Although I was by no means a member of the Greek elite, I was nevertheless a member of Parliament, and if the Angelopoulos family had invited all of the other members to Istanbul for the ceremony, it was only fair that I receive an invitation as well. I had no idea whether the failure to invite me had been an oversight or a deliberate snub. All I knew was that it was unacceptable and I did not intend to let the insult stand. I would not be excluded from my rightful place at what would be a major event. But while I had always favored direct action, no obvious remedy occurred to me. I didn’t know anyone in the Angelopoulos family, didn’t even count among my friends anyone who knew the Angelo-poulos family.
I instructed my assistant, Lena, to call the Athens headquarters of the steel company owned by the family and ask to speak to the manager there. Lena just stared at me and said, “Are you crazy?” I told her I wasn’t crazy and that I wanted her to inform the manager of the plant that Mrs. Daskalaki had not yet received her invitation and that she wondered if it was on its way. Lena made the call but couldn’t even get the manager on the phone. I told her to try again later, but still no luck. At my insistence, she kept phoning; finally, the next day, she reached the manager. She explained the situation exactly as I had asked her to and he explained that he was not a member of the Angelopoulos family. He underscored that he had no involvement with the events in Constantinople and therefore nothing at all to do with the invitations.
I told Lena that we should try approaching the problem from another direction: I would call the Patriarchate in Istanbul and explain my situation to them. I reached a very cordial Bishop Meliton who was delighted to hear from a member of the Greek Parliament. He said he hoped that I would be coming to the celebration. That was exactly the problem, I told him. I hadn’t received an invitation. “How could this have happened?” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. He said he had no influence over who would receive an invitation, but if I chose to come, he would personally arrange for me to be admitted to the church for the ceremony.
Naturally, that meant I would have to pay my own way, something I really couldn’t afford. Moreover, I hated the idea of being a second-class guest who had to sneak into the church through a side door. I wanted my invitation to come from the Angelopoulos family, and I wanted to walk in the front door like all of the other guests. But I decided that, regardless, I would attend, and that meant I would accept the Bishop’s help because I deserved to be there. Afterward, I would confront the Angelopoulos family and tell them to their faces how ashamed they should be to have invited everybody except me.
If I could, however, I preferred to avoid such dramatics. So I told Lena to call the manager of the steel plant one more time to beseech his help. For some reason, this time he was sympathetic and willing to lend some assistance. He repeated that he had nothing to do with the matter, but that the Angelopoulos family happened to be there at that moment, working on the plans for the festivities, and he would inform them of the error.
To my surprise, he apparently did just that. I only know Theodore Angelopoulos’s version of the events, which he shared with me later. The family was meeting to deal with the immense logistical problems of the weekend, including the headache of transporting so many members of the Greek Parliament, prominent judges, and a host of other powerful politicians to Istanbul. The manager of the factory appeared and said he didn’t know what to do, but he had been receiving repeated calls from a Mrs. Daskalaki, distressed that she hadn’t been invited. “Who is Daskalaki?” asked Panagiotis Angelopoulos. His son replied, “You know, the beautiful lady who was elected to Parliament?” And the elder gentleman said: “Ah, yes, but we can’t invite her now. It’s too late anyway.” Theodore disagreed, suggesting it was wrong to discriminate against any member of Parliament. His father considered the matter for a few seconds and acquiesced. “Okay, invite her.”
So on the Tuesday before the big weekend, Lena came into my office beaming. “I received a call and you’re invited,” she said, relishing what was in many ways her triumph. But a call was not good enough for me. I needed to see the invitation in writing. I needed to hold the plane tickets in my hand. It has always been and will always be that way for me. Don’t tell me what will happen. Show me the documents. (When my older son, Panagiotis, was accepted to Harvard, he came to me saying, “Mom, Harvard accepted me.” He probably wasn’t surprised when I insisted, “Show me the letter.”) The very next afternoon, I had the invitation in hand along with a letter explaining the etiquette of the occasion. Proper dress was required and suddenly I had another problem. The short skirts I owned would clearly not be appropriate. I would have to invest some money I couldn’t really afford in a more formal wardrobe.
The whole affair was a mad scramble for me. But by the time I arrived at the airport to depart for Istanbul, I was just one of many politicians milling about the waiting room. I had asked a friend what to wear, and she had told me to wear something black and white during the church ceremony. Years later, when we talked to our children about how we met, Theodore insisted that I was wearing a miniskirt in the church and I showed him photos proving the opposite! I spied the elder Mr. Angelopoulos leaning against a counter as a steady stream of politicians paid their respects to him. I went over to introduce myself. How could I ever have imagined that I was meeting my future father-in-law? Or that one day my eldest son would be named after him? I said, “You don’t know me Mr. Angelopoulos—”
“Oh, I think I do,” he interrupted me.
I continued politely: “I want you to know how sorry I am that I was so insistent about the invitation. I wanted so much to be there and to admire your work.”
“It’s okay. You enjoy yourself.” He understood exactly what I was saying—that I knew I was rude, but now I was very grateful—and I think he liked hearing this semi-apology from me.
And then I spotted a clean-shaven man who was wearing glasses and a conservatively tailored suit. What really conveyed his importance was that even though he appeared reserved, a lot of people were coming over to greet him. That was my first impression of Theodore. When next I looked up, he was standing right in front of me. He introduced himself as Theodore Angelopoulos—“I’m the son”—and asked if I wanted an espresso or some other refreshment. He explained that he had been present when they reviewed my request for an invitation. I told him I had already thanked his father, and I thanked him as well. “Okay,” he said, though he had yet to smile, even once. “Now that you are here, enjoy yourself.”
To be honest, I took him for something of an aloof industrialist. I even felt that he might be mocking me about the invitation. “Typical rich person,” I thought, “who looks down on average people.” All the same, I said to myself, “Okay, Gianna, you fought to be here, and now that you made it, take their advice and enjoy yourself.” And that was my not very romantic first meeting with my future husband.
He would tell me later that it wasn’t actually our first meeting. He had bumped into me coming up the stairs at party headquarters on the way to meet party leaders on the night of the New Democracy election victory. He introduced himself and congratulated me. “I’m Angelopoulos,” he had apparently said, as if I should know exactly who he was. That night was pretty much a blur to me. Besides, he lived in Switzerland and wasn’t all that visible in Greece. Although I didn’t recall meeting him, I pretended I did. It seemed like the diplomatic way.
When we arrived in Istanbul, I saw Theodore again, this time with an attractive blonde in a striking red dress. She reminded me of the old movie star Lana Turner. It turned out she was a pharmacist from Zurich and, far more important, Theodore’s girlfriend. I didn’t have much time to think about her before being caught up in the swirl of events. We were whisked off to the Hilton Hotel where we were staying and, later, taken by bus to a fancy Turkish restaurant overlooking the Bosporus for dinner.
The restaurant was set up with long banquet tables. A short man I didn’t know greeted me warmly and said he was absolutely de
lighted to see me there. He turned out to be the manager of the steel company, Vangelis Vavvas, the man whom Lena and I had pestered about the invitation and who proved to be our ally. He told me that in order to make amends for not sending the invitation early enough, Theodore Angelopoulos had requested that I be seated at his table. “Early enough,” I thought, suddenly annoyed with this perfectly nice man who had, after all, done me such a favor. They would never have invited me at all if I hadn’t insisted. But I wisely kept my thoughts to myself.
I had thought Theodore might be dining in a private room, but the manager pointed me to one of the many tables, where I saw Theodore—at this point I thought of him as that unpleasant man I had met at the airport—seated with the blonde I had spotted earlier. Our dinner group comprised some friends of Theodore, including his architect, the manager of the steel company, and the same Bishop I had called for help. “You did it,” he said approvingly.
As the dinner progressed—we enjoyed doner kebabs, taramosalata, and other exquisitely prepared Turkish specialties—I began to see a very different side of Theodore. Perhaps it had simply been an awkward situation at the airport, because now he seemed genuinely solicitous of me, anxious that I should enjoy myself. But the dinner was even more awkward than the scene at the airport had been because he and his girlfriend both talked to me. She told me, in English, that she was a pharmacist and could bring me cosmetics next time she visited Greece with Theodore; he, on the other hand, was speaking Greek, which I could tell she didn’t understand.
Through the evening it became pretty clear, though I hoped not to everyone else at the table, that Theodore was flirting with me. I was a little flattered, but I certainly didn’t take it seriously. I wasn’t thrilled when he called attention to me by announcing that something was very wrong: My wine glass was empty. He chided the Bishop seated next to me for not taking sufficient care of their special guest. “Mrs. Daskalaki is one of the newest members of Parliament,” he said, teasing me, though gently. “Be sure to keep her wine glass filled.”
The Bishop was wearing his traditional long black robe. When he stood up to pour me another glass of white wine, he stepped on his robe and lost his balance, spilling the contents of the bottle of wine all over my new dress. Everybody—Theodore, his friends, his girlfriend, the Bishop—was suddenly falling all over me with white napkins—like a scene out of a movie farce—to try and sop up the wine. I couldn’t stop laughing. Eventually, when things calmed down, one man said: “Mrs. Daskalaki, this is good luck. Money is coming!”
And it is true that when we spill wine in Greece, we say, “Gouri, gouri” (Money is coming). Sometimes we even intentionally spill a few drops. So, with everybody assuring me that a fortune was coming my way, one man piped up, “Maybe this year you will become a Minister.” All I could think of was that I had barely rated an invitation to this party, and now I was ascending the political ladder very rapidly.
The chatter was very lively—the accidental spill had given Theodore an excuse to be even more solicitous of me—when a platter of fruit arrived for dessert. I was feeling the wine a bit, if largely through my dress, and I joked: “Only fruit for dessert? No Turkish delights?” Theodore was clearly delighted with my jest. In Greek, he urged me to return with him to his hotel where, he assured me, he had the very best Turkish delights in his room. I was slightly taken aback, wondering, “Who does this guy think he is?” So I said ironically, “You mean I should come to your room for Turkish delights?” No, he said, he would be happy to bring them down to me in the lobby. I smiled and treated the Turkish delights banter as a joke.
When the dinner was over, I was putting on my coat to head back to my bus when I sensed someone hovering behind me. It was Theodore, asking if I would join him on his bus. “Your bus, my bus, what’s the difference?” I asked. “Aren’t they both going to the same place?” Theodore, who seemed to be a much warmer and more genuine person than I had originally thought, replied, “Just give me the pleasure of your company.” When I sat down on his bus, he sat next to me, and I could see that one of his associates was seated next to the girlfriend.
It wasn’t a long ride, but Theodore had lots of questions. He asked about my election campaign, about my family, and about how my family felt about my career decisions. “My family has nothing to do with that,” I told him. “I decide how I lead my life.” When we arrived at the hotel where all of the guests were staying, he made good on his promise and sent somebody to his room for the Turkish delights. All of a sudden I was talking and laughing with a small group that included Evert, the Mayor of Athens, several members of the Supreme Court, including its chief judge, and Theodore of course.
As much as I was enjoying myself, I thought it would be appropriately discreet on my part to make an early exit from our happy gathering. Theodore insisted on one final bit of gallantry, escorting me to the elevator to say good night. He would later tell me that his girlfriend was furious over his behavior that evening. Theodore had been annoyed. “Why the big fuss?” he had asked her. “I was just being polite.” One should never underestimate a woman’s intuition in such matters. Sometimes we can smell fire even when there is no smoke.
ON SUNDAY MORNING, everybody had to get up early to head over to the church for what we knew would be a long ceremony. I had just enough time to have a cup of coffee before getting on one of the last two buses to depart. When we arrived, the Church of St. George was already overflowing with guests inside and was thronged with eager onlookers and a TV crew outside. Tzannis Tzannetakis, who in the past had served a brief stint as Prime Minister in an interim government and was standing with me at the entrance, took one look at the mob scene and gave up. “We can’t get through,” he said. “I will just stay outside.”
But after fighting so hard to get invited, I wasn’t going to miss out. My constituents were going to see that I was important enough to be an insider.
So I just kept inching forward, saying “excuse me, excuse me” until I had pushed my way into the church. Eventually I managed to reach an excellent standing position from which to view events. I wound up directly opposite the Angelopoulos clan, including, naturally, Theodore. To my discomfort, he appeared to be staring at me as I took my place. When the ceremony began, I tried not to look over at him. But every so often I would take a peek across the church and every single time he seemed to be looking right back at me.
It turned out I took a lot of peeks because, as I expected, it was a very long ceremony. The church was hot and crowded and the air was thick with the scent of incense. After more than three hours on my feet, with no food in my stomach, I began to feel woozy. I was afraid that my desire to be seen by my constituents might be more than fulfilled if I were to faint and be carried out of the church. I summoned what remained of my strength and pushed back a few places to where I found some government Ministers’ wives who were sympathetic. They got an elderly member of Parliament to relinquish his seat to me and, in a church miracle, found me some drinking water too. By the time the ceremony ended half an hour later, I had regained my equilibrium.
When I was leaving the church, I encountered a prominent ambassador, Christos Machairitsas, who asked what had happened to me during the ceremony. I told him the truth, namely, that I had felt light-headed and feared I was going to faint. “Mrs. Daskalaki,” he said, “if I were you and Mr. Angelopoulos had been staring at me in such an intense fashion, I would have fainted too.” So it wasn’t my imagination. And apparently it had been quite obvious to anyone who had been paying attention.
Ambassador Machairitsas was headed to a VIP reception hosted by the Angelopoulos family and invited me to accompany him. When we got there, Theodore approached me and he too inquired what had happened to me in the church. I explained briefly, but then tried to engage him in slightly more formal conversation, which I thought more appropriate for the occasion. I thanked him and his family again for creating something so special and meaningful to the Greek people. “I feel very honored as
a Greek to be here,” I said. He started laughing and replied, “And I wanted to thank you for all those hours you stood opposite me, giving me somewhere to look.” “Oh my,” I thought.
The next morning I had an early departure back to Athens because I wanted to prepare for a meeting at Parliament that evening. (I took great pride in never missing a meeting. Even when I lost my voice—as I did a few times—I would attend and pass notes.) A few other government officials were there when I arrived in the hotel lobby. Just as we were about to depart, Theodore showed up, thanked us all for coming, and wished us a safe trip. On the way to the airport, one government Minister said: “That Angelopoulos is truly fantastic. He got up early just to bid us good-bye.” Theodore would later confide that the sole reason he had roused himself early was because he wanted to see me one more time.
A few days later I wrote to the elder Mr. Angelopoulos, thanking him for the extraordinary weekend. When Theodore learned of my note, he called me at my office. At first, when I was told it was Mr. Angelopoulos on the phone, I thought my office was playing a joke. But indeed it was Theodore, telling me that they had received my gracious letter. “That’s the least I could do to thank you for your hospitality,” I replied. And then because sometimes I don’t know when to stop and shut up, I added, “I wish I could do something more to reciprocate.” He assured me that I could. “Invite me to lunch,” he said. Oops. I explained that I was very busy in my new position, but he wasn’t listening to any excuses. He would be in Athens just two more days, so he proposed lunch the very next day. I believe I was shaking my head “no,” but what came out of my mouth was, “Okay.”
Honestly, it didn’t feel okay at all. It wasn’t that I never dined alone with men. But the occasion was always business, something required by my job—never a purely social encounter. Even though my relationship with my husband at that point was difficult, I was still a married woman and I respected my marriage. And Theodore was involved with the woman I had seen in Istanbul. Besides, we had nothing at all in common except a shared weekend. What was I going to say to him? Yet I was stuck. I would have looked even more foolish if I had changed my mind and canceled our lunch.
My Greek Drama: Life, Love, and One Woman's Olympic Effort to Bring Glory to Her Country Page 9