Birvidik

As we blunder our way around the Med we're not usually fully aware that we are also blundering our way through other peoples' lives. It is very easy to make only a superficial acquaintance with the people of the countries we visit. Certain travel books and some blogs, however, seem to detail an endless procession of invitations into the homes and workplaces of a litany of colourful local characters.

They then go on to describe how they managed to hold deep and meaningful conversations by means of a mixture of sign language and what they describe with nauseating feyness and false modesty as their 'rather basic' Greek/Turkish/Proto Indo-European/Old Icelandic etc. They're usually the ones who pepper their accounts with completely unnecessary, italicised foreign nouns (never verbs, note) as a means of showing off. You know the sort of thing: "Caramba!" shouted the campesino as he threw his azuela to the piso. I sat in the sombra and sipped my cuba libre unconcernedly. One had to show sufficient cojones in these circumstances.

As a result of this cross-cultural anthropological fertilisation, hitherto unfathomed insights are gained into the true nature of the societies visited and the hidden depths of the lives of members of other cultures. These gems of cultural understanding and discovery can then be transmitted to less adventurous and sensitive souls such as ourselves with an air of such smug, self-regarding superiority that, even as a Guardian reader, I find the whole experience violently emetic.

Never bloody happens to us. - most of the time we're approached by locals it's usually because they want to sell us something. We have on occasions been invited to take tea with Turks, but have usually politely refused on the grounds that
1. They're usually trying to sell us something
2. Even if they aren't, Turkish tea is of such agonisingly astringent awfulness that it strips away the lining of the oesophagus and stomach and immediately induces oesophageal varices, perforated gastric ulcer and irritable bowel syndrome.
3. Pace the irritating toe rags mentioned above, our sign language skills certainly make us no Marcels Marceaux and it's impossible to hold any proper sort of conversation when your entire vocabulary consists of 'yes', 'no', 'good morning', 'no thanks', 'how much?' and 'HOW MUCH?!!'.

Things have been a bit different recently though as we cruised the Saronic gulf, where a good ¾ of the population speak reasonable English and about a half speak better English than did most of the kids I used to teach. As a result, we struck up conversations (and acquaintanceships) with more locals around here than we have in all the preceding areas put together. This also coincided with the inexorable decline of Greece into an economic basket case. The effects of this decline are visible everywhere.

Considering the circumstances, foreign tourism in Greece as a whole seems to have held up reasonably well, but this area is dependent primarily on Greek, mainly Athenian, custom. And it shows, as can be seen from a stroll around Poros or Epidavros.

This is August, the peak of the season and even the most popular tavernas, those situated on the seafront with stunning views, are half empty. All the others, that would normally pick up the overspill, are either empty or have just one or two punters in rattling hollowly around. When you talk to locals, employees or business owners, you get the same story. They put a brave face on it, but you can tell they're hurting.

It's bad enough having businesses close, staff laid off, pensions cut and all the other hardships imposed by the IMF and ECB, but what really seems to get the goat of the everyday Greek is the plethora of petty-minded, vindictive comments made in the foreign, especially British, press. These are reported frequently in the Greek press and proclaim self righteously that it's all average Johnny Greek's fault, and that the Bubbles have been the architects of their own downfall. If only they'd paid their taxes, lecture the Telegraph, Mail & Express, then none of this would have happened.

Strange then that these papers, and their devoted readers, are the very ones that rail against taxation in Britain and regard tax avoidance as bordering on a sacred duty.

"Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue." (Francois de la Rochefoucauld, 1613 - 1680, since you ask)

"We'd save how much tax if we moved our office from Dublin to The Netherlands?" (Paul David Hewson, 1960 - present )

Oh, don't get me started.