Two weeks ago two grandmothers met at the popular rendezvous of the Syntagma Square Post Office in central Athens. The only unusual thing about this scene was the fact that the grannies are Australian, both born and mostly bred in Melbourne.
Mary has lived in Athens for nearly 40 years, while I have lived in the Peloponnese for over 30. We married Greek men, and raised our children in this bewitching, infuriating land. Australia's own Patrick White said that for him Greece was a matter of visions and lacerations: how well we understand him.
Whenever I am in Athens, Mary and I catch up. On the day in question we repaired to the coffee shop located in the garden of the Numismatic Museum, a neo-classical mansion that was once the home of the famous Heinrich Schliemann; it was a completely different Athens back then.
Our talk was the usual leapfrog business, as we tried to cover the preceding couple of months, during which we'd both been off in our different directions. But there was no denying the undercurrent of worry. What was going to happen to this country? Was any sort of solution going to present itself?
Our sons have had their salaries cut, and have received notice of extra taxes being payable. Suicide rates are rising, young people are emigrating, and those who do not have that choice are wondering if they will ever be employed again. Older people are trying to cope with reduced pensions and with the spectre of a new property tax, which many will simply be unable to pay.
All these general lacerations. The specific ones were not slow to start: the rude and incompetent waitress who neatly short-changed us; then, when we left, the sight of a stray dog standing, a bewildered bundle, in the middle of the traffic that boils incessantly around the square.
Suddenly the riot squad hove into view. There was no discernible riot going on, but I learned later that in these troubled times the men are always on the move. I always find the sight of the perspex shields very off-putting; even more so is the appearance of the individuals in the squad, as most look about 16. Hapless soldiers indeed.
One of the