Carl Nilsson-Polias

We’re in Greece. And finally I can fill these emails with stereotypes, ethnic jokes and misanthropic anecdotes with complete impunity. Why? Because, according to the birth certificate and an unfortunate resemblance to my father, half my blood originates within the borders of modern Greece. You wouldn’t know it though … with my clean shaven looks and mop of blond hair I had much more superficially in common with the Nordic tourists than the locals. But as many of you know, there’s a little bit of wog inside me that tends to show itself mainly at the sight of injustice or a round ball.

Athens Airport

As I sat reading my Atwood and John made faint grunting noises beside me (he does that when he’s contented), we were joined at our little transfer-lounge-nook by a perfect example of the Greek nuclear family. Said family comprised of:

1. Elderly woman. 60s. Her hair was dyed a brilliant shade of claret and had been teased, pulled, brushed and sprayed into a form that reminded me of the Charles De Gaulle airport we’d just left (or was it the Acropolis?).
2. Her son. Mid-to-late 30s. He had on him black Armani jeans, a yellow polo shirt and a docile demeanour.
3. His wife. Mid-to-late 30s. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, which was held in place by a mauve scrunchy (never a good look in my opinion and not the sign of a trustworthy person, but I digress …).
4. The kids. Twin two year olds. Girl and boy. Dressed in cunningly coordinated binary opposites from Baby Gap (ie green top / blue top, sandals / shoes, pants / shorts) to ensure they didn’t get all gender confused.

For the amateur anthropologist, seeing these specimens in their natural habitat would be satisfaction enough, but we were treated to further confirmation that we were in the home of Alexander the Great, Aristotle and Nana Mouskouri. As they tore their way through some pastries and soft drinks, the twins got chocolate on every conceivable body part and looked rather ridiculous trying to drink from 750ml water bottles that were larger than their torsos. Meantime, the husband was finding it difficult to not get crumbs all over his Armanis. So, before long, we had a 60 year old woman cleaning up after her adult son while, simultaneously, his wife cleaned up after their kids. How eleven Greek men managed to win a soccer competition without their mothers on the field is beyond me.

Rodos (Rhodes)

This island, just off the south-western coast of Turkey, is where my dad and most of his sisters were born. At the time when the Polias family probably still found goats to be attractive and attentive playmates, the Crusaders used Rodos as one of the main fortress-hubs for their voyages to and fro the Holy Land. The result is that the main town of Rodos (cleverly referred to as Rodos in an attempt to confuse the naughty infidels, I presume) looks very little like the wall calendar pictures of Greece that you might be most familiar with. There aren’t any soaring volcanic cliffs or that many white washed houses or blue-domed Orthodox churches. Instead, Rodos gains its listing as a World Heritage City for its rambling Old Town, the enormous loop of imposing battlements that dates from the Crusades, the main castle and the Turk-inspired mosques.

I’m now travelling with the full enchilada, so to speak … My dad John, my mum Helena, my aunt Anna and friend-of-the-family Ann. We all decided to be in Greece at the same time, God knows why! Anyway, we went for a walk around the narrow streets of the “palia poli” (Old Town). The cobble stones along these streets are really just pebbles arranged with the slim ends facing up, making for surprisingly smooth walking compared to the ankle-busting walks I’ve had in eastern Europe. Around the Old Town we passed by the sights of historical interest. These included: the house where Anna and John were born, the restaurant where my grandfather worked pro bono as a waiter (undoubtedly for stupid reasons), the school where Anna and went for one year (to learn how to march along chanting “One, two!” in Turkish: “Bir, ki! Bir, ki! Bir, ki!” … kind of satisfying if you do it loudly enough) and the spot where John used to stand next to tourist boats and ask the foreigners to throw coins in the water for him to dive after.

By the early afternoon I was ready for a refreshing dip in the water myself and the Nilsson-Poliases headed for the beach. We don’t build sand castles as a family anymore and, when John asked if I had brought a tennis ball we could throw to each other, my mum suggested we use a rock instead. And people ask why she’s working in Beijing! Well, after John tried to bury my head under the pebbles in the shallows, I swam out only a few metres more until beneath me there was an infinite expanse of blue (it gets deep real quick). When I say blue, I mean blue like the absinthe in the Czech Republic or a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. In other words, really really friggin blue.

The water is cool, clean and very salty. The other bathers are zoological.

You’ve got your Greeks. Olive-black skin. In the case of two ridiculously muscly men playing paddle ball in their (thankfully, black) Calvin Klein jockeys, I could instantly understand where the image of the minotaur came from.
And you’ve got your Scandinavians. Pointedly even, solarium-assisted, rust-coloured tans and bright white teeth for some. For others, like the Brits, they look like deep-fried lobsters.

Rodos is a haven for Swedes, Danes, Norwegians and other blond types. They come here for the endless sun, heat and salt water. Thanks to the strength of this invasion it is very common for the restaurateurs and shop spruikers to have semi-decent Swedish at the ready. Indeed, one very enthusiastic little old waiter switched between Greek, English, French, Swedish, German and Italian in the time it took John to drink a café frappé. Sure, they probably can’t get far beyond “Hi, how are you?” and “Come sit here, what can I get you?” but you know you’re in a town that breathes tourism. It also means that, as we were ordering drinks, John and I spoke English, Anna spoke Greek, my mum spoke Swedish and the waiter responded in all three (show-off!).

How to be a wog in five minutes or less

So, you’re a wasp (white Anglo Saxon protestant). You’ve tried being black (you dig hip hop, you wear FUBU, you have a poster of Ben Harper or Bob Marley on your wall). You’ve tried being Jewish (you watched all of Woody Allen’s movies in order, read Primo Levi, learnt to play the clarinet). You’ve tried Hispanic (the tango or capoeira lessons, the brief Ricky Martin fascination, the attempt at cooking paella). You’ve even tried being Asian (redoing one room using feng shui principles, liking Jackie Chan’s earlier movies, finding out why tofu sucks). But you still haven’t come across a counterculture that you can leach onto with all of your soul. The mainstream discourse doesn’t offer you a means of expression or a sense of identity but the possibilities for ethnic rebellion leave you cold or are too intangible.

We know what you’re going through. We understand your plight. We have the solution.

Become a wog.

Wogginess is an untapped resource in today’s high speed world. Being a wog isn’t just about dark skin, dark hair and olive oil … It’s a way of life. Some famous and successful wogs include: Cat Stevens, Federico Fellini, Sophia Loren, George Michael, Donatella Versace, James Gandolfini, Dmitri Hazafatassopolous and Christopher Columbus. Now YOU could join this hallowed list of notables. How is this possible?

We’re glad you asked. It’s all thanks to our revolutionary new ten-step woggifying program. And, before you ask, it’s available to order right now for immediate delivery. How does it work? We provide you with detailed instructions on everything that pertains to wogdom, from grooming tips to correct historical bias regarding Macedonia. Here’s an excerpt from step three (Gestures):

Gestures form a vital element of any wog. Throughout the Mediterranean, most spoken syllables should be accompanied by a correlative hand gesture or facial expression.
In Greece, to wordlessly say yes or indicate agreement, lift the eyebrows enough to slightly knit the brow, drop the eyelids until they are half shut and then drop the head down in a sweeping motion until the chin is almost touching the left shoulder. This is a delicate motion and, if done in the wrong sequence, can suggest inappropriate actions involving a donkey and vine leaves, so remember to practise in front of a mirror or a friend until you have achieved complete confidence.

Don’t wait another minute. Become a wog. Order now.

Symi

Tomorrow we catch the ferry to my grandparents’ home island of Symi. Tiny little place compared to Rodos and not nearly as touristed. Getting on the web isn’t as easy here on Rodos as it was in Paris and, on Symi, it might be close to impossible so I’ll be fairly incommunicado for the next week. Your inboxes need the rest, so it’s probably best that way.