High life
In love with Atalanta
Taki
hat a fool I am. After 30 years of sailing around the Greek islands, I've finally discovered the place I should have been going to all along — the village of Naoussa, on the isle of Paros. What makes me furious, however, is the fact that I've wasted so much time and moolah in the two ghastliest of islands, Mykonos and Spetsai, where white trash, catamites and
fat Anglo-Greek shipowners abound.
The reason these two are on top of the losers' totem pole is the locals. In Mykonos they are lazy, aggressive, dishonest and have the morals of a paedophile. They are also the richest Greeks per capita. Mind you, Mykonians have always been the pits. In ancient times the Persians used the place as a brothel. Ditto the Turks later on. Now the gays have totally taken the island over and rule supreme.
Spetsai is a bit better but not much. The trouble again is the locals. They are Alba- nians, with all the social graces of that race. They are extremely aggressive, very loud, and — unlike Rumanians — would sell their mother and then not deliver. But what really bothers me about the place is that although I have many friends who live there, there are too many of these I am not allowed by law to write about.
And speaking of libel, in Paros I was given a description of the lawyer Richard Hartley that had everyone laughing so hard an accident ensued, fortunately without permanent damage.
But on to Naoussa, a most delightful place, inhabited by the most hospitable Greeks, a place where the ghastly Hartley and his ilk are as welcome as Aldington would be at the party I am throwing next month to celebrate the collapse of com- munism. We arrived by boat during a power strike by the Greek followers of the crook Papandreou, and as I was very drunk the place looked almost magical. I had ten guests on board, with a couple of my karate friends, and . . . horror of horrors, three lawyers. Although I was accompa- nied by a beautiful girl, such was the romantic atmosphere of the place that I fell madly in love with Atalanta Goulandris, a girl I've known since the day she was conceived. All sorts of fights and mis- understandings ensued, what with her brother being on board, so I finally rang her parents and asked for her hand in marriage. As they are my closest friends they were not surprised, and simply asked me to think it over. Incidentally, Atalan- ta's answer was unprintable. So was my female friend's reaction.
Needless to say, all this came about because of Naoussa. The first ever love poem was written there and signed by Archilochus, the creator of iambic verse.
This was back in the 7th century BC, and there were no libel laws. And given the fact that the week began in style, for once I wasn't surprised at its serendipitous ending at my friend Elisavet Lyra's party to launch Christie's in the Big Olive. I have always had a mad crush on Elisavet, but even I wasn't prepared for the great party she put on, and the lunch the following day. It was under the Acropolis, the Christie's execs were as charming and helpful as it is possible to be, and I discovered de Marger- ie, the ex-French ambassador to London and Washington, who must be the least stuffed shirt ever.
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