This is a guest post by Caterina Pheline.
Between balmy mornings and shivering nights, cat life in Greece is simple, sweet and often lavish. This isn’t survival of the fittest, it’s the feline luxury of the finest. It’s a place where Terry Pratchett’s words ring true, “In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.” On a reunion trip to Athens and Kalamata, my bestie and I got to observe the real cat, the cat that knows its worth and won’t settle for anything less, up close and personal. Herein, I document my field research, findings, and theories, for posterity on cats in Greece.
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First we begin in Athens, where all black and white cats are called Athena. Athena rules this hallowed land and all those who walk upon are hers to command. Athena will watch over you. If you see her, doff your hat to her or wave and smile. Do not offend her or woe will follow you. We saw Athena a number of times. First, at the Parthenon, where she sunbathed with nary a fret.
We saw her again near the Acropolis where the bestie got in a stroke for good luck.
And again at our first stop in Kalamata, straight off the bus station.
It’s like she was keeping an eye on us and blessed our luggage. Praise be.
We were lucky enough to catch a sighting of another esteemed deity our first day in Athens. Artemis guarded the stairs toward the Parthenon with all the airs of a professional beefeater and would not meet our eyes.
But don’t let that fool you. Artemis is a right fluffball even if she persists in putting on expressions of affronted dignity for the camera. Note the length of ears, it’s definitely her.
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On the beaches of Kalamata, tiny restaurants and gelato parlours line the shore. It’s here we sat down to enjoy an ice cold drink and some fresh sea food, when Mr Fish ambled up to our table. Being the generous souls we were, and not because I had clearly ordered way too much fish for myself, I handed a tiny red Barboni to Mr Fish. He sniffed it twice, and dainty as a lace handkerchief, ate half of it up, before meowing for another. Now I’m no Mr Bumble to deny Oliver Twist more when he asks, so another red mullet was placed before him. And yet again half gobbled up, before the meowing lazily began. The bestie sternly told Mr Fish to finish what was on his plate before he got thirds, and he meowed right back and sauntered off.
Ten minutes later, we gaze across the street, and he’s crossing the road and comes right back and sits expectantly. Now I had eaten about 7 tiny mullets myself and was positively popping out of my jeans, so I gave him some (read four) more fishies.
While we have it on good authority that his name is Mr Fish, when I recounted this tale to Greek natives, many oohed and aahed and spoke the name of the legendary Three Lunch Lorenzo.
Perhaps it was he. Perhaps it wasn’t. Greece is a fickle place.
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Never tickle a sleeping kitty.
Ever.
Trust me on this one.
Even if they’ve fallen asleep in your seat. It’s not your seat anymore.
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In Greek mythology the Horae were the goddesses of the seasons and the natural portions of time. Traditionally, they guarded the gates of Olympus, and Oreithyia, a goddess of cold mountain winds and the winter, now looks after the highest point in Athens.
We saw this teeny ginger babe atop Mount Lycabettus. Where the winds were colder than a polar bear’s nose. The view was great sure, but it was worth the climb and funicular ride to say hello to Oreithyia and warm up near her gloriously fiery fur.
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On the climb up there, we saw um…
I’m not even sure what’s happening here. Let’s leave him to his self-exploration.
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Remember, this nation belongs to the cats. And from the cat’s instinctive point of view, we’re the Schrodinger’s human. Maybe we’re there. Maybe we’re not. Ultimately, they don’t care and will ignore you. Unless you have something they can eat. They’ll eat it and then go back to ignoring you.
Until our next expedition, tread with caution. And make sure you bring Athena an offering of peace when you see her.
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By Caterina Pheline.
