Efcharisto Rhodes!

Thank you Rhodes, it was wonderful! Even if the wind could have blown more: it was always good. Unfortunately, my diabolical plan didn’t work out. I ate at least one gyros a day on average, but not one every day. Some Greeks simply don’t offer fast food.

We spend the last few days in Rhodes Town. During the economic crisis, Trivago sells 4-star accommodation with 5-star dining at the Grand Hotel for next to nothing. The buffet is amazing. Just round the corner you can pay more for a few disgusting orange juices that aren’t freshly squeezed in Erdinger wheat glasses. A weird world.

We neglect travelling because of all the luxury. Luxury makes us dull in the head and immobile. I’m beginning to understand the package holidaymakers. If I had to eat so much every day because it’s included, I wouldn’t be able to spend a day travelling. Just shopping and dozing off on the beach in the midday sun.

We hire bikes and cycle 35 kilometres by mountain bike to the acropolis of Ilyassos. Peacocks whistle under the trees. After 400 metres in altitude at 30 degrees, I’m simply exhausted.

I try to pinpoint the causes of the Greek economic crisis in detail. It is perfectly clear that the Greeks have had to report false figures to the EU for years. They can’t count. You can see that at the World Cup, for example. The score is shown exactly twice within 90 minutes. It’s easy to forget something.

The Greeks would also rather have the Eurovision Song Contest without points. Although…then they would have nothing to complain about against the Turks, who chronically give them no points, just like Lithuania gives Russia 12 points. It’s funny. Even after the Crusades, Greeks and Turks got on better than they do today. Half of all desserts are native to both countries. But Merkel only likes the Greek ones.

I haven’t seen anything about unemployment. Every Greek has something to do. Even when the traffic lights are working, there are freelance traffic policemen down below. If they don’t have time to regulate the traffic because of a chat, the real traffic policeman helps out from the next junction.

Jobs as traffic policemen are in high demand, so not everyone gets one. No problem, everyone else becomes a pusher outside restaurants or bars. It’s wonderfully communicative and requires almost as much ignorance as traffic wardens. We crawl past a pusher, panting, our eyes squinting and our trousers stretching. “Good evening my friend. Would you like dinner?”