After my first visit to ATHOC headquarters and a quick perusal of its operations, I no longer thought I was crazy. I knew it. My old IOC friend Lambis Nikolaou, who had assumed a prominent role on the organizing committee, had assured me that we had secured a first-rate building out of which to operate. My visit there provided the first in a succession of shocks. It wasn’t only that it had a tiny, barely visible entrance. Or that inside it was a warren of small, ill-shaped offices that would never accommodate our growing head count as we proceeded toward the Games. Or even that it was located in an area known for its horrific traffic jams. It was the fact that it was built above a Carrefour supermarket. The IOC was highly sensitive about its sponsorships. You weren’t allowed to serve Pepsi in the office when the Olympic sponsor was Coca-Cola. Your staff couldn’t drive around in Hondas if Hyundai was paying the freight. And you certainly couldn’t operate over a supermarket that wasn’t an Olympic sponsor.
The next shock was in the numbers. Three years in and we were nevertheless just a bare-bones operation with 165 employees and no clear path forward toward the thousands that would be necessary by the time of the Olympics. While our staff was far too small, the organizing committee’s board responsible for making decisions was way too big and unwieldy, with nineteen members. I also inherited another national committee, with more than fifty members who only convened a few times for no organizational purposes; the committee existed for decorative reasons only.
And to top it all off, there was no steering committee to get the job done!
Blueprints that were created for IOC presentations during the bid campaign were in the same boxes—unopened—where we had left them back in 1997. It is one thing to hear about a disaster and another to witness it firsthand. I knew we didn’t have a second to waste. I needed to secure a new headquarters, to sack the CEO, to reconfigure the board, and—most urgently—to secure swift passage of laws that would speed up a host of processes, especially those concerning spending authorizations, tenders, and licenses. I also needed to see the Prime Minister posthaste to put my plans in motion.
But when I called Simitis’s office, his secretary, Miss Plevrakis, told me she would have to pass on my message because he was unavailable. I waited an hour and called again, and again I conveyed my need to speak to the Prime Minister as soon as possible. “I told him,” Miss Plevrakis said. “Well, what did he say?” I asked. “He doesn’t give me answers,” she replied. An hour later I called again. This time Miss Plevrakis told me he was in a meeting. She assured me that she had passed on both my messages and that she would happily do so a third time, though she was beginning to sound less happy about it. An hour later we were at it again. “Are you sure he cannot come to the phone?” I said. “I am sure,” she said. And we kept on like that until evening when, apparently, nobody was around to answer the phone.
I was fuming. I went home and stormed around the house before calling Theodore to blow off some steam. But his words—“Samaranch warned you”—offered very little comfort. I slept badly, and the next morning I started phoning the Prime Minister’s office again. Incredibly, this time I couldn’t even reach Miss Plevrakis. Instead, I had to settle for her assistant who told me that Miss Plevrakis was busy with the Prime Minister. Then she compounded the insult by inquiring, “May I ask what this is about?”
I slammed down the phone, but this time I didn’t wait quite so long. A half hour later I called back and demanded that the assistant to the assistant put me on with the assistant. When Miss Plevrakis picked up, she told me that the Prime Minister was tied up in a cabinet meeting. I told her very politely that it would take me about twenty minutes to drive to the Prime Minister’s office. And with such an important meeting going on, there were bound to be journalists and cameramen waiting outside as always. I could wait along with them. They would be surprised to learn that I was hanging around there because I couldn’t get in to see the Prime Minister. They might find it surprising to learn that the same man who recently had publicly promised me “land and water” now wouldn’t even return my phone calls. “Please inform the Prime Minister of this,” I said, and hung up.
Ten minutes later Simitis called. “You asked for me, Mrs. Angelopoulos?” he said. “I asked for you ten times,” I replied. “This is important.” Begrudgingly, he agreed to squeeze in a visit during his lunchtime. In that moment—in his reluctant manner and resentful tone—I realized that, despite my best efforts and possibly even his honest intentions, we were unlikely to attain the true partnership he had promised in order to lure me back to Athens.
All the same, when I saw the Prime Minister, I patiently explained the problems we faced and what we needed to do. (My emphasis remained on the “we.”) We needed to change the structure of the organizing committee and revamp its budgeting process. We required wholesale changes in governmental oversight procedures. We needed new wrinkles in the interpretation of laws governing major construction projects. (“Don’t ask me to stop the archaeologists,” he said, obviously sharing that frustration.) We needed to rally the public to work harder for our goals. Last but not least, we needed to hire our nation’s best and brightest: namely, the people with the requisite expertise to succeed at this daunting Olympic undertaking. And we needed all of it done yesterday or, truthfully, hundreds of yesterdays ago.
I told the Prime Minister that although I understood how busy he was, he simply had to make my issues a priority and himself available. “I don’t want to annoy or embarrass you,” I assured him, “but I need you to see me whenever I need you. There are so many things to be done that we can only do together.” He nodded his acquiescence and, to be fair, he pretty much made good on that commitment.
For the first time, Simitis created an inter-ministerial committee comprising all of the Ministers involved with the Olympics and me to best coordinate all involved agencies. He himself would chair the committee. I remember the first time we convened at the Prime Minister’s offices. I placed my Hermes alligator bag in the seat next to the Prime Minister’s. Before the meeting started, a Minister moved my bag to the end of the long table. While Simitis was entering the room, he bore witness to me—the dialogue with his Minister was not particularly polite—telling him to “never again come close to my bag or my personal documents.” The Prime Minister turned to his Minister and said, “Mrs. Angelopoulos’s seat will be here, next to mine.” Issue ended. From then on, I always sat next to the Prime Minister.
But while he would see me when I requested and, most often, even side with me, Simitis would never change his style and confront his key aides and government officials who were not hewing to his line. That reluctance on the Prime Minister’s part ensured that—just as during the bid campaign—my relations with his people would be contentious. And that, in turn, ensured that I would once again become fair game for some of their attack dogs in the press.
Nevertheless, we tried. Theodore came up with the notion of scheduling occasional informal dinners with the Prime Minister and his wife so we could get to know each other better and, hopefully, develop a better working relationship. At one of the first dinners, we were discussing our personal exercise routines. The Prime Minister, who was sixty-four years old at the time, got up early every morning to exercise before walking to his office (and later home as well). That routine apparently permitted him to eat everything he wanted while staying reed thin. Dafni Simitis, who was more full-figured, lamented that she was a slow starter and couldn’t go straight to the gym first thing in the morning. I confessed the same—“I cannot perform well at seven in the morning, but I do great at eleven”—attributing my slow start to my low blood pressure. “Wow!” the Prime Minister said. “You mean you are doing all this with low blood pressure?” I could tell what he was thinking, “Given the ruckus this woman creates in my office with low blood pressure, God help us if ever her blood pressure goes up.”
In June, Simitis made good on one critical promise and pushed through legislation that would expedite many pr
ocedural matters. Swift action was required.
My predecessors had complained, for example, that it took eighteen months just to hire a typist. If they had tried to change the procedures, they couldn’t get it done. But even in crisis mode, it took time to locate the talent and then to convince the people to join our crusade. Though our cause was righteous—to spare the nation a humiliation while the whole world was watching—the sales pitch was tricky. We were asking the very best people in the public and private sectors to join us for four years during which, having already given up secure jobs with good incomes, they would be called upon to pretty much forsake their families, their hobbies, and their holidays. That is the nature of a crusade; I’m certain King Richard the Lionheart never promised vacation time.
I’ve always had one principle when hiring people: “Give opportunities to people no matter how important the position is.”
Usually, others prefer to hire professional “legends.” I gave the opportunity to literally thousands of people to establish a great “track record” for their next professional steps or leaps. I instructed our human-resources department to hire qualified young women and men even if the position was very important. They protested, “But they’re virtually unknown!” And I replied firmly: “If they’re not good I’ll replace them. But if they succeed here, I am giving them the chance to become very well known.”
For example, thanks mainly to our HR manager, Thanassis “the Cat” Papageorgiou, we gave more than two thousand people who were seeking employment the opportunity to work for ATHOC part-time through the stage program. They could all add this great experience to their CV.
The best example, however, was my appointment of Dimitris Papa-ioannou, a young and extremely talented avant-garde artist, to become the creative director of the magical Athens ceremonies. The broader public came to know Dimitris only after the Opening Ceremony.
We did, indeed, manage to hire many of the best in Greece. (Though I had to change many personnel during those four years, the following is a list of the people who stayed through to the end.)
“A TEAM”
ATHOC’S STEERING SOMMITTEE
MARTON “THE GENERAL” SIMITSEK, our chief operations officer
YIANNIS PYRGIOTIS, our chief technical officer
THEODORE PAPAPETROPOULOS, our chief financial officer
SPYROS CAPRALOS, a member of our board
KEY PEOPLE
LENA ZACHOPOULOU, my trusted associate
VENIA PAPATHANASOPOULOU, an extremely competent, strong, and tough lawyer who headed the President’s office and helped me immensely
NIKOS THEMELIS, ILIAS KOUTROUMPIS, EFSTATHIOS RONTOGIANNIS, GEORGE KOURTIS, and ELENI FOTI, the judges who oversaw our financial operations
NICOLAOS PAPADIMITRIOU, VASSILIS KOTSOVILIS, DIMITRIS FILIS, ILIAS THEODORATOS, KOSTAS CHOROMIDIS, VASSILIKI SAMPANI, and VICKY SOULTANIA, all excellent lawyers and legal experts
“BIG” GEORGE BOLOS, head of marketing and sponsorship
DIMITRIS TZIRAS, head of volunteers
MAJOR-GENERAL VASSILIOS KONSTANTINIDIS, head of security
THANASSIS PAPAGEORGIOU, head of human resources
DIMITRIS BEIS, head of information technology
DIONYSSIS GANGAS, head of international relations, and liaison for IOC relations
SERAFIM KOTROTSOS, head of the press and other media
MICHALIS ZACHARATOS, head of communications
SPYROS LAMPRIDIS, a consummate diplomat
THANASSIS KATARTZIS, an expert on local authorities
MAKIS ASIMAKOPOULOS, our sports director
PANAGIOTIS PROTOPSALTIS, an expert on transport
EFHARIS SKARVELI, who led our operating team at the main operations center
(OBVIOUSLY THERE ARE COUNTLESS OTHERS, MANY OF WHOM I INTEND TO MENTION IN MY GREEK EDITION OF THIS BOOK.)
When European Commissioner for Regional Policy Michel Barnier assessed ATHOC’s human-resources strategy, combining working experience from both the private and the public sector, he wondered how Greece’s course might change after the Games should this practice be followed in the future. His admiration fell on the deaf ears of the ruling class. But one of the things that gives me great pride and pleases me the most in the aftermath of the Games is that hundreds of ATHOC’s managers have continued their careers in very important positions in Greece and abroad.
Since critics in the government couldn’t complain about the volunteers, they complained instead that my staff were overpaid, that they were “Gianna’s army.” Those critics didn’t seem to care that these talented people had left successful careers in the public and private sectors to devote two, three, or four years in service to their country. All were working punitively long hours while sacrificing all kinds of perks, not to mention precious time with their families. Nobody was striking it rich working for ATHOC, but I felt an obligation to make sure that, at the very least, these people—these patriots—weren’t punished financially for their commitment to their country.
Nevertheless, many key Ministers and government officials were great allies for the cause of the Games.
KEY MINISTERS AND GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS
KOSTAS LALIOTIS, Minister for Public Works and the Environment, who was succeeded by VASSO PAPANDREOU
PETROS EFTHIMIOU, Minister for Education
MICHALIS CHRISOCHOIDIS, Minister for Public Order
GIORGOS ALOGOSKOUFIS, Minister for Economy and Finance
YIANNIS SGOUROS, Secretary General for Sports
YIANNIS KOURAKIS, Undersecretary for Culture and Sports
KOSTAS KARTALIS, Secretary General for the Olympics of the Ministry of Culture
YIANNIS PRAGIATIS, Ministry for Culture
TILDA KYRIAKOU, Ministry for Public Works
The battle over our new headquarters was a microcosm of the ordeal that accompanied every measure of progress. I had located an old factory in an underdeveloped middle-class section of Athens, Nea Ionia, that was perfect for our operation and could house our entire staff, even at its Games-time peak. The relocation provided an enormous boost to the local economy. I approved the use of Greek eco-friendly materials, creating an attractive, open, worker-friendly environment. After all, this was where we would spend the next three years and where we would welcome the IOC and other VIPs who came to check out the progress of our Athens operation.
I wanted our headquarters to be a showcase that would reflect the beauty of Greece and its people and that would signify the promise of the Olympics on our horizon. But my honeymoon with the press was over and it mocked me as “the empress who thinks it’s her own house.” It was Greece’s house. But only a fool would believe that you could produce state-of-the-art Games without building on a foundation that reflected the same high quality.
I never hid behind an official spokesperson. That wasn’t because of vanity or ego or any desire to see my face in the newspapers or on TV. The Greek people deserved to hear the news—quite often, tough news—straight from me undiluted. The Olympics were my team’s responsibility and I was willing to stand up publicly and be held accountable. Whenever I was out on the street walking, people would wave and shout out, “Gianna, are we going to do it?” or “Are we going to manage on time?” It was almost always “we”; the public understood that I was on their side and that this was a collective effort.
When I took over as President of ATHOC, a sense of hopelessness was in the air. There was a huge reservoir of self-doubt: Were we in Greece really capable of pulling this off? Greeks of all stripes worried that maybe we just weren’t good enough. I was out there alone reassuring the public that we were indeed good enough and that it was okay to have hope for our future. It was important that I deliver that positive message personally because later, as the Games approached, I would call on the public to assume more of the burden of justifying that hope. But with hope came responsibility, I would tell them.
For the duration of the Games, our people, so set in their ways, woul
d have to forget about how they preferred to lead their lives and do what was best for Athens. Forget about driving whenever and wherever you want; take the bus instead. Forget about smoking in public places. In the spirit of philoxenia, our deep-rooted Greek hospitality, be courteous and smile at people as if they were guests in your home. Be honest; if you find a lost credit card, locate the person—even if you have to pay for the call. Treat visitors as if they are family.
From start to finish, we needed to show the world an appealing country with a new ethos, a new way of working, behaving, and thinking. If we could successfully rebrand our country, we could transform the lives of the Greek people—not just for the duration of the Games but for the future as well. We had to change the image of Greece from Greek gridlock to Greece on the move.
In some ways, it was reminiscent of the days when I held political office and was willing to talk to anyone and everyone. As Olympic President, I did the same. My team and I went to countless meetings. We visited ministries, NGOs, local and district authorities, educational institutions, commercial and industrial associations, environmental organizations, animal protection societies, the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, and many more. We briefed everyone on the progress we were making and how new roads, transportation infrastructure, and sports facilities would improve all our lives in the future. We explained how they could become involved in the Olympics and how all their lives, regardless of whether they chose to get involved or not, would have to change during the Games.
My Greek Drama: Life, Love, and One Woman's Olympic Effort to Bring Glory to Her Country Page 21
