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In Which I Get To Tell My 'Arrested In Bulgaria For Spying' Anecdote
October 8, 2008 by Mike
Thessaloniki
Four nights in Thessaloniki. A good city.
When I visited Nice's Matisse Museum in May, I wrote: "There are works of art here that feature just half-a-dozen lines or brush-strokes -- and could only be Matisse."
Wrong!
Figurine of a seated figure in a reserved
position made of flat-shaped pebble.
Magoula Karamoular Magnesia).
Neolithic Period, 6500-4500 BC.
A thing of very great beauty. From the Archaeological Museum in Thessaloniki.
Matisse was a Neolithic caveman -- you read it here first.
From there to the Museum of Byzantine Culture. I fell asleep in front of a short film show. To the White Tower - a museum of the city's history.
To the Museum of the Jewish Presence. This was the one I was most interested in. Ironically, while the other museums were fairly busy, I was the only visitor to the Jewish Museum. That's a shame: Thessaloniki's Jewish history is unique. The city was known as The Mother Of Israel; it was the largest Sephardic community in the world -- indeed, if the woman at the ticket window understood my question, and knew the answer, she confirmed that it had been for many years the largest Jewish city in the whole world. On the eve of the First World War, 60% of the population were Jewish. An this, remember, was the second city of the Ottoman Empire.
If this is even slightly of interest to you, can I suggest that you stop reading this and hurry off to buy Mark Mazower's Salonica, City of Ghosts. Much better researched. Much better written.
--
And a personal highlight of my sojourn here:
In 1984 I managed to get myself arrested for spying in Communist Bulgaria. As you do. I'll save the full story for when I reach Bulgaria's coast -- can you bear the suspense? Chris Humphrys, I know you can't;-) -- at which point I'll be making even more laboured references to my little escapade in Murmansk in the first days of this trip too.
Anyhoo. I was given 'til midnight to leave the country. As it was already evening, and I had arrived in Sofia by hitchhiking, not the most reliable form of transport, I had to do something quickly. The only public transport that would get me out of the country in time was a train to the Greek border. A screeching taxi to the station: I just made it. The night train from Sofia. Think Bond in From Roosia With Love. At half past eleven it wheezed to a halt a mile short of the border, nowhere near a station. Armed guards shouted. The few passengers were obliged to drop bags to the ground and clamber down the steps, brush ourselves down and walk across the frontier. It was a misty night, dark and wild.
Bulgaria let me out OK -- the problem came a couple of hundred metres further on when the solitary Greek frontier guard, bored out of his skull, took one look at my passport and refused to let me pass. "That's not a real passport," he spat, pointing to the photograph page. This was an old-style UK passport -- it had a picture of me aged six and another when the passport was renewed of me aged 16. "You've just stuck a photograph of yourself in there. I'm not letting you through. P*** off back to Bulgaria."
He turned on his heels, stuck his nose in the air and glowered. I considered doing a runner, but he was armed and he had a fierce guard dog at his side.
All this had been witnessed by four young Poles who I had smiled at on the train. Two of them started petting the dog; the other two got to work on his master. "We've just reached the West for the first time, my friend," they told him, in Polish. He spoke nothing but Greek. "We're free! Free, I tell you! The wonderful west. Fabulous Greece, the cradle of democracy. Land of the free. What a good-looking man you are, by the way, and what a fine uniform you have. Aristotle! Socrates! Plato! Kojak! Awww look at your dog, how he loves being fussed over. Now take this bottle of finest Polish vodka and let our friend in to your wonderful country.
It worked.
Which is why I am able to come back to Promachon, the tiny village on the Greek side of the border, and 24 years after I finally walked through that border area and, with my new best friends, woke the owner of the only taverna and proceeded, the six of us, to down bottle after bottle of ouzo and vodka, declare lifelong friendships, tell the entire stories of our lives.. in Polish, English, and Greek.. with nobody being able to speak a word of anyone else's languages.. until at some point before dawn I clearly fell into a deep drunk, because when I woke early the next morning in my sleeping bag, in a Polish tent, in a Greek field, 50 metres from the taverna.. I had absolutely no knowledge of how I got there.. oh, and with the clearest head I've ever had..
..because 24 years after all that, when I came back to Promachon, I recognised the train station, the hill where the taverna used to be [knocked down a couple of years ago, I was told] and the field where we slept. Bloody magical. One of the highlights of this entire trip.
--
Two of the Poles took the train down to Thessaloniki the next day, but the other two decided to hitch down with me. That's what the freedom of being in the West tasted like to them.
Our first lift was on the back of a tractor. We stole watermelons from the side of a field, sliced them with my Swiss Army knife and I tell you they tasted better than anything you, I or the Queen have ever ever EVER eaten before or since. There was a moment when the road emerged from a forested pass to a point where.. it seemed to me.. we could see the whole of Macedonia before and below us. Bloody magical. One of the highlights of my entire life.
--
This is how I remember the road from Promachon, which we travelled down on the back of an old tractor...
.. and this is what the road from Promachon to Thessaloniki looks like today. Hitching on tractors.. less likely.
Comments
By Birgitta | October 20, 2008 3:01 PM
May I borrow your copy of Mazower Salonica City of Ghosts.?
I don't think you have to read it for a while>
It was nice to see you
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By steve | October 20, 2008 1:21 PM
Mike,
yes, Mark Mazower's book on Thessalonika is well worth reading, AND - brief foray to top of soapbox - something of a "you're-talking-through-yer-arse-and-don't-know-yer-history" to those who insist Islam can't possibly co-exist with other religions.
*climbs down off soapbox*
Hope the riding carries on being as enjoyable as ever!
cheers
Steve