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

by Gianna Angelopoulos

  In the fall of 1993, after just three years in power, New Democracy lost in the Greek national elections, marking the beginning of more than a decade of Socialist rule. At that time, my life was focused more on Switzerland and, indeed, the world than on Greece and its politics.

  But there is an old saying, which I’ve heard in many other countries as well: “When one door closes, another one opens.”

  And that proved to be the case in my life. The next year my interest in leadership and public service would lead me to forge a new and thrilling connection that has endured to this day. Theodore’s family had a longstanding friendship with a physician named Ahmed Mohiuddin, who lived in Boston and who had close ties with Harvard University. He was aware that both the John F. Kennedy School of Government and the Harvard School of Public Health were serious about becoming more international in their programs and outreach. On one of my visits to Boston, he arranged introductions for me with top university leaders and senior staff. This is how I met my trusted friend Holly Sargent.

  And though I had no idea what might come of it, I was thrilled simply to engage some of the best minds at one of the preeminent universities in the world. I apparently made an impression too. My résumé—political, legal, and government experience, along with my involvement in global business ventures—was perfectly aligned with Harvard’s new ambitions. The Kennedy School was forming a new Dean’s Council, and I was asked to join as vice chair. Beyond advising the Dean, my responsibilities included serving as an ambassador for various international projects as well as representing the Dean at certain events.

  My first formal duty was to represent the Dean at a dinner in Boston welcoming thirty newly elected members of the Russian Duma. It was the first time the Kennedy School had conducted its renowned executive leadership program for representatives from the Russian National Assembly. I was meticulous in my preparation, from my smashing Yves Saint Laurent outfit to the carefully crafted speech. I hope the outfit was a hit because the speech was a disaster. The dinner was on the Boston waterfront, and my brief remarks were drowned out by a cacophony of ferry whistles and foghorns.

  My new relationship with the Kennedy School gave me regular opportunities to engage faculty in discussions of the issues in my homeland. Moreover, during my frequent travels, I established close bonds with Greeks abroad. I was struck by how my fellow Greeks had become so prominent and successful—but only after they left Greece and settled in the United States, Australia, the United Kingdom, or other countries.

  The paradox was obvious: Why do we Greeks fail at home—trailing far behind other Western nations in productivity and creativity—while Greeks abroad flourish and become leaders in so many fields, from politics to business to arts? In 1995, with the assistance of renowned foreign-policy expert and the school’s former Dean Graham Allison, that question evolved into to a major symposium—“The Greek Paradox”—at the Kennedy School. I had the privilege of welcoming to Harvard an extraordinary cast of academics, politicians, and journalists, including, among others, the President of Greece, Constantine Stephanopoulos; former Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis, a Greek-American who had lost the presidential race to George H.W. Bush in 1988; John Kenneth Galbraith, distinguished economist and former American Ambassador; and Monteagle Stearns, former American Ambassador to Greece.

  In 1997 we published The Greek Paradox: Promise vs. Performance, a book that included fifteen essays from the distinguished scholars and leaders who had participated in the symposium.

  If there was one theme that threaded its way through all the contributions, it was this: Greece could no longer afford to shirk its responsibility to address the fundamental structural and social problems that constrained its growth, threatened its economy, and curtailed the success of its citizens.

  If The Greek Paradox had been a prophecy, the Delphic oracle would have been proud. More than a decade before the world even began to take notice of Greece’s problems, our book laid them out coherently and presaged the tragic circumstances that all of us have witnessed in recent years.

  The contributors wrote that Greece had to transform its civil service. Greece had to streamline its bloated state-owned companies. Greece had to make sure that all Greek students learned salable skills. Greece had to eliminate tax evasion. And Greece had to decentralize the government.

  Furthermore, the essayists urged and warned Greece to take action and “step up to the challenges and opportunities or face grave results.”

  As symposium participant Vasilios Tsingos observed, however, the Greek leadership would have to change in order to drive these reforms. “The domestic and foreign challenges facing Greece in the 1990s require innovative problem solving and a ‘can do’ attitude to replace the deep-seated cynicism and inertia infecting Greek society today … The lack of vision and forward-looking leadership in Greece has become apparent as Greek political structures in the 1990s have proven ineffective, even incompetent. The public has lost confidence in the state’s ability to handle the country’s problems.”

  The Greek Paradox opened with this dedication: “This volume is dedicated to the leaders and citizens of Greece. May they seize the significant opportunities before them and inspire the spirit of democracy around the world not only by their history but by their performance.” It was a clarion call, one that went unheeded. And for that, Greece today pays a terrible price.

  LOOKING BACK AT YOUR LIFE AND YOUR FAMILY HISTORY, you can see how certain threads weave their way from one generation to the next. Some are easy to spot, like the one that connected all the reading that my paternal grandfather did at night during his four years working at a steel mill in America with all the reading my father did during the four years he spent as a prisoner of war in Germany. That love of reading was a legacy I inherited, one that I have treasured and have, in turn, passed on to my children.

  Not all the connective tissue of life is so obvious, however. Only after several years in Zurich did Theodore and I decide to move our family to London. It may be hard to recognize how our moving to London was in any way similar to my father’s insistence on our visiting his family homestead in Embaros when I was a young girl. In fact, it’s likely that London and Embaros have never been mentioned in the same sentence before. Yet the motives for those actions were not dissimilar. My father’s was an urgent desire for his children to have their lives rooted in what he saw as “real life.” Ours was to leave a city that, though easy and comfortable, was too homogenous and quiet. While a well-organized society can be a virtue, it can also create a rather sterile atmosphere. With our children getting older, we wanted to give them the opportunity to lead lives in a more diverse environment—a little more “real” in my father’s parlance—and expand their horizons beyond what Switzerland offered.

  We had talked about returning home to Greece, but it was not the right time for that move. Most of my husband’s business interests were abroad—some in England—and the future of his business was increasingly international. The move also boosted his independence, putting a little more distance between him and his family. I was excited about my new involvement with Harvard, and that connection was easier to maintain from London. And the city did offer all of us the opportunity to connect to a large Greek population. These may not have been the real Cretans of Embaros or the real Greeks of Crete, but at least they were real Greeks who shared and valued our culture.

  And this is how it happened. In February 1995, Theodore went to London on business and I accompanied him to look for a home. I had called the best agencies and told them what I was looking for: a distinctive home of the highest quality. But I didn’t really know London and couldn’t offer much guidance beyond that. “Surprise me,” I told them. And they sure did. The first house I looked at was one of two homes in the Holland Park section—the real estate agent told me they were virtually identical—owned by a self-made British billionaire. He happened to be there when I arrived and couldn’t have been more gracious and welcoming.
And the house couldn’t have been a bigger mess. Shoes were piled on coffee tables, clothes were scattered all over the place. The indoor swimming pool smelled like a sewer. I quickly excused myself and called Theodore to make sure he didn’t show up to take a look. “You would be shocked,” I told him.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if this shock treatment was a deliberate tactic used by the real estate agents to make a prospective buyer more receptive to almost anything that followed. Indeed, as soon as I had escaped that house, the agent began talking about another one—a really special home in Chelsea—though it might not be to our taste and quite likely was too expensive. Naturally, I was intrigued. The home turned out to be the Chelsea Rectory, a historic nineteenth-century building where many Londoners, including Charles Dickens, had been married. A recent renovation had transformed it into what many regarded as the most spectacular home in London. While the outside had been maintained in strict accordance with historic preservation laws, massive additions to the original building had increased the living space to thirty thousand square feet, with ten bedrooms and a giant ballroom.

  It also boasted a black granite swimming pool that—when you were underwater—let you peer into the gymnasium. (And when you were working out in the gymnasium, you could look into the swimming pool.) Perhaps most enticing of all, at least to me, was that when you entered the front door, you were gazing out on a magnificent garden. It was huge, a full two acres, and filled with cherry trees. Most magnificent of all was the magnolia tree right in the middle of the garden. (We had magnolias in our garden in Athens too, and I suddenly felt very much at home.) Later, when we hosted Prince Charles for dinner, he would tell me that it was the second largest private garden in London; only the garden of Buckingham Palace was more extensive. The way the garden flowed into the home, the connection between inside and outside, felt very Greek to me.

  When I called Theodore, I couldn’t contain my excitement. He immediately urged me to rein in my emotions. I was looking at the home as art and Theodore was preoccupied with the art of the deal. “Don’t ask the price,” he cautioned me. “Believe me, it will come out in good time. And don’t show that you are so impressed. Be cool.” For more than twenty years now, I have heard him repeat that advice, but it has not proved particularly helpful. Theodore does cool much better than me. I tend to run hot.

  The next day we were treated to real London weather: raining cats and dogs. I worried that when Theodore saw the house in the rain it wouldn’t make the same grand impression on him. But as far as anyone could tell, it made no particular impression on him whatsoever. When he looked at the exquisite swimming pool, he asked a question about the generator. And that’s pretty much what he did throughout the house, discussing piping and wires and asking a lot of male-type engineering questions. I couldn’t tell if he had even noticed the magnolia tree. He didn’t betray any feelings, didn’t provide the least hint—not even with a wink or a discreet gesture to me—of how he felt about the house. And when we were finished with the tour, he said to me in something of a stage whisper: “It’s okay, but you’re right. It’s too big for us and it will probably be too expensive.”

  The next day, without even telling me, he began to negotiate despite those obstacles. And later that day, he surprised me by saying we had to go and see the house again.

  I was confused. “Why are we going back?”

  “I think maybe that’s the ideal place for us, for you and the kids. If we can afford it, then it’s okay.”

  And that’s how we bought the magnificent home we would continue to call the Old Rectory.

  We wanted to move in right before the kids started school in September. But before we could do that, we required some alterations that would turn the house into a home that was more suited to our family. Essentially, we wanted it a little more “us,” which meant more Greek touches. Theodore directed me to Jon Bannenberg, whom he knew through his shipbuilding business. Bannenberg was an Aussie who had become the most famous and innovative yacht designer of the twentieth century. Theodore warned me that he was very talented but also very opinionated and very strict about his work. His office was right in Chelsea and he had a reputation for being creative and stylish without sacrificing functionality and practicality. “Right now it’s a British house,” I explained, “and we are a Greek family with our own culture and traditions. We want our home to reflect our identity.”

  He was clearly thrilled about the prospect of working on such a historic building in his backyard and wanted to go see the Old Rectory immediately. But first I had to clarify two important matters. Regarding all financial issues he would deal directly with Theodore. And, we needed to be in the house by the end of August.

  “August, next year?!” he responded.

  “No,” I said, “August this year. I want my family to have dinner there on the last night of August, and the next day my children will start school.”

  He looked aghast and began shaking his head. “You can’t be serious.” But it doesn’t take smart people very long to figure out when I am serious. And after we looked at the Old Rectory, Jon, who is a genuine eccentric, couldn’t resist the challenge. He took the deal—complete with our “impossible” six-month deadline.

  On August 31, 1995, we moved in and had our family dinner in the big dining room—Jon had even arranged a butler and a chef for us. The next day the boys began their studies at a Greek school, Hellenic College, which was located nearby in Knightsbridge and had been founded by ex-King Constantine of Greece. Constantine had ascended to the throne in 1964 at the age of twenty-three, and three years later he fled Greece after leading a failed counter-coup against the military junta. In 1974, when the junta fell, Greeks voted against restoring the monarchy and, ever since, Constantine had lived in exile in London.

  Theodore believed that the English language would be central to our children’s futures, but I insisted our boys attend the Greek school. I was confident that their English skills would flourish just by virtue of living in London and wasn’t the least surprised when the children quickly began speaking English among themselves. But despite “Greek only” dinners at home, the boys were deficient in our native tongue. “I am a lawyer and I was a member of Parliament and you are from one of the most distinguished families in Greece,” I told Theodore. “Yet our boys speak a kind of broken Greek. I cannot accept that they do not speak the language excellently.” (Carolina, having spent her first eight years in Greece, didn’t have the same educational deficits and so happily attended an American school.) We would also hire professors from Greece to live in and tutor the children in Greek language, history, and culture.

  I cherish the memory of the first time I went to see the boys perform in a school play. It was about the war against the Turks, and my sons—Panagiotis was five years old, Dimitris just four—played soldiers, dressed in our national costume complete with the short white skirts. When they started dancing, I did a very good imitation of my own mother. I just started crying and couldn’t stop. If I had ever doubted my decision to put them in a Greek school, in that moment I knew for certain that it had been the right one.

  I was very excited that very first morning in our new home as our children prepared for school. But it didn’t turn out to be the biggest excitement of that morning at the Old Rectory. We had hired two British nannies, and they had their own little kitchenette near the children’s bedrooms. As we were readying the boys for school, Theodore and I heard sirens that were apparently coming from the local fire station. Theodore was glad that Chelsea had its own firehouse and that we lived close by, just in case we needed assistance. While we were chatting away, totally unconcerned, the sirens grew louder—closer and louder. At last, we went to the window to see what was going on. Our security people were racing to the front gates to open them up for the fire brigade. The boys could hardly contain their glee since—at their age—nothing was more thrilling than fire trucks.

  It turned out one of the nannies had left her slice of
bread in the toaster and the burnt toast had triggered the fire alarm, which fortunately was connected directly to the fire station. We were embarrassed and apologetic. We later sent sandwiches and cookies to the firehouse as an expression of gratitude from the new neighbors. Unfortunately, it would not be the last time we had to apologize to these firemen. Very soon afterward, my mother visited. Because she is devout, she wanted to bless our home by lighting incense throughout the house, as they do in Greek Orthodox churches. That set off the fire alarm and sent the fire trucks racing to our home. Once again it was sandwiches and cookies at the Chelsea firehouse.

  But none of these incidents produced fireworks at the Old Rectory to rival those that would be set off by a single telephone call to me from Greece in early 1996. The call—one that was totally unexpected and from a man I’d never heard of—changed my life. It would lead to an opportunity for me to fulfill my childhood dream a second time: to do something truly great for my country.

  I WASN’T HOME THE AFTERNOON THE PHONE CALL CAME. My secretary, Sannah, told me it was from Athens, but neither of us recognized the name of the caller—Andreas Fouras. Today we would have Googled the name and quickly learned most of what we needed to know. But back then my way of securing such information was to make several calls to close associates in Greece to inquire about the gentleman. According to them, he was no gentleman. “A typical Socialist” said one, reflecting the eternal enmity between political parties in Greece. Beyond the harsh partisan assessment, I learned that Fouras had recently been named Deputy Minister of Culture—in charge of sports—in the new government of Prime Minister Costas Simitis.

  Simitis had just succeeded the veteran left-leaning Socialist Andreas Papandreou, who had resigned due to ill health and would die just five months later. Ever since the restoration of democracy more than two decades earlier, Papandreou had been the face of socialism in Greece. He headed the Pan Hellenic Socialist Movement from 1974 until his death and had served as Prime Minister three times, holding that office for more than a decade. His family has been the most prominent in Greek politics over the last half century. Papandreou’s father, Georgios, served three short terms as Prime Minister, the first just after World War II and the last ending in 1965, when he was driven from office by the turbulent events leading up to the ’67 coup. Papandreou’s son, George, became Prime Minister in 2009. He too was forced to resign after a troubled two-year tenure when, amid the frenzy of the debt crisis, he wavered on implementing the austerity program demanded before Greece would receive further European aid and reach an accord with its debt-holders.