Spirit measures
IN THE footsteps of St Paul to Thessaloniki, a town that cannot easily be described as picturesque. After the Great Fire of 1917, the destruction of several wars, and the even more damaging opportunism of town “planners” in the 1960s and 1970s, the visitor is confronted by relentless traffic, dispiriting chain stores, and street upon street of cheap mid-rise apartments. Little has changed to counter Osbert Lancaster’s opinion that the town’s famous White Tower “bears a striking resemblance to a crenellated gasometer”, and that Thessaloniki is, in the end, “very like Southsea”.
We arrived on a misty, breezy day in the Old Town, near the Vlatadon Monastery,
which claims to be the site of the House of Jason, where Paul stayed (Acts 17). We lunched in Ouzeri Tsinari, a pretty blue and white taverna populated with Greek characters straight out of central casting: a bearded monk by the entrance, drinking camomile tea with honey; a sad-eyed sot in the corner, nursing a tsipouro; a party of elegant ladies, smoking and laughing about the inadequacies of men; and a beautifully manicured transexual, writing poetry in a floral notebook while toying with a bowl of calamari.
Vlatadon was founded in the 14th century, but only its catholicon, its main church, survives, its frescoes quite badly damaged: a Pantocrator, scenes from the Dodekaorton — the 12 Great Feasts — figures of ascetics, monks, and military saints. There’s a fine view of the city, a courtyard patrolled by peacocks, and a stone that is claimed to mark the spot where Paul preached; but — having had some experience of Orthodox churches in Russia, Romania, and Georgia — I found the church to be less atmospheric than the taverna. Sometimes, I suppose, one is just not in the right frame of mind.
Then again, the Jewish Museum in Thessaloniki claims that Paul did not preach here but nearer the port, and at the oldest synagogue in town, the Ets Ahayim (Tree of Life), its site now lost somewhere between Crystal Crepe, The Bliss Beauty Project, and Soul Shakers Bar Services. Oh, the irony.
In one ear
WE SET off once more in search of the spiritual and found it at last in art: in the frescoes in the narthex of St Sophia, in the mosaics in the catacombs of St John the Baptist, and in the dark serenity of the crypt at San Dimitrios. Emerging into the light and looking out to sea, we watched two boys fishing and a sailing boat coming into harbour. I tried to imagine Paul’s first arrival, and I read Cavafy: “Let me stop here. Let me, too, look at nature awhile / The brilliant blue of the morning sea, of the cloudless sky, / the yellow shore; all lovely, / all bathed in light.”
We had come to Thessalonika shortly after a tuk-tuk accident in India when my right
ear nearly went the way of Van Gogh’s. In the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki, I was (metaphorically) struck by a moving series of votive panels from the first century BC, dedicated to Sarapis and Isis. One is decorated with a single ear, as Marcus Ageillos appeals for his prayers to be heard; and I remembered the singular noun in the Revelation of St John: “He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches.” You only need one ear to hear.
Stench of appeasement?
IN THE centre of Thessaloniki stands the Arch of the Emperor Galerius, who urged on Diocletian’s great persecution of Christians in AD 303 and stopped, eight years later, only when he realised that, no matter how many Christians he killed, the faith would continue. He repented of his actions only on his deathbed where, according to Eusebius, he suffered from a form of genital gangrene which gave off such a stench that some of his doctors refused to treat him and were executed as a result. Violent times.
Hazard warning
THE mountainous monasteries of Meteora, some three hours drive away, continue the theme. The frescoes here are like an illustrated version of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs: saints pierced by arrows, squeezed to death, skinned alive, barbecued on an iron, cut in two, disembowelled, and boiled alive.
The frescoes at Varlaam, in particular, feature a concentrated form of storytelling which cannot be comprehended on a single visit. Not a space is wasted as pilgrims ascend painted ladders to heaven to echo the climb that has just happened outside — although without the fall of the few, head first into the jaws of the sea-creatures of hell. It’s an extraordinary site, the 24 monasteries built on pinnacles that Osbert Lancaster described as being “like the decayed and irregular denture of some gigantic mammoth”.
The original ascent was made by climbing into a large net and being winched up by rope. Patrick Leigh Fermor describes this perilous approach in his book Roumelli. He asked the abbot how they knew when to change the frayed rope that lifted people up into the heavens. “When it breaks,” came the reply.
Lasting reminder
METEORA was one of the locations for the James Bond film For Your Eyes Only, in which Roger Moore arrives disguised as a Franciscan (you’d have thought the Orthodox monk who passes by on a donkey might have stopped him right there) — but then religious accuracy in films has always been something of a novelty. The residents at the time of filming (1981) were said to have been so opposed to the commercial opportunism that they put out their washing to ruin the shots.
The authorities must have agreed because they needed the money. They certainly don’t need it now, with two million visitors a year paying €5 for entry into each
monastery. There is also the inevitable “monastery merch”: icons and key rings,
purses, brooches and bracelets, incense sticks, soaps, and cleansing creams that
might have done the Emperor Galerius some good.
We came away with Mount Olympus honey and olive oil from Mount Athos, which, true to form, spilled over all our luggage on the way home.
Time warp
THERE are guides everywhere on the Pauline pilgrimage route, often explaining the
absolute basics of Christianity. “Surely, people know all this?” I thought — but then I remembered my father, giving his all on the island of Patmos as he explained the Revelation of St John, lost in excitement, mystery, and wonder, and praying that his words of wisdom were not falling on deaf ears, only to be met at the end with a worried question: “Say, sir, is this church AD or BC?”
James Runcie is an author, playwright, literary curator, and filmmaker. jamesruncie.com
