This is not a new book, just something I picked up with interest as someone who has lived in Athens for a few years as part of an Urban Odyssey. Publishing the book might have been a rush job trying to capture the market of the 2004 Athens Olympics when Modern Greece suddenly was on people’s minds (anticipated failure, complaints, etc, like most media here seems to be about Greece). Consider this book the anti-romantic portrait of modern Greece. If you loved Greece before you read it, you might hate it after you finish reading 142 easy-reading pages of this book. Written by a native Greek who left when he was 10 years old, who paid yearly visits there growing up and spent 3 months living there in part as a personal journey, in part to write this  book… it basically puts a magnifying glass on all of the flaws of the modern Greek state, its people and, it seems (it can be that dark) their souls. Take all the bad, post it on pages like a collage, provide minimal analysis and you’ve got this book. This is not to say what the author speaks about is not true… indeed the most depressing aspect of this book, as a once-ago resident who lived in and with many of the groups the author describes, is that what he talks about is real. In falling in love, did I ignore the monster? I don’t think so but the book shakes you up, even though it is a tad bit unfair, it is so very superficial in some ways (but not in that it presents a glimpse into the “native” life that tourists might not ever see). It is harsh. Maybe it has to be. I know there is more to Greece than this, but then again… Sigh… if only life were as simple as Ode to Frappes and a sun-filled life…

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So what’s the urban kick here? In the midst of these isolated fields of gold, we caught sight of a figure waiting on the side of the road. We passed it quickly, enough to notice that it was a woman. We continued traveling, time with us; again we passed another woman. I had enough time to turn my head and peer through the back window to see the hiked up spandex dress, the coiffured hair. Mostly I noticed the hardness in her pose; a street sultriness that belonged not in Arcadia but on a sidewalk concrete pavement. It was like this with the next few women we passed, some forgoing the false coquettish pose, tired perhaps of being a fleshy billboard of invitation (as if saying, by now you should know what you’ll get) and simply sitting on a lawn chair reading a book. And why not? 

What bothered me still was a reminder of some of their vulnerabilities. The dark skin that some of them had, which hinted at immigration stories of lives left behind, and the new ones created. Was life any better for them now? Is it worth it?

I wondered many things beside these larger questions. I wondered the logistics: where do they do it? In the middle of the wheat fields? Is the pimp nearby to collect money or maybe offer protection? Sometimes we’d see their cars parked behind abandoned buildings, sometimes we’d see the pimps. I was struck by the utter randomness of their placement in such a landscape, women selling their flesh in what to me was isolation baked golden by a relentless sun. Chaos is like this, I think. Just when you think you’ve got things figured out- the serene, virgin landscape of a still oil painting, made suddenly alive by human desire and necessity.

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C-mixto thought it romantic to whisk me away to Brazil a few years ago. Rio to be exact.

If you’re never been to Rio, here are three points to consider before going:

1. If a woman traveling with your man, be very secure in yourself (I mean your looks and your relationship).
2. If you’re a man traveling with a woman you’re not crazy about, reconsider your travel plans; you will not be able to hide this once you land.
3. If you’re a man traveling solo or with other guys, you probably already know what’s up, hence why you’re going there to begin with.

One night, dining along the shores of Copacabana, C-mixto suggests we go dancing. To the “biggest club in Latin America”, he claims. We hail a cab, get in, and C-mixto tells the driver our destination. The driver begins to drive, but with hesitation.

“Eh, sir,” he says in a mixture of Portugese and Spanish. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” C-mixto says.

“But sir,” the driver says, glancing at me nervously. “Are you sure you want to take your señora there?”

“Yes!” C-mixto affirms. “We like dancing.”

The driver shrugs his shoulders and delivers us to our destination, shaking his head one last time before he leaves.

This place was grand. Full bar, open dance floor… C-mixto and I got right to it and made our way through the crowd and started to dance our best to the whatever semi-decent music they were spinning. But then I noticed something special about this crowd. The person to my left, right, front, back and every other possible angle were women. Where were the men? Lined outside the perimeter, taking their pick of the girls like grocers at Hunts Point. 

“You took me to a brothel?” I cried in disbelief.

Here’s what’s worse. I fit just right in-outfit, look and all. Nobody told me that only ladies of the evening wear red toe polish (decent ladies opt for clear and white). My toes were as red as the windows of De Wallen, Amsterdam.

C-mixto must have touched my shoulder or waist at some point (we were still trying to act normal and continued dancing), because like Agent Smiths, bouncer Johns came storming in, separating us with heavy hands.

“No touching!” they yelled in Portugese. “Not on the dance floor.”

“But it’s my girlfriend!” C-mixto explained.

“Yeah, you and every guy here.”

Mortified and feeling dirty  (but laughing because that shit is funny), C-mixto and I made two or three pathetic gestures at finishing the song, feet apart, then shamefully walked over to find a place to strategize our next move. I was both fuming and intrigued, like a spy broken into a forbidden place to take notes. The tables were all filled with ratios of like twelve girls to one or two guys. C-mixto got looks like, Okay, so you found your pick, why stay, though I don’t know why you’re only taking one.

Surprised I had to request that C-mixto take me back to the hotel? His mind was probably torn between sincere sadness for the plight of these girls, but also the pleasure of swimming in a sea of beautiful mixed women of every size, color and variety your heart could ever desire. Cosmic race indeed.

When we finally left, passing the Copa strip at twilight, we were solicited by a street variety of what was indoors. A woman stripped open her blouse, bared her breast, and asked C-mixto if he wanted some. C-mixto swears it wasn’t really a woman.

Rio has other charms, of course; this is just one story. You can’t dispute that Rio has a lot to offer.

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