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

by Gianna Angelopoulos

  None of this background provided a glimmer of a clue as to why Mr. Fouras would be calling me. Though I had been willing to talk to and work with the opposition during my political career, it was always surprising—in the Greek political universe—to hear from the “enemy.” Because Simitis wasn’t the polarizing figure his predecessor was, I didn’t hesitate to return his Minister’s call.

  The message from Athens proved to be another surprise. “Mrs. Angelopoulos,” Fouras said with considerable pomposity, “the Prime Minister proposes that you join the Athens bid committee.”

  “What bid committee?” I asked, which must have been a rather deflating response.

  “The bid committee for the 2004 Olympic Games,” he replied.

  Until that moment, I was only vaguely aware that Athens had been contemplating a bid for the 2004 Summer Games. But like most Greeks, I knew a great deal about Greece’s Olympic history—ancient, modern, and, quite important, recent. I learned of the ancient Olympics at my father’s side in Olympia. The Games date back to the eighth century BC and were held every four years—an Olympiad in the Greek timetable—on the plains of Olympia as a tribute to Zeus and other ancient Greek gods. The competition pitted men from rival city-states. Only free men who spoke Greek were allowed to compete, and the men raced naked. Winners were crowned with an olive tree wreath called a kotinos and were hailed as conquering heroes upon their return home.

  The first Olympics featured just one race, closest in distance to today’s 200 meters. The first Olympic champion was a cook named Coroebus from Elis, the region that included Olympia. Subsequently, other events—running, throwing, jumping, riding, chariot racing, and various forms of combat—were added and the festival was expanded from one to five days. Religious activities were incorporated into the celebration, and Greek arts were prominently displayed. The Olympics were so revered that temporary truces were established between warring city-states so that the competition wouldn’t be jeopardized and athletes and spectators could travel safely to and from Olympia. The Olympics were held for more than a thousand years—until the year 394 AD when Theodosius the Great declared Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire and banned the Games as a pagan cult.

  Some fifteen hundred years later, a young French aristocrat, deploring the lack of athletic training for young Frenchmen (especially in comparison to their English, German, and American counterparts), began advocating the advancement of sports in his country. Baron Pierre de Coubertin did not find a very receptive audience in France, but he had already embraced a bigger idea. He began to call for an international competition modeled on the ancient Olympics. Beyond the intrinsic value of athletic excellence for young men, he believed an Olympic revival could have broader societal ramifications by bolstering an understanding across many cultures.

  Thus in 1894 he hosted an international congress at the Sorbonne in Paris where his Olympic vision carried the day. The first modern Olympics would be held in Athens two years later, in April 1896, when King George I of Greece opened the Olympics before eighty thousand people in the newly restored Panathinaiko Stadium. Thanks to the largesse of Greek businessman, philanthropist, and Olympic booster George Averoff, the stadium had been rebuilt in the splendor of white marble. The crowds there were the largest ever to have witnessed a sporting event. While the numbers are inexact, more than two hundred male athletes—no women were allowed to compete—from more than a dozen countries contested events in nine sports, including such new Olympic entries as cycling, swimming, shooting, gymnastics, and tennis. Spyridon Louis, who came from Maroussi, just outside Athens, and earned his living helping his father sell water in the city, thrilled his countrymen by winning the marathon. All winners received an olive branch and a silver medal. Runners-up were given copper medals; third place wasn’t yet considered a medal-worthy result.

  The Games were a stirring success and some consideration was given to making Athens the permanent site for the Olympics. But the 1900 Olympic Games had already been promised to Paris, and the idea of an Olympic rotation was put into place. (Incidentally, women would compete there for the first time.) Over the next century, the Summer Games would be competed in twenty cities—Paris, London, and Los Angeles each staged two—on four continents without returning to Greece.

  For the 1996 Centennial Games, much of the world and all of Greece had expected that the Olympics would once again be staged in their birthplace. In September 1990, when the International Olympic Committee (IOC) gathered in Tokyo to award that centennial honor, Athenians filled Constitution Square to celebrate the anticipated victory. On the fifth and final ballot, Athens lost by a decisive vote—51 to 35—to Atlanta, a second- or even third-tier American city in the eyes of those Greeks who had actually heard of it. The outrage in Greece was fierce, the Greek people’s sense of betrayal overwhelming.

  Unfortunately, that has too often been the Greek response to disappointment. It can’t possibly be our fault, so somebody must have betrayed us. When I eventually got involved in the Greek Olympic movement, I realized what an uphill battle we faced around the world. We had to overcome this image of arrogant Greeks battling among ourselves, of meddling politicians with self-serving agendas undermining each other, of a government with no strategy claiming what it believed was Greece’s due—and then pointing fingers at others when things didn’t go our way.

  The Greek Olympic campaign to host the 1996 Games had essentially demanded the Games as the nation’s birthright, an inevitable dictate of history. In disagreeing, the IOC demonstrated its limited interest in old legacies. New legacies—airports, highways, trains, and stadiums built specially for Olympics—as well as new economic synergies trumped old legacies and left Greece empty-handed.

  The 1990 vote showed that many IOC delegates regarded Greece as a backwater, that is, a third-world European nation that lacked the infrastructure, the government efficiencies, the economic clout, the technological know-how, and the capacity for innovation to host a successful Olympics on the cusp of the twenty-first century. And perhaps most important of all, they had seen no evidence among either the Greek leaders or the Greek people of the discipline and teamwork that an Olympic effort demanded.

  So, when Fouras, the Minister of Culture for Sports, informed me that Athens—still bruised and battered after its centennial defeat—was going to risk disappointment again, I was rather taken aback. The host city for the 2004 Summer Olympics would be decided in September 1997, just eighteen months ahead; if Athens hadn’t yet launched its campaign in earnest, Greece could be headed for another humiliating failure.

  Fouras insisted that things would be different this time. Greece was investing in a major overhaul of its infrastructure. Work on a new airport, new highways, new subways, and new stadiums had already begun. An Olympics would be “the jewel on the crown,” he promised, providing an international showcase for a new Athens and a new Greece. When I wondered what I could contribute to this effort from abroad, Fouras said that I shouldn’t worry. I wouldn’t be required to do much work, certainly no heavy lifting.

  I understood perfectly. The bidding process would be a massive undertaking, requiring exceptional managerial and political skill. The bidding process is very complex: Each city submits a bid file with responses to questions ranging from the budget to the athletes and media villages; from the climate to the sports program; from the sports venues to the cultural program; from the torch relay to the volunteers; from the preparation of the public to the consensus of the political parties; from security to visa considerations; from the sponsorship program to the broadcasters’ requirements; from the transport program to the new infrastructure required; and many more.

  Most significant of all is that the national and local governments guarantee all of the above—and more—for the successful hosting of the Olympic Games.

  After the bid file has been submitted, the Evaluation Commission of the IOC visits each candidate city and checks to see if all the proposals in the bid fi
le are viable.

  The Evaluation Commission reviews every aspect of each city’s candidacy, and publishes a report.

  Then the Selection College of the IOC chooses a short list of the final candidate cities. IOC members, representatives from the international sports federations, sponsors, broadcasters, and others visit each city. Each of the bidding cities then makes its final presentation to the IOC session, and all of the IOC members vote to decide which will be the host city of the Games of the Olympiad.

  When I was asked to join the bidding process, it was just like when New Democracy tapped me to run for office. I was meant to serve as a symbol, the face—a young international businesswoman—of a more modern Greece. They didn’t expect me to build a powerful organization. Telling me I wouldn’t have to work was exactly the wrong approach. I never agreed to serve on a committee unless I commanded real control and bore true responsibility. And then I never minded doing all of the heavy lifting necessary to achieve a goal.

  But I didn’t need to explain all this to a Deputy Minister, so I politely declined his offer and figured that would be the last I heard from Athens about its Olympic bid. A few days later, though, Theodore and I received an invitation from Prime Minister Simitis to a reception in Athens honoring First Lady Hillary Clinton. We had been privileged once to attend a White House dinner hosted by the Clintons. I had been seated at the President’s table and had been dazzled by his knowledge of issues. (I would come to appreciate it even more when, years later, I got to work with him on the Clinton Global Initiative.) I left vowing to work even harder on my own preparations in business or for any other matter I might face. Theodore had been at the First Lady’s table and was impressed with her commanding aura and confidence. At the same time, he found her approachable, capable of refreshing candor, and possessing a willingness to acknowledge mistakes. Obviously, we were delighted to be included in extending to Mrs. Clinton an Athens welcome.

  We got to have a brief, private conversation with the First Lady beforehand at the Intercontinental Hotel. The scheduled reception followed at the Maximos Mansion, the building in which the Prime Minister works and holds certain ceremonial functions. We figured the meeting with Mrs. Clinton to be the highlight of our trip, as we expected the reception to be your standard boring cluster of VIPs. And it was rather boring—until the Prime Minister cornered me, that is. Simitis told me how disappointed he was that I had turned down his Deputy Minister of Sports. He was convinced that because of my wide-ranging experience—in politics, in business, and in the world at large—I would have been an invaluable addition to the Athens team. “We have very big plans this time,” the Prime Minister assured me. “Mrs. Angelo-poulos, this is a golden opportunity for Greece.”

  After my talk with his Sports Minister, I had called friends in Athens, most notably Petros Efthimiou, a renowned journalist who would later be Minister of Education during our Olympic preparations, to see how seriously they viewed the government’s Olympic ambitions. Through Petros I talked to Kostas Laliotis, a prominent figure within the Socialist government and Minister of Public Works and the Environment.

  My friends believed that the government was committed to the massive building program, one that was desperately needed regardless of Athens’s Olympic fate.

  “I respect that, but I don’t like to be held responsible when somebody else actually makes the decisions,” I told the Prime Minister, explaining my reluctance. “So thank you very much for the honor, but again I must say ‘no.’”

  As Theodore and I readied to leave the reception, Prime Minister Simitis again intercepted me and asked, “Would you change your mind if you were to head the bid committee as President rather than just serving as one of the many committee members?”

  “But don’t you already have a President?” I asked, knowing full well that the sitting President was a local businessman with close ties to the Mayor of Athens.

  “I will change that,” Simitis promised. “Leave it to me.”

  I stood there aghast. I glanced at Theodore, who, as always, was prepared to deal. Theodore told the Prime Minister, “I will back Gianna’s decision and actively support her if she takes the job.”

  Theodore’s support was critical since the respect he commanded internationally had the potential of being one of our committee’s greatest assets.

  For a few moments the world around me went blank, and I was totally lost in my own thoughts. I envisioned a new Greece, a novel Greece. Images were flashing through my brain. I saw a beautiful new infrastructure that Greece would proudly show off to its citizens and its visitors. I saw hardworking, disciplined Greeks with smiles on their faces. I saw a country that would once again be admired around the world. What a dream it was. And to imagine that I would have the responsibility to lead this, that I might deliver this to Greece. What an extraordinary honor. What pride I felt.

  When I snapped out of my reverie, I didn’t hesitate. Clutching Theodore’s hand tightly, I looked the Prime Minister in the eye and told him: “Okay. As herculean as this challenge will be, I accept.” He immediately beckoned the Mayor of Athens, Dimitris Avramopoulos, and informed him of his offer to me and of my acceptance. The Mayor went pale, an angry shade of pale. But he quickly recovered his poise and invited Theodore and me to join him for dinner.

  Dinner was a strange affair at a Polynesian restaurant, with Avramopoulos spending the entire evening explaining how treacherous the assignment would be and why I should reconsider. Afterward, when Theodore asked my impression, I told him that the Mayor didn’t want me in the job because he obviously had the current President and committee in his pocket. “He wants control,” I said, “and he’s afraid of me.” Maybe I should have been more afraid of him. He proved to be your all-too-typical politician who does none of the real work but is quick to take credit for what others accomplish. I would have a similar problem with yet another Mayor of Athens, Dora Bakoyannis, during the 2004 Summer Games. (Yes, the very same daughter of Constantinos Mitsotakis whom you met in chapter 6.) Though politicians would always make my job more oppressive, they underestimated my abilities and my drive, and, ultimately, they failed in their efforts to undermine my success.

  The next day Simitis made the appointment official. Neither of us was aware at that moment that we were making history. I was the first woman to lead an Olympic bid committee. While I am proud of that “first,” it wasn’t nearly as meaningful to me as the lure of patriotism, the chance to serve Greece in a historic quest. I thought back to my letter of resignation from Parliament six years earlier, which included my declaration, “I will find an occasion in the future to again serve my country.” I know some people found the notion laughable, certain that I had married my prince and would be content to live out the fairy tale happily ever after in a distant castle. They were sure they had seen the last of me on the Greek public stage. But now I was back and at center stage. And I understood what a huge opportunity this was—both for Greece and for me.

  It would take me longer to forge the same level of understanding with the Prime Minister. I was not really sure why he had tapped me. Though we both valued efficient organizations, we had polar opposite personal styles. He was a technocrat—very unemotional—and I wasn’t even convinced that he truly wanted the Olympics in Greece. At that time, Greece was in the process of shifting from the drachma to the euro, and Simitis might have thought that a well-conceived Olympic campaign—even a failed one—would promote a new image for the country and help it forge closer relations with the European Union.

  Be that as it may, I had to admire his fortitude in choosing me. Greek politics remained a black-and-white (actually a green-and-blue) divide between Socialists and conservatives. And that made me the enemy, deplored by his party as a wealthy capitalist—and, even worse, one who no longer lived in Greece. Simitis took a lot of political flak from his party over the appointment.

  We managed to find common ground. We both wanted a bid campaign run by business-oriented professionals
, not by the same politicians who had squandered the golden opportunity for the 1996 Olympics. “We were so arrogant last time that the Olympic people were saying, ‘Never again, Greece,’” Simitis told me with a pained look on his face. “We cannot go back again and ask for Olympic laurels just because Greece is the birthplace of the Games. We have to form a completely different strategy—a modern one!”

  Throughout our campaign, when critics would attack me or attack Simitis because of me, he would respond in the same calm and considered fashion. He’d say, “Mrs. Angelopoulos will be judged by the results of her work.”

  My gut feeling was that in so saying, Prime Minister Simitis was secretly thinking and preparing for any outcome.

  WHEN I WAS NAMED PRESIDENT OF THE BID COMMITTEE IN 1996, we had but sixteen months left before IOC delegates would gather in Lausanne, Switzerland, to announce the city that would be awarded the 2004 Summer Olympic Games. Yet little had been done up to that point to prepare for that moment. Athens was virtually invisible in the Olympic movement. Other countries had been working on their bid for years. Indeed, the IOC had conducted eleven seminars for prospective bidding cities and Athens was the only contender that hadn’t appeared at any of them. In Atlanta during the 1996 Centennial Games, other cities that hoped to host the Olympics had set up elaborate informational kiosks to inform and court IOC members and the international press. Ours was assembled at the last minute. It wasn’t perfect, but at least we were there. Still, we were playing catch-up.