Free The Geography of Genius: A Search for the World's Most Creative Places From Ancient Athens to Silicon Valley by Eric Weiner Page B

served during religious festivals was cardboard bland. Clearly, Greek genius did not extend to the kitchen.
    Athenians simply didn’t care what they ate, or even how much. Their caloric intake was remarkably low. Aristophanes, the satirist, credited the meager Athenian diet with keeping their bodies lean, their minds sharp.
    I return to my menu. Some of the items—olives and chickpeas, for instance—sound familiar. Others, such as the stuffed piglet and goat leg, less so. None of the dishes contain potatoes or rice or tomatoes. The ancient Greeks didn’t have any of these. They did have wine, thankfully, and the Ancient News contains this bit of wisdom from Sophocles: “Drunkenness relieves pain.” No argument there. We order a carafe of red, which arrives, I am pleased to report, undiluted.
    I order a pomegranate salad and smoked fish. It isn’t bad. Inoffensive is the word that comes to mind. Joanna feels the same about her lamb shank. And I can vouch that forks are overrated. I manage fine with my knife and spoon.
    We try to take our minds off the lackluster food with conversation. Now that I think about it, perhaps that is why the Greeks were so eloquent—it was a coping mechanism, something to take their minds off the god-awful food. As I pick at my salad, I wonder, if ancient Greek cuisine had been better, maybe they wouldn’t have invented democracy or philosophy or any of their other accomplishments?
    It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. We only have so much creative energy; we can channel it into philosophy or soufflés, sculpture or truffles. Yes, I recognize that cooking can be a creative act, and Julia Child was no doubt a culinary genius, but every activity we pursue comes with an opportunity cost, as the economists remind us. Time spent commuting towork is time not spent with your kids. Time spent debating the relative merits of kale versus arugula is time not spent discussing the nature of beauty and truth. I look down at my plate of bland grub with newfound respect.
    I have another reason for meeting Joanna, one that extends beyond the gastronomical. I’m curious how she, a Greek American, feels about the burdens of history. Normally, we think of these burdens in terms of war and sundry calamities, but golden ages can also scar. Future generations feel the sting of comparison, and nowhere is the distance between past glory and current ignominy greater than in Athens.
    “People feel they can’t live up to the ancients, so why bother?” says Joanna, gnawing at a chewy slab of lamb. That’s why so few Athenians visit the Acropolis, she says. It’s not the site’s familiarity but, rather, its greatness that deters them. Look at what we once had, at what we once did. The Acropolis looks down upon modern Athens in more ways than one.
    Does this burden of history, though, weigh on all Greeks equally? It’s one thing to be a Greek taxidriver or nuclear physicist. Those professions didn’t exist in ancient Greece. But philosopher most definitely did. What does it feel like to live and work under that shadow? I take a sip of wine and then explain to Joanna that I’m looking for a Greek philosopher.
    “Well, there’s Socrates, of course, or Aristotle. Oh, you could try Thales, too, but he was pre-Socratic.”
    “No, I’m looking for a modern Greek philosopher. A live one.”
    Joanna furrows her brow. This is not a typical request. Most visitors to Greece prefer their philosophers dead. Philosophy is like wine. There are good years and bad years but, in general, the older the better.
    “I did know one philosopher . . . Never mind.”
    “What? I’ll take whatever I can get.”
    “He’s dead. He committed suicide.”
    I stare at my ancient food, silently wondering why, from its inception, philosophy has gone hand in hand with suffering.
    “Wait,” says Joanna, suddenly perking up. “I know a philosopher. A live one. His name is Plato. He travels a lot, though. Let me check with him and