The only way to describe the busy traffic of Athens can be as ‘a permanent chaotic traffic-jam’, where every motorist tries to wrestle his way through crowded streets, according to instant home-made rules. Whilst reading the map, Francis, my wife, tried not to get confused by the Greek street-names and I did my utmost to navigate Gus, our motor caravan, without damage through the hurly-burly.

Yet we had a very good reason to defy the hustling of Athens: Ellen and Paul came to visit us! They are dear friends and had written they would like to come to Greece, accompanied by their two children. I was certain Ellen and Paul would love Greece just as much as Francis and I did, because Paul taught history at a local high school, and Ellen had a degree in Greek and Latin. Also for their two boys, Frank aged twelve and Michel ten, I thought that the Greek antiquities would be an interesting experience.
  Francis and I have known both boys since their birth. We get along very well and in their eyes I’ve become some kind of a ‘sugar-daddy’. Last summer, on a visit, I overheard Frank tell a friend that his uncle Roger looked so much more modern than his boring old dad. To me that seemed quite a compliment coming from a twelve-year old, who, on that age, looks very critically at grown-ups. Of course I wanted to fulfil that image and therefore I bought, just before their arrival, a new sweatshirt of Frank’s favourite brand. It was a nice black shirt that bore the logo ‘Just Do It’. Frank would have reason to be proud of me.
  Ellen en Paul had made hotel reservations in the centre of Athens. Francis and I were in doubt if we could park Gus nearby for a whole week, so we went scouting the city a few days before the arrival of our visitors. The old centre of Athens was very colourful, but also had lots of narrow streets and small squares. Nowhere could we find a place to park until we saw, right in front of the classic athletics stadium, a sign that read ‘No motor caravans’.
  Such a sign I hadn’t seen before in Greece, but generally speaking they’re indications of a beautiful spot to park Gus.
  My first thought was to cover the sign with a black plastic bag, but then the better half of my brain took over and suggested I’d better had a chat with the three policemen, who stood on the square in front of the stadium, watching the traffic go by. I was glad I did, the policemen said I was free to park on the square, the ‘No motor caravans’ sign was only upheld during the busy tourist months.

The whole week before the arrival of Ellen and Paul we had a feeling of expectancy. It would be nice to see our friends again, they would bring tidings from Holland and of course, we could enjoy the company of their two boys.
  We would have loved to show them all we had experienced in Greece, but of course that was impossible. Yet we thought of all kinds of everyday events we could visit. We also wanted to show them as much as possible of the countryside and thus started to look around again with ‘Dutch’ eyes. We had already gotten used to the many Byzantine churches, the orange-trees and the beautiful antique monuments, but for them it would all be new.

The first thing Frank and Michel told us when they had passed customs-control, was because of a mistake in the booking-office they had flown ‘business class’ instead of ‘tourist class’. For dinner they’d had salmon and caviar, a real disappointment for two boys who were fonder of chips than such a ‘classy’ meal.
  “Yecch,” both boys expressed in harmony and Frank complemented: “I really hope on the way back we’ll fly tourist class!”
  Francis had been looking forward to serve the coming week all kinds of exotic dishes like squid, tzatzíki, egg-plant and dolmades, but I realised those meals would be wasted on these two boys.

Before we were seated in our ‘van, Frank inquired worriedly about the program for the coming week.
  “My parents only want to see museums, excavations and other old things,” he said. Not exactly his idea of a fun-holiday and with abhorrence he told how his old-fashioned parents could look for ‘hours’ at a silly flower.
  “Can you imagine, Uncle Roger?” he asked, whilst looking approvingly at my new sweatshirt.

Their hotel was within walking-distance from the classic stadium, in front of which we had parked Gus again. Both boys, born and bred in a small village in the northern part of Holland, needed time to adjust to the busy traffic of a metropolis like Athens. Whilst waiting for the pedestrian-lights to change, cars flew by on all sides. Frank watched impressed and remarked: “Such a bustling village!”

To celebrate their arrival we sat on the stairs of the stadium in the sunshine. Between the six of us we consumed a bottle of champagne, several bottles of red wine, numerous cans of coke, and had a lot to catch up on gossip. Michel was gone instantly, only to reappear half an hour later, saying:
  “I ran the four hundred metres in a real Olympic stadium!”
  The stadium was a regular tourist-attraction and every other minute we saw a busload full of Japanese tourists coming or going.

On their first day of the holiday we walked to the Acropolis, we expectantly, the boys dragging their feet. To their opinion a visit to the most famous sight of Athens fell under the heading ‘culture’ and was therefore dismissed as not to the point of a fun-holiday.
  At the foot of the hill Frank started to whine like an unruly teenager that he had to visit the loo real urgently, and, because a lavatory was nowhere to be found, kept worrying for ‘hours’.
  Michel, solidary with his elder brother, was also not very interested in ‘that old heap of stones’ and constantly picked small pebbles from the ground and flung them away in sweeping arcs. I didn’t feel very comfortable under the scrutinizing looks of the guards and tried not to think what could happen if Michel hit the nose of one of those lovely marble goddesses. Ellen and Paul constantly warned and admonished the boys. Of the Acropolis they saw little or nothing. However, the boys’ message came across loud and clear and for the remainder of the week we gave them exemption from visiting ‘old things’.
  Grown wise from this experience I consulted the boys what they liked to do and to my amazement they preferred to stay ‘at home’ in the ‘van. They loved to build a house of cards, play card games or dominoes, and Frank wanted me to teach him how to play patience.
  The boys had brought along a cassette-tape with recordings of Guns n’ Roses and wanted to hear nothing else. To be honest, Guns an’ Roses is not exactly my cup of tea and even my subtle attempt to play just a little Greek bouzouki-music was unsuccessful. However, Frank found a tactful way to express our difference in taste:
  “Well, it’s just that Uncle Roger is a little bit older than the average child.”

While Ellen and Paul wandered Athens to see the sights, we took the boys shopping and underhandedly found a route with something interesting to see, like the Changing of the Guards in front of the Parliament House. The boys loved the look of the Guards in their short white skirts and wanted to go back there again and again.

The day after the holiday would be Frank’s birthday. I had asked him what he would like to have as a present and wasn’t really surprised when he chose a sweatshirt just like mine.
  Frank was very happy with it, until he noticed a small hole in the left shoulder. Tears welled in his eyes, he practically tore the sweatshirt off and threw it like a rag in a corner.
  I picked up the shirt, looked at the hole and said it was only a torn seam and therefore not really important. That remark had an opposite effect. Frank’s tears increased and he climbed in our bed above the cabin, fully intended not to reappear for the time being.
  I was at my wits’ end and didn’t know how to appease him. Ellen and Paul would be gone for the whole day and I saw my role as a substitute father go up in smoke. A boy near adolescence is hard to understand, one moment easy-going and co-operative, moody and resentful the next.
  Suddenly a happy thought flashed upon me. I suggested Frank we could bring the sweatshirt for repairs to a tailor. That idea brought back a smile and together we went looking for a tailor-shop. The shop wasn’t hard to find, only it took until the end of siesta-time before the tailor went back to work. After the seam had been stitched Frank’s troubles were soon over and the sweatshirt looked again ‘real neat’.
For both boys ‘dining-out’ fell in the same category as words like ‘prettily’ or ‘culture’ and therefore also not their idea of a fun-holiday. Not really a problem, because that gave Francis an opportunity to show off her cooking. While we enjoyed fried squid-rings or moussaká, Frank and Michel disposed with gusto a whole can of Frankfurters. But also ‘souvlaki’ from the Greek ‘fish an’ chips’ met their approval.
  Therefore shopping was a daily occupation. Especially buying meat at the butchers’ was quite an experience. Both boys shuddered when they saw deer, wild boars and turkeys hanging from hooks, complete with heads and tails and still wearing their natural coats. Still, they broke out laughing seeing two pigs displayed so naturally that I thought the porkers could stand up and walk away any moment, despite the apple in their mouth and the olive-branches in their ears.
  After a visit to the supermarket, Frank gallantly offered to carry the shopping-bag that contained several bottles of wine, but Francis rather didn’t trust him with the bag, afraid he might drop the bottles. But well..., what happened? Francis swung the bag a bit wildly, bang against a stone flower-box. Two bottles broke and the wine streamed down the street. Both boys split their sides with laughter and Frank asked sweetly:
  “How about me carrying the bag now, Aunt Francis?”

Every other day we made day-trips in the environs of Athens, Francis and me in the driving-compartment, Ellen and Paul comfortably on the couches in the ‘living’. The boys wanted to stay in our bed above the cabin, where they could look outside.
  On the parking-lot of the famous Temple of Poseidon, near Cape Soúnion, several men were filming a commercial for a soft-drink. Six vans, painted bright red with dashing white lettering, were circling the parking-lot, their occupants waving at the camera. Frank and Michel found it, just like I, mighty interesting to see and we opted to stay in the ‘van watching, while Francis went with Ellen and Paul to have a look at the Temple.
  An hour later the shooting was over. Frank wanted to build a house of cards and Michel went outside to play with his football. From the corner of my eyes I saw him climbing the rocks in the direction of the Temple and for one moment I thought he planned to use the marvellous marble pillars as goal posts. Fortunately he only bounced the ball around a bit and when he came back in the ‘van he asked innocently:
  “What kind of building did that rubble used to be, Uncle Roger?”
  I was glad he asked, but to poke a little fun of him I said sternly:
  “That’s a big secret, Michel, which I can only tell boys who pay attention during history lessons!”
  I couldn’t have thought of a worse answer, his interest disappeared instantly.

When we crossed the Canal of Corinth, Frank reacted enthusiastically seeing the enormous ships manoeuvring the Canal with only a few metres to spare on each side of the high walls. But after my sad experience with Michel I didn’t even dare to make fun of him because of his enthusiasm.
  Near the excavations of the old town of Corinth we could sit outside and enjoy lunch in the sun. During the meal Paul told about his namesake, the apostle Paul, who had written several angry letters to the inhabitants of Corinth, accusing them of immoral behaviour. I noticed Frank and Michel were listening with interest and they wanted to know what exactly the apostle Paul thought was immoral about the town. On the way back to Athens Frank sat next to me and said to my amazement:
  “Those old stones do have some pretty cool stories to tell, Uncle Roger!”