Weekend in Troy

The Greek Olive Tree was of a good length, with a bar running from end to end. It was a three-sided building with a roof of sorts but no front or door. Instead, there was a low picket – of sticks – fence separating the bar itself from a terrace that extended well beyond the roof. The décor reflected the owner’s penchant for local materials and, as this was a war zone, it was rich in cloven helmets, bits of armor and notched swords adorning walls, hanging from ceiling and fixed on and along the bar. These relics were both Trojan, and Greek and what have you. Broken weapons, as dead men, have no nation. One day, if I have nothing better to do, I might amuse myself trying to figure out how the late owners met their untimely ends. It shouldn’t be too hard; a bit of forensic science, picked up from TV shows, is all one really needed. I was sitting on the bar, at the end nearest the beach, with a splendid view of sea and harbor. At the other end, the owner leaned against the wall, eyes half closed, apparently without a care in the world. A snotty seven-year old, obviously his son for what other kid would be inside on such a glorious day pretended to wipe tables with the help of a filthy wet rag. The wife, I suppose, was in the kitchen, where all good Greek wives are kept. In a dark corner, a big strapping fellow I took to be a bouncer of sorts was sound asleep and who could blame him since it was a slow time of day and, besides myself, there was only one other patron in the place. He’d been there some time, lapping up watered raki and mumbling to himself. I sipped at my designer water and watched my fellow barfly. One didn’t need Freud to see that this fellow was not a happy camper. He was reaching the stage where drunks want an audience, someone with a sympathetic ear. And, as if on cue, he wailed: “Almost ten years! Almost ten years we’ve been in this Gods forsaken hole.” He started sobbing into his raki, watering it even further. “I’ve never had any home leave. My wife has a six year old boy.” He turned to the bartender: “What do you think of that?” That clever fellow didn’t answer but waggled his eyebrows. What can one say? The drunk continued: “She says he’s a gift from the gods.” Good thinking. Smart lady. The drunk had another swig but the booze just seemed to make him sadder. He turned to me as being, perhaps, a more sympathetic listener. “Do you realize that when the Greeks sailed, the fleet had a thousand ships? Why, 69 kings joined the expedition, with troops, weapons, siege engines and all. You should have seen the scene at Aulis. Would have taken your breath away, it would. Bands playing, girls strewing flowers before the kings’ feet, banners flying, drums and trumpets going full blast. Everyone was there to watch. Women cried, kids ran about all over the place. “Before we embarked, the commander-in-chief, Agamemnon, may he rot in Hades, told us the whole thing would be a piece of cake. Sail out, clobber the yokels, pick up lady and booty and sail home. But here we still are. And what do we have to show for it? I ask you, what has been the point?” I swished my tail. Don’t look at me, pal. I just came out for the weekend. But drunks at this stage are happy to ask the questions and supply the answers themselves. “It’s all because of that dumb blonde Helen and her fancy toy boy Paris. I ask you, why would anyone bother? I mean, she wasn’t a spring chicken 10 years ago when she left Sparta so what’s she like now?” Truth to tell, I’d always been rather dubious about the ‘ravished lady’ story. But this wasn’t the fellow I wanted to discuss conspiracy theories with. Anyway, he was still going strong without any help from me: “Is any broad worth it? And do we hear about a scheduled troop withdrawal or an exit strategy? That’s what comes from having a king as a commander-in-chief. Responsibility without accountability. And we still use our original tents and equipment, I mean, after ten years, you can imagine the wear and tear.” I looked to my left as if by instinct. There, on the Dardan plain, the Greek camp was clearly visible, pennants flying for each of the Greek City States. “Given the time we’ve been here,” sobbed my new pal, “we could have built a load of beach cottages with all the home comforts and mod coms. Why, it could have been a holiday resort, bring the wife and kiddies. Garrison duty, you know. Six months on, six months off. After all, the war isn’t going anywhere. But, no. The powers that be are forever telling us: ‘Boys, we just need another season to wrap this thing up. We’ll all be home by Christmas’.” He flung his arms out as if calling for divine judgment. “Look at it,” he pointed towards the city on the hill. “Does that look like it’ll be ‘taken care of’ by next Christmas? We’ll be here when the next millennium dawns!” O.K., pal, not to worry. That’s just 200 years away, time will fly, you’ll see. Just then, however, my drunk passed out and slowly slid to the floor; a nod from the owner and the bouncer dragged him out to sleep it off on the beach.