December 31, 2024
Dear Mr. Hanks,
Almost five years ago, as my plane taxied toward the runway at John F. Kennedy International Airport, I received a push notification on my iPhone: President Trump set to address the nation from Oval Office. Then, a few minutes later, my plane took off, bound for Vienna, on my way to Athens for a much-needed vacation. I turned my phone on Airplane Mode, since the flight didn’t offer wifi, and tried (but failed) to catch some sleep.
Eight hours later, we landed in Austria. As we taxied toward our gate I turned my phone off Airplane Mode and connected to international data.
Quickly, I started to receive push notifications in rapid success.
. . . WHO declares global pandemic … NBA cancels its season … Tom Hanks has coronavirus … “This seems bad,” I thought.
Before I could begin to process this sudden series of serious developments, the pilot took to the intercom, and addressed the full plane:
Ladies and gentlemen, over night we received word from the United States that the president announced a complete ban to-and-from Europe, effective Friday, in an address last night. If you need to return to the U.S. please make arrangements at the ticket counter immediately.
The message was then repeated in Austrian, I assume for effect, at which point I started receiving text messages sent by friends and family overnight.
It was the morning of March 12, 2020 and the world I landed in was entirely unrecognizable, foreign in ways I could never have imagined. But, after calling the American Embassy in Athens, and learning that Americans were exempt from the travel ban, my friend and I decided (perhaps ignorantly, in a way only possible by Americans) to continue on with our trip, connect to Athens, and weather the first few weeks of this thing in Greece, rather than returning home.
Somehow, this decision didn’t backfire.
On the train ride to our first night’s accommodations, there were small-but-noticeable signs of the rapid change in reality we were all experiencing: first, the presence of masks. Second, the occasional reference to “coronavirus” in the otherwise indecipherable conversations between the Greek passangers aboard. Ignorance is bliss.
That night, my friend and I watched the sun set from the Acropolis, drinking Alphas, trying to understand the world we were now in. Then, we made our way to a wine tasting, booked through AirBnb, marketed as “The Symposium.” Upon arriving at the wine bar, we were greeted by Nektarios, the host and owner of the bar, who shared with us our first glass of wine of the night and of the history of his historic venue and cellar. We stayed in the cellar for The Symposium, as other guests started to arrive.
The first to arrive, besides us, was a soldier stationed out of Virginia, abroad for an extended stint. Then, a few locals – Nektarios’ friends, who had the fortune to attend The Symposium every week. And, finally, a couple from Ukraine. For the next few hours, perhaps knowing we had all found our way into a Last Supper Situation, we drank and ate and laughed and cried — we agreed and disagreed, and then we drank more, and of course the locals kept giving me more food, and more drink, and another course, and another bottle. We talked, that night, March 12th, 2020, about Trump, and Putin, and Biden, and immigration, and war, and climate change, and wine, and food.
Only twice were we interrupted by reality: first, about an hour in, the soldier, who was my age, about 25 or so, received a phone call from his station commander. “I have to leave,” he told us. “We’re leaving the country.” And so, he left. And so, I drank. Last Supper Situation indeed. Then, a while later, we all received an Emergency Alert. It was entirely in Greek (ignorance is bliss) but Nektarios gave us the news: the entire country was shutting down tomorrow. Last Supper Situation indeed. And so, I drank.
The Ukrainian couple, we came to learn, had worked for the U.N. Secretary General. They were worried about Trump, and Putin, and explained how Ukraine had been attacked in 2014. They enjoyed my Trump impression, which I tend to do when I drink.
The next day, March 13, Nektarios’ intel was confirmed: the country had shut down. So, my friend and I had some Alphas, enjoyed some gyros, and relaxed until our ferry to Santorini. And then we boarded, perhaps ignorantly, in a way only possible by Americans. But, the Embassy had assured us: Americans were exempt from the travel bad. “Shouldn’t you be going home,” one passanger asked us. “Probably,” we said. “But, Americans are exempt.”
Santorini was empty. We had the island to ourselves, shared with a dozen or so equally-ignorant travelers, who hadn’t rushed home, who decided to spend a few more days in paradise before returning to a pandemic. We spent a few days exploring the island, alone, enjoying a priviledge you could never pay for: a touristless Santorini.
Soon, we were back to Athens and then JFK. No cancellations or delays. Americans are exempt, it seems. We landed and deplaned, where we were met by CDC officials in hazmat suits. Our temperature was taken and we were sent on our way. We collected our bags and walked toward the exit. There, we happened upon a janitor who was mopping the floor. He looked up for a moment, looking at my friend and I, and said, confidently: “Welcome back to reality,” before continuing on with his task-at-hand.
In 2023, I travelled back to Athens and attended my second Symposium. I ate, and I drank, and I talked, and I listened, and I laughed, and I remembered what it meant to be part of this thing called humanity. Nektarios saw to that. The good people I shared a meal with saw to that. And so, I suppose I have no other choice by to carry doggedly on.
Thank you for your work and inspiration. Sending all my best to you and your family. Finally, if you would like a copy of Conan O’Brien’s senior thesis from Harvard, Literary Progeria in the Works of Flannery O’Conner and William Faulkner, please let me know — it’s one of the few things I’ve used my academic honorific to acquire.
Godspeed,
Nick Butler
Encl:
– Sometimes Weekly Membership Card
– Business Card