First 5 chapters

We meet our hero and watch him struggle with his new situation.

Prolog

I apologize if any of my references to events or people in the past are unclear.  So much about the past has changed and my own memories are a confused jumble of the old past and the new. 

For example, I find that the name Al Capone no longer means anything to anyone except me (and presumably Alphonse himself, if indeed, he actually existed or exists). 

Nonetheless, I intend to tell the story as it occurred to me at the time, including my memories of the old past (or is it future), so if you find a reference confusing or without meaning, just assume that it meant something to people at one time (or whatever) and try to keep up.

 

                               

 

Chapter 1 �" It’s my birthday!

 

Introduction to the Book of Questionable Facts:

This book is called the Book of Questionable Facts for two reasons:

 One �" Because while much of it (if not most of it) is more or less true, it undoubtedly contains some things that are, if not completely false, at least wildly inaccurate. And;

Two �" Because science demands that we question all assumptions and facts.  If your results disagree with something in this book, check your results, have others check your results, but in the end, accept experimental results over anything you read here.

 

I was in Athens for my 53^rd birthday.  I didn’t particularly want to be in Athens, but I also didn’t have anywhere much better to be.  At 53 I found myself pretty much unattached.  Divorced for 8 years, no kids, an older brother in London, we were close, but not close close. 

I was working as an attorney for a global bank. That’s why I was in Athens.  As part of a team trying to negotiate the soft crash of the Greek economy. 

I didn’t particularly feel bad about my lack of connection.  But I will admit that on the morning of my 53^rd birthday, waking up in my hotel room, I felt like something was lacking, and I needed to do something to celebrate. 

I wasn’t really an important part of the team.  My specialty was tax law (It’s more interesting than it sounds), and US tax implications would only play a minor role in the eventual deal.  I really think I was there only because I spoke some Greek (thanks Grandma!). Not that the team needed a translator (not that my Greek was good enough to be a translator), all the Greek bankers and government officials spoke English.  I was really there just to trot out and show that we weren’t all barbarians.

“Have you met Robert?  He’s one of our attorneys, he speaks Greek!”

I would butcher a few words in my American accented Greek, and the big boys would get on with the real business of butchering the Greek economy and protecting the interests of the funds, be they of the hedge or mutual variety.  

My Greek wasn’t actually that bad.  It was what you might call conversational, if the conversation was light and mostly about how much things cost or what’s on the menu.  Like a lot of people with a second language, I understood more than I could talk.  When I was younger, I was actually pretty good (thanks Grandma!).  She taught me Greek herself, mostly by refusing to speak English to me, even though I know she spoke perfectly fine English.  “So you can talk to your Greek cousins when they come to visit”.  They never came. 

So, after the day’s meetings finished, instead of taking the car service back to the hotel with the others, I hailed a cab. 

“Where to?”

“I don’t know exactly.” I managed in my rusty Greek.  “I’m looking for a place to have a nice dinner, something away from the tourists.  What do you recommend?”

In the mirror, I could see him looking at me, in the mirror.  I could feel him evaluating me, how much was I good for?  My poor Greek marked me out as a foreigner, my nice suit (just what all the bank lawyers wear when meeting with the Finance Minister of a major (if economically troubled, especially if economically troubled) country, marked me out as a potential mark. 

“You OK with a little ride? I know a great place, authentic, fantastic seafood, but it’s a ways outside the city.  About a half hour.  You’ll love it!”

I could feel him taking advantage of me, and normally I wouldn’t let him, but I was in this weird mood, so… “Sure, half an hour is fine.  Where’s it at?”

“Little place just outside the city, you probably haven’t heard of it.  It’s just what you’re looking for, away from the tourists, authentic, and seafood so fresh it gets off the plate and tries to go back to the sea.  There’s a nice patio with a sea view, you can have a drink and watch the fishing boats come in.  Nice place you’ll like it.  Tell you what, if you don’t like it �" the cab ride is free.  Both ways.  I’ve got some friends nearby, I’ll wait for you and drive you back.  Deal?”

Sounds like he just wants me to pay for his trip to visit friends, but whatever.  “Deal”

We start to drive and he starts talking.  Really talking.  He will not shut up.  I quickly learn that he doesn’t need any response from me, so I just let him drone.  The traffic is terrible and the promised half hour is up almost before the ministry is out of sight.  Eventually, we're out of the city and the roads start to clear up.  We are driving along the sea for a while and I watch the waves and the boats.  Thinking my thoughts while the driver keeps talking.  It’s late June so the sun is still up and the ocean is beautiful and hypnotic.  

After we’ve been on the road for about an hour, the pattern of his talking changes in a way that breaks through my haze. 

“Almost there he says.  This area is part of Megara, my family’s lived in Megara for as long as any.  Hundreds, maybe thousands of years.  The records only go back so far, but as far back as they go, we’re there!  We still have a small farm outside the city.  I live in Athens now, it’s a great scandal.  I’ll move back one day.  But, it’s a small city, it doesn’t have the kinds of opportunity Athens has.  My great-grandfather tells me that Megara was once a great city, that we once ruled Athens and Sparta both.  The historians don’t say that, the archaeologists don’t say that, but in my family we tell the legend of the time when Megara was the greatest city in all of Greece.  He tells me this when I’m leaving for Athens, he tells me I should stay in Megara.  But, I say, ‘But now, Megara isn’t so great.’ So, he hits me on the back of the head.  It doesn’t hurt, he’s old. But still!  I’m a grown man, he shouldn’t hit me.”

I start to tune out again, when he announces, “Here we are!  This restaurant is run by my cousin, and before that by my uncle and before him by my grandfather, on the other side, not the hitting side.  As long back as anyone can remember.  I’ll go in with you and introduce you around.  I promise you’ll like it.  What’s your name again?

“Robert, Robert Kakos”

“Hey” He shouts “Are you Greek?  Kakos is a Greek name!”

“On my father’s side.”

“Come on!  They are going to love you!  They don’t get a lot of Americans, and hardly any Americans who are Greek and speak Greek!”

The place looked ok, it was clearly very old, a little run down, but clean.  As he said, you could see the water from the patio and he led me to an empty table.  There were a few other tables on the patio and a few groups of people.  Everyone was drinking and eating and now, after almost an hour in the cab, I was suddenly very hungry. 

“What do you want to drink?  Beer, wine? Ouzo?” I’ll get it for you and bring you a menu!”

“I’ll have a beer, whatever is good and cold.”

He goes inside and is back a few minutes later with 2 beers and about a hundred people.  He opens a beer and takes a swig, before opening the other for me, then he introduces me to his cousin, his cousin’s wife, kids, mother-in-law, grandmother and various friends.  Everyone is friendly and soon my table is full.  The beer is cold and good.

The driver takes a seat and more beers are called for, then ouzo, wine, food.  The seafood is, in fact, ridiculously good.  I notice the driver drinking and suggest he should take it a little easy since we need to get back to Athens.  “Relax, I’ll stop after this drink.” He says swallowing a shot of ouzo and opening a beer.  “I’ll be fine in a couple of hours.  You Americans are so uptight.”

I figure if he’s too drunk when we leave, I can always call another cab and he can stay with family.

We drink, we eat, we sing and dance.  He has a pretty cousin (or something) who wants to come to America and asks me lots of questions I don’t mind answering.

It slips out that it’s my birthday and more drinks are brought out, more toasting, more music.  Some kind of pastry with a candle.  It is, in fact, a marvelous time. 

Finally, a little past midnight, I remember that tomorrow is a workday and suggest to the driver that we should think about heading back to Athens. 

He is clearly too drunk.  “Tell you what” he slurs “let’s stay here in Megara tonight and head back early in the morning.  We leave here about 6 and I’ll get you back to Athens by 6:30, 6:45.  What do you say?  I’m too drunk to drive all the way back to Athens.  My father’s house is just about 2 miles from here.  We can have a last drink and Dorothea,” he nods at his pretty cousin “can drive us in the cab.”

I can feel myself getting angry, but it slips away.  I look over at Dorothea, she is pretty and she seems relatively sober.  It’s been a great night, just what I needed, so let the party continue! 

“Ok, sounds good.  Will your father mind?”

“He’s dead, but Mom will be happy to meet you and she’s really got no choice about me!”

With plans made, we order another round of drinks, and maybe another after that.  What are birthdays for? 

It’s a little past 1 when Dorothea tells me it’s time to go.  I’m already planning on being sick (and calling in sick) tomorrow. 

I’m a little wobbly on my feet and she helps me to the cab.  She is soft and steady and I enjoy the walk and the cool breeze off the sea. 

The driver is already laid out across the back seat so I take the front passenger seat. 

“It’s just a few minutes up the road” she says. 

I nod and she pulls out onto the roadway.  The driver in back is still talking!  I can’t really understand him, but he keeps going.  Dorothea starts to tell me something about the local history (it must be a family trait).  I’m not really paying attention, maybe I’m nodding off. 

I come to attention as the car slides off the road, maybe it’s a bridge, I’m not sure.  I remember falling and thinking “Anytime you fall in a car it’s a bad thing.”

The last thing I remember, I’m waiting for the impact, but I never feel it.

 

Chapter 2

Photosynthesis �" All food in the world is ultimately created by plants.  Plants convert sunlight and carbon dioxide into simple sugars in cellular organs called chloroplasts.  These were once free living bacteria that now live within plant cells and use a light sensitive chemical, chlorophyll, to convert the power of the sun into food. 

Book of Questionable Facts - 632

 

I wake up in pain.  A lot of pain.  And it’s pitch black.  So black that I think I must be blind.  I don’t think I’ve ever been in this kind of dark.  There’s always some light, everywhere. 

I’m confused at first, then the night starts to come back to me.  I remember the car falling and, I assume, crashing. 

I’m on some kind of bed.  I’m not sure if the bed is just incredibly uncomfortable or if I’m banged and bruised (turns out the bed WAS incredibly uncomfortable �" but I was banged up pretty bad too).   I experimentally move various extremities, nothing moves particularly smoothly, but everything moves, nothing seems broken.

I feel in my pocket for my cell.  Better call the bank team and let them know I’m not coming to the day’s meetings.  The light from the screen is almost blinding.  If I wasn’t blind before I am now.   No signal.  11:31 AM.  Well, I’ll give them a call once we’re back on the road.  I remember suddenly the driver and his cousin.  Where are they, are we in a hospital?

We must not be in a hospital, because I’m not attached to any tubes and there aren’t any machines that go “ping”.  Also no lights.  Plus it really doesn’t smell so good. 

Gingerly, I sit up.  Then I fall back flat again.  If I’m not in a hospital, I should be.  I think as I pass out.  I wake up again.  Still in pain, still in the dark, still wondering where they got this uncomfortable bed.  I check my cell, closing my eyes a bit against the expected glare.  Still no signal, now 2:08 PM. 

I decide to sit up again.  More gingerly this time.  I achieve sitting status with some difficulty and more than a little pain, but once sitting I remain in that position and don’t fall back.  Ok, so I can sit up.  It makes me happier than it should and feels like a real accomplishment.  I swing my legs around and put them on the floor.  Surprisingly, I still have my shoes on. 

Before standing, I decide to look around a bit.  I turn on the flashlight from my cell, not sure why I didn’t think of this before. 

Scanning the room with the light tells me one thing �" definitely not a hospital.  The room is small, not really much larger than I am.  The walls seem to be rough plaster, there is nothing like a square corner.  The floor is raw wood worn smooth with use.  There is some kind of rough door in front of the bed, which the light reveals to be handmade with a rough blanket and what appears to be a straw stuffed thin mattress.  No wonder my back hurts (aside from the car accident). 

So �" a few moments of thinking solves the mystery.  I’m in the farmhouse of the driver’s mother!  The kind of house that must have been in the family for hundreds of years.  They might not even have wired it for electricity, that’s why it’s so dark.  And the smell �" it’s just hundreds of years of living. 

I stand up, or almost stand up and rap my head on the surprisingly low ceiling.   I sit back down and suddenly woozy, I lay back down and, no surprise here, pass out again. 

I wake up again and this time the room is less than completely dark, there is a light coming through the door.  I check my cell, 4:14 PM; still no signal and the battery is low.

Back through the process, sitting, carefully standing, bent over to avoid the ceiling, and really without moving I push open the door.  Light floods my eyes and for a few moments I’m blind.  Then, I duck down and pass through the doorway.  I feel pretty steady. 

I seem to be on a 2^nd floor gallery overlooking a courtyard.  This seems to confirm my guess that I’m at the farm house of the driver’s mother. 

There is a woman down in the courtyard, she looks to be in her late 50’s or early 60’s �" could be the mother �" she is dressed in what, I imagine, must have been the fashion here for thousands of years, a kind of short dress, belted and actual Greek sandals.  It’s like my own personal reenactment museum.  Colonial Williamsburg but with Greeks!

I call down to her “Hello” I say in English, then a second later in Greek. “Where are Dorothea and the cabdriver?” I really have to ask his name.  There is some kind of bond you form with people who have been in a crash with you. 

She looks up at me and seems surprised to see me.  Maybe the driver didn’t mention me?  Without a word, she disappears into one of the doors and returns a few moments later with a man.  Not the driver.  Someone else, also dressed in some odd clothing, also wearing sandals, maybe late 30’s.  He starts to climb the stairs to my floor.  As he is climbing I say to him “Hi, I’m Robert, I was with the cabdriver and Dorothea last night when we had the accident.  Are they ok?  Where are they?  I need to make a phone call and get to Athens as soon as possible.”

He said something I didn’t catch as he rounds the gallery towards me.  When we were face to face he repeated himself (or maybe said something different).  It sounded like Greek, similar sounds and even some words that almost sounded like words I should know, but I couldn’t understand a thing he said.

So, I repeated myself, slowly and pronouncing each word as carefully as I could.  He seemed confused.  But a look of recognition crossed his face at the word Athens.  So, I repeated it.  “Athens.  I need to get to Athens.” Accompanied with the proper hand signals. Finger pointing at my chest at “I” and making some kind of gesture to convey “go”. 

He repeated with a strange accent “Athens”.   Was it possible that the accent was so different that we couldn’t communicate this close to Athens?  The driver and I had done fine, the rest of the family at the restaurant too. 

But I remember meeting a guy from Boston years ago and I could hardly understand him, also a cabdriver in Ireland who had spoken to me for the full 20 minute ride to the airport (what is with these chatty cabdrivers?) and I’d only understood that he was no fan of George Bush.  And all of us had been native English speakers.

 

So, I repeated “Athens” and he repeated “Athens” and finally I think we both realized this was the limit of our communication. 

“Dorothea?” I tried.  But this was met with a blank. “Cabdriver?” Blank. “My friends?”

“Friends” he repeated oddly, but enthusiastically. 

Then he reached out and grabbed the front of my suit jacket.  It was rumpled �" car accident, sleeping in my clothes �" and a little dirty.  He rubbed it between his fingers.  And said …. Something.

“It’s OK, no need to worry.  I have clean clothes at the hotel.  I just need to get to Athens and everything will be fine.”

“Athens” he repeated, not letting go of my jacket.

Before we could get into another round of who’s on first, the woman approached with a clay tumbler.  She held it out to me and I think she said “water?”

I was suddenly wildly thirsty.  I took the tumbler with a thanks and drained it practically in one go. 

Now that I had another audience member I tried again to see if we could communicate. 

“Hi, I’m Robert, I was with Dorothea and the cabdriver last night.  Where are they?  Are they ok?  I need to get to Athens, or at least make a phone call.  My cell can’t get a signal here.  Is there a phone?”

“Athens” they both repeated.  It was almost comic.  Almost. 

Then suddenly I had a bright idea.  I pulled out my cell phone.  They stared.  I put it to my ear and mimed making a phone call.  Nothing.  I turned it on to show them the no signal and as I turned it to them they both jumped back in surprise.  The woman backed away as if it would bite her and the man stared at it as if it was the strangest thing he has ever seen. 

OK, enough of this!  We couldn’t communicate, and I needed to get to Athens.  Neither the cabdriver nor Dorothea were my problem.  They were with family.  Nobody here spoke the kind of Greek I spoke, but nearby there must be somebody who I could talk to who could at least let me make a call! 

I took a step towards the stairs (also towards the woman) �" she let out a small sound and she turned and ran. 

I put away my phone and brushing past the man, I started for the stairs. 

Once downstairs in the courtyard I could see several open rooms and one closed door.  Assuming that to be the front door, I went to it.  There was an odd type of latching system that took me a moment to figure out.  While I was fumbling with the door, the man, still on the gallery above, saw what I was doing and started to shout.  I made out the word “NO!” but nothing else. 

I assumed that he was worried that the cabdriver or Dorothea would come by looking for me, but at the moment, I was more concerned about calling someone on my team to explain my absence and getting back to Athens.  For all I knew, the entire Athens police force was out looking for me.  I was, after all, an “international banker” and we were less than popular in Greece at the moment.  There had been riots.

Besides, the cabdriver and Dorothea had essentially abandoned me.  I really couldn’t waste any more time. 

So, I opened the door and walked into the street outside.  I was so surprised that there was a street and a house across the street and people in the street that I really didn’t look around too closely.  I had thought I was in an old farm house and so, of course, I had expected a farm outside.

Once I looked around a little more, I was even more surprised.  Shocked really.  There were people in the streets, a fair number, and they were all dressed pretty much like the people in the house.  Short belted dresses or robe type things and all with sandals.  In fact, the whole place was like a reenactment museum.  Was there a “Colonial Athens”?

I stopped an old woman with a mule loaded with a large clay jar.  “Excuse me,” I started in my most careful Greek, “I need to get to a phone.  Or a cab back to Athens.  Can you help me?”

“Athens?” she said. 

I think I was about to lose my temper when I felt a hand on my shoulder.  It was the man from inside the house.  He was talking to me fast and clearly he was worried and excited.  He was pulling me back towards the house. 

But, I wasn’t interested in going back to the house.  I wanted to find a phone!  I shook off his hand and started walking down the street.  He followed, but at a short distance. 

I stopped a few more people with no success.  It was crazy.  How could nobody speak Greek this close to Athens, even in a weird rural village where people still used mules (there were a surprising number of mules, more surprising �" was my ability to recognize them as mules.  How the hell did I know what a mule was?).  Was this in fact a reenactment museum?  Were they all acting and unwilling to break character even to help someone in distress? 

I walked, wandering more or less without direction, hoping to reach a paved road or find a telephone or something.  The man from the house followed diligently. 

I came across an open square.  It looked like a marketplace with stalls and tables and people buying and selling.  Hundreds of people.  All dressed in old fashioned clothes.  If this was a reenactment museum it was the best in the world.  And I seemed to be the only visitor. As I thought this I looked behind me. The man from the house was there but so was a fair sized crowd of people.  Apparently following me.  If this was a museum, I, apparently, was the star exhibit.

And then I looked up.  There was the Acropolis.  I’d seen this view, more or less exactly, from near my hotel (which had a lovely view of the Acropolis).  Only the buildings were complete. 

I was rooted in my spot.  While it might have been possible to construct this museum and staff it with these hundreds of actors and construct a copy of the Parthenon and other buildings (there’s a replica in Nashville Tennessee), it would be impossible to build a full size replica of the Acropolis.  I mean, it’s a god damn mountain!   

What was going on?

Let me digress for a moment and talk about dental floss.  Yep, dental floss. 

I once bought a package of dental floss.  My usual kind.  A package of dental floss would usually last me about a month.  Sometimes a little less, sometimes a little more.  This particular brand had a little plastic window build into the container so you could see how much floss was left.  But, for some unknown reason, they made the window dark blue, so you (or at least I) couldn’t actually see how much floss was left.  But all this was normal.  I opened the floss and used it, just like usual, day after day. 

Then one day, I thought, “that’s weird, I’ve been using this floss for a long time now.  More than a month, much more.” So, I started to pay attention, how long would it last?  What if it never ran out?  This went on for months.  I started to think it was a violation of the law against creation of matter and energy. 

Here is the important point: If it was a violation of the laws of physics, even just the never-ending dental floss, it would change everything.  I would have to reevaluate everything I thought I knew.  When faced with undeniable facts that seems to violate the laws of nature, we don’t have any choice but to accept them.  Or else I might have been crazy.

Of course, the dental floss eventually DID run out.  They probably just accidentally spooled extra floss on the spool.  No need to reevaluate anything and my sanity seemed safe.

At least until I found myself at the foot of the Acropolis looking up at a newly constructed Parthenon.

I was in daze. Trying to make sense of the situation.  What were the options? 

1)  I had been in an accident.  It was more than possible I was in a coma or on drugs and this was a dream.  It didn’t feel like a dream, too sequential, nothing changing form or location.  But what did I know?  I had never been in a coma before, maybe coma dreams are different.

 

2)  The ever popular insanity option.  This seemed unlikely.  I had no history of any mental problems.  And if this was a hallucination, it was a very orderly hallucination.  The same reasons it was unlikely to be a dream argued against in being a hallucination. 

In favor of it being a hallucination were my interactions with other people.  They seemed confused by my behavior, they found me odd, and we had difficulty communicating. Kind of what I imagine people in the midst of a psychotic break must experience.  So, crazy?  Maybe.

3)  The dental floss never ends.  This was real.  I was back in time or in a parallel universe.  How?  Who knows?  Everything we think we know is wrong.

Are there other options?  Maybe.  Maybe I was dead and this was some kind of afterlife. I don’t really believe in that kind of thing, but I didn’t believe in THIS kind of thing either.

 

In the end I decided it didn’t matter.  If I was dreaming, I was in the dream and had to live the dream until it ended.  If I was crazy, I was in the crazy and had to live the crazy until it ended. And if I was in a real weird place, I was in a real weird place and had to live in the weird place until it ended. 

 

I’m a lawyer and making pragmatic, what is obtainable, decisions in difficult situations is part of my makeup.

 

But, it made no sense!  How had I gotten here?  If it was some kind of time travel/multiverse hopping thing, aside from the impossible physics, why was I in Athens and not Megara? The last place I had been was Megara.  This argues in favor of the dream/coma/crazy explanations.  I didn’t know Megara well and it might have been easier for my unconscious to imagine ancient Athens (which I also didn’t know well…).  And what about the cabdriver and Dorothea?  This seemed to argue in favor of it being a real experience.  I probably would have brought them with me into a dream/hallucination, at least the pretty Dorothea.  But as I said, it didn’t matter. 

 

Try as I might to remember that the explanation was irrelevant, I never could stop myself from occasionally getting lost trying to figure it out.  It makes no sense.  The dental floss never runs out…

 

After a few minutes, the man from the house (Isodemos, I later found out, was his name) came forward and placed his hand on my elbow and I let him guide me back to the house. 

 

Suddenly my phone sounded!  It’s hard to express my excitement.  I must have wandered into an area with service and (of course) someone from the bank team was trying to call me!

 

I excitedly pulled out my phone, and checked, but no, it was just a calendar reminder.  My brother’s birthday was in a week.  Of course, my calendar alert sounds nothing like my ringtone, but wishful thinking… I started to laugh almost hysterically.

 

Isodemos, who had jumped away at the sound and appearance of the cell, mastered his fear, (I later discovered because he had a greater fear), and gently guided me along the road back.

When we reached the house again, I gave him a weak smile of thanks.  And he again jumped back in fear.

 

Despite my decision to act as if everything I saw was real and not worry about how or why, I basically spent the next few days catatonic.  But each morning when I failed to wake up in my hotel room or a hospital, my decision to accept my situation (for now) became more real.

 

 

Chapter 3

The planets, including the Earth, orbit the sun.  The form of these orbits are ellipses, like the shape of a cross section of an eggshell, longwise (see section on gravity). 

Book of Questionable Facts - 1028

 

They brought me food several times a day.  Some kind of, I can only call it, gruel (please sir, can I have some more?).  Wet and lumpy and relatively flavorless.  Sometimes fruit or rough bread and some kind of fresh cheese.  I had little appetite.  And they otherwise pretty much left me alone.  The woman (her name was Koré) was clearly afraid of me and the man only a little less so.  At first I would give them a smile and thanks for bringing me food or taking away the chamber pot (the less said the better), but my smile never stopped frightening them.  I was confused by this, until I realized, they had never seen anyone with straight white teeth before.  I eventually learned to smile with my lips closed.

 

There were others in the household, I could hear them, but they never entered my little room.

After 3 or 4 days of this, I opened my door and walked out.  It was early in the morning, Koré was in the courtyard doing something and a small boy (maybe 5 or 6) who I hadn’t seen before was playing near her.  I called out to her and when she saw me she ran and got Isodemos.  He came up the stairs and walked to me.

“OK” I said.  “I need to learn to talk.”

 

“Talk” he repeated. 

So, with hand gestures and simple words I got across to him that I was interested in learning the language.  He smiled and seemed happy to help.  He beckoned me downstairs and led me to a large room with tiled floors, 3 beds and a few stools and low tables. 

He motioned me to one of the beds and pulled up a stool and we started on language lessons.  At one point the boy wandered in, but on seeing us (me?) he turned and ran off. 

The language lessons went pretty fast.  He was speaking Greek and I knew Greek, we just spoke different dialects.  The pronunciations were different but not, now that I understood the situation, that different.  Many words seemed to have drifted in meaning but we made good progress. 

Over the next few weeks, I became fairly proficient in the language.  And I learned a lot about my current situation.

I learned that I was in the house of Megakreon a non-citizen resident of Athens.  Megakreon was a merchant, trading primarily in olive oil and cloth.  He was currently away on a trading trip to Greek cities in Asia Minor (I remember from middle school that this means Turkey.  Thanks Ms. Pazler!). Where demand for Athenian olive oil was high and they had access to exotic fabrics from the east. 

I had been found by some men on the beach a few miles from the city center and brought to the house of Megakreon because of my clothing.  The men were right, Megakreon was very interested in me because of my suit.  No one in Athens had ever seen cloth like this (it was a nice suit, the kind international bank lawyers wear to dismantle major economies).  And Megakreon had bought me from the men. 

Isodemos (and also Koré) were slaves of the household.  I also was considered a slave since Megakreon had purchased me. 

I objected that I wasn’t a slave (and using my lawyer logic) and I hadn’t been the property of the men who found me, so, since one can’t sell what he doesn’t own, the sale was void.   

Isodemos replied that I was clearly a foreigner who entered the city illegally and had been sold fairly.  If I could prove that I was a freeman and had entered the city legally, I could be freed.

Of course I couldn’t prove anything of the sort. 

Isodemos pointed out that the punishment for a foreigner entering the city illegally was slavery, so best to stay in the household of Megakreon who wasn’t such a bad master all in all.

Then Isodemos said, of course, if I was a magician or a god or son of a god in disguise, all I would need to do would be to demonstrate my power and I would be set free.

I was about to deny being a god or in any way related to a god, when I remembered the fateful words of Dr. Peter Venkmen in Ghostbusters “Ray, if someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes!”  I didn’t want to say yes and be forced to demonstrate my powers (which were basically limited to my rapidly dying cell phone).  So, I just smiled and nodded.  He jerked back at my smile, as always, and I think took it as a “yes”. 

The other members of the household were Megakreon’s son Philon (the boy I had seen) who was 5, and another slave, a man named Tros.  Tros managed most of Megakreon’s business in the city and was frequently away visiting olive groves to negotiate the purchase of the oil.  Megakreon’s wife, Philon’s mother, had died in childbirth last year and the household was managed by Koré. 

Isodemos was responsible for the tutoring of Philon and general needs of the household, such as carrying water from the well or buying food from the Agora (the marketplace where I had first realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore).

Megakreon was very interested in finding out where he could buy my fabrics.  Megakreon had told Isodemos to get my source and threatened him with a severe beating if he failed (and Megakreon was one of the good slave owners!). 

Isodemos begged me to tell him with genuine fear.  Megakreon should be home within a week and he would be very angry if Isodemos had failed.  Also Megakreon would beat me if I failed to tell him.

I asked him the year and he told me it was the year of Archon Theodorus and about 40 years after the war with Persia.  It meant nothing to me.  He talked for a long while about various important people, but the only name he mentioned that I knew was Pericles.  I remember that he had been king of Athens a long time ago. 

When I asked about how long Pericles had been king, Isodemos told me that Pericles was a general and not king at all and that Athens was a democracy.  Although our owner (OWNER!) wasn’t a citizen and couldn’t participate.  And, of course, neither could we.

This seemed to argue that maybe this was some kind of parallel universe rather than the past, but who knows.  My grasp of ancient Greek history was pretty loose and I do know that it was a democracy. It definitely argued against it being a dream or my being crazy �" because why would I change facts that I knew about the past?  Or maybe that’s how crazy works.   

It was a lot to take in.  And I was shocked and angry to be considered a slave.  But just like I realized that I had no choice but to accept that I was in a different world, I soon realized that I had to live within that world.  My knowledge of the history of slavery in the US told me that any society dependent on slaves would have extensive and harsh systems to ensure rebellious slaves didn’t stay rebellious for long. 

 

Chapter 4

The length of a year is approximately 365.25 days.  To deal with this extra .25 day each year add an extra day to the calendar every 4^th year.  But this is just an approximate measure so, every 125 years skip the extra day.

                Book of Questionable Facts - 84

 

As the days crept by I was consumed with dread.  Megakreon would return any day now and he would expect something from me.  What would I tell him?  I certainly couldn’t tell him that he could buy a nice tailored suit in New York �" with only a 4000 year wait!

I had told Isodemos that I was from across the sea to the west and that in my home cloth like this was available for sale in many locations.  This made him happy, but he wanted to know if I could show them how to get there.  When I told him that my home was many thousands of miles away, he was less happy.

I finally decided to handle Megakreon just like I had handled all requests for information I didn’t want to divulge.  I would stall.  Give out information in dribs and drabs.  Enough to keep him hopeful, but not enough for him to get the full picture.  Who says tax law doesn’t prepare you for real life?

One day, word came that Megakreon would arrive the next day or the day after at the latest.  Apparently his ship had been seen at, Sunium, a nearby port. 

That night I lay awake late into the night on my uncomfortable bed, planning my strategy.  At one point, unable to sleep, I sat up thinking to walk the gallery for some fresh air and to look at the stars (although the air pollution was bad in the city from the constant burning of charcoal and wood, the light pollution was non-existent and the stars were stunning).  As I swung my legs down, I kicked my cell, which I had placed under the bed for, more or less, safekeeping.  It got me thinking.  Isodemos thought I was a god, because of the cell (and my teeth).  I was a modern man, steeped in science and technology.  Was there something I could do to better my position?  Something I knew that would help me? 

I remember as a kid reading Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.  In Twain’s book his modern man was suddenly transported back to 5^th century England and using his modern knowledge was soon running the country. 

Of course, Twain’s hero had all kinds of useful knowledge.  He knew the exact time and date of a solar eclipse (which seems unlikely �" since solar eclipses occur at different times in different locations, so it’s not the kind of thing you can look up in a book.).  He knew how to make matches for fire and how to make a telephone. 

What did I know?  I knew a lot.  I DID know how to make a telephone.  At least I kind of knew.  I knew that it was based on the fact that a current passed through a moving magnetic field would encode the variations in that magnetic field and transmit them to the other end of a circuit and that speakers made of a flexible cone could amplify the sound. 

So, I guessed that given the equipment I could probably develop a working telephone pretty quickly - maybe 3-6 months.  But the right equipment was the problem.  Telephones needed electricity, insulated wire, magnets (or electro magnets?), paper (for a flexible speaker cone) and other things that wouldn’t exist for thousands of years. 

I knew how to generate electricity, by moving something metal through a magnetic field.  But again that would need magnets and wire (insulated wire �" how long until someone invented plastic?).

What else did I know?  I kind of knew the formula for gunpowder.  Sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter (I’d learned this formula from watching Star Trek).  But I had no idea what saltpeter was.  Some kind of white crystal I think.  Not enough information to actually make it. 

What else? I was a voracious reader and knew thousands of facts, but nothing that I could think of that would actually help me. 

I knew a fair amount of history, but nothing that I could see a way to use.  Who cares who will win the battle of Hastings in 1066? 

Hannibal?  He was older.  Maybe he had already passed.  But really all I knew was that he crossed the Alps with elephants. Who was he fighting?  Maybe Rome?

You could make penicillin from bread mold.  But there had to be more to it than that.  An injection of bread mold seems more likely to kill you than cure you.

I was literally the only person on the planet who knew thousands of things that were the basis of modern life, but there seemed no way to use any of it to my advantage. 

I knew atomic theory and chemical theory, the orbits of the planets and the inverse square formula of gravity.  I knew how rods and cones in our eyes used opioids to detect light.  I knew the theory of evolution.  That a feather and a bowling ball will fall at the same speed in a vacuum (9.8 m/s²). 

I alone knew that the sun was a giant ball of hydrogen gas compressed under its own gravity and slowly fusing hydrogen into helium and that it would one day explode. 

I alone knew that the universe had started as a point of matter with near infinite density and had exploded in a moment 12.5 billion years ago. 

I alone knew that the Milky Way, which I saw clearly in the night sky for the first time in my life, was made of stars.

And I alone knew a thousand thousand other things.  All useless.  I couldn’t prove anything, couldn’t make anything, couldn’t do anything. 

The Connecticut Yankee had been a king and I was going to be a slave.  I barely slept that night.

 

Chapter 5

Hydrogen has 1 proton, Helium has 2, Lithium has 3, Carbon has 6, and Oxygen (the part of the air we breathe that is used by mitochondria for cellular respiration (see sections on mitochondria and respiration) has 8.  There are many more elements each with its own proton count (see section on protons).

                Book of Questionable Facts - 171

 

The next day the household was tight with tension.  Koré was cleaning everything and constantly making me move from room to room so she could work.  Isodemos was putting little Philon through his paces making him recite lines from The Iliad.  Tros, the manager of Megakreon’s olive oil buying business, had come in from the countryside and was preparing samples of oils and reports. 

I was busy worrying.  What would I offer Megakreon?  How would I keep him from selling me to some worse owner?  What exactly would be worse?

I had cleaned my suit and other pieces of clothing (which I had switched for local garb) as best I could (no dry cleaners) and I was prepared to spin him a story. 

Unfortunately, I had told Isodemos that my home (and the source of my clothing) was thousands of miles across the western ocean, so I couldn’t promise to lead an expedition. 

My plan was simply to stall by saying that I had been separated from my companions who would certainly come looking for me and were themselves cloth merchants who would be happy to trade with him in thanks for his kind treatment of me. 

I also planned on showing him my cell phone (I was sure Isodemos would tell him about it anyway), which was a marvel of modern engineering, and even without power would have curiosity value.  Its smooth glass screen was a mirror better than anything available locally, and its colorful plastic case would be a completely novel material. 

I figured I could play on his greed to gain a couple of months grace and hopefully by the time his patience ran out, I could think of something else…

Megakreon, however, didn’t arrive that day.  My anxiety was through the roof.  Again, I barely slept, working over my story, looking for errors, ways to make things more attractive.  I really didn’t think of anything new, but I basically kept at it all night.

Why, I wondered, was I so anxious to stay with Megakreon?  I’d never met him and I had reason to believe he beat his slaves.   However, he seemed like a smart business man, not afraid to take a risk (he had bought me, unconscious, just on the off chance that I could tell him where to buy my clothing). 

I, of course, saw buying me as a shrewd business move.

I also knew that he let his slaves do side work when time permitted and keep half their wages for personal use or to save to buy their freedom.  Isodemos, taught Homer and rhetoric, when Philon was busy with other chores, and Tros had actually purchased some olive oil with his earnings and was expecting a profit when Megakreon returned.  I thought I might eventually figure out how to earn enough money to buy my freedom. 

While we waited, Tros struck up a conversation with me.  I had seen him several times, but we had never really spoken.

He asked me a few questions about myself, where I was from.  I answered as carefully as possible, feeling that I had divulged too much information to Isodemos and not wanting to offer anything more.  After a short while I started asking him about himself. 

He had been born in Boeotia to the north, and had been taken as a slave when just a boy of about 10, when his village has been overrun during a battle against the Athenians.  His father had been killed in the war and he and his mother were enslaved.  He hadn’t seen his mother in over 15 years since they had been sold to different owners. 

As he told his story, I was surprised by his lack of anger or bitterness.  He seemed to think that this was just the way life was. 

He hadn’t originally been sold to Megakreon, but had been sold to a man named Cleanetus who was very rich and owned a large olive farm outside the city.  He had worked on the farm for many years and learned everything there was to know about olives, olive trees and olive oils.  The farm had been hard work and the overseer (himself a slave) had had a liberal hand with the whip and the rod.  But Tros had in some ways been happier there.  He had met and married a woman, a fellow farm slave and they had a daughter, who was now 7.  Cleon, his owner (who had inherited the farm after the death of Cleanetus), had been angry about the child (who was now an extra mouth to feed and who couldn’t work and who might well die before she would be useful) and both he and his wife had been beaten. 

He had gotten to know Megakreon, through his frequent buying trips to the farm.  And one day, about 4 years ago, Megakreon, had approached him, all smiles, to say that he had bought Tros from Cleon and he would now work for him.

Tros, who had been on good terms with Megakreon, asked if he had also bought his wife.  Megakreon said no.  He already had enough household slaves.

 

“That’s terrible!” I said

Tros shrugged and said, it wasn’t so bad.  He still got to see her and his daughter fairly regularly, since he now made buying trips to Cleon’s farm.

But his ambition was to save enough money to buy freedom for himself and his family.  He told me how he was buying oil now with his own money and Megakreon was trading it for him.

Megakreon had set his price for freedom at 500 drachmas and Cleon had set the price for his Wife and daughter at 350.  He told me he was particularly anxious to buy their freedom quickly, because his daughter was a pretty girl and in 3 or 4 years he was worried that a brothel owner might want to buy her. 

“How much do you have now?” I asked him.

“I bought 31 drachmas worth of oil, which Megakreon will have sold, and I’m hoping to receive at least 75 drachmas.” He smiled ruefully and continued “of course, Megakreon will take his share and so, I should end up with something like 50 or 55.”

“Maybe you can buy your family first and then yourself.” I suggested, since I didn’t see how he would raise 850 drachmas in a few years.

 

“Can’t” he said.  “A woman and child can’t live alone, and a slave can’t own slaves.  Megakreon would have to buy them and be willing to take them into his household, and then I’d have to buy them from him and, probably, pay him for their support, and then it would take forever to finally be free.

“No” he continued, determined.  “I just have to earn the money as fast as I can.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and said “Good luck, my friend.”

He shrugged my hand off, now in a foul mood and said “There are no friends among slaves.”

He wandered off.  I worried that he was angry with me, but when I saw him later he smiled and gave a small wave.

Late that afternoon, word came that Megakreon’s ship was at the dock and he would be home within a few hours.

 

Tros’ story with its casual beatings and sales and re-sales of slaves had raised my anxiety to a high pitch.

 

Megakreon did arrive just before sunset and the whole household was in the courtyard to greet him.  He greeted everyone and gave his son a tight hug.  When he came to me he asked my name

.

“I’m called Robert” I answered.

He was in a good mood and clapped me on the shoulder and said “Good to see you alive and well Robert.  I’m looking forward to talking with you soon.”

Then he stepped back a bit and turning to address everyone he announced “We have a new addition to the household!” and with a sweep of his arm, opened the door to the outside and in stepped a young woman.  She look nervous and keep her head down looking at her feet.  Megakreon placed his hand under her chin and raised her head.  She was quite pretty and maybe 20 years old.  He introduced her as Penelope.

 

Megakreon took her by the hand and introduced her individually to each one.  Then he announced. “As you know, we have been without someone to really manage the household since my beloved wife passed away.  Penelope is skilled in household management and will fill that role for us.  Koré and Isodemos, you are to give her all the assistance she need.” Then giving us all a hard look, “Make her feel welcome.”

Then taking her hand again he said “I think she’ll help us all a great deal.  I’m hungry!  Koré I’ll eat in the men’s room!”

He entered a room off the courtyard and the rest of us scattered.  Koré went to the kitchen, but her face and her muttering showed her dissatisfaction.

 

I sat in the courtyard for a while, then as darkness fell, I went up to my room.