The rain was drizzling down as the aeroplane flew into Glyfada airport, Athens. Glyfada airport, complained a pilot I once knew, was one of the worst airports in the world to land in; it was placed between sea, mountains and buildings, and was frequently buffeted by a strong Northerly wind; the radar system was antiquated; and all pilots were looking forward to the new one being built over at Spata. And how long had that taken to build, asked the pilot.

It should have been finished by now. Mired down in corruption, disappearing blueprints and people filling their own pockets, or so rumour had it. Selfishly, I also thought it was a pity that it had taken so long to build, because a friend of mine had owned a small vineyard in the Spata area, which produced a memorable, if somewhat individual wine, before the land was requisitoned for the airport in the late seventies/early eighties.
The aeroplane landed safely, and I breathed in the fume-filled air of Athens airport. There was a bus that went into the middle of Athens, and from Plateia Aegiptou I could catch another bus to Rafina. But I was in a gung-ho mood, excited at the prospect of going back to a Greek island I loved, and so decided to 'celebrate' by taking a taxi to Rafina.
This was a big mistake. I assumed that my knowledge of Greek would make the airport taxi driver a little more wary of driving me to penury rather than to my destination. On the contrary, maybe he saw it as a challenge. He was already on the longest possible route to Rafina when he said:
"Why are you going so far? The weather is terrible out in Rafina at the moment, and no hotels will be open." It certainly seemed that way, with the rain now pouring down. " The ferry will have left, if there is such a thing in this godforsaken weather. Now, I know someone who runs a hotel in Glyfada, where you could stay, and then you can catch the boat tomorrow."
"Nice though the offer is, I think I'll take my chances with Rafina," I said.
"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
He switched the Tariff on the meter from Tariff 1 to the more expensive Tarriff 2. I should explain that when you get out of the city area, you pay for the taxi driver to return to the city because he is theoretically not allowed to pick up any person on his return to the city; hence the two tariffs. Tariff 2 also applies to all places at unsocial hours (e.g. two in the morning).
"Excuse me," I said, 'but we haven't even got past the military hospital yet."
"And?"
"It should be tarriff 1."
Usually at this stage, if they were trying it on, the taxi drivers pretended they couldn't understand your Greek (or your English). But this one decided to go for drama, instead.
"In this weather! And my daughter, I can't afford her dowry, give us a break."
He proceeded to tell me a long story about his daughter, who was driving him crazy by marrying an unsuitable man, how the mother was in tears, po, po, po, how the cousins, aunts and uncles were all weeping and wailing, but they had to give her some kind of dowry in spite of their disapproval of the marriage.
While driving with only one hand at the wheel, he gesticulated, beat his breast, and looked up to the roof of his taxi (the heavens). The performance was so splendid that I decided, whether his story was true or not, to let him have his tariff 2.