Riding out the storm of negativity

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If you’ve been following along on my adventure, you will have gathered by now that it takes tremendous patience for a foreigner (or even a Greek) to try and transact business in Greece.

First test of endurance is the byzantine bureaucracy.  It takes oodles of paperwork, stamps, copies, notarized documents, more paperwork – oh wait, that office is closed today… come back Tuesday – except, oh dear – they’re on strike on Tuesdays.  You get the picture.

Now I am at the point where I am dealing with engineers, builders, project managers, lawyers and accountants. (Yes, it's only taken me three (3) years to get that far!)  I have lost patience and trust with some and developed new relationships with others... all part of the learning curve I guess.

 Then there’s the sort of endearing, but ultimately soul sucking tediousness of one’s friends always smugly second guessing me.  Oh, they say they support your dream – but, really, they’re sort of being subliminally snarky and spiteful.  YES, dammit I HAVE heard the news about the Euro and the Greek economy. NO, the stuff you see on the late night evening news is NOT the reality (by the way – the riots in Montreal are far worse than anything in Athens).   I get the feeling that they want to see me fall flat on my face.  That may well happen, but for now, I am still proceeding. Slowly.  Oh, so slowly.

I know you watch the news and may have read an article two in the newspapers.  But I LIVE there for months at a time.  I live, eat and breathe the Greek economy and politics  16 hours a day. I follow the news, the banks, the stock exchange, the parliamentary debate.  I’m on it.  I am not stupid.  Neither am I omniscient; I am aware of the risks.  I have done my homework.  But as smart and as prepared as I am, I can’t predict the world economic situation.

But you know what I can do?  I can gather my courage, dare to dream my dream and roll the cosmic dice.  I’m sorry you don’t believe in me or have the faith in my courage that I do.  If it works, I will have a lovely home in my favourite part of the world.  If it doesn’t work, I will employ the safety nets I have in place.  I assume you will be my friend in either event.

Impulse shopping: Greek style

So, if you’ve been following along with this blog, you know that I have been trying to buy a little scrap of land in Greece. And you’ve patiently followed along on all the bureaucratic hoops I’ve had to jump through to foolishly spend my money.

Let’s review: a few years ago I found a tiny, but small patch of dirt on the island of Crete. Ever the impulse shopper, I took one look at the views from the land and said “SOLD!” Or the rough equivalent in my really atrocious Greek.

My sales agent, the ever helpful, endlessly patient Andreas, outlined the paperwork needed that I, as a non-EU citizen, would need to assemble to buy my patch of heaven. Mounds of it, piles of it, heaps actually. All duly stamped, notarized, authorized, certified, and stamped again. Paperwork is key – apparently actually handing over my dough is a minor detail - twiddling with more paperwork and stamps is ever so much more fun.

For the last two years I have been getting criminal record checks, arguing with the Greek Minister of Defense, whilst meekly begging for the opportunity to hand over my entire retirement savings to a country that is going bankrupt. I’ve been processed and cleared by the Greek departments of heritage, agriculture, environment, rural development and several other minor provincial offices. I still don’t have my land.

If you’ve been keeping up with the news, Greece is in a financial crisis of epic proportions. Not only is the country teetering on the abyss of bankruptcy, its profligate spending the last decade is now threatening to bring down the entire Eurozone.

I’ve been desperately trying to give Greece my money – buy some land, build a house, employ some locals to build and maintain it, and settle in. Apparently impulse shopping is not a danger in Greece as it’s now going on two years and I still have no land and no house.

I’m told that I am now mere days away from the right stamp being applied to the right piece of paper, duly notarized, authorized and certified and solemnly witnessed by everyone in the village from the mayor to the village barber. Mere days. The pace of land purchasing in Greece makes one dizzy.

I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I’m going to go check on that bottle of champagne I put in the fridge to chill for the day I get my deed. I think it may have evaporated by now.

Living abroad; staying connected

I’ll admit it - I’m a news addict. I come by it naturally. My beloved dad was a broadcaster in both radio and TV for 50 years. As a teenager, he hung around the local radio station until they gave him a job. From those early days as a radio operator, he quickly grew into an on-air “personality” and eventually management. Midway in his career, he switched from private broadcasting to Canada’s public system, the CBC. Widowed early, Dad often needed to bring me along to the radio or TV studio when babysitters were hard to find. I grew up spending a lot of time sitting quietly in a broadcast booth or TV studio while dear old dad was “live on air.” The addiction was born. Radio was always on in our home and Dad taught me what made a good broadcast or how to recognize a talented announcer.

To this day, I can’t miss a newscast on radio or TV. The CBC encourages a lot of audience participation these days – their way of making the audience do the work of programming since the government has slashed their funding for production. So, I do my part by contributing to radio shows as an occasional guest commentator or by providing feedback on issues raised. I’m still good friends with a lot of the announcers my dad worked with or hired and the career I’ve had in the last few decades has had me building strong media relations.

So how do I stay connected when I’m living in Greece? Well the internet allows me to listen to or watch live broadcasts from home – with a 6 hour time difference. It’s very comforting - like having a coffee with a pal and having a good gab about local politics (thanks Terry and Stan). It’s also led to some really cool experiences.

For example, one day I was exchanging tweets with a friend back home while I was listening to the local morning show and pruning back my jasmine in the hot Greek sunshine. They announced a school closure due to a vicious winter blizzard. I knew about it before he did. We both got chills from the weirdness of me knowing that his kid had a storm day from half a world away before mum and dad even rolled out of bed.

The same local morning show maintains a live Twitter feed while broadcasting and they respond to incoming emails. So when the announcer is saying it’s minus 25 in Fredericton, I can shoot him a note and say it’s plus 30 in Chania and I’m off to the beach - sucks being meeee. They usually read it on air and get a lot of mileage out of bad weather jokes. But besides bad jokes, this past winter, it also meant that I was their closest connection to what was happening in Libya. I could relate my experience of meeting the refuges that had been evacuated to Greece directly on air to the folks at home. I could talk about how chilling it was to meet the young NATO airforce pilots one night in a taverna and then watch their jets whistle overhead on their way to bomb Libyan towns. And of course, this past autumn, I’ve had a front row seat watching an entire nation’s economy disintegrate.

Now that I am back in Canada for a few months, I read the Greek newspapers on line every day and watch the BBC broadcasts live streaming. A live web cam over the city of Chania lets me know what their day is like. Last year, in my ultimate act of geekdom, I watched Chania’s New Years Eve fireworks live on the web cam.

http://www.cretadeluxe.com/webcam/webcam_chania_en.html

I love my life in Greece; I adore my Canadian home. The amazing power of the internet keeps me connected to both worlds.

It’s complicated.

Like most love affairs, my decades long relationship with Greece is complicated.

I get weak in the knees and teary eyed when my ship pulls into port in Naxos; I curse the slow plodding bureaucracy that keeps me from settling there permanently. I hotly defend Greece's wacky economic policies; I am jealous when they let illegal immigrants hang around to mooch off tourists but boot me out after 90 days. Coming around a mountain pass, my tummy does a slow lazy barrel roll at the beauty I see before me; seeing plastic water bottles and a million cigarette butts thrown on postcard-perfect beaches makes my stomach heave.


I have to remind myself that my own country probably has as many dichotomies and perhaps I just can’t see them anymore.


I have to remind myself about the centuries of wars, invasions and struggles Greece went through that perhaps has left them with customs my North American mind sees as counter productive.


It’s been a year now since I applied to the Greek government for permission to buy a tiny scrap of land in Crete. One (1) year. The bureaucrats in Athens assure my lawyer that the file is indeed being processed. Fees have been paid, papers have been notarized and stamped, my government has assured the Greek Minister of Defense that I am not a criminal and my banker has assured them that I have a few bucks so as not to burden their economy. Yet, my paperwork sits in some civil servant’s in-basket waiting…. who knows what to make me legal. One year.

Let me crass but frank: I have a bit of money – not wads, but just enough to build a reasonably nice house and maintain it respectably. I have my own gold-plated Canadian health plan. I have my own income and don’t want to take anyone’s job away in Greece. I want to settle into my adopted village in Crete and contribute by being a community volunteer (I’m partial to helping animals and the environment.) The building of my little house will employ lawyers, bankers, engineers, architects, contractors, plumbers, electricians, labourers and landscapers. I will need local people to maintain it for me when I am not there. I will pay taxes and permit fees (LOTS of permit fees). I have no immediate plans to knock over a bank or a souvlaki shop and, as near as I know, I carry no communicable diseases except the odd cold I pick up in Frankfurt airport. I behave reasonably well in public (sometimes I laugh too loud) and I have no plans to open a disco bordello on my land. I will likely keep at least one vineyard in brisk business. And yet….. one year has passed while the Minister of Defense anguishes over my application. Meanwhile the Greek economy makes daily headlines around the world about how their economy continues to tank.

Assuming the Minister of Defense holds his nose and eventually signs my permit to buy land, I then have to face the fact that the enormously stupid Schengen Treaty only allows me to visit for 90 days at a time. Oh yeah, and I have to remain OUT of the Schengen Zone for 180 days before being allowed back in. Was it something I said?

It’s complicated, this affair of the heart. Exhausting, exhilarating, frustrating, fulfilling, a test of wills and endurance and faith … complicated.






With deepest love and affection,

Nancy, gamely facing year two.

Welcome to Byzantium!

When people talk about too much complicated bureaucracy, they call it "byzantine." I always thought it referred to a period in history and the realm of Byzantium, or the area of the Roman empire during the Middle Ages, centred around Constantinople (modern Istanbul). But I now know it was invented to describe the complicated process for a foreigner to buy land in Greece.

I am a devout hellenophile so the nobler part of me is glad that the Greek government keeps such tight control on foreign ownership. But the larger more selfish part of me that longs to have roots in Greece wants to scream - HEY - Papandreou! It's ME! Nancy! Lighten up on the paperwork, will ya!"

For those of you interested (for reasons that escape me) on the convolutions of a non-EU citzen buying Greek property - here we go:

My first step was to get a Greek lawyer who will act as my power of attorney.

Next, everything in Greece apparently has to be notarized. Several times, several ways, in several versions, often. Get used to it. There is a lot of pomp and circumstance and the occupation of notary is pretty lucrative and pretty busy. It involves a LOT of documents, official looking rubber stamps, waiting in hot sweaty lobbies and dealing with earnest clerks.

Then - I had to open a Greek bank account. Easy peasy - got the lawyer to do that. OH! But first, I need a Greek tax number. Lawyer again. Notarized the passport, times six. I am not making that up. Six copies.

Now then.... let's buy some land.

BUT FIRST.... I need my national police (in my case the Mounties and Dudley Doright) to provide a criminal record check to the Greek Ministry of Defence. Since I boringly have a pristine criminal record, this takes about four months. And money - I had to get finger and palm printed (fee) and then send the mess off to Ottawa (another fee).

Then - because apparently the RCMP's word is not good enough, I have to write a statement that says, like Nixon, "I YAM NOT A CROOK." And, naturally get it notarized (fee) and translated (fee) by a translator approved by the Greek Embassy or Ministry.

I need an original copy of my birth certificate (fee) translated (fee), and then .... hey wake up! We've only just started!!! Stay with me.... I also include my personal biography and information on my parents and where they were born, information on my finances, and a brief essay on why I want to buy property in Greece. I have resisted the urge to write on the form - "why to have frequent licentious bacchanals of course!"

I then send the whole works off the Greek Embassy in Canada. It has to be translated you see. And then notarized. And THEN, I can send it to my Greek lawyer and HE sends it on to the Minister of Defense, who apparently has nothing better to do. Oh, and the lawyer has to get the land surveyed, get the specifics on the parcel of land, a topography map all of that certified, notarized and god knows what else. They also need to prove I am not near either a sensitive military zone or a protected natural area.

Still with me? Good.

Now, the hard part begins. I am told that the Minister keeps the application in his IN basket for about 8 months before stamping it approved.

So - minimum of 12 months. I could, I suppose speed the process up with a few bribes - but I'd rather not. So much for impulse shopping.

I am now on the second month of waiting for the RCMP to give me a clean criminal check. It's a little unsettling waiting for it.... trying to recall if I ever got busted for shoplifting a chocolate bar as s 10 year old or have an unpaid parking ticket. Or worse - identity theft - maybe somebody masquerading as me has been pulling off bank heists and jacking deer! Egad!

In the meantime, I can dreamily look at my Greek home decorating mags, moon over architects plans and figure out what I need to sell to afford this folly.

Stay tuned. More paperwork to follow.

Number one on the bucket list

Like a dog looking for a place to pee, I’ve circled and circled to find just the exact right spot to buy my little slice of Greek island paradise. I’ve been looking for over a decade. And this year, I think I might have finally found the right place.

Why Greece, you might say. And – good god with their economy in shambles – why now?

Can you see me shrug? Can you see my goofy smile? Can you see the stars in my eyes? My only answer is why not? The time has never been better. Here’s a tip – Greece’s economy is always a basket case, they have perpetual labour unrest and the Canadian dollar goes up and down like a whore’s drawers. So, what the hell – if you read any of my first 30 or so posts you’ll know my mantra – you’re a long time dead. Act, because inaction is decay. And I have no intention of rotting on the vine, my friends.

Over the next year, I’ll be blogging about just what one poor (and I mean POOR) foreigner has to go through to acquire property in Greece. The bureaucracy is byzantine and I will need your moral support in navigating it. Fortunately I have the quick witted and unflappable Andreas to help me find my bearings and Marios to help me deal with their legal quagmire.


I may chicken out before I plant my first olive tree. But I am indeed going to try this adventure. If I didn’t, I would hate myself for not at least trying.

So, stick around as I chart my course to become landed gentry in my version of paradise.

Greek Lesson # 1

Need something? Anything? Anything at all? Then get familiar with the Greek periptero. These tiny little kiosks are on every street in Greece. The word "periptero" translates to something like "walk around" (I think - been a while since I studied my Greek) although it also refers to a style of temple architecture. In any event, they are manned pretty much round the clock and they have EVERYTHING you would ever need - from cigs to condoms, orange juice to gum, newspapers, pens, chips, phone cards, chocolate, belts and sunglasses - even Pampers and Advil!

The periptero is precisely as wide as a Greek grandfather's shoulders and about as tall. For that is usually who staffs these wonders of convenience - a great mustachioed grandfather or his equally grandly mustachioed wife - Yia-Yia - or sometimes by a 9 year old kid on school break who speaks better English than I and is clearly headed for a career in entrepreneurship.

Which brings me, dear readers, to our first Greek lesson... I was swanning through the island of Paros with my dear buddy, sidekick and duenna Carol and I had run out of those little packets of tissues that one needs when traveling to deal with the dreadful cold that you will inevitably catch from rotten airline air. A visit to the periptero was in order to re-stock.

We were in the absolutely visually luscious village of Naoussa and I found a periptero - and yes, the ancient craggy faced grandpa was squished inside the booth. Now, for reasons that escape me, I actually DID study Greek for about 6 years. But Homer, Xenophon and Thucydides never actually covered the word for paper tissue.

I approached the booth tentatively, smiled gamely at grandpa and made great gestures about sneezing and honking into an imaginary hanky. He looked puzzled. I flapped my arms some more, mimed bigger sneezes, pointed to my red nose and smiled winningly. Nope.... hmmmmmm. Aha, sez I - digging out my old tattered packet from my purse like a miner finding a nugget of gold! He grinned, flashing a pretty impressive gold tooth, and handed me a packet of tissues with a flourish. YESSSSSS! or rather, Neh, NEH (Greek for "yup - you betcha!")

Flushed with success, I then attempted to expand our dialogue. "What, said I, "do you call these in Greek?"

He beckoned me closer, pursed his lips and said slowly, as if to a backward and somewhat dim child.... "KLEEEEEE-NEX." And then the old bugger laughed so hard he almost knocked his kiosk over.

Carol wandered over from the nearby postcard rack.... "Get your Kleenex?" "Oh sure... nothing to it... my Greek is all coming back to me."

Follow the kid on the bike

Well, a wee change of plans. I've decide to spend the first month or two in Chania, Crete. With a population of 80,000, it isn't egg-ZACK-ly the "village" experience I was planning. However, it is warmer in February and a good jumping off place for other weekend adventures. Libya anyone? Hmmmm... maybe not.

I found a great little apartment in the old Turkish /Venetian quarter. And I mean LITTLE. It is essentially one room on each of 3 floors, with a lovely rooftop terrace. Comes with a bicycle. Stop laughing. I mean it.

If you're really interested in seeing the neighbourhood, check out this YouTube video - follow the kid on the bike.... he rides all through my new 'hood.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=dPk3nHexuHM

We are such a long time dead - so I've decided to live NOW!

I’ve always had an addiction to travel, inspired from childhood by my dad and my very own Auntie Mame type character in my life. To see the world, to immerse myself in how other people live, to drink a glass of wine in the country the grape was grown in - what started as an interest turned into a hobby and then an addiction.

For over 30 years I’ve been traveling to the Mediterranean – mostly to Italy and Greece – first for university study and work as an archaeologist and then later as a long-stay tourist. I’ve generally traveled alone, meeting fascinating people along the way, picking up languages, local culture, finding friends, lovers, heartbreak, unbounded joy and spiritual contentment along the way. I’ve laughed and cried and fought with Byzantine bureaucracy, ate too much, drank too much, danced til dawn, got drawn into village life and attended weddings, baptisms and funerals, and watched the children grow. But mostly I’ve laughed and learned and lived life large pursuing this dream, this addiction.

About 25 years ago, I discovered a Greek island that became my spiritual home. Naxos, in the Cyclades – I’ve been going there almost every year for one or two months at a time ever since. The way I discovered the island is a story in itself – the way I was adopted by the Naxians is a gift I cherish. They are honoured and touched that I keep coming back from so far away to see them and that I so obviously love their home. Secretly, I believe I’m becoming a bit of a “character” or a coot in the village - that wacky Canadian lady who travels alone (a horrible state to the people-loving Greeks). Yes, yes, Fredericton’s own Shirley Valentine – yes, I’ve heard that before.

Oh, I’ve seen a lot of the rest of the world too – most of Europe, northern Africa, the Middle East, a bit of Asia, Russia and Latin America – but Greece keeps luring me back. I became seduced by the country and absorbed into village life. I finally figured out I had a unique life experience when my own travel agent repeatedly called to ask me to plan a trip to Greece for her son or to plot routes for her other clients. In the words of Robert De Niro, “You’re asking ME???”

I’ve long dreamed of making my home there – either as a full time resident or for part of the year – keeping one foot in my equally beloved New Brunswick. I’ve never wanted to wait until I was retired to try. My mother died at 34, you see, and from childhood I resolved to live life NOW, for we are such a long time dead.

It’s complicated to uproot your life completely to move to another land. Especially doing it alone. It takes courage, patience and, of course, money. Courage I have; I’m working on the other two.

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