My Greek Drama: Life, Love, and One Woman's Olympic Effort to Bring Glory to Her Country

by Gianna Angelopoulos

  “Or?” I asked playfully.

  “Or, we could take the car and drive about an hour outside Zurich to visit a very picturesque medieval town, Schaffhausen, where there is a lovely little hotel with a three-star restaurant.”

  “Or?” I said, continuing to tease him.

  “Or,” he paused, “there is another option, but I should check the forecast first.” After a quick phone call, he turned back to me. “The forecast is very good for Switzerland and Italy. We could take a private jet to Genoa where my yacht is docked and from there sail to Portofino.”

  “That third option,” I said. “That one sounds okay.”

  It was okay indeed! Very, very okay. The roughly one-hundred-foot yacht (it seemed to me more like three hundred feet!) had an Italian crew, and while they sailed, Theodore gave me the tour. In the VIP guest bedroom, I admired the sheets on the bed. Theodore said, “Elizabeth Taylor liked them too.” Apparently I was not the first date to sail on the Alfa with Theodore.

  I had packed light for my Zurich trip—it may have been the only time I ever traveled with Theodore and just one suitcase—and had brought just my two best parliamentary suits. They were fine for work, but hardly appropriate for boating and touring along the Italian Riviera. It wasn’t as if I had cruise wear lying around. Even Theodore, who was hardly fashion conscious, always wearing one of his one hundred identical suits, recognized that I looked a little ridiculous standing on the docks of Portofino in heels and a business suit. He gestured, “Come.” And so I entered one of the true fashion temples, the Hermes store, for the first—but not the last—time in my life. Theodore bought me a few things to wear, a pair of flats, and a tracksuit that was both casual and stylish and which I have to this day.

  It has been that way my whole life with Theodore: always surprises, both big and small. He loves complex arrangements with a little deception thrown in. Like a magician, he performs for an audience, enjoying my reaction as much as I enjoy the surprise. I remember one birthday in London, for example, when he gave me Tiffany boxes with gifts hidden under other gifts. Only after pretending how thrilled I was to receive a mobile phone and then a simple clock did I discover the Harry Winston ring along with a beautiful set of earrings. Theodore makes everything more fun than it already is. Twenty years on and I have never been bored with him.

  THOUGH WE HAD STROLLED THROUGH THE STREETS of Portofino together, Theodore and I continued to be very discreet when we were out in Athens. Both of us were well known and neither of us was eager to find our lives discussed or, worse, dismembered in the gossip columns. And it seemed like only a matter of time. I had confessed my secret to Lena only after another staffer had told her that something strange was going on. The young woman had heard me in my office—it was late and I thought everyone had gone home—singing a passionate love song called “I Dare” (the title in Greek is “Tolmó,” performed by Marinella) about giving up everything for just one moment with the one you adore.

  Women in public life have to get used to a lot of unsavory speculation about their private lives. And once I was divorced, it was inevitable that nasty gossip about me began to circulate. Fortunately, none of it involved Theodore. When he called my office, he always used the name Mr. Nikos, one of the most common names in Greece. He expected me to know instantly that he was the “Nikos” that was calling. One day in July 1990 “Mr. Nikos” called, expressing a need to talk to me as soon as possible. I was participating in a parliamentary commission meeting on employment, so Lena dispatched an office volunteer to deliver the message. I found a pay phone and called Theodore, who said, with surprising urgency in his voice, “I have to see you.” I told him I had a long day of work ahead, but he insisted, “Find a way.”

  This was extremely unusual. I had never heard Theodore sound quite so insistent—at least not with me. But when you find someone like him—a gift from God (which is what his name means in Greek)—you do as he says and find a way. A couple of hours later, I excused myself and hurried to my apartment. Theodore was there playing with Carolina. When I arrived, he told her that we needed to be alone. “Do you want to kiss my mom?” Carolina asked. “I want to watch.”

  “I’ll kiss your mom in front of you, but this is something serious,” he told her.

  This talk out of the blue about “something serious” made me uneasy, but Theodore got to the point quickly. “I want to marry you next Thursday, July 26, 1990!”

  I didn’t swoon. Instead, I said, “Are you crazy?”

  “I am crazy,” he agreed. “But experience has taught me that sometimes if you wait for the timing to be perfect it’s a mistake. Sometimes you wait to see if the match is perfect, and by the time you decide to get married, it’s about time to get separated. I’m fed up keeping our relationship a secret. We’re free and I want to marry you. So before I change my mind, please tell me whether you will marry me next Thursday. If so, I have to leave right away because I have to go inform my parents that I intend to marry you. Either they will approve of our marriage or they won’t. On my way back, I’ll come to meet your parents. Either they will approve of our marriage or they won’t. I don’t care. Either way, you and I will marry.”

  I was so overwhelmed by his sudden proposal that I could only think about practical considerations. “I am honored by your proposal, and I would happily marry you, but we can’t possibly take care of everything in a week’s time.” That should reveal how shaken I was by his surprise. Never before had I admitted I couldn’t do the impossible.

  Theodore was having none of it. “You are a lawyer. You are a member of Parliament. Don’t tell me you can’t find a way to plan a wedding!” And so we agreed to be married one week from that day at the Agia Varvara church near his parents’ home, in Chalandri.

  Since he was leaving almost immediately—he was going home to Zurich, then flying to the United States, where his parents were traveling, and then returning to Athens for the wedding—it occurred to me that I had better measure his finger for a wedding ring. He had brought some sweets from Zurich for Carolina, and I took the ribbon off the package and wrapped it around his ring finger. (The ring turned out to be way too big. It dangled on Theodore’s finger during the wedding ceremony.) Then he was gone. And I was engaged.

  After Theodore left, I went to tell my parents the good news. My mother burst into tears. It’s her way. She cries through the greatest catastrophes and the greatest joys. This was without doubt one of the latter. My father was not in good health—he had suffered a few strokes in recent years—but his mind remained sharp. He scolded his wife for such histrionics. “Don’t you dare cry for our daughter. This is the very best thing that could happen to her.” Then he turned to me and said: “Gianna, I’m so proud of you for so many things. And I am especially proud that now you will be part of this great family.”

  Later my mother told me that she knew things would turn out this way because she had been praying to God!

  The next day I went to the office and told Lena the news. “Thank God I’m sitting,” she said. I only told Lena and one other close friend, Tania, of our plans. The two of them took care of pretty much everything from the rings to the flowers. I didn’t have all that much to do.

  I didn’t want anyone to find out about the marriage, so I went to a fashionable store to buy a suit instead of a wedding gown. They recognized me right away. I told them I was looking for something light for summer but also suitable for special occasions.

  “For the Parliament?” they asked.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “For a funeral?”

  “Not at all.”

  Slightly mystified, they recommended a Claude Montana suit in fine white linen—with a short skirt, of course. It was perfect for me, but it had buttons that were too plain.

  “I love the suit,” I told them, “but do you have buttons that are more suitable for evening wear?”

  They found the perfect buttons, and that was how I created my “wedding gown.”

&n
bsp; My only other responsibility was to arrange the newspaper announcement that was a legal requirement for the marriage. I placed it discreetly in a provincial newspaper a good distance from central Athens.

  When Theodore called me three days before our scheduled wedding date to ask how everything was proceeding, I could honestly say things were going remarkably well. All we needed was for him to be sure to bring his certificate of divorce so that we could get the marriage license. He said he would arrive in Athens the next day, Tuesday, with the papers, and we’d take care of everything. That Tuesday evening happened to be the date of the most prestigious political reception at the presidential palace in celebration of democracy. It was the first time I had been invited to this annual event and I felt some pangs of disappointment to have to miss it.

  Theodore likewise wasn’t in the best of moods when he arrived. He had had a tense week. In Zurich, he had to impress upon his former girlfriend that their relationship was truly finished. (Apparently she had kept their breakup a secret because later, when news leaked out that Theodore Angelopoulos was married, people began calling to congratulate her!)

  Then Theodore caught up with his parents, who weren’t exactly thrilled when he told them the news. I hadn’t expected them to approve, given the hasty marriage, the ambitious woman he was marrying, the interjection of politics into a family that considered itself nonpolitical, and the fact that I was recently divorced and had a daughter.

  Theodore had been surprised that they didn’t seem entirely shocked by the disclosure of our relationship. The explanation proved again what a small world our big world is. His parents had been traveling with the American Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church, Iakovos. About a month earlier, I had accompanied Theodore to Boston where he underwent a medical examination. The doctor’s very next patient was Archbishop Iakovos. Apparently the doctor couldn’t resist sharing the “Greek” news about the woman from Parliament who, just moments earlier, had been there with Theodore Angelopoulos. The Archbishop was regarded as a consummate politician—some Greeks called him CIAkovos—because of his intelligence-gathering skill, and he, in turn, must have dished to Theodore’s parents. Regardless of their initial distress, I considered it an honor to become a member of the Angelopoulos family, and I was intent on proving myself worthy. When Theodore left his parents in the United States, he told them the wedding would take place that week with or without them. I considered it a good sign when they chose to come and celebrate with us.

  The next step was procedural, the one that required us to make certain promises as to our intentions as well to provide our certificates of divorce. I chose a priest (Papa Vassilis) that my mother knew to handle the paperwork, and when he saw the two of us together—he knew me personally and Theodore because of his family’s preeminence in the church—he was clearly thrilled. He said he considered it a special privilege to assist us with this formality. So we proceeded through the assorted details—“Yes, our children will have the name Angelopoulos”—until the moment came when he needed to see the divorce certificates. I gave him mine, waiting for Theodore to show his.

  Theodore dug into his briefcase and, after much rummaging, pulled out a pink piece of paper and laid it triumphantly in front of us. Theodore wasn’t wearing his glasses, but I could see all too clearly what was written on top of the document in huge letters: this is only a copy. it is not valid for marriage.

  The priest apologized as he pointed out the problem to Theodore and told him that he needed the original document. The priest also suggested it wouldn’t be such a big deal to delay the wedding just a few days beyond the twenty-sixth to get our papers in order. Now Theodore, who had just gone through a trying week with his ex-girlfriend and his parents, got a little steamed. The priest apologized again but explained that there was nothing he could do without the proper papers. “Look,” Theodore said, “I’m going to marry Gianna in two days. Either you want it to happen here or you don’t. If you don’t we will go to Las Vegas and get married there.”

  “My son, not to Las Vegas,” the priest demurred with as much genuine horror as if he had been told Satan would be the best man.

  “Yes,” Theodore repeated. “I’ll marry her in Las Vegas and everyone will know that a member of Parliament and the son of Panagiotis Angelopoulos couldn’t get married in the Greek Orthodox Church because you didn’t allow it.” The priest was murmuring an apology and saying, “But my son …” when Theodore stormed out.

  He was so angry that he didn’t say a word. And I kept quiet too because I didn’t want to irritate him further. I was scared that I might say, “Are you so stupid that you couldn’t bring the proper document?” When we arrived at his house, he shut himself in his study. After about ten minutes, he burst out of the room; it was a different Theodore, though, wearing a big smile on his face. “I called my lawyer,” he said.

  His cousin Nikos Tritsimpidas had handled his divorce, so Theodore inquired if he had any idea what had happened to the divorce papers. The answer both amazed and amused him. “You don’t remember, Theodore?” Nikos said. “You told me, ‘Lock it in a safe and don’t give it to me. I don’t ever want to get remarried.’” Theodore laughed and told Nikos that he had had a change of mind and a change of heart. Now he wanted that precious paper in his hands.

  We thought we had dealt with the last of our wedding problems, but there proved to be one final snag. While Theodore was in the United States, his mother had asked if she could do anything to help. He took that as an encouraging gesture, so he asked if she would contact the priest who would conduct the ceremony (Papa Christos) and make sure everything was set at the church. When he informed me of this, I sat silently. He read my silence correctly. “You think this may not be such a good idea?” he asked. I didn’t say a word. “Maybe you’re right. I know the priest. I’ll call him.” But after several futile attempts to reach him, Theodore was told the priest was away on vacation. “He can’t be on holiday,” Theodore objected, “because I’m sure my mother told him that I’m getting married in two days.”

  It took a few hours, but we discovered that the priest was in a small village somewhere in the middle of Greece. Theodore obtained a phone number for the local coffee shop and the proprietor there located the priest. After a time, Theodore was put in touch with the priest. “Why are you still on holiday?” Theodore asked.

  “Why not?” the priest replied.

  “Didn’t my mother call you and tell you that I was getting married the day after tomorrow?” The priest obviously had no idea.

  Theodore asked him to come home—“take a taxi”—that very night. “Please, I need you to be there.”

  “Certainly, my son,” he replied. “I’m sorry that your mother couldn’t find me.” The priest had one last question. “Do you have all the necessary documents?”

  “Don’t worry, I will have them,” Theodore promised. “Trust me!”

  The next day we met the parents. I wanted to bring a small gift to his mother, so I raced out to buy some confectioneries on a pretty plate. Theodore had warned me that his mother considered the color green unlucky and a bad omen. Of course, every plate seemed to have green on it somewhere, and it wound up taking longer than expected to stave off the bad luck. I had met his father on the trip to Constantinople, but that was a far cry from meeting him as Theodore’s bride-to-be. Both his parents were polite, and there was no mention of the “confusion” over the priest. After that, I took Theodore to meet my parents. My mother once again just started crying and kept crying. As you might expect, both of my parents were enormously proud of their new son-in-law.

  The day after all the introductions we were married in a simple church ceremony. It was a very small wedding. Our parents were there along with Theodore’s brother and my sister. (Carolina was away at summer camp.) I had invited my confidantes and wedding planners, Lena and Tania. His family had only one guest, a businessman named—ironically, but perhaps predictably?—Nikos. Nikos Soutos. I wanted both o
f my parents to walk me down the aisle, something pretty much unheard of in Greece at that time. After all, they both had raised me and both deserved this special moment. My mother was crying, naturally. My father was beaming. So was Theodore. He looked so incredibly happy.

  At one point in the ceremony, as is the custom in the Greek Orthodox Church, we stood next to one another and our best man stood behind us holding two stefania (the Greek word stefani means wreath or chaplet) connected by a ribbon. He placed those on our heads, then lifted them off and crossed them above our heads three times, each time setting them back on our heads. Luckily the garlands did not fall off, which would have been a sign of very bad luck.

  After the ceremony, we went back to Theodore’s house. I overheard his father on the phone telling family and friends, “Theodore is now married to Gianna Daskalaki and we are all happy.” We called Carolina to give her the good news. For our honeymoon, Theodore and I flew to the south of France, where a new yacht named Alfa-Alfa that he had just had built—always with the surprises—was waiting. We took a long, leisurely sail and eventually wound up in the Greek islands, where Carolina joined us. Theodore is not really a holiday person, so this time was truly special. It remains the longest time we have ever spent together on a vacation. I wanted it to last forever. I knew I was coming back to an unfamiliar life, and that was a little frightening. But I was returning home with an extraordinary man who, in my thirty-fifth year, had opened me up to a love and a life that was wholly new. I felt I had been given a second chance—a very special chance—and I didn’t intend to fail at it.

  It was sometimes hard for me to fathom the changes in my life that had occurred over such a short time. Was it really just a few months earlier that I had been desperately calling a stranger in a steel factory hoping to secure an invitation to an Angelopoulos family affair? Now I was a member of that family. And that family was about to grow by one more. Theodore had been so certain he would never have children that he told me: “It’s okay. I will have Carolina as my own.” Now I had the pleasure of telling Theodore the joyful news that I was pregnant. The following year I would give birth to a son, Panagiotis, named in honor of Theodore’s father.