High life
Into my sixth decade
Taki
eorge Will is the very talented American writer who takes himself almost as seriously as Guardian women take themselves. When Will became 40 he wrote a column under the heading, 'On turning 40'. It was a very good column, and I expect old George will write one on becoming 50, 55, 60, 70, 71, 72, and so on. Needless to say, I haven't got Will's talent for introspection, or for offering bons mots about the ageing of my fellow man, so I will simply tell you that the best thing about becoming 50 was the party I threw for myself last week. As more than two million neo-Hellenes had left for the countryside, I decided to have my party where the modern Greeks were least likely to be, and that was in the capital. Xenou, to be precise.
Xenou is a taverna I have often written about in the Spectator's pages, so I will only mention the fact that it's located in Plaka, the old part of the city, and it's frequented by writers more than tourists. On the night of my birthday, however, there were only gays, and foreign gays to boot. Now as everyone who knows me knows, I don't mind gays as long as they don't try to proselytise my children to their way of life. For some strange reason, on this particular night there wasn't a single proselytiser among them, and when Mr Xenos and all his waiters came out into the garden to serenade me, every limp wrist in the place joined in. It was a touching scene, and it became even touchier when in order to make the foreigners feel at home, I stood up and announced to the gays that I, too, was as queer as they were.
This, needless to say, did not go down well with the mother of my children, my karate team, the few girls I've promised marriage to, and — most important of all — the waiters of Xenou. Nevertheless, the retsina flowed like the Arno did when it overflowed in 1966, and by the time we closed the place it was clear to all of us that after three generations Xenou would soon turn into a gay bar.
The good thing about Athens without Athenians is that when I rang the latest 'in' place down by the sea and asked them to wait for us, they were only too happy to comply with our wishes. That is where my old friend Leonidas Goulandris joined me. Leonidas went to my old school, but for some strange reason he now works for the city's female census board. Or at least that is the impression he gives, because he literally knows every single female in town. The reason he had not joined me earlier was a new arrival from the States, one that Leonidas, always conscientious and work- ing overtime, was adding to his lists.
Now I cannot think back and find among the many happy birthdays I've had a happier one than this one. It seems every good friend I have in Athens — and I've got lots — had the same idea, and had stayed behind. Also, Leonidas had come up with enough young and beautiful girls to make a London dance look like Xenou's on my birthday. Well after the sun began making people take their clothes off for comfort, the party went on. My old friend Zographos, on the wagon for months, broke his vows and downed bottle after bottle. George Demetriades, a very old friend who once produced a plastic auto- mobile — and had it half-eaten by a mule Zographos and I sneaked into his work- room — decided to forgive us, and joined in the celebration of my maturity.
When the mother of my children kissed me goodnight, I took a large party back to the Caravel hotel, of which I am president, and invited the ladies of the night as they were emerging from their clients' rooms to join us. Then we all dressed like Arabs and waited for the real McCoy to come down for lunch in order to discuss the problems of the Gulf, but that is when saner heads prevailed by reminding me that it was no use alienating the few customers we had, and we reluctantly bid each other good- night.
The trouble with such juvenile shenani- gans is that when one writes about them they sound just plain stupid. Well, they were anything but, as far as I'm concerned. In fact, I have decided now that I've crossed the Rubicon of 50 to really start to enjoy myself. As Oscar Wilde could have said, after all, it is only superficial people who act seriously at parties. And the only thing I felt serious about that night was a girl called Marina.
Well, George Will may be appalled at this description of turning 50, but he's too old to judge. I only wish Jeff had come down.
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