Hollywood in Greece

  Samos, Leros, Patmos, Greece
Monday, May 16, 2005

Troy and I sit on deck while everyone else still sleeps; apparently, as drunk as I had been the night before, everyone else was drunker. Who knew? We talk for hours as we sail across deep blue water. Troy is a young guy who has spent his entire life growing up in two cultures, and two - or maybe even three - continents. He is one of those young people who is as comfortable on an airplane as he is on skis back home in Durango; h speaks two languages, and is figuring out his cultural place in the world as he turns into, I believe, a spectacular young man. How many seventeen year olds do you know who are interesting enough to carry on a running conversation for a month? Or, who even care enough to talk to a person who is older than their parents? I came to think a lot of Troy, and was proud to make his acquaintance during my month in Turkey.
We cross the waters that divide Turkey and Greece, and Troy tells me how he wishes we were staying in Turkey. He's not particularly fond of Greece, and he loves Turkey. I have never visited either country, so I don't understand what he means yet. I have always heard people wax eloquent about the Greek islands, and I have high expectations for tonight's port. Troy doesn't; his frame of reference is different than mine.
Blue water surrounds us, clouds hang high in the mountains on islands we pass. I am trying to figure out how to move around the boat when she is sailing without falling overboard. I have never spent any time on a boat, so this is new to me. It's not as warm as I thought it would be, and I put on a sweater for the sail to Samos. As we pull closer to Greece, the islands change, almost as though they know they belong to two different countries. Where the Turkish shores are green, steep, and rolling, scattered with small towns and a variety of ruins, the Greek islands have white rocky shores, and the hills are browner. Tiny white chapels dot the countryside - they stand out, like little white Christmas ornaments.
Ruby comes up on deck, dressed in a swimming suit wrapped in a pareo, wearing a pink wig. She throws herself onto the blue cushions and we soon we are all on deck, as we put in to the port of Samos.
Low white buildings line the shore as we approach the harbor. We can't get off the boat until Captain Hassan has all of our passports stamped and cleared with Greek immigration, and we're all chomping at the bit. Little streets rise from the water, lined with shops, restaurants, tavernas. Captain Hassan has to park the boat, something that I never tire of watching. How someone can back a one hundred foot sailboat into a narrow parking space at a cement dock without taking out either the dock or the boat is beyond me - but he does it every time, and never breaks a sweat. Once we are attached to the shore, the gangplank goes down and the Captain and _____ head to the immigration office, leaving us to begin the cocktail hour, on the back of the boat.
People are staring at us, and I think it's because the boat is so beautiful, such a marvelous piece of craftsmanship, until Troy points out to me that it is the Turkish flag they are looking at - not the boat. I start watching faces, and he is right - it's the flag that they are contemplating.
I look in the distance at red tiled roofs atop white houses built like condos that climb the hills. Cypress and olive trees abound, as do ropes - with lots of clothing hanging from them, along with - octopus? ( This is how Greeks in the northern Aegean kill their octopus catch : they hang it, still alive, on clotheslines, and let the critter die. The Turks all insist that this is another example of Greek cruelty, that the Turkish method of killing octopus - banging it's head against a rock, slapping it repeatedly against the hard surface - is more humane. I think it's a mute point. ) Cats roam the streets of Samos, dodging motor scooters, young people stroll hand in hand, Grandmas and Grandpas are walking their grandbabies in the soft evening lights. Taverna signs are lighting up and music is playing from a dozen different spots as the Captain and _____ come back onboard.
"You can go!" _____ tells us, and we pour on shore as though we have been at sea for weeks, not hours. Ruby and _______, go-cups in hand, head for the center of town, arms, ankles and necks already loaded down with beads. The Princess and I follow as they head up the street, passing priests in flat hats, folks from other boats, and crowds of people sitting in little courtyards covered with grape arbors, and filled with trees that sparkle with tiny twinkling lights.

Townies

The grills for some of these restaurants are on the street, and we pass a guy grilling fish and lamb, smoke filling the air around him, the clothesline behind him loaded with dead - or dying - octopus.

Dying Octopii

Shops are all open, and their goods spill out into the streets, with big displays of baskets, hats, clothing, groceries, fish and sponges, creating mini-roadblocks as we climb the hill. We stop in a few places, cruise the merchandise, and then _____ and Ruby get down to the business at hand : vodka-shopping.
I guess we went through a lot more booze than I though we did last night, because they are shopping for vodka as though we are out. All the stuff that Alan, our elected purser for the voyage, had stocked yesterday in Kusadasi is gone.
A little liquor store is found, prices are compared, and vodka is purchased, to be delivered to the boat. All of these port-side shops are used to making boat deliveries: little delivery scooters with boxes wired onto the front and back of the bike pull up to the mooring, and spry guys bounce up the gangplank while balancing heavy boxes filled with food and booze. ( I'm jealous; my balance sucks, and I hate the gangplank. )
I'm enjoying scoping out the wine section of the liquor store: I love dry Greek roses, and of course, there are lots of them here that I have never seen or heard of in the States. I pick a few bottles to add to the boxes and we move back into the street, which is even more crowded now, in the dusk.
Walking though the streets of these little towns with the Princess is a trip: she is six feet tall, slim, blond, and pretty.

Princess Kusadasa

The local men go nuts - and they all think she's Dutch. I didn't think Dutch girls ever grew that tall, but what do I know? Wherever we go, calls of "Hollandaise? Aleman? " follow us. The Princess arrived in Turkey a few days before we did, and has been through the streets of Istanbul by herself. She has already learned how to ignore the cat calls, and she strides alongside the quay with her head high and her posture tall.
When people find out that we are Americans, the reactions are pretty much the same, wherever we go. First, they smile and nod. Then, they say" George Bush, very bad man!" and shake their heads. I happen to agree with them, so it doesn't bother me, but we have a couple of strong Republicans onboard who get into it with the locals in a few places.
We head back to the boat, but the guys have to drag me onboard. I want to stay on shore and eat in one of the tavernas, but dinner is waiting: Mahmet has been slaving over that hot galley stove, and we don't want to hurt his feelings, do we? Thinking I'll get another shot at the taverna food, I agree, and get onboard. The spread is a repeat of last night's: my God, these people eat well! More gorgeous food, beautiful food, lots of clinking glasses and toasting - "Cerife!"
( "Cheers!" ) as we eat and drink into the night, again, this time against a Greek shoreline. I wonder at my luck and realize how blessed I am to be living this life.
Scores of people watch us, as we are right there in the middle of town ( rock-star boat parking ) and we stay up late again. And, while things get a little nuts, Freddie and Ahmed aren't there, so the general tenor of the evening is a bit quieter than the night before. At least we go to bed before dawn. And, I don't buy any rugs.

Fourni, Patmos, and Leros

Our week in the Greek Islands flies by. We sail, we climb hills, we visit monasteries, and smell the jasmine and bougainvillea hanging from every wall and house. [PHOTO_ID_R=view-frm-the-top-of-patmos.jpg
After leaving a monastery high in the mountains one afternoon, we cross a field and watch a herd of goats approach us at a slow pace. Suddenly, we hear a sound that raises the hair on everyone's neck : it's other worldly, a combination of screeching and warbling, combined with guttural grunts and noises that none of us can explain. A beat up old motorcycle slams to a halt beside the herd, and a figure climbs off the bike, draped all in black, looking like the witch in Hansel and Gretel, or a Sicilian movie extra from The Godfather. The noise we are hearing is coming from the creature's mouth. This, we will find out after asking around town, is how Greek goat herders communicate with their animals. And it works, apparently. She - we think it's a 'she' - warbles, they turn. She screeches, and they stop moving. Warble, screech, warble, screech. It's odd, but it's effective.
The weather is turning on us, here in the northern Aegean - it's cool, misty, and starting to rain. Those light clouds hanging off the mountains are getting heavier, thicker, and more ominous. That night, for the first time, we dine indoors, snug in the ships' main cabin, listening to thunder and lightening, as the boat rocks a tad more violently from side to side.
In the morning, the storm has moved on, the sun is out, the wind is once again soft and gentle. As we set sail for Patmos, cards and dominoes are brought out on deck, and we start games and tournaments that will continue for three more weeks.
At this stage of the game, everyone is still on First Date behavior. The twelve of us laugh, play games, read books, drink wine during the daylight hours ( this is a vacation, after all ) and we are still behaving with a modicum of good form.
When you think about it, this is a brave undertaking - a reality show without the cameras. Twelve people, on a one hundred foot sailboat for a month, in a foreign country. To me, they are all strangers, with the exception of Ruby and Alan, her Aussie husband. I don't even know them all that well; I met them when I moved to Arizona, and that's only been a little over a year, so for all intents and purposes, they are new on my friendship scale.
My eye is getting blacker, and I have quite a shiner going on as we pull into Patmos. Chef Chad, on the boat with his wife and daughter ( Helen and Sarah ) says I look like a real bruiser.
Our week in the Greek Islands is wearing down; we're focused on Turkey - it's why we are here. So, that night, when Ruby comes back to the boat and suggests something that will keep us in Greece for one more day, the idea is met with skepticism and suspicion - but it's tempting : do we want to work as movie extras in a Hollywood movie, staring Mathew Modine?
The movie, with the working title "Opa! Life Is For Living!" has been filming in Patmos for several months. Ruby met the casting director at the Blue Moon internet café, and tomorrow, he needs some American-English looking tourists for ferry boat scenes. When Ruby told him there were twelve of us, he practically wet himself with joy.
During the cocktail hour, we discuss the idea at great length. What throws us over the edge is the promise of earning thirty Euros for the day. What an opportunity! ( This may help me recoup my rug expenses. ) There is also the Chance-For-Some-Fun element, so, as dinner is served, Ruby calls the casting director on her cell phone and tells him we'll be there : seven A.M. at the Astoria Café, across from the ferry landing. He tells Ruby what colors we are allowed to wear, encourages us to get a good night's sleep ( is he kidding? ), and the deal is done.
Earlier that afternoon , returning to the boat after a long walk in the more rural areas of Patmos, The Princess and I were surprised, along with everyone else, to find strangers on our boat, sitting at OUR table, on OUR back deck, drinking OUR booze and talking to ______ and ______. Turns out they are old college pseudo-friends of _____ and _____; they ran onto them at the market in town, and have been invited aboard for drinks.
Mature adults that the Princes and I both are, we immediately take an intense dislike to this couple and their two kids. What is it about them that triggers the brat inside me to rise to the surface like so much flotsam?
Is it the way Miss Piggy brags and rubs her diamond-clad fingers in the air
( indicating the universal sign for money ) when she talks about their hotel? Is it the way she sits with her white Chanel bag proudly on her shoulder, rather than setting it on the deck as she stuffs her face? Could it be the way she relentlessly plays the who-do-you-know game, checking her diamond-studded Rolex every five minutes? I think it's when she starts talking about her shar-pei's eye lift that I decide that she is too stupid to live.
In any case, I feel like Harry Potter, with his nasty Aunt and Uncle. ( An appropriate comparison, considering that Richard Griffith - Harry Potter's movie Uncle - is a co-star in our movie shoot the next day. )
The deck table is rounded out with a pair of Dudley's: the couple's spoiled little pudgy cheeked kids with dead-pan expressions who are bored with their Greek Island vacation. This is not their boat, therefore they are not interested in it; they would rather talk about their home in Miami, and who their parents know. Troy and I play a round of dominoes with them and watch as they totter in their pretentious parents' footsteps.
` The Miami contingent is invited to stay for dinner; they are also invited to join us on the set tomorrow. Over eggplant, Miss Piggy joins our conversation about Cypress with the comment " Is there anything good there?" meaning, I guess, are there any designer boutiques?
Suffering pretentious people is not my strong suit, and I end up drinking too much wine ( quel surprise! ) and taking occasional pot-shots at her, like a child.
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We rise at six the next morning, and walk along the quay to the Astoria Café in bright sunshine, accompanied by scooters and cats. Arriving at the café, we take over the patio, order coffees and fresh orange juice, and wait. This becomes the operative word of the day : wait.
I have played an extra in the movies before, so I know what to expect. I am set for the day : IPod, hat, a variety of clothing in my bag to accommodate changing temperatures as the sun rises and sets, an excellent new book on the history of Paris, and a notebook to write in. I settle in for the long haul.
And a long haul it is, as we perform take after take, walking off of the Patmos inter-island ferry, point at the monastery on the hill and recite: " Look! There's the monastery! " before walking to the ferry building. We repeatedly watch as Mathew Modine, the true actor in our midst, dressed in a seersucker suit and jaunty Panama hat, with perfect skin and hair, rolls his empty suitcase off the ferry and is greeted by Mr. Griffith. ( I have a friend from New York City who says he admires a man who has the nuts to wear a seersucker suit. )

Yes, That's MM

We watch as a hat blows off Mr. Griffith's head, as close-ups are shot, and as different angles are filmed. By lunch time, I've made some pretty good headway in my book.

His Hair Was Perfect

After lunch, which is served to us in a dockside taverna, Ruby and I grab some ice cream at a quay-side bar before re-boarding the ferry. Then we sail, and dock. Sail, dock. Sail, dock. Over and over again, until the director is satisfied.
"Katrina" - the love interest in our movie - is being played by an English actress that all the production assistants think we should recognize, but we don't.
"Katrina" rides her bike up to the sailing ferry and waves at MM, over and over again, looking quite fetching in a full brown skirt and Greek-inspired Missoni top.
Late in the afternoon, the ferry heads out into the Aegean.

Perfect Light

The director, a rather pleasant Indian gentleman with a British accent, pulls Ruby, The Princess and I out from the crowd of extras and seats us behind Mr. Modine on the upper deck. Final scenes for the movie are to be shot this afternoon, along with a stunt that Matt will perform himself - jumping off the second story of the ferry into the cold and wavy Aegean forty feet below us.
Seated near us are three very old Greek women, swathed in traditional black widow's clothing; i.e, black from head to toe. The three crones provide commentary throughout the movie, and we figure that if this film makes it to the big screen, we have a chance at being seen - this could be either good or bad - because we're close to them.
We are directed to move our lips to look as though we are speaking ( but are not; it conflicts with the actual sound ) then to sit, stand, look over the side of the ferry, look surprised, point at the water, and watch as Matt Modine begins to take his clothes off for the big jump. I was losing my motivation until this part. Matt Modine is a big, good-looking guy; my motivation has now returned.
The action picks up : scaffolding is hung over the side of the boat, for cameras to film the big jump. Guys in wet-suits sit in a rubber dinghy sit at the side of the boat, ready to pull Mr. Modine's highly paid fine ass out of the cold Aegean. Getting on and off the ferry this morning was pretty boring - but this is more like the Real Deal : stardom by association. I can see how bit players get hooked on the proximity to fame. It's fun, and we're having a blast, particularly after _____ and Ruby haul out water bottles filled with Crystal Light and vodka.

PA

MM is running around between takes with a red t-shirt wrapped around his head ( he's quite fair, and sun-burns easily. Isn't that a smug comment for me to make? ) and as the sun sinks to it's mark, the rays streaming across the water, there's Katrina! She's sitting on top of the cabin on a little Greek fishing boat that is racing across the waves towards us, her curls bouncing in the light ( and there are waves: it's getting pretty choppy out there. ) She shakes her arms at the ferry and screams MM's name - and a giant wave comes out of nowhere and drenches her. She screams for real, as a guy comes out of the boat's cabin and wraps her in a blanket. The little boat turns around and they head back to shore for hair and makeup.
Forty-five minutes later, she's baaaaaack! MM is stripped down to his neatly pressed boxers ( pin-striped ) and the sun is still at a good angle - but the Aegean is not co-operating. The waves are too big by now, the stunt is deemed too dangerous, and the ferry heads back to the dock. We are disappointed. After all that waiting, no Hollywood star is going to throw himself into the sea before us.
The three hags walk slowly to the back of the boat and are heartily congratulated by the director and the star for their fine performances. I am stunned when the tallest, most-wrinkled, and nastiest-looking witch pulls off her black head wrap - and a massive head of blond curls springs out, transforming her into a beautiful, blue-eyed woman with full red lips and flawless skin.
Ah, the magic of the silver screen : in Hollywood, you even have to be beautiful to play a hag.
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As we sail back to the port, _______ walks up to MM and asks if the four of us can get a picture with him. Graciously, he not only accepts, but directs us, facing us into the setting sun, telling us that "everyone looks good in this light!" He hugs us, laughs, tells a few jokes, and we take a number of pictures with him. Considering that he has been 'on' since seven this morning, and it's now approaching nine P.M., I'm impressed by both his generous behavior and by how good he still looks.
I suppose that's why his paycheck is a direct deposit in the millions and we have to stand in line at the production office to collect our thirty Euros.
By the way, when you see the movie - "Opa!" - I'm the one with the big straw hat and the black eye.
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I lose the next two days to some strange virus that I picked up on the set. I sleep like a dead woman for forty-eight hours, and when I wake up, we are sailing into Bodrum.