But the Mellon Professor, Margie Miles, also turned our attention toward the east architrave, where today the visitor can see several large dowel cuttings under the metopes as well as numerous small, closely grouped cuttings under a majority of the triglyphs. The large cuttings once held decorative shields, while the small ones held bronze letters, an honorary inscription to the Roman emperor Nero. In antiquity this was the only inscription to grace the marble of Athens’ most famous monument. It was not on the Parthenon for long: the bronze letters were removed after Nero’s death and damnatio memoriae in 68AD, leaving only the small cuttings.

The cuttings are under the triglyphs. 

The inscription reconstructed (K. Carroll)

It reads: The Council of the Areopagus and the Council of the 600 and the Athenian People to the Great Emperor Nero Caesar Claudius Augustus Germanicus, son of god, when Tiberius Claudius Novius son of Philinos is acting as general over the hoplites for the eighth time and while he is epimeletes and nomothetes and while Paullina daughter of Capito is priestess of Athena.

The inscription likely dates to 61/62 AD and its precise purpose is debated. Some have argued that it speaks to the dedication of a statue in Nero’s honor, one which would have been placed in front of the Parthenon. Others have argued that the inscription served as a means of rededicating the temple to Nero himself. But these explanations fall short. The form of the inscription (its language and grammar—esp. the cases used) make it clear that it’s an honorific inscription. Kevin Carroll ably argues this point in his The Parthenon Inscription, GRBS monographs no. 9, 1982. The Athenian institutions and people mentioned back this up. The two councils and the people were, in the Roman period, the main organs of government in Athens collectively. Novius had responsibility for conferring honors and supervising monuments in his role as epimeletes and general of the hoplites, while Paullina is mentioned for the obvious reason that she is priestess of Athena and the inscription is placed on the Parthenon.

The man who deciphered this inscription was named Eugene P. Andrews and he did so in 1896 (Sterling Dow deciphered the last few words some seventy years later). It was no easy task. He had to secure a bosun’s chair in front of the architrave to work. Here he is at work (Carroll, p. 3):

Andrews had just finished his undergraduate degree at Cornell when he did this

He was not impressed with the results. In a letter to his sister, he wrote:

“The inscription proved to be a dedication to Nero, whereat I’m much disgusted…But the holes remained, and at last they have told to our inquisitive century the story of how a proud people, grown servile, did a shameful thing, and were sorry afterward.” (Carroll, p. 7).

Anastasioupolis was located along the Via Egnatia and perhaps took its name from the emperor Anastasius (r. 491-518). It was positioned on the north shore of lake Vistonis (between Xanthi and Komotini today), which is today some distance away because of the accumulation of silt from the nearby river. The city was destroyed in the early 13^th century but subsequently rebuilt under Andronikos III (1328-41). Most of the extant remains date to this phase, though previous phases are relatively easy to discern, too.

The site today sits within a jungle (basically). The Byzantine circuit is discernable though and you can follow a path around the city’s walls relatively easily. The south gate, which fronted the harbor directly in the late middle ages, is particularly well preserved (for now). Monograms of the Palaiologoi survive on each side of the gate. Lake Vistonis provided Anastasioupolis with a good natural harbor, which itself was fortified at the entrance to the lake, at modern Lagos (remains are visible here, too).

No archaeological work has been conducted at this site, which is not surprising given the extraordinarily thick vegetation that has taken root throughout the entire area. This vegetation is a direct threat to the survival of the site today, and it seems clear that a program of conservation is needed if the remains of Anastasioupolis are to be preserved in any meaningful way. The pictures below illustrate the extent of the damage already done and the site’s dismal future if no action is taken.

The site from the entrance

The site today is mainly a hunting ground

The modern jungle, which is slowly eating the site

The south gate, with monograms of the Palaiologoi on each side of the gate

The same (fragile) tower from another angle

Another of the city's gates

One such way station may be found at Apollonia, which is located some 60km east of Thessaloniki and mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles. Today it is a small village, with no more than a couple dozen homes clustered around a few serpentine roads. At the end of the village one can find the remains of a reasonably well preserved Ottoman hammam, a partially preserved mosque, and, perhaps, a khan (an inn, or caravanserai). The architecture is typical for a hammam of this type: three rooms arranged in a row along a central axis (a changing room, warm room, and then the hot room). A barrel vaulted cistern sits behind the hot room and was heated directly by a furnace below. The interface between the two was certainly a domed copper boiler, which was shaped as such in order to increase the surface contact between the water and heated copper (much like the Roman testudo). Beyond this, stretching out beneath the baths’ heated spaces, is a standard hypocaust system. A river runs nearby so supplying the bath with water was presumably easy enough. This bath was part of a complex that catered to travelers along the Via Egnatia in Ottoman times. Weary from their long journey, travelers could spend an evening at the inn (the khan), take a bath, get a bite to eat, and tend to their religious needs at the mosque, if need be.

The interior of the hot room

The cistern, with space for copper boiler in the foreground

The mosque, without its original dome

The site also contains a monument to St. Paul, and the locals have identified the rock where he supposedly preached.

By the 19^th century, Finland had been ruled by the Swedish monarchy for some time, and in 1809 the country was turned over to the Russian Czars. Understandably, Finland was between worlds culturally at this time. The sauna emerged as one of the few institutions Finnish nationalists could identify as distinctly Finnish, in their view.  So it became a focal point around which the nationalist movement coalesced and built an imagined community. Of course, to pursue this narrative the nationalists ignored an array of evidence that contradicted it (e.g., the parallels and common traditions of the Russian banya, or the questionable nature of the earliest source material, such as the Kalevala).

Today the sauna is keyed into Finnish identity and society in important ways. The (ideal) concept of Finnish identity has an egalitarian emphasis and a strong connection to nature. The sauna works here in totality. In the sauna all are equal and without rank. Nudity is a means of breaking down social barriers by removing all evidence of one’s rank. Finnish identity also means individualism, self-reliance and sometimes isolation. This ideal is expressed through a forest/nature discourse, in which the ideal is a cottage in the woods, next to a lake, with a sauna, and the requisite supplies to live. Here the Finn lives alongside and is integrated with rugged nature, even defined by it, as free and equal. The sauna as a building also aligns with the Finnish ideal of a rustic individual connected intimately with the forest: it is made of natural materials only, wood, stones and water, and it smells of nature when the birch is released into the air, or the logs become well-used. For this reason, there is some debate about what constitutes a “real” sauna in Finland. Many prefer the old, traditional, wood-fired models, set in a forest environment to the urban, electrically heated versions.  Of course, this ideal is at odds with modern, urban, industrial society, but it is an ideal after all.

The fate of the Ottoman hammam was much different. In an engaging article, N. Cichocki demonstrates how a single local institution, the Cemberlitas hammam, (built in the 16^th century) was affected by the modernization campaigns in the 19^th and 20^th centuries, specifically the Tanzimat reforms and then Ataturk’s program. She succeeds in tracing the evolution of this bath from a functional, necessary public space in an Ottoman neighborhood (mahalle) to a modern tourist attraction, the main reason for its survival and the new locus of its meaning today. It’s one of the three hammams in Istanbul commonly recommended to tourists today (the other two are: Cagaloglu, close to Sultanahmet, and Galatasaray in Beyoglu).

Cemberlitas Hammam

Hammams performed a variety of functions in Ottoman society from the 16^th until the 19^th century. They catered to the basic hygienic needs of neighborhood residents, their first and most important function; Muslims performed ritual ablutions in them on Thursday evenings and Friday mornings before mosque; certain rites of passage occurred in their halls (connected to marriage, birth, conversion to Islam, etc.); and they were important public spaces in the Ottoman city, especially for women. Typically, a hammam was a central feature of the mahalle, which centered on the local mosque (or church), a small plaza, school, and bath. Usually some 100-150 wooden houses clustered around these public buildings, which were made of stone. Some hammams gave their name to entire neighborhoods, and by 1768 so many had been built that Sultan Mustafa III (1757-74) forbid the construction of anymore, since they were consuming too much of the city’s water supply. Baths were most often established within a waqf, a religious charitable endowment. The profits from baths were used to support mosques, schools, and other institutions. The Cemberlitas hammam’s profits helped maintain a mosque complex in Üsküdar (across the Bosphorus), which consisted of schools (primary and secondary), a hospital, tekke (convent), and inn. This facility was built in the 16^th century, too.

But all of this unraveled over the course of the late 19^th and early 20^th century. The 1866 Road Commission, e.g., resulted in the partial demolition of the women’s changing room in the bath and therefore the closure of the women’s baths for several decades. The head of this commission had visited Paris and wanted to remake Istanbul is that city’s western image. He wanted broad, straight streets. As a result of the Cemberlitas hammam’s place in the heart of the Old City, many of the old properties and buildings in the original mahalle were demolished to provide proper space for the new road program. It was also at this time that new public spaces were built: theaters, public parks, cinemas. The baths of the city now had new competition, as these social spaces drew crowds of their own.

But it was Atatürk’s program of westernization, secularization, and nationalism that spelled the end for a majority of the city’s hammams. Modernity meant the construction of modern apartment blocks, complete with modern bathrooms, which deprived the baths of their central hygienic function; secularization meant the end of the old way for the religious endowments, which were placed under new, ministerial control. The income generating institutions, like hammams, faired poorly, and were often sold off to private interests. New social spaces (those mentioned above, but also other state-sponsored institutions) deprived the bath of its traditional social function; and, finally, the nationalist program meant that the hammam was not fit for the Republican Turkey of the future. It symbolized the Ottoman, Oriental past, something which the leaders of the incipient republic were eager to leave behind. By 1939, only some 20-25 hammams were in operation in the city, and most of these were in very bad shape.

Today hammams are supported largely, and in some cases entirely, by external and internal tourism. In fact, Cichocki argues convincingly that the advent of tourism saved Istanbul’s few remaining hammams in the 20^th century. She interviewed the management and staff of the Cemeberlitas hammam, who claimed that without tourists their entire operation would fold and all baths in Istanbul would be closed today. Of course, to the western tourist the hammam has become the quintessential “eastern” or “oriental” experience, something viewed as authentic and necessary when visiting Istanbul and Turkey, despite the fact that very few Turks have ever set foot in one (as Cichocki notes). She also mentions the “internal” tourism of some Istanbullers today—those who use the hammam as a means to connect with their own cultural legacy, heritage and history.

This situation is in marked contrast to that which prevails in Finland, where the sauna’s place in Finnish national identity has secured a firm place for it in today’s society and culture.

Bibliography

L.M. Edelsward, Sauna as Symbol: Society and Culture in Finland, NY, 1991.

C.M. Sutyla, The Finnish Sauna in Manitoba, Canadian Centre for Folklore Studies no. 24, Ottawa, 1977.

Cichocki, N. 2005. “Continuity and Change in Turkish Bathing Culture in Istanbul: The Life Story of the Çemberlitas Hamam.” Turkish Studies 6.1: 93-112.

http://www.cemberlitashamami.com/

The Yeni hammam on Rhodes is still in use and one can bathe there in a traditional manner, with attendants, massage, etc. The Yeni mosque complex in Komotini appeared to me to contain a hammam, though it was closed at the time so I cannot be certain. But this is quite rare (one is also in use in Patras). Most are in a state of decay, or are being reused for different purposes (and most can certainly be classified as endangered monuments). The Komninon St. baths in Thessaloniki are fenced off and inaccessible to the public, while the Bey Hammam is the setting for an art gallery, in connection with the city’s Third Biennale of Contemporary Art. Another hosts a series of small shops on its exterior and offices inside. In Kavala one is a restaurant, called Sousouro, where my wife and I ate one night. We had no idea it was a bath, since the exterior is now covered by a bland wooden facing. But the interior made it obvious that we were inside an old hammam (19^th century according to our waiter).

Just outside Traianoupoli, off the old national road near the Turkish border, an old hammam complex is being reused to service a modern thermal spa connected to the site’s hot springs, which are officially recognized by the Greek state. The hammam was built for this purpose originally, so it’s interesting to see it used, in some sense, in its old capacity. Today the facility offers a variety of services. Two wings of bathing suites provide “hydro-massage” therapy and regular pools, all of which are connected directly to the thermal waters. There are single rooms or doubles and each contains wooden sandals, seemingly for nostalgia more than anything else. A doctor is available on certain days, and the spa operates a hotel, too.

The Ottoman hammam is behind the modern spa complex and aids the modern water supply system. Today one of the old rooms in the hammam is used as a cistern. During the Ottoman period this room almost certainly connected directly to the spring itself, since it is closest to it.  But today the modern health spa runs its piping through it to tap the spring. Some of this water is sent back into the hammam, where it sits and cools, and so allows bathers to tap colder water that is still spring water. The rest comes directly from the sulfurous spring situated behind the bath. There is an “exhaust” tube further one, disposing of excessive water into a little creek. Next to all of this sits a church and attached directly to the hammam is a small chapel. In sum, the complex provides healthcare through its thermal waters/baths, aided by the professional care offered by a doctor (who very well may “prescribe” particular hydrotherapy sessions) and supplemented by a religious facility. The continuity here is really remarkable.  One could find sites just like this across the Roman world (e.g., Hammat Gader, Baiae) which offered the same services (in an admittedly different architectural context) within a very similar cultural framework.

For the Ottoman architecture of Greece, see E. Brouskari, et. al. Ottoman Architecture in Greece, 2008.

For thermal baths in antiquity, see E. Dvorjetski, Leisure, Pleasure and Healing: Spa Culture and Medicine the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean, 2007.

The hammam today

Water supply I, inside the hammam

Water supply II

Water supply III

One of the bathing wings, with blue pipes

The small chapel attached to the hammam

A bathing suite in the hydro-massage wing. Wooden sandals to the right.

As a result of 20^th century events, Thessaloniki’s Jewish past is quite difficult to see in the modern city (at least compared to other historical periods). The great fire of 1917 destroyed a majority of the Jewish neighborhood.

The area was subsequently redesigned by a French architect, while the Jews who had lived there moved to the suburbs. The large Jewish cemetery—which contained hundreds of thousands of graves—was destroyed by the Nazis during WWII, and its gravestones were pillaged and used as building materials at the time. Today the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki sits atop the former site. Still, some architecture does survive (e.g., the Stein Mansion), while several of the city’s museums offer the visitor information on this important community. The Jewish Museum of Thessaloniki is the ideal place to start for a complete overview of the city’s Jewish community, from its origins to its destruction during WWII. The room that details the Nazi occupation and the fate of the community in Germany’s death camps is particularly moving. The room contains personal items and also a book dedicated to the children killed in the Holocaust, most of whom were gassed immediately upon their arrival at Birkenau. At present, too, the Archaeological Museum has an exhibit devoted to Thessaloniki’s Jewish population (through next summer), which presents information on Jewish neighborhoods, professions, houses, synagogues, clothing, food and more. There aren’t too many objects on display, but it’s quite informative. Finally, the White Tower, which is today a museum devoted to the history of the city, incorporates the history of the Sephardic Jewish community.

For more information, see Mazower, Salonica: City of Ghosts and his book Inside Hitler’s Greece, which details the implementation of the “final solution” here.

Ladino is experiencing something of a revival among musicians, one of whom I had a chance to see perform a couple of weeks ago, Yasmin Levy. Her music combines traditional Ladino songs with Flamenco and a variety of Middle Eastern elements. Below is her version of one of the most traditional Ladino songs, Adio Kerida.

Some of Thessaloniki’s cultural strength certainly comes from its music scene. Some songs below.

Tsitsanis, Omorfi Thessaloniki (Beautiful Thessaloniki)

Dimitris Mitropanos, Ta Ladadika (music by Marios Tokas and lyrics by Filippos Grapsas; Ladadika is a neighborhood by the port in Thessaloniki. Today it’s quite fashionable, but it wasn’t always so)

Dionysis Savvopoulos, Gennithika sti Saloniki (I was born in Thessaloniki)

Some pics of the landscape:

Plateia Navarinou. The palace of Galerius is in the foreground and the Rotunda (St. George) in the distance

The Rotunda, with Thessaloniki’s only remaining minaret 

A wash basin in the Bey Hammam, which is currently being used in connection with the city’s 3rd Biennale of Contemporary Art

A tower on the city’s eastern wall, with a cross

The entrance to Eptapyrgio, with the inscription above the door

Restored homes, Ano Poli

Ayios Demetrios on the last day of the saint’s festival (Nov. 2). Here a woman kisses the reliquary that holds the saint’s relics. His relics were returned via a formal procession to their normal resting place in the north aisle of the church on this evening. The church was bursting with people for this event, and the news media were on hand to film it. 

The house on Ap. Paulou

The house itself is in good shape and is certainly well maintained. One enters through the basement where a large bust of Ataturk greets you:

This floor is full of pictures of Ataturk with leaders from around the world: EleftheriosVenizelos, King Abdullah of Jordan, Shah Reza Pahlavi I, and many others, but also at important moments in Turkish history (e.g., the first parliament in Ankara in 1920, the introduction of the Latin alphabet). There are also some newspaper clippings from Turkish papers–stories about the important state visits of Venizelos in 1930 and I. Metaxas in 1937.

Ataturk introducing the new alphabet

Venizelos and Ataturk, 1930

The two upper floors were the living quarters and are currently furnished with replacement furniture from Turkey (a Greek family lived in the house for a time and the originals are lost). Some of his formal attire is on display here, alongside his walking stick, worry beads, a couple of pipes, and some hats (all of which are from his later life, which the pictures make clear). The house had a personal “hammam,” too:

On the whole, I found the visit disappointing. I had hoped to learn something about Mustafa Kemal–the child and young man who grew up in this house. Instead, I found a monument to Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey. Perhaps part of the reason the house is arranged as such is simply that it is difficult to reconstruct his early years historically or I’m not the intended audience (certainly possible given the nationalities listed in the guest book). But I had in mind my long experience in Virginia, where homes of US presidents abound and one learns quite a bit about their personal lives (good, bad, and everything in between) through the tours and information posted around the sites (e.g., Monticello, Ash-Lawn Highland, and Mount Vernon). Knowledgeable guides also matter, and ours was nothing of the sort. She’s an employee of the embassy, and while she was nice, she obviously didn’t know much about Ataturk or modern Greco-Turkish history (e.g., she had no knowledge of the Istanbul pogrom of 1955 and the house’s role in it). Then again, it was free. And the context is simply so different, and I suppose it was foolish to think it would be anything other than this. The house is within an embassy compound, and this is the Balkans, after all–a place where things are not always as they seem. So, by all means go if you want to meet Ataturk, but don’t expect to meet Mustafa Kemal along the way.

New finds from the Sanctuary of Artemis at Brauron.

News from Jamestown (VA): the colony’s sizable church has been found.

Some good news for Pompeii.

Less so for Greece: on the crisis and the management of the country’s cultural assets.

The end of academic asylum in Greece.

Mer-kozy and the banks have agreed to restructure Greek debt, recapitalize Europe’s bank, and expand the continent’s bailout fund.

But nothing in these calculations looks good for Greece in the medium term.

Song of the week: The Zeimbekiko of Evdokia by Manos Loïzos (from the movie, Evdokia, 1971)

I’m hitting the road Monday (with my lovely wife), so stay tuned for posts from northern Greece.

The concert and international tour complement the musical documentary film made by Roy Sher during 2009-10 (not yet available, but you can sign up to receive notice when it is). During the concert clips from this film played in the background—scenes from late Ottoman Constantinople, Salonica, Smyrna, and also some of Athens, but also an interview with Eskenazi in mid 70s. The concert itself was amazing. The group consisted of three singers: Yasmin Levy (Israel), Mehtap Demir (Turkey), and Martha Frintzila (Greece). Throughout the show, Demir and Frintzila exchanged verses in Greek and Turkish, while Levy sang a few songs solo in Ladino. Each had her own style. Demir sang some very haunting amanedes (gazeler in Turkish), while Frintzila brought several of Eskenazi’s most well known songs to life with her exuberant performance. The instrumentation was more Smyrneïka than Piraeus rebetika. Several (apparently) well known international musicians (from Greece and Turkey) played oud, kanoni, violin, guitar, clarinet, drums, and a bouzouki. The violinist was given the lead on many songs (while the bouzouki took the back seat, largely), while the kanoni player (who also played oud) performed several memorable taximia.

The theater was full of people of all ages—young, old and everything in between. And everyone knew the words. Even when Demir sang a song in Turkish, you could hear (and see) Greeks singing along in Greek. One of the more memorable moments of the evening took place when a Greek man walked up on stage to dance a zeimbekiko. At first, the theater techies put the spotlight on him and let him have his moment. But he didn’t leave, so they took the lights away and focused them on the singer (Frintzila). This was useless. He simply danced his way over to her and continued until the song ended. When a man needs to dance zeimbekiko, this is how it goes.

What really made this concert for me, though, was the multicultural approach (an express goal of the musicians). Although I’ve spent a lot of time listening to rebetiko since I moved to Greece last year, I’d never heard it like this live–never in Turkish, nor with such diverse (smyrneïka style) instrumentation (and, in fact, I’d never heard Ladino spoken before). It’s a perfect reflection of Roza’s life, her social background, and, in fact, the background of this entire style of music (rebetika and Smyrneïka), which is to be found in the multicultural late Ottoman world (though we should not downplay the local social roots of Piraeus-based rebetika).

But enough. Some of Roza’s music for you.

Eimai Prezakias, 1934 (I’m a junkie):

Horepse Mou Tsifteteli, unknown date (Dance a tsifteteli for me–aptly illustrated in this video):

Το Καναρίνι, 1934 (My Sweet Canary):

Hariklaki (from the 70s interview):

Finally, an amanes. Ousak is an old Turkish makam/rebetiko road: