1BR, Acropolis view
By Karin Palmquist

"This is the best apartment in Europe. You'll never see anything better."

The best in Europe. Not in Greece. Not in Athens. But the best in Europe. 

We owe many of our words to the Greek language, but the word 'modesty' isn't one of them. 

The real estate agent and I struggled up the stairs. The elevator wasn't working, and it didn't look like it was a temporary outage. It was forty degrees Celsius outside, and in the stairway it felt like the double. 

This better be good. I had seen so many dumps in the last few weeks. It's not that I am that picky; we're talking places so bad even the roaches complained about the sanitary conditions and moved out.

The realtor fumbled with the keys in front of a rickety door. He was a round, bald man of undetermined age. I had found that people in Greece were generally younger than they looked, which I in turn took as scientific proof that smoking three packs of cigarettes a day, washing down your meals with Metaxa (vile, 40% proof stuff that has you sounding like Marge Simpson's sisters for two days afterwards), and inhaling more carbon dioxide than oxygen in this overcrowded city actually does take a toll.

"Come," he said to me. "Come and see the view." 

The fact that he totally ignored the apartment and went straight for the view was a bad sign. 

"The view" The realtor made a sweeping gesture. "The best in Europe. Look! Acropolis."

Indeed, there is was, with the Parthenon topping the hill like a sparkling white crown.

"And look there: tennis court," he said with a smile like he had built the court himself. 
"And soccer field," I said. 

He gave me a puzzled look.

"Sometimes I see people play soccer on that tennis court," I said. 
"Football," I clarified when he still looked confused.
"Yes." Big smile. "Football as well."

Healthy living has a whole other definition in Greece. You would think that with a reduced-size field, say a tennis court, you'd reduce the number of players. Not. And you might think that with 22 soccer players on a tennis court, there might be some collision. Wrong again. No collisions, not a whole lot of movement at all and in there lies the Greek lesson. Life is about shooting the breeze over a cigarette, not chasing after some ball.

"So, you'll take it," the realtor asked with an optimistic smile.
"I would like to look at the actual apartment first, before I decide," I said.
The realtor looked disappointed. "Of course."

"As you can see it comes fully furnished," he said with a formal voice and led me through the living room, bedroom and tiny kitchen.

'Furniture' was a bit of an optimistic description. More like had been furniture, before the rats had a field day with the stuff. 

In the corner some cockroaches were eyeing me with suspicion, not sure they wanted me there. Like passing the board for a N.Y. co-op, I thought to myself. 

I walked into the bathroom. There was a hole in the ceiling.

"Skylight," I smiled.
The realtor wasn't amused. "So you'll take it," he asked impatiently. 
"I still have a few more places to see," I said. 
"As you wish," the realtor said with a grumpy look. No point wasting any more smiles on me. 

The next place, across town in the neighborhood of Ambelokipi, was owned by a Greek Canadian man. I had high hopes that this one would work out. I had talked to the man on the phone and he didn't sound like a man who would live in a roach-infested dump when he was in town.

The Greek Canadian man's friend and I climbed the stairs to an obvious addition. I had seen this all over town: apartment buildings with additions at the top -- one floor, two floors -- and I couldn't help wonder if they ever checked on such trivialities such as foundation and building codes before stacking up the new floors. No big deal. The next earthquake would tell how solid the foundation was. 

The Canadian man's friend opened the door and a musty smell hit our faces. 

"What do you think?" 

I looked around the tiny box of an apartment, at the flickering fluorescent light in the kitchen, the stained sink and the hotplate, the heavy drapes covering the bathroom door. There was something missing, but I couldn't put my finger on what. Oh, yes. Windows. 

"There are no windows." 
"Yes," the man smiled. "Keeps the heat out."
And the smell in, I thought. I'd rather live with roaches than without windows. 

Next stop Kolonaki, a rather trendy neighborhood in the center of town. A tiny, dirty apartment, but it had windows and no roaches bold enough to come out and say hello.

"How much?"

One thing I had learned in Greece is that everything is negotiable. Even location. Once on an island, I asked a hotel owner hustling for customers in the harbor how far away his place was from the beach.

"Around 200 meters." 
"Oh, that's too far," I said and started to walk away. The man came after me. 
"100 meters! Ok, 50 meters!" 

And he was still talking about the same hotel. 

What worked on the islands must work here as well. The realtor, a stodgy man with a comb-over, gave me a piercing look as if he with his x-ray vision was trying to see how much was in my pockets.

"For you I'll make a special deal."
"I'm sure."

Special deals for foreigners, I had learned, meant hiking up the price three hundred percent.

"1200 euros a month." 
"What?" I gasped. "That's outrageous." Twelve hundred euros with the pitiful state the dollar was in meant 1500 dollars. For that price I should get a sea view and a daily backrub.

"The price is really 1500 euros. I'm giving you a good discount. Because I like you."
"There is no way that place could be going for 1500."

The realtor shrugged his shoulders. 

"I'm not making any money on this. I'm loosing money actually," he said and gave me a look as if his children were all going to get a second-rate education because of me.

I was tired of looking. And since He who pairs up children with trust funds had not wanted things differently, I had to watch my spending. Staying at Hotel Adonis was draining my travel budget. The place was a dump but what choice did I have?

"I'll take it," I mumbled.
"1500 euros a month," the realtor smiled. "Cash only."
"You said 1200," I protested.
"Of course. 1200 euros. Because I like you. And one month's rent as deposit." 

Now you could have tied his smile at the back of his head with a paper clip. 

"Cash only," he repeated.

Cash was no problem, but I wanted a contract. Just something in writing to make sure I got my deposit back.

"Contract? Why do you need a contract? Don't you trust me?" All of a sudden the smile was gone.

I trust a lot of people, all the time. If there is one thing I don't have, it's trust issues. Where others see a big 'Danger, do not enter' sign, I usually just see 'Welcome.' I never had much in the area of street smarts and I use my brain mainly for ballast to keep me grounded on windy days. And I'm fully convinced that strangers have the best candy.

But I don't trust realtors. 

"I can't do business with people who don't trust me," the realtor said in a raised voice. 

He rushed me out of the apartment and slammed the door shut behind me. With angry little steps he stomped down the marble steps and out into the street. I had a hard time keeping up on my legs twice as long as his. 

"Come on, wait," I shouted.

All of a sudden I wanted that apartment. I needed to live there. My life would not be the same if I didn't. This was the best apartment in Europe.

The man turned around.

"No contract," he said in a hostile voice.

My gut doesn't communicate with me very often. If gut says anything, it is usually something in German. Gut. Good. I've been handed one of the most unobservant guts around, which has landed me in some rather uncomfortable situations. Situations where I've been certain I was going to end up facedown in the river. As through a miracle, I'm still here. 

"So you want it?"

For some reason, this was one of those rare instances when my gut did make itself heard. Perhaps it was just a growl, but I thought I heard gut say Nein. 

"No, I stuttered. I don't want it."

"You're wasting my time." He looked at me as if I was the scum of the earth, and those children of his were not only not getting an education, they were also not going to be able to eat for a while, severely stumping their growth. 

Like most stories, this one had a happy ending. A week later I found Rosie, who rented me a garden apartment close to the coast. Although not in the contract, Rosie and her mother took it upon themselves to feed me as well, so that I would put on 'some souvenirs from Greece' around my waist. They laughed at my attempts at trying to negotiate an apartment by myself. Silly me. 

Finally I could turn to those things Greece was really made for: stuffing myself with fried calamari, strolling along deep-turquoise water and staying out until the sun rises over the Lycabettus Hill. Those are the very reasons Greece has always kept a steady position at the top of the when-can-I-go-back list. Just don't try to go apartment hunting.