there is a group on Facebook.

The turkey must be from Greece, since the Hadjimichalis winery uses it as their logo.

I have to think about why it is called turkey in the US and gallopoula in Greek (French chicken). In the US they probably made the mistake of confusing Chios with Turkey. I have to work on this French chicken thing.

Be careful on how you use this information, it is a very touchy subject, Italian Americans are very rigid, even violent on the subject, while animal enthusiasts are really hung up with the myth that the turkey originated in the new world, they confuse it with tomatoes

"50% of everything is in your head."

2010-07-09T23:38:00.004+03:00

In the early 80’s we were transferred to South Africa, to Johannesburg.
It was an amazingly beautiful country, even with all the social problems of apartheid.

I have to admit, we loved parts of the experience, great friends that we still have, a gorgeous country, filled with amazing landscapes and naturally an animal population to rival any.

While there I started to feel badly, tired and weak. A doctor I went to kept telling me it was stress. This went on for months. I was tired and weak and eventually started to lose lots of weight, which was good, but bad at the same time since I made no effort to lose it. This doctor however, turned out to be a dud, irresponsible really, and made a huge error in judgment when trying to diagnose me. He took blood tests but only tested for tick bite fever, which is prevalent in S.A. (we had been to the bush recently) and it never occurred to him to do other vital tests had he been on the ball, when he saw that I was not improving.

Jeannine, very concerned by a lump that appeared under my arm, told our friend who lived across the street. He immediately took me to his own doctor. We went through a battery of tests and did a biopsy on the lump that appeared under my arm. The surgeon he sent us too had been his professor at university, and very funny, he said he liked the fact that I was American; he could tell me the truth. I explained that I was probably more Greek than American. It did not slow him down, he told me “you have a curable cancer”. I was surprised at the order of his words; he explained that had he said, “You have a cancer that is curable” I probably would have heard cancer and then had a heart attack. Funny guy, I guess it is surgeon’s humor, since he was laughing when he told me.

He recommended an oncologist that was amazing, in Pretoria, a short drive from home.

This doctor was a true inspiration, he told me “50% of my cure was in my head, 20% was in his head and the drugs delivered 30%. The drugs always delivered their share, his whole family, wife and children were oncologists, and so his 20% was a certainty as well.” All I had to do was deliver my share. He put it in such away that all my fears left me; we just had to focus on my cure. He had involved my wife as well, so it was very doable, actually she was the power behind the whole mental attitude.

He never spoke about remission, only cure, he just made me feel unbelievably positive.

He also told me to get rid of all friends that were negative, the hand-ringers, and people that mean well but immediately start to cry. Cancer then and even now, to some people seems like a death sentence. It wasn’t, to us it was a life sentence, and everything fell into perspective.

Six months later and fifty pounds lighter, it was gone, not a trace of it. I was able to go to work right after every chemo session except the 1st two, well actually I made an appearance at work for about 1 hour after the second chemo session and I lost, maybe, two weeks in total, as well as all my hair. I was very tired, and occasionally made no sense, but I was “CURED.”

This experience put lots of things in a positive light, I am very glad that I had cancer. I, we, are different people because of it. I do not advise getting cancer or any other life threatening disease but if you do, it does change you, and from what I have read, it is usually for the better.

50% of everything is in your head.

"Don't tell anybody..."

2010-07-05T12:23:00.014+03:00

One of the best jobs I ever had at McCann was running the Coca-Cola business in Mexico. It was exciting to have such a great brand and such a dynamic market to create advertising for. I had a team and we functioned apart from the normal hum-drum of the Agency. We were basically an independent unit, and I loved it. I only had to deal with the administration of my team and the running of the account, even though it was a very large complicated piece of business.

The most difficult part was the day-to-day dealing with the head of Coke for Mexico. A dynamic, creative, forceful personality, that at times was a terror. He loved to intimidate people, and did it at any opportunity he had, he even did it when he didn’t have any reason to.

He loved demonstrating his power. In spite of all this, I truly liked and respected him; I admired pretty much most of his traits. We did some great work for the account, and most of it would have been impossible without him, great client, but at times seemed slightly erratic. I suppose that’s what made him so interesting. We remained friends for many years after I left Mexico and he went on to other things after he left Coca-Cola.

A memorable and difficult guy.

One day we presented some work for Sprite, even though he had approved the original idea, he decided he hated it, really hated it, and just so we understood, he screamed that he hated it, “I hate this piece of shit.” This was done in front of his marketing department, bright, young, talented terrified kids, as well as the agency; the reaction seemed to please him.

Marketing guys throwing up in the corner, everybody thinking they were going to be fired.

He turned around to me and started to harangue me. I said, “You do not terrify me.” He stopped and looked at me and told me to come to his office.

We went to his office, he closed the door and asked me why he did not scare me, and that he could fire the agency. I told him I had just been through something much worse the year before, Cancer, that scared me, not this, or him.

He stood up and said, ”Do not tell anybody that that you are not scared of me.” I looked at him and agreed, I suddenly realized we were on another footing with each other.

Ever since then I acted appropriately terrified in public, and we had a great working relationship. He needed the power that fear of him, gave him. His management style was POWER.

It seemed to be a very Mexican way to manage, Greek as well. If you are taken to be weak, you are taken advantage of. Fear seemingly works, sorry to say.

So when the time comes to being scared, be scared. Not always, only when it is really necessary. If you think about it, you will probably be scared less times.

Visiting family in Greece for the first time.

2010-07-03T20:05:00.005+03:00

On our first trip to Greece, we naturally overdid the “family thing,” we saw as many as we could. They were very open and loving, sometimes much too generous.

After spending time with Pop’s family in Edipsos, on the island of Evia, we went to Salonika to see more relatives in Nea Michaniona a town in Halkidiki. We did not know them, but we had a list from Momma.

Nea Michaniona was a refugee village, built in the 20’s; it was a fishing village, just like the one in Turkey. It had rather sweet little houses painted in bright colors, pink, blue, green. I think they used left over paint from the boats, which were brightly painted as well. There were a couple of big villas as well, on the sea front.

We sat in the square and had a coffee, we were early, and as we sat there watching the people stroll by, Jeannine noticed a lady walking past us, she said, “that one is a cousin”; I said I don’t think so. She looks just like your mother, I could not see the resemblance, but Jeannine insisted, more about that later.

We went to see my Fathers eldest brother, Theo Stephanos. He is on the extreme left in the photo. A big tall man with a rather wild look in his eyes, I had heard he was a bit of a nutter. Theo promptly picked up a young calf and told me to take a photo to show Pop, and asked if my father could do that. I told him no, there are no calves in Coney Island, that seemed to surprise him and please him at the same time.

The visits continued, house after house, traditional liqueurs and spoon sweets are served, one after the other, I do not remember lunch, but we must have eaten something. Jeannine did not drink, so I would have her liqueur as well at each visit, I did not want to offend anybody. This went on until late afternoon, in incredible heat.

The last house we arrive at belongs to the lady in the square, and yes she is a cousin, Jeannine was right as usual. She immediately brings out the proverbial drinks and sweets, not a meze to be had, more booze, Jeannine’s as well, as usual. Another round before we leave to go back to Salonika, I am starting to feel this “family thing”.

We get back to Salonika safely, it is only one hours drive. I recover and we are off for the rest of our trip.

A few weeks later, we are back in the States visiting my parents, Momma laces into me: evidently I embarrassed the family, actually I evidently disgraced them, Greek mothers tend to exaggerate.

It seems that “nice” lady, my cousin that Jeannine recognized, wrote my Mother to tell her I arrived drunk at her house and spoke for some other relatives that felt I was a heavy drinker. It was their damn liqueurs I was drinking, Jeannine’s as well to not offend anybody.

When you visit relatives in Greece, be careful, liqueurs and spoon sweets can ruin your reputation, especially if you have a wife that does not drink

"I suppose you want the voice of God?"

2010-07-02T16:39:00.012+03:00

The sixties in London again, I was an art director and worked with my partner, a copywriter. We had the Shredded Wheat account, a breakfast cereal that was more natural than the sweetened kind. We used to make an issue about its naturalness, no fun, but good for you.

John and I wrote a rather boring commercial, it was approved and we tried to find a way to make it marginally more interesting. We only had room with the voice over to do anything. “Orson Welles” we both said, a rather ambitious idea to use him for the announcer. It seemed impossible that the great talent would do it, but he was trying to raise money for a film project, he accepted.

We had to direct him for the spot, two kids that thought they were pretty hot until he showed up at the studio. This massive talent as well as massive man arrives at the recording studio. We are understandably nervous, probably even terrified. He strolls in, glares at us and reads the script, nervous copywriter, nervous art director; even the recording technician was apprehensive.

Mr. Welles looks up and says, “I suppose you want the voice of God?” we nod and very coolly say, “let’s try it that way.”

We had the studio booked for one hour. He gets in the booth and reads it perfectly, who are we to direct this great talent. He does it to length, 30 seconds; we say that’s good, 36 seconds have elapsed. He looks at us, a bunch of traumatized kids, and suggests a slightly shorter version, we immediately agree. He does it to 28 seconds, “great” we all say, 2 minutes have passed, “anything else” he says, we all are mute. “Why don’t I give you the tagline with different emphasis.”
He proceeds to give us about 6 different versions of the tagline; I can’t even remember what it was. We look at each other, ask the engineer if he is OK with them, he gulps and nods. 10 minutes have passed.
He gets up, lights his cigar, and looks at us in a pathetic way and strides out.

The voice of God made a very boring commercial a bit better, most people thought we found somebody to imitate his voice. It was Orson Welles; nobody else could have traumatized us as much.

Somewhere in the files of Shredded Wheat is the Orson Welles version of "The voice of God" commercial. I would love to have it to remember the time we spent with the great Orson Welles, trying to be cool and being anything but.

The voice of God seemed like a God to us, and still does.

Cappadocia, my treat

2010-07-02T16:31:00.004+03:00

One of our impressive trips was to Turkey, and on part of that trip we went to Cappadocia. The Turkish ambassadors wife organized everything. It was an exciting experience. Since my family were Asia Minor Greeks, this was meaningful to me. We arrived in Istanbul, formally Constantinople, and still called that by most Greeks today, even though interestingly enough Istanbul is a corruption of “is stin poli” which means to the City, in Greek
.
“The city” is still one of the great cities of the world.

We spent a couple of days in Istanbul, we had been there many times before, and you never get enough of that city. We went to see the Janissaries march.
Interesting, even though they are not recruited the same way as before,
Young Christian kids were put in the Turkish army as pre-adolescents against their family’s wishes; they were trained to be ferocious persecutors of the Christians. These however, were young Turkish recruits that played musical instruments.

The marching band was great, the leader looked ferocious, huge mustache, great uniform, splendid stance, really looked good, scary guy.
The band were all young recruits, wearing fake mustaches that almost came off as they blew their trumpets, it was hard to keep a straight face as they marched by with quivering, crooked mustaches. Nice kids, they put on a pretty good show, pounding drums and demonstrating the old swordsmanship techniques, hard to imagine how their name “Janissaries” terrified at one time.

Later, we went to the famed Grand Bazaar and bought amber and some carpets, what else, it seems to be a family addiction. At the spice market as well, we were greeted with special consideration when they found out we were Greeks. It surprised many in our group.

Saint Saviour in Chora was also on our itinerary. An impressive Byzantine monastery just twenty minutes from the city center, now a museum and restored in 1316. It has remarkable, mosaics and frescos and is not on the usual tourist agenda but it is a gem with a serious history and not to be missed.

Ankara was our next stop, and we visited the capitol in style; we were after all with the wife of the ambassador to Greece.

The next part of the trip was the real highlight, we were going to Cappadocia with its unique geological formations and complicated historical heritage, google it and you will find an amazing area of Turkey with a fascinating history. Early Churches, almost cathedrals, carved out of the rock, mostly underground, (some eight levels below ground, each level had a specific function, water, storage, barn, housing, worship, etc.) whole towns under this lava like landscape, where early Christians hid from invading Persian and Arab armies. Whole towns disappeared underground for months at a time or much longer, leaving nothing behind except deserted villages to the bafflement of the invaders. Truly a unique experience, we all loved it. We even bought more carpets there.

During the trip, although our guide was knowledgeable, she did have a unique way of announcing our stops, “the facilities are excellent here,” clean toilets was what that meant. The custom was that you tipped the lady that sat outside of the “facilities” or you didn’t get any toilet paper.

We also ate at some terrific restaurants on the road, and since most of us were Greeks, wine was consumed in large quantities. The wine was extra and everybody fought to treat the wine for the group, I did say we were mostly Greeks. This went on for the whole trip; I was looking for something to treat, other than wine or ice cream. I found it, at one of the “facility” stops, I ran ahead and gave the woman twenty dollars, and told the group the “facilities” were my treat.

I bet nobody has ever treated “facilities” before. I got more thanks and praise for that then if I had treated the wine. The lady in charge of the “facilities” was happy and so was the group as they laughed their way into the toilets.

Memorable Cappadocia, with it’s unique architecture, and great “facilities”, what a trip.

Naked in Monemvasia.

2010-06-30T13:46:00.004+03:00

My wife belongs to an organization called the WIC, Woman’s International Club. The club often organizes trips, some husbands go along, they are informally called the DICS, do not ask what it stands for, each person has it’s own definition. Needless to say there is a bit of drinking amongst the DICS, so the trips with the wives are a big success. The women feel good that the men made the effort to be with them and the men figure they are entitled to have a drink or two on these trips.

I have to admit that we have had some really great trips, Turkey, India, Monemvasia, the Greek Islands, and many more.

The Turkish trip was memorable, more about that later. The cruise to the Greek Islands was another great trip. The one that stands out to me though is the trip to Monemvasia, I made a complete fool of myself on that one. I will share it though, since it was bizarre.

Monemvasia is this great walled city on the first finger of the Peloponnese; it was Byzantine, Venetian, Frank, Turkish, and now Greek. It was a wonderful defensive position, the name means, “Only entrance”. Look it up and you will be amazed at its beauty and historical importance.

We went with the group, for a long weekend, and stayed in this series of old interconnected houses converted into a very elegant first class hotel.
We had a wonderful room with an amazing view. There was a problem though; all the doors in the hotel are the same, room doors, bathroom doors as well as closet doors. This shortcoming will play a role in my mishap.

After a long evening meal at one of the local tavernas, with very ample amounts of monemvasia wine, and lots of laughs, we all wandered back to our hotel. The infamous hotel with the uni designed doors.

We are in our room and soon fast asleep. At about 4 in the morning I woke up and went to the toilet, or so I thought, I opened the door to our room instead and found myself in the hallway, obviously the door closed and locked behind me. The title gives it away, I was naked, I did not want to knock on the door to wake my wife up, God knows why. I went to find a toilet, assuming there was one nearby, I was soon wandering in the courtyards of the hotel, I found the breakfast room, the bar, the reception area, and all closed thank heavens, no toilet so far. I continued to wander, avoiding leaving the actual hotel and going into the road. I finally found a large pot of bougainvilleas on one of the terraces, with a view of the sea, this would have to do. The next challenge was to find our room, but I was feeling relieved and fortunately found the room. I knocked and was let in by my rather surprised wife.

Breakfast was my recount of the story to mixed reviews, laughter, shock, distain and even some people worrying about the bougainvilleas outside of their room. It was too good a story not to share.

When you visit Monemvasia, and stay at this amazing hotel, make sure you know which door is which.

Puppies in the Garbage

2010-06-23T14:52:00.003+03:00

The other day Kathy, our housekeeper, was driving into town. She passed a garbage bin on the road and found six abandoned puppies, less than a month old.

The shepherds, who have a bunch of dogs, have the unfortunate tendency to abandon the pups. God knows why they don’t have their dogs fixed, must be the cost. This is one of the horrible things about living in Greece, the abandoned animals. The shepherds are not the only ones to blame. The summer people get a puppy for the summer and then abandon them in the autumn. The roads are full of these dogs; some are not mutts, but purebred dogs.

We already have about four dogs on our property. We could not leave the pups in the garbage, even though the last thing we wanted were more dogs.

All our dogs are street dogs; we even sent some to family in the States. We are mushes when it comes to abandoned animals, our youngest daughter is the worst, and the rest of us aren’t so far behind. So we picked them up, brought them home and we are in the process of finding homes for them. I am sure at least two will stay here.

Go to my daughter’s dog’s blog to see them, you might want one or two. If you live abroad, and if you are lucky, she will even hop on a plane and hand deliver them to you!

This terrible habit, that not only exists in Greece, but also in other Mediterranean countries, is slowly getting better. Street dogs live in parks and are fed by locals on a regular basis, almost like having a regular pet.

So when in Greece and you are about to dump your garbage, check the bin, it just might have a bunch of puppies in it.

Please do not bring them to us: we still have at least 3 we are trying to find homes for.

By the way would you like a puppy, or did I ask you before?

Now and then.

2010-06-23T00:06:00.006+03:00

This blog is by Frank Verdi, an old, old friend.

Greg was one of my best pals when we were young teens growing up in Coney Island, Brooklyn, N. Y.
Greg had a magnificent 1951 Schwinn Black Phantom and he let me sit on it once in a while. I also had a bike and we would ride around all the Coney Island hot spots. Hot dogs and clams at Nathan’s. Delicious creamy frozen custard at Pappas.Egg creams at Mr. Birbil’s Luncheonette and chocolate shop. Knishes at Grabstein’s. I have to tell you that my buddy Greg was a chubby little kid as evidenced by these photos but when he grew up he became a lady-killer. Go figure.

We had Steeplechase Park and the boardwalk. We had the roller coasters, the Ferris Wheel, the games of chance, amusements and Nishizaka’s Skeeball alleys. That’s the world we lived in and that was Coney Island.

We also had the Brooklyn Museum for culture and painting. Going into Manhattan on the subway and seeing all the wonders of the city. Even going all the way to the Bronx Zoo and the Botanical Gardens. Sometimes with my kid brother, sometimes with Greg and sometimes with Billy Nishizaka, who’s family I used to dine with and ate dishes with noodles, shrimp and other wonderful Japanese delicacies. Billy’s father used to own huge skeeball alleys where I used to work also.

For me, growing up poor, it felt like I was rich to have all these wonderful things to do and places to go. And I worked all summer and in Coney Island there was always a job for a kid because kids worked cheap. I was a Barker at a “Guess your weight” game, worked at “Walking Charlie”, sold Ice Cream in the blazing sun walking the hot sands on the beach and of course the Nishizaka skeeball alleys. What a place to pick up girls. I bet you’re wondering “what the hell is Walking Charlie” I will tell you in another article.

Then there was Greg. A great guy. He got married. I got married. Then for 50 years we lost touch until one day we found each other. The amazing thing was that with the entire world that Greg saw and all the things he did, when I saw him after 50 years had gone by; he was the same kid I grew up with. And you know what, I knew he would be.

Then Greg said, come to Greece. And I did and stayed at the beautiful home that Greg built. I had a wonderful time. My only regret was that we weren’t 15 again so we could hop on our bikes and cycle all over Greece

Margaritas and Mel Gibson.

2010-06-16T18:14:00.018+03:00

Outdoor movies have always been part of Greek summer life. One of the delights of visiting, or living in Greece is the summer cinema.

When we first came to Greece in 1964, we where exposed to the outdoor cinema. Being from Brooklyn where the movies were a Saturday event with a double feature as well as cartoons, I could not imagine an outdoor movie.

We were in Edipso, on the island of Evia visiting family; it was a discovery of roots as well as new experiences.

The town set up a screen, actually a sheet on the side of a building, the projector made more noise than the sound track. A woman on a balcony of the building where the film was being projected watched the movie upside down. I have no idea what we paid, I am sure my cousin treated.

We dragged chairs and refreshments from home and settled in the square to watch the movie. A scratchy black and white movie in Greek. We had to wait for it to get dark so we could see the film. Everybody gathered hours before, it was a once a week ritual, the projector made the rounds all over the island, Edipso got it on Thursday, I think. People made visits to their homes or the tavernas for refreshment as well as the proverbial ice cream sellers that were always there.

On all our subsequent trips, before we retired here, the outdoor cinema was always a must. It did not matter what was playing, the worst film gets better when you see it outdoors in a Greek village, even if that village is Athens.

I remember going to a cinema in Plaka, and it was on the roof of a building. This cinema had an amazing view of the Acropolis, so even if the movie sucks, you have one of the best views in Greece.

We now are retired in a rather sophisticated town in the Peloponnese. There are foreigners as well as locals here. Our local cinema, the Cinema Star, gets us all together. It has its own space and a proper screen, with good sound and a refreshment booth, with traditional popcorn as well as all the drinks you can imagine. It is also used for town events; the school plays, etc. are held there.

We never miss a movie, no matter what is playing; there are two shows, one at 9, and the other at 11. Lately, they get the latest films and you see first run films. I kind of miss the old scratchy B/W films and the screen being a sheet hung on a building, if I remember correctly the sheets sometimes had a flower print on it.

With progress have come some innovations in all the areas. Drinks are more than homemade wine, and soft drinks. The other night we were offered mixed drinks, not only, Gin and tonics, but Margaritas as well as Mojitos, and even Caipirinhas, a.k.a.Guyperinias, what is Greece coming to?

We saw the latest Mel Gibson movie,“The Edge Of Darkness” and we had Margaritas. This is not the Greece of before, but it ain’t bad.

Margaritas and Mel, I am sure he would have approved.

Nana's family.

2010-06-08T12:58:00.007+03:00

My wife’s family is Christian Orthodox, from southern Albania, she always tells me they are from a very classy family.

This amazing photograph is of her grandmother, her Nana, with her family. One of the little girls is her Nana, the little one in the back row. The two men are my wife’s Great Grandfather, and her Great Granduncle. Their wives are standing on either side of them in the back row. The one in the ethnic dress is her Great Grandfather. He insisted on wearing traditional dress for this photo, his brother is in the three-piece suit. They were successful traders and businessmen and had offices in Egypt as well as Albania and Greece. I guess they were very classy.

The Greek Evzones, at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, wear the fustanella, the kilt, it is from northern Epirus (Albania), and the uniform is made up of various traditional pieces of costumes from all over Greece. The skirt has four hundred pleats for the 400 years of Ottoman occupation. I am not sure all Greeks will accept that the principle piece is Albanian, but it is.

I then have to assume the three-piece dark suit is from Albania as well. All stockbrokers and businessmen throughout the world owe their look to the Albanians, maybe even to my wife’s Great Granduncle.

OK, maybe the three-piece suit is not Albanian, but it could be.

This is a wonderful photo and the woman in the middle is the mother of the two men, Jeannine’s Great Great Grandmother. The Albanians probably invented the camera as well. Why not?

It is established that Columbus is Greek, why shouldn’t the 3-piece suit, the fustanella and the Camera not be Albanian?

We did visit her Grandmothers village, Leusa in Permet. It is just over the Pindos Mountains between Greece and Albania, not far from the Zagarohoria, north of Ioannina. The architecture of their village is very similar to the Zagarohoria, 3 story large stone houses, and arched stone bridges and in the mountains towering over Permet. There are really no differences between the two countries up there physically.

After all those years in the ad business I occasionally wore a 3-piece suit. I never realized I might be wearing traditional Albanian clothes. Yes, I like the idea that the fustanella and the 3-piece suit are Albanian inventions.

OK! OK! The camera is not Albanian, I concede that one.

Washing machines on the beach?

2010-06-07T14:16:00.008+03:00

I do not know if I hallucinated this or not. Many years ago, somewhere in Greece, I saw a washing machine facing the sea, sitting on a beach; it was plugged into a little taverna on the beach. I imagined little old ladies washing their clothes and laying them out to dry on the rocks. Nevertheless it still seemed very bizarre to me, and I continued to watch from the comfort of the taverna.

Waiting for a little old lady to approach, I was amazed when a gnarled, mustached fisherman went to the machine and peered inside it, it was a front loader. He turned and went back to his small boat, which was pulled up on the beach. I assumed he was washing some clothes, odd as that seemed. I did not imagine Greek men doing laundry, it didn’t fit the image, and if they did, I couldn’t imagine them doing it on a public beach.

I ordered some grilled octopus and an ouzo, my favorite snack, especially on a Greek beach.

A little later, the fisherman returned to peer inside the washing machine ( I assumed he was concerned about his laundry ).
He seemed pleased and turned off the machine. He squatted in front of it, opened it, reached inside and removed a huge octopus. I was completely confused and did not realize that the octopus had to be washed. I asked the owner of the taverna what was going on, and why the octopus had to be washed. He turned to his friends and repeated my question to the amusement of them all. The fisherman approached the taverna with his laundry (the octopus ), was filled in on my question. More hysterical laughter followed at my expense.

Finally it was all explained to me, since this was a modern village, they had a washing machine to beat the octopi till they were tender, no more 100 blows on the rocks by hand.

A little nuts, but it makes complete sense, the agitation of the machine softens the octopi, no water and no soap.

My embarressment turned into a wonderful afternoon, being treated and toasted by my new friends, residents of this modern Greek village that didn’t have to beat their octopi by hand.

For years, I have been on the lookout for washing machines on the beaches of Greece, no luck. It is unfortunate that Greek fishermen still beat their octopi on the rocks to soften them up, what happened to all that modernity that once existed.

Ouzo

2010-06-07T14:13:00.004+03:00

I am an American, born and raised in Brooklyn, but I am a Greek, both my parents were Greek, from Asia Minor. I was raised in a Greek area, I had Greek friends, did Greek things, went to all the Greek events. I drank ouzo, I drank it in the evening, lunchtime, believe it or not, I even drank it in cocktails. Somehow it never seemed sensational, but I did it, because I was Greek.

We lived in London for a number of years, naturally we ate in the many Greek-Cypriot restaurants. Still doing my Greek thing, I would diligently order my ouzo. A rainy evening in London is about the worst place to have an ouzo, no matter how good the mezedes. Thinking back on all the times I tried ouzo, and in all the places, I was really a die hard Greek, and just as stubborn.

I finally came to Greece, and eventually retired here. Now I know what ouzo is, what I wanted it to be all those times I tried it. Ouzo does not seem to travel, you need the Greek sea, the sun, the grilled octopus, the salad, the olive oil, the friends, the atmosphere. There really is nothing like a swim and a bit of sunburn, a table overlooking the sea, the grilled octopus, the little carafe of ouzo some ice and water. When you have an ouzo, you have the best of Greece.

I now know what was missing when I drank it in all the other places.

It just does not travel, no matter how hard you try to recapture the experience. Ouzo, it is not a drink, it is a bit of the real Greece, a bit of the Greece that I hope never changes.

Yes, I know, the photo is taramosalata, not octopus, we ate it.

Home made Greek wine"I made it myself, no chemicals."

2010-06-07T14:03:00.004+03:00

I am going to write something that will get every Greek crazy, especially my friends. I have to admit that I do admire the Greeks that have a couple of grape plants, and believe they are wine makers. Nevertheless, not one of them will admit that they sometimes miss, and make something that borders on undrinkable. “ Its pure, no chemicals, I made it myself” as if that puts it in the same class as the really good Greek wines. OK, I have had some homemade wine that is drinkable, especially after the 4th glass.

We Greeks have the ability to believe that our thing, whatever it may be, beach, wine, village, olive oil, car, kids, anything, is the best, and sometimes the best in the world.

I guess I really like people bringing me plastic water bottles, with the label still on, filled with bright pink rose, and told they made it themselves” no chemicals”. Our cupboard still has some old Fanta bottles filled with homemade wine, maybe it will age and I will have to write a retraction.
I doubt it though.

Where to retire

2010-06-07T13:59:00.004+03:00

At a certain point in our lives, we started to think about where to retire. I was fortunate to have worked for a multinational company and we lived in many countries. The USA, England, Spain, Italy, Mexico, Columbia and Greece, were some of the countries we lived in, so the choice was rather broad. We started by eliminating countries for various reasons, not safe, too cold, didn’t feel comfortable, etc.

The winners were Mexico, Italy, and Greece, countries that answered all or most of our needs. We loved living in those countries, we had made friends there and we loved the food, the lifestyle, the culture, the people and the natural beauty of the landscape. We thought of maybe living in all three, but that just wasn’t practical, nor could we afford it, but it would have been great.

At this point I have to confess something, I am an American of Greek descent, which you already know adnauseum. This was a burden when it came to picking a country to retire in.
Naturally you would think it would tip the scale in favor of Greece, but it also could make you say no way, I know too much about those guys.

Mexico was an early favorite. Close to the States, colorful with a fascinating pre-Colombian history, great pyramid architecture, impressive volcanoes were a part of our landscape, fabulous food, warm people, the Mariachi music, it was a real runner. We lived there 10 years, and loved every minute; we could have easily retired there. The Mexicans say, “ Poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States”.

Italy is an amazing country, great food, gorgeous scenery, great taste, people are elegant, sophisticated and stylish, the houses are superb, and the villages are beautiful. So what if the place seems a little nuts and disorganized, but I believe that is an act to discourage people from taking them serious, (helps in negotiations). They are a very cultured and civilized people and charm you with their irreverence. An Italian friend told me that, “the sign of true culture, is not to have a great army, and to be proud of it”. Italy really was a contender, and it came very close to being the place to retire.

All right, why did we end up in Greece? The Greeks say, “ When God was creating Greece, he put all the sunshine, the sea, the fish, the mountains, the great plants, and all this beauty there; then when the Angels asked him, why so much goodness in one place God’s answer was,” not to worry, he would populate it with Greeks”. There you have it, Greeks can be the greatest people in the world, and the worst…many times it’s the same person. This unique characteristic makes living here exiting as well as frustrating, but never boring. I do not have to tell you about the amazing beauty of this place, and the culture that abounds here. So Greece won, but I have to admit, being a Greek played a role. The Greek word NOSTOS came into play. The desire to return to a homeland, even if you were not born there, won out. Are we sorry? Not on your life, we love it; we love these people, this place. Are we frustrated sometimes? You bet we are. Does the bureaucracy make us nuts? You bet it does. Still that all fades away on a breezy summer day as you sit sipping a tall glass of milky Ouzo while picking on a grilled octopus overlooking the remarkable Aegean Sea. Can’t beat that.

A Greek friend visited us when we lived in Mexico and described it as Greece was 50 years ago, but with color. So maybe we got a bit of Mexico, and we are pretty close to Italy. I guess we got what we always wanted, all three.

Why coffee is so expensive in Greece,

2010-06-07T13:51:00.014+03:00

Everything in Greece seems more expensive than before, but I guess some of that is normal.

It seems preposterous that Greek Feta is cheaper in Germany than in Greece. There are a series of other anomalies like this.

I have to defend the high cost of coffee in Greece never the less.

It may cost 2 or 3 times the price of other European countries, but it makes sense if you understand the Greeks.

In Italy, a cup of coffee is consumed in an instant; a cappuccino takes a little longer.
It is a matter of culture; Greeks have a huge variety to choose from.

The frappe is exclusively a Greek invention, not consumed instantly, even though it is made from instant coffee.

Making Greek coffee on the other hand, is a prized ritual, nor should its consumption be hurried but sipped slowly. We also have espresso, cappuccino, American, and hundreds of variations of these, depending on how sweet you want them.

Starbucks has also invaded Greece, so we have 38 more types of coffees at least.
But why is it so expensive?

I said it was culture. Now let me explain. Nobody that I know in Greece hurries their coffee, it is a social event that may take hours.Nobody drinks coffee alone; no one gulps it and runs.

The most expensive piece of real estate in Athens is Kolonaki Square, filled with coffee shops; the beautiful ports in Greece are lined with coffee shops and if it is attractive real estate, with a beautiful view, you are sure to find a coffee shop.
When you order a coffee in Greece you are renting space for up to two hours, and probably using 2 to 3 chairs per person.
Considering the coffee experience and all that goes with it, view, location, time, friends, etc. coffee turns out to be pretty cheap.

You are partially renting space, usually in a great place, with friends and you are viewing the passing parade of people, many of them very good looking, discussing sports, politics, smoking, twirling your worry beads, receiving and making phone calls.
It seems to me, considering the time Greeks take (as well as all the rest) to drink a cup of coffee, it is money well spent.

Considering the pleasure derived from a simple cup of coffee, it may very well be the best value for money, especially if you learn to enjoy it like a Greek..

.

The Monastery of the egg.

2010-05-30T15:15:00.011+03:00

There is an abandoned monastery near where we live, past the town of Pelei: it is commonly referred to as the monastery of the egg; it is in reality Agios Demetrious.

The story goes that a monk told a woman if she had faith, she could throw her child off the cliff and the child would be unharmed. He threw an egg off the cliff to demonstrate his faith; naturally the egg did not break. When the woman, in complete faith threw her baby off the cliff, it did not survive.

That is the story, do not try it, the monastery is about 300 feet high, overlooking a gorge with a river that leads to the sea.

This by any means makes this monastery pretty scary and mysterious.

We go there often, it is very beautiful and remote, it is left open and has a small chapel, with wonderful paintings. They are intact and never disturbed, there are always candles there and quite often they are lit.
We have never seen anybody there; it is part of the mystery of the monastery, who lights them?

Up on the roof of the monastery there is another small chapel, with amazing views, even of the sea.

We arrived there one day and to our surprise there was a contingent of two Priests, and the Bishop from Spetses as well as two young Monks. One of the Priests was our local Priest, he was as surprised to see us there as we were to see him.

I thought we were there fortunately during some religious holiday.

We asked and were told by one of the Monks that it was reported that there were some satanic symbols painted on the walls, inside and outside.

This was getting interesting, satanic symbols, this was going to be really great, would there be an exorcism?

We watched and were hoping to see some ritual to neutralize the symbols.

We looked at the symbols and they did not seem too satanic, as a matter of fact they looked rather familiar.

The young Monks were looking very concerned and running around with the incense burner (thimiato), it must have been their first satanic experience.

One of the older Priests started to laugh, rolling his eyes and said they were markings from a local electrician, for the new light fixtures that the local people had ordered for the Monastery. The red circles with the x were merely to mark were the switches and the lights would go. We then recognized the symbols, we had them on our house when we were building it.

We almost had a great story to tell; we might have seen some mysterious church service to de-satanize the monastery. We would have had our own Illuminati, our own movie.

The young Monks looked shattered, foiled, no de-satanic service.

They all piled into a van and pulled away with a screech. I assume they were going to lecture the person that sent them there on a wild satanic chase, or maybe just for coffee.

I can’t wait to go again, who knows what awaits us, maybe we find out who lights the candles, or maybe meet the satanic electrician.

Gotta get a carpet!

2010-05-26T17:10:00.005+03:00

The first time we went to Turkey was in 1964, by the time we got to Istanbul (Constantinople), we were almost broke. We had spent five weeks in Greece and this was the end of our trip.

We could not resist going to the market and attempting to buy a rug. I knew the principle of negotiating, but not the finer points. We found a fabulous, small prayer rug and decided to do the middle-eastern thing; after all, my roots are Asia Minor. I asked how much, the guy sized us up, offered us tea, and said 250 US dollars. It was early and we were his first customers, I knew that was to our advantage, he had to make the first sale or his day would be a disaster.

I am an impatient guy and immediately went to my final price, $50. He went through the act of clutching his heart and claiming it was an insult to everything under the sun, as well as his mother. He came down to $220, I said $50, he said $200, I said $50, he said $150, and I said $50 again.

We had some tea and he explained that when he comes down I should go up. He was just trying to explain the game; he also had to make the first sale. Little did he know I had given my top price first. We get to $85, and I say $50 again. He is now troubled, he turns to Jeannine and explains the rules to her, “I go down in the price and your husband goes up.” The tea is flowing like crazy, we even get sweets, and one hour has gone by.
He finally understands, this idiot, me, does not understand, he grabs my hand to close the deal and says $51, “come up just one dollar, please.”
Fortunately, Jeannine had the extra buck and we got the little carpet. He was very relieved to see me go, I hope the rest of his day was good, he made his first sale of the day, and we had our $51 carpet.

I realized that you must go even lower so you can come up a bit, so the procedure follows the unwritten rules.

This bargaining process is so ingrained in most people, from that part of the world, that it is done automatically. I was in Macys with my mother when I was a kid, she was buying some fabric…in those days they had a huge fabric department…. she kept adding a foot to every yard the guy rolled out, he would roll it back six inches, she would add a foot. I got embarrassed and told Momma to stop. The salesman, a Jewish man, looked at me and said,“ Listen college boy, this is the way your mother and I do things, we bargain, not on the price but on the length of the material, go look at some shirts, and leave us alone putz.”

Bargaining is in the blood; it wasn’t quite in mine the first time. I am getting better, though not quite as good as Mamma was, she would have gotten the carpet for $20, guaranteed

Pierced, or sliced, Sir?

2010-05-21T10:03:00.009+03:00

Cigars seemed have been part of my life forever. My Dad smoked cigars all the time; he even went swimming with a lit cigar in his mouth, doing a strange sidestroke to keep it lit.

At twelve years old, I started sneaking cigars and going to the beach at night with a couple of friends to smoke them. We would climb up on the empty lifeguard chairs, smoke cigars and look at the sea. I still occasionally do that, from my terrace. Part of the early cigar smoking experience was throwing up. I persisted and eventually got past that stage.

As I progressed, the cigars Pop smoked, and I stole,(White Owls) were replaced with Cuban cigars. The first one I smoked was in England. Our perks at that time were a box of cigars each, for the directors.

Ah, London in the Sixties.

I was a cigar smoker almost exclusively. When I was In Spain later, I smoked about 4 Montechristos a day. I loved them and the romance and ritual of cigars. I liked the myth that they were rolled on the inner thighs of mulatto virgins, all that stuff about the bands. It made smoking more enjoyable.

I do not want to hear anything about health during this blog.

In the sixties in London I worked with some printers. Other than the occasional pub time with them, we were invited to a special Christmas lunch with them and the owner of the firm, he was a Lord or something.

They took us to Claridges, an amazing old hotel in Mayfair. We had a fabulous lunch, with some great wine, and with the brandy came the cigars. They were presented on a rolling trolley, dozens of boxes of Cuban cigars, thousands of pounds worth. I was offered a cigar first; I picked a cigar that looked like a California Redwood. As the cigars went around the table, I bit the tip of mine off. The supercilious waiter came around to me with this amazing machine, and with this patronizing accent asked me
“Sliced or pierced sir?”
I looked up and said, “I bit it.” The owner of the printing firm asked me, “Would you like another?” God that pissed me off, he was a Lord and he was worse than the waiter, his work from McCann would be cut.

I later learned that good cigars have a cap at the end and it is perfectly acceptable to snip it off with your nail, or EVEN BITE IT OFF. So the kid from Coney Island wasn’t such a schmuck.

I thought a good idea for a cigar cutter would be a set of false teeth made out of silver, to trim your cigars.

I wish I had the courage to tell that snotty waiter when he asked me “sliced or pierced sir,” to say, “just bite it buddy!"

Alfredo, who is that woman coming in?

2010-05-18T18:38:00.011+03:00

Our favorite restaurant in London during the sixties was San Frediano on Fulham Road. A great Italian trattoria, there were many in London at the time, very cool, very in. Saturday lunch was a ritual. With the kids and friends it made you feel like you were in Italy. There was an atmosphere that was very Mediterranean, not very English, even though it was filled with English people. They liked kids and even catered to them. Our son loved it so much that 15 years later he would take his girlfriend there and put it on my account.

I would often have dinner there with my wife during the week. Once, I got there early and was at the bar waiting for her. I was chatting with the owner, it was not quite dark yet and I saw this incredible woman outside, silhouetted, about to come in. I asked Alfredo, to find out who that woman was. She looked fabulous! I got a very strange look from Alfredo, he turned to me and said “Ma Greg, it iza yooour wi-ife.”

She had gotten her hair done in a different way, and was wearing a terrific outfit, and I, like an idiot did not recognize her.

Alfredo glared at me, and as he led us to our table all eyes were on my wife. She looked stunning. Then in a very casual voice he told my wife what had happened. So much for men sticking together. I said it was my glasses being dirty, the sun was in my eyes, I had too much to drink, I just blabbered away.

Fortunately, my wife acted like it was a compliment. Maybe now she will tell me what she really thought.

Thanks Alfredo.

The leaping Italians

2010-05-18T18:30:00.009+03:00

I was transferred to the Italian office in the mid 70’s as general manager.

In Milan, the first week on the job, there was an executive committee meeting. We are all sitting in the conference room and these guys are dressed magnificently. Armani dresses Milan’s police so you could imagine us at McCann.

We are in deep discussion about something the NY operation wanted, more profit probably. All departments are represented as well as the Rome office, all in all, about ten guys. Millions of lire worth of clothes on everybody. We are talking about a very cosmopolitan group of people.

The president of the office is very serious.
Suddenly the president's secretary interrupts the meeting and tells us the head of Nestle, one of our biggest clients, is on the phone and insists on talking to our president. All hell breaks loose, everybody in the room is leaping about, grabbing their nuts with their left hand and making the sign of the cornuto with their right.
I cannot believe this, two seconds ago this was a sophisticated group of men discussing profits and staff - serious stuff. Now they are leaping about and urging me to get up and join in. I feel obligated to do it, so I do. I leap about with the rest of them, not quite as enthusiastic as they are but grabbing my nuts just as hard.

They tell me this will prevent us having a catastrophic phone call, so we will not lose the account. If it works I’m for it. So, the call turns out to be just a minor matter and everybody adjusts their clothes and congratulates each other for the excellent execution of the protective dance.

That was my first introduction to our Italian operation. The other one shows their seemingly cavalier attitude to life, with great style.

A couple of months later I was in the office one day at eight in the morning, as usual. Office opens at nine, notice I did not say everybody comes in at that time. The creatives are probably the worst offenders.

One of our creative guys comes in to my office and wants me to go to the conference room to see some ads. I am amazed, it’s 8a.m. Did they work all night? I cannot imagine them in that early. I walk in and the entire creative department is there, singing Happy Birthday in Italian to me.

They poured champagne and we really had a good time. I returned to my office after about an hour or so. I was feeling pretty good. Once a year I will get the creative department in, not only on time but also early.

Two hours later I asked to see one of the creative teams and called their secretary. I was told the department all went home and would probably be back after lunch - well, so much for them coming in early.

They did, but they didn’t.

I am a stickler for promptness, wrong country. I was learning fast.

Italy will always be leaping Italians in great suits, grabbing their balls and doing the sign of the cornuto, as well as coming in early once a year,
sort of.

My accent betrayed me

2010-05-16T01:05:00.007+03:00

Here we go again, another London one. We were there for quite a while, and I have some vivid memories.

I was born in Brooklyn, as you know, and needless to say I have a strong Brooklyn accent, I think I have it even when I write. There are few things harder to lose than a Brooklyn accent. When I attended Pratt there were kids from all over the States, and I felt that I should make an attempt to lose or at least soften my accent a bit. My wife to be, was born in Massachusetts, and had a definite non-Brooklyn accent. Well, I was not very successful the accent remained. We then go to London and every American there is speaking with this fake mid Atlantic accent. I decided I was not going to change; Brooklyn is good enough for me.

One day, on the way to the pub with some friends, I was told there was a guy who was great with accents, he could really zero in and tell you exactly where you were from, should be easy to do me, right.

We get to the pub, meet this guy and he starts, I try to modify my accent a bit. He listens and asks me to say certain words; this goes on for about three drinks. No big deal, he says I am from Brooklyn, a Greek fisherman can guess that. This continues and he starts to narrow it down to areas of Brooklyn, getting closer and closer to my own, Coney Island.

This is an amazing feat, we are in a pub in the center of London, a guy is narrowing down, honing in on the area that I was born and raised in. The Brooklyn part was easy, south of Prospect park is pretty good but approaching Coney Island is spooky. He tells me the avenue I lived on, Mermaid ave. and then tells me it is between 16th and 20th street. I am now crazy, this is amazing, what a talent. I am buying drinks for everybody, I am blown away, I have never seen anything like this, and he can make a fortune in Las Vegas.

By now, you have all realized that I was set up, my “buddies” had told him everything. I like a fool had fallen; hook line and sinker for the gag. I even asked what floor did I live on, what a sap I was.

A great gag, well done, but I did have my revenge sort of. He was an American photographer in London, there were plenty in those years, I never gave him a job, small of me but he had to pay for dicking with me so much.

I feel kind of petty; he was great talent, not only in taking pictures but also in taking the mickey.

The amazing Rolls

2010-05-16T00:44:00.006+03:00

London, the 60's again.

We had a good friend, an American photographer, who bought a beautiful old Rolls Royce, it had previously been owned by Vivian Leigh. It was a beautiful car, and we used to fantasize about the cars previous life.

He was a fan of a great NY radio station ,WNEW, and he had some cassettes of the DJ, William B Williams. He played them quite a bit and we used to have a little of NY when we drove around London, probably on the way to a pub.

He had to pick up a cousin that was coming to London from NY, it was her first time in Europe and she was pretty excited. He picked her up and turned the radio on (cassette player in reality), they drove for a bit until she realized it was a NY station playing. The amazing Rolls had an amazing radio, she was told. This terrible fraud continued, I think for the full time she was in London.

I wonder if she still thinks that the radio in the Rolls was that amazing.

It was an amazing time in London, an amazing friend with an amazing Rolls, with an amazing radio.

I wonder if it could have gotten stations from LA?

"THE AXINOI" club, Greek for sea urchins

2010-05-12T20:40:00.007+03:00

I have just become a member of a new club THE AXINOI, as a matter of fact I am one of the founding members. There are four of us and there may not be any others, we will though have invited guests.

The President is eighty-six years old, I am seventy-two, another member is seventy and the kid, the youngest member, is only sixty. Our first meeting was at a beach side taverna, where we ate grilled octopus, drank ouzo, ate tomatoes and fresh onions, discussed the world affairs, our lives and talked about our experiences in Africa, something we all shared.

We occasionally, discreetly watch beautiful German tourists on the beach.

All clubs seem to have an objective, usually noble. We at the moment do not have one, and we may never have one, but I will keep you informed when and if we have decided on one.

There are no wives and they will not be involved in the club. We have been involved in their clubs and spend enough time with them, going to supermarkets and doing other chores, as well as the role of appendage to their clubs.

No cooking group, bridge club or even a book club. Ours has no reason to be except to be.

Why did we pick the name the AXINOI? Very simply, they are rare, delicious, hard to find, expensive, and illegal to catch without a license. But most of all, they are prickly. They seem to be pretty much like us, rare, expensive, hard to find, prickly and pretty delicious.

There are two photos on this blog, one shows the urchins, ready to eat, open with a little lemon, having first been rinsed in seawater, they taste absolutely amazing, one of the best mezedes imaginable. Extremely hard to come by, especially like this; maybe our objective was to include this in our mezedes repertoire. Seems like a pretty good objective. The other photo is whole, as they are in the sea, alive, prickly and rather gorgeous.

Sounds like us.

Fifty F***ing years old

2010-05-07T21:19:00.017+03:00

If you are going to have a fiftieth birthday party, trust me, do it in Mexico.
They know how to throw a party.

Fortunately my fiftieth birthday was while we were in Mexico.

The Coca Cola client and my staff threw me a party. T-shirts that said 50 f***ing years old, not abbreviated, the whole thing, spelled out in Red. They threw the party at a bullfight arena. We had a bullfight with very young steers, not full grown bulls; Mariachis, margaritas and great food.

Let me explain, this is very common in Latin America, everybody has a go, you get in with this young steer and play the brave torero. Sounds safe, but that animal does it every Saturday at different parties, he is not distracted by a cape, he goes straight for you; bruised and broken bones are common, as well as great embarrassment for the “toreros”.

The "bull" is the safest one in the arena, since nobody has any idea of what they are doing, just a cape and your ability to run. It is great fun as long as you don’t get gored, trampled, or thumped. You will though, make a fool of yourself, it is expected.

Since it was my day, I had the first go. The “bull” was confused and went for the cape a few times before he remembered the person was the target. I got out OK, my son helped; he actually attempted to stop the bull, and spent 50 yards being pushed backwards.

Great cheers from the crowd, we were about 200 people there. I felt pretty good and did not have to go in again, thank heavens.

Not too many people got hurt. There were bruises, stepped on feet, ripped pants and foolish looking people, not bad considering we had an ambulance on standby. I think the tequila had a big hand in it as well. God takes care of drunks.

The crowd naturally did the wave, the Coca-Cola wave, what a feeling!

Magdalena, she was our housekeeper, attempted to go to the supermarket wearing one of the t-shirts, the 50 f***ing years one. Fortunately we stopped her in time.

If you are ever in this kind of situation, make sure you go in first; the bulls forget at the beginning and go after the cape, not you, if you are lucky.

Admen and their cars

2010-05-07T21:14:00.008+03:00

London in the 60’s, admen were obsessed with cars.

It was part of your package, just as whatever you could negotiate was, shirts, suits, travel, and Cuban cigars. Taxes were enormous and perks were the order of the day. We used it as a recruiting tool. The better the talent the better the perk. Cars were it, Rolls for copywriters, art directors with Aston Martins, it seemed to be mostly a creative person’s obsession.

You must remember it was the 60's, barriers appeared to be breaking down, and society seemed to become more equal. A Cockney kid could drive a Porsche, especially if he was in advertising.

During the six years we were in London, ’65 to ’71, I had a Peugeot (the company shipped it from the US, my car there) an MGB, an R type Bentley, an S type Bentley, an Alvis, bet you never heard of that one, and a Mini Cooper for my wife. I was not the worst; there were guys that were really nuts. There were others that seemed to be immune to the lure of the car, exotic or not.

A copywriter who was entitled to a car worked for me, he picked an unassuming Vauxhall, carefully chose the color, the interior, and the model, and thanked me. A good guy, easy, no weird car, even picked a client’s car.

The garage attendant came to me and said the car has been parked downstairs for three months, never moved. I called John and asked him why, he looked at me very surprised and said,“ I can’t drive. “ The car was part of his package; it was not part of the deal that he drives. A rare breed in London in those days, a great writer, even though cars meant nothing to him.
Our garage had some incredible cars, E types, big Jags, and sports cars, even a Cadillac. We were an American agency, slightly conservative, so we were nothing compared to the hot English agencies.

I would not be surprised if some of them even had helicopters there, whatever you could negotiate. Kids in limos, anything seemed to be OK.

A friend from then told me that he measured his career by the cars he had. Some even measured their careers by the work they did. Cars were something else, they marked your value to the company and your own negotiating skills, and it was something unique to the English ad scene.

History was made in the London advertising world, great campaigns were created, and it was a remarkable time creatively. Great filmmakers and photographers as well as great admen came out of London in the 60s.

Rather shallow of me, I remember the cars and the people that drove them, even the one that didn’t drive, my friend and partner, John.

La Ola de Coca-Cola

2010-05-05T18:47:00.006+03:00

In 1986 we were in Mexico. Yes, the year of the Mexican World Cup. I did not realize the importance of football in the world, especially the Latin American world. Remember, I’m from Brooklyn, not much soccer played there.

Coca-Cola was one of the sponsors of the event, a major sponsor.

I was responsible for the Coca-Cola account for Mexico and Central America. A great job! Mexico has the highest per capita consumption of Coca-Cola in the world and was a huge account for us at the time.

I get called to the office of the President of Coca-Cola in Mexico for the brief.

He cannot believe that I am not thrilled about the prospect of the World Cup being hosted in Mexico. Let me remind you, this is not the World Series and I am from Brooklyn.

It is going to be huge, and he wants the consumer to believe that Coke sponsors it, the whole thing. He wanted it to seem as though Mexico had nothing to do with it; it will be Coca-Cola all the way. Have to admire his cojones! There will be dozens of commercials and tons of other material to promote this event; a really big deal. I had better learn about this game and it’s importance throughout the world, except for the US of course.

Also we need an idea, something that will carry the ads, something big that will capture the event and Coke’s role in it. The head of Coca-Cola Mexico was an amazing character, with lots of creative energy. He tells me about something he saw in the States at a football game, American football not soccer. The fans were bored and would make a wave around the stadium. Great idea, since the word for wave in Spanish is Ola, Coca- Cola….get it?

We had the idea, now to make it work and teach the Mexican fans to do the wave. It had never been seen in a soccer stadium before. We had six months to get it done and make ads out of this. The birth of the Mexican wave; it is called that all over the world. It should be called the Coca-Cola wave, but I will settle for the Mexican wave.
This was one of the biggest things I have ever been involved with in my career. It was amazing to see this idea take off. This idea was so big it was easy to make the ads, ads that captured the people’s imagination; it became part of the vernacular. What a great experience. Go to youtube and put in the Mexican World Cup 1986, La Ola de Coca-Cola and see the scope of the campaign.

We did have one minor disaster, Hugo Sanchez, the great Mexican player, was one of the people Coke used in the ads. We had a spot with him scoring a penalty kick. He was great at it and it seemed a natural for him to score when he had the opportunity to kick a penalty. He missed the first penalty that they had. Our commercial showed him scoring. Guess what, our commercial ran right after he missed the penalty. The fans were not very forgiving and our star player went into hiding. We spent our time running around trying to cancel the spot. We didn’t want more trouble. Poor Hugo, he suffered more than he should have.

Other than that, it was a great campaign. We even had commercials for every contingency. When Mexico was knocked out we ran spots about the wave of the future, the junior league, with the young kids that would play, hopefully, in the future World Cups.

A Brooklynite, I was not only involved in one of the biggest advertising events in the history of soccer, but also helped make it happen. The Mexicans after the World Cup did not think that Coke only sponsored it but also actually brought the games to Mexico.

When you watch the South African World Cup, and the fans do the wave, and they will, remember, it is La Ola de Coca-Cola, not the Mexican Wave.

OK, OK, I will settle for the Mexican Wave.

Beware of shirts made in Tokyo after lunch

2010-05-05T16:21:00.007+03:00

I was in Japan for three months in the early 70’s for the company.
As I said before it was a great experience, but some odd things did happen. I used to have lunch at the Hilton Hotel a couple of times a week with some of the staff. It was essential for me to make contact with members of the Creative Department since the previous Creative Director neglected the local staff a bit.

Needless to say, there was some drinking involved with lunch, actually quite a bit. Look, let me be honest, I had just come from England and drinking was part and parcel of advertising (see Mad Men).

The hotel had a Hong Kong custom shirt maker on the lower level. Since it was a novelty for me, and it was much cheaper than Turnbull and Asser in London, I naturally had some shirts made. Very John Wayne, tapered waist, I was slimmer then, big sleeves high collar, mother-of-pearl snap buttons, very 70’s. It seemed every time I went to the Hilton after lunch and had a few drinks, it was down to the shirt maker.

I really do not remember what color fabric I picked; they always gave me the finished shirts in brown and yellow, which fit perfectly. I was sure I hadn’t selected those materials since I am not partial to those colors. I thought I had picked blue, white or even pink. Yet, every time I picked them up, it was always the same brown and yellow shirts. Once there was even a black and white paisley shirt, I could not have been that drunk. I must have had 30 shirts limited to those same colors.

They must have had a surplus of brown and yellow material and God knows how the paisley came into the picture; they must have figured I was too drunk to remember. To this day, I still think that Japanese booze causes color blindness. The shirts fit great and I was sort of obligated to wear them, otherwise, I would have to explain the state I was in after my boozy lunch, when I ordered them.

If you go to Japan, and go to the Hilton, have your shirts made before lunch. There is a bigger color selection then, after lunch it is just brown or yellow, with an occasional paisley shirt thrown in.

The not so barren seascape

2010-05-02T12:07:00.033+03:00

It is easy to assume the seascape is barren. Once you open your eyes it is filled with color, life, movement, underwater landscapes and even antiquities (maybe not always ancient, but certainly old). There is so much going on that it amazes you. There was a great French painter who said "give me a small piece of land and I will see the universe."
It is a matter of looking. I am sorry I referred to it as barren, it is far from barren.

The photos were taken by Dario Castelfranco, and my dive instructor John Alexakis,There are hundreds more. Thanks guys.

When is the last time you did something for the first time?

2010-05-01T21:57:00.007+03:00

I just love that expression. I am not talking about a bucket-list; I am referring to doing something you have never done before.
It does not have to be something big, like parachuting. It has to be something new, something that challenges you, even marginally.
I ask this question frequently, and unfortunately most people are at a loss to tell me anything they can remember. I am, unfortunately in pretty much the same position.

I am convinced this is a key to a much richer life. When you are young, a kid, everything you do is almost for the first time. No wonder the brain is developing at it’s fastest the younger you are. I do not claim this for a means of developing your brain, just as a means of maintaining interest in life and looking forward to something new: a pretty good definition of a youthful attitude, or even youth.

OK, what have I done for the first time lately?

Not as much as I should have, but there are a few things, this blog for one is something new for me, I never thought I would like too or even be any good at writing. I have developed my Backgammon game, no big deal, but it is new. I started to learn more about the Internet, lots more to learn.

I started to scuba dive a few years ago at 68 years old; that was a big deal.

The diving has to have been the most different, the newest, and the most memorable. It seems to be new every time I go down. I had a brain operation last year and could not dive. I missed it and am looking forward to it, next month I go down.

We live in Porto Heli and there is a great diving school here. My kids and niece, nephew and grand niece all do it and I got jealous. I thought maybe I was too old, bullshit; I was just the right age. I asked the dive instructor and he told me the oldest person he taught was a 72 year old monk, go figure that one out. I figured anything a 72-year-old monk can do, I can do also; at least when it comes to this stuff.

I am lucky to have a great teacher and I always go down with him. It is a fantastic experience, a unique feeling, weightless and free. I am not very good with heights, but going down twenty some odd meters just does not feel strange or fearful. We are not in one of those places like the Red Sea or Mexico with all the wonderful coral and colorful fish. We have a barren seascape, but nonetheless there are amazing things to see; an octopus changing color, and moving over different textures. Fish, fire worms, Jelly fish, with huge tentacles, wrecks, the mountains that go straight into the sea that you follow down, just a continuation of the landscape. I wish I were a better writer to describe what I see and feel.

I am looking forward to next month; I will let you know how it goes.

Perhaps a parachute jump is not so preposterous after all, hmm?

Six degrees of separation, but not in Greece, more like two

2010-04-30T09:47:00.013+03:00

I have built a house in Greece; it was not nearly as traumatic as I was told it would be. There are lots of stories to this house. More to come at a future date.

We bought a piece of land in the Argolida, with a great view, to build our retirement dream house; we were going to downsize. Big joke, it just grew like an amoeba, an amoeba with a great view.

When we bought the land, I asked about local architects and builders, rather than bringing one from Athens (3 hours away).
I was told that there was a guy that studied in the States, yeah sure!
I assumed it was local blah, blah.

I looked at some of his houses, they all had something unique, even though they were traditional Greek villas, tile roofs, stone, etc. We had a modern house in mind though. We went to see him and find out about his “U.S. education”. We chatted and we hit it off, and yes he went to Pratt, in N.Y., the same college my wife and I had gone to. A coincidence, but I have come to accept them and even expect them in life. We accused him of forgetting everything he learned at Pratt: a notorious Bauhaus school, modern stuff all the way.

At that moment his wife came to the office, she is a Greek American from Chicago. We lived there in the early 60’s, forty years ago at least.

Like all old geezers, I remember stuff that happened in prehistory, not ten minutes ago. I asked her what her Dad did in Chicago; she told me he had a grocery store in the Greek town of Chicago. I remembered her Dad’s store and even her Dad, his name, even her uncle. This is getting spooky; small provincial towns in Greece and the degrees of separation have come to be non-existent. I was sure one more question and we would find out we were related, second cousins or something. Thank heavens it stopped at the same school, and a Chicago grocery store. It was enough for us to pick him as our architect and builder, I told him “God made me pick you,” may as well keep him nervous.

We worked on the plans and soon were happy, a terrific modern villa.
I then decided that we wanted it in 9 months, “No problem”. When you hear “No es ningun problema” in South America, it means it is no problem because it is never is going to happen, therefore no problem. In Greece, thanks heavens, this did not happen, we did it in nine months, just like a child, no problem.