The Wet and the Dry (9 page)

To this day the only place in Greece that is named after the god of wine is the Athens suburb of Sto Dionyso, a few miles north of Kifisia. (The others have been Christianized into “Saint
Dionysus.”) In ancient times it was known as Ikarion. This mountain village might have been one of the first places that the new cult established itself around 1500 B.C., coming up from the coast of Attica. The ports of Attica, such as Porto Raphti and Thorikos, had Dionysian festivals in classical times and some of the oldest theaters, and perhaps they were where the first wine deity arrived by sea. It might have been from the Aegean island of Ikaria.

The god arrived. He went to the house of a man called Ikarion, who had a daughter named Erigone. Ikarion had little idea that the tall stranger was the son of Zeus and Semele or that he had been married to Ariadne. The stranger had a gift: a domesticated vine. The people of the Attic mountains only knew the wild vine. Ikarion planted the domesticated variety and under the stranger’s instruction learned to make wine from it. He then poured his first vintage into pigskins and took them into the neighboring villages as a gift. Perhaps it was the god’s instruction.

Not knowing what this new drink was, the villagers quaffed it like water and became murderously drunk. Thinking that Ikarion had poisoned them, they formed a mob and swept down on his house, where they killed him on the spot and buried him under a wild vine tree. When Erigone returned home, her dog, Maira, dug up the corpse.

Erigone then hanged herself in grief from this same tree, from which bunches of wild grapes hung. Father, daughter, and dog were compassionately turned into constellations by the gods (Ikarion became Boötes, Erigone became Virgo, and the dog was
converted into Canis Minor). Later, in classical times, Erigone was remembered by the young girls of Athens in a curious festival called the Aiora, or “the feast of the swinging chairs,” during which they swung themselves from trees in little chairs to imitate the giddy sensation of being drunk. This took place the day before the Dionysian Festival and reminded its celebrants, one assumes, that Dionysus was a god of death and sacrifice as well as a god of stage plays and blossoming orchards and wine. In other versions of the myth, Erigone was actually the god’s wife, and in yet others it was Dionysus himself who was torn to pieces and then miraculously reconstituted.

The tame vine—the
hemeris
—arrives in Attica as a mysterious gift, and it is the god who makes that gift. The gift by its very nature has to be shared, consumed, and is at the beginning devoid of commercial instrumentality. Wine, in fact, is often portrayed as a “gift,” an enjoyment and a balm that has no functional use to the human body and is not at all a food. The god donates it, and it circulates freely, entering into everyone’s bloodstream until it becomes a kind of binding agent that holds a mass of individuals together. It is shared, and it is sacral.

Lewis Hyde discusses Kerényi’s book on Dionysus in his great work
The Gift
. He remarks that in later times the Greek worshippers of Dionysus “would sing of the dismemberment of their god as they crushed the grapes through the winepress. Dionysos is a god who is broken into a higher life. He returns from his dismemberment as strong or stronger than before, the wine being the essence of the grapes and more powerful.”

Hyde says this about drink itself: “Moreover, when the fermented liquid is drunk, the spirit comes to life in a new body. Drinking the mead is the sacrament of reconstituting the god.”

The vineyard workers of the Mediterranean were ordered by imperial decree in 691 to stop crying “Dionysos!” at harvest time and to cry instead “Kyrie Eleison!” It was the sixth year of the reign of Emperor Justinian II. The Byzantine Empire was in crisis as the Arabs launched assault after assault against it. The effect of this Islamic war against the Byzantines is hard to fully gauge. It is possible that the iconoclastic crisis a century later—when icons and images were banned throughout the empire—was a response to Islam’s seemingly successful severity. In 692 Justinian convened a council known as the Quinisextum that issued 102 canons. It was a watershed, a final denial of classical and pagan culture.

In the 102 canons many things were banned. The pagan festival of Brumelia, where the citizens of Constantinople dressed in disguises and danced through the streets, was abolished. Mimes, pantomimes, and spectacles with wild animals were suppressed. Canon 24 prohibited priests from attending the theater or watching games in the Hippodrome. Canon 62 outlawed women dancing in the streets and the wearing of female dress by men. Invoking the name of Dionysus passed into history. Young men were also forbidden from leaping over bonfires to celebrate the summer solstice.

Dionysus, then, was banished as part of a widespread suppression of public pleasure and pagan freedoms. It was a vast
piece of social engineering intended to Christianize the empire once and for all and to make it more like its bitter rival, Islam. (It did nothing to save Justinian, who was soon deposed and defaced by having his nose cut off, so that he was henceforth known as Rhinometos, the “noseless.” He later returned to the throne, presiding over an empire forever altered by his legislation.)

A Christian, however, still drinks wine as a symbol of the blood of a Christ who has been sacrificed, scattered, and reconstituted. Dionysus, a glamorous and youthful male god who incarnates the fermenting mysteries of
zoe
, or eternal life, is highly suggestive. He is the god who transforms and intoxicates women, whose element is an alcoholic drink.

Greek religion suggested a “Dionysus-dominated universalism.” Dionysus, in other words, spread all over the Roman world and became a world religion. In the tombs of the dead, images of Dionysus were especially common, as Kerényi writes, “for it was in connection with the burial of the dead that the need to celebrate indestructible life was most absolute and universal. This is as true of the Dionysian religion as it is of Christianity. The amplification of the Dionysus cult in late antiquity to a cosmic, cosmopolitan religion was a very natural development, but such a development was possible only insofar as
zoe
could exert a spontaneous religious influence. This influence, in the mythological and cultic forms here described, had a historical limit.”

But it survives. The drinker slouching his way every night toward his bar-shaped Bethlehem is searching for his or her
own version of Pindar’s amazing intuition. We want, even for a few moments, the “pure light of high summer” inside us. For Pindar was suggesting not that Dionysus was like that light, but that he
was that light
. The god as summer’s light itself: intoxication as pure immanence.

New Year’s in Muscat

                                  
The worst time of year for the
drinker is Christmas and New Year’s. It may be the worst time for everyone, but for the determined and solitary drinker it has a coercive and dismal quality, because suddenly your private vice becomes a public virtue in which you are obliged to participate as if nothing has changed. Drinking not only increases and becomes more social; it becomes part of the actual rite of this long-devastated Christian holiday, which would be better renamed the Winter Solstice with Shopping and Antidepressants. Post-Christians by the millions flee to Bangkok, Dubai, and the Seychelles to escape the misery of their ancestral rites. They cannot bear the thought of family rooms with twinkling fir trees and TV marathons endured with the aid of sherry. They want sun, blue skies, nightlife, and no trace of Santa.

Inconveniently, places like Bangkok and Dubai try their best to make the holiday crowds feel at home by thrusting Santas and Christmas trees at them at every turn. In Bangkok there
are even choirs of schoolgirls in little Santa outfits ringing bells in the department stores. It’s good business to make
farangs
feel homesick.

In the lobby of the Four Points Sheraton on Sheikh Zhayed Road in Dubai, where my Italian lover and I had just arrived on Christmas Day (there is no better Christmas Day than one spent thirty thousand feet up in the air with a gin and tonic), there was a tall Christmas tree shimmering with baubles and miniature tin sleighs. Islam had not precluded this racket, and there were even yuletide jingles in the elevator. The Italian, Elena, in all her blond and oddly Nordic magnificence, grimaced and said straightaway that her first time in the Gulf had already been a little spoiled by all this European
tack
. The decision not to spend the holiday with either of our families should at least have been rewarded with total cultural displacement. No such luck. “I could listen to this in Milan.” She scowled, and put her hands over her ears. At least, I said, we could drink.

We were planning to drive from Dubai to Muscat in Oman, where we would spend New Year’s. Oman was the only country in the region I had not been to, and I was curious to see how a New Year’s could be spent in that small jewel-city whose name reverberated in the English mind. Muscat. What would midnight at New Year’s be like in Muscat, as far away as either of us could get from the usual tumult of that occasion?

It was true that we could drink in Dubai at least. Not on the street, and not everywhere, but certainly on the rooftop bar of
the Four Points. From there we could see the whole city-state and the edges of the burned desert just beyond. I used to come there frequently once upon a time, and I had an assortment of memories about Dubai.

I wrote articles about Emaar, the ruling family’s construction company that had built the Palms, the grotesque developments that stretched out to sea in the shape of those emblematic trees. Sometimes I flew into Dubai just to dry out at the Al Rolla suites on the street of that name in Bur. Whole weeks just lying in bed and drinking mineral water and eating Persian food and sitting at the edge of a tiny pool waiting for my head to clear. I noticed that Western observers never ceased raising their fingers at the moral turpitudes of Dubai. It was autocratic, a slave state, millions of indentured Indian and Filipino servants. If you passed wind, they assured us, you would be arrested and thrown into jail by the religious police. The place had no identity. It was “artificial,” it was “soulless,” it was amoral and immoral and hypocritical.

Johann Hari, the most indignant of journalists given over to permanent indignations, wrote an exposé on the place in which he met a woman living in a car. Yes, a woman living in a car! A European woman who couldn’t pay her bills! It’s a common form of moral gossip. This, from people happily living their lives in the United States and Europe. That Dubai is a mirror image of ourselves created to please us and flatter us had occurred to some of them. But how did you digest this extraordinary fact?

What bothered them most about Dubai was that it was an Arab country that had an infrastructure and a per capita income
superior to their own. It was Arab, but it worked, as least materially. No one flying out of an inept airport like Heathrow or JFK and arriving at Dubai International could fail to be disturbed in some way. Which facility more suggested decay and decline?

Arab societies must be failures across the board, and if one of them is not, other condemnations must be found. I used to wonder if New York, where I live, really had any more “identity” than Dubai just because its public transport was an under-funded sewer or its roads could not be paved beyond the levels found in the poorer suburbs of Kingston. Fifty billion dollars a year in city budgets and barely surfaced roads. Did Manhattan these days, that Disneyland diorama, have a surfeit of “identity” that Dubai lacked? Did Paris or central London, those tourist facilities pretending to be cities? Dubai was what it was, a place on the make, a place coming from nowhere. That is, from the desert. Its population was Indian and Tamil and Pakistani and Lebanese and Chinese, its whores were from Harbin and Ulan Bator, and its wastrels spoke the Arabic of Beirut and Cairo, the Farsi of exiles, and the variegated English of the internationally uprooted.

I never found this cocktail entirely tedious, which is all one can ask of a city these days. Where Brooklyn and Hoxton and the Eleventh Arrondissement seemed afflicted by a dated preciousness, not to mention a growing lack of identity, I found Dubai grimly interesting. Brash, unnerving, and false, but not dull, not starved of identity, as if identity were a nutrient that never failed to deliver.