Like the historic neighborhood of every great city, Plaka is the heart of Athens – the Athens that tourists come to see, the Athens that the city’s own residents like to visit. So it is fitting that this district should reflect, perhaps more than most, the ravages of time and the changing moods and priorities of Athenians. It is no coincidence that Plaka is, once again, threatened by an effort to open it up to greater commercial exploitation.
Built on the northern and eastern slopes of the Acropolis, with its narrow streets and old houses, Plaka offers a glimpse of what Athens was like when people lived in small neighborhoods and everyone knew each other, when the motor car had not imposed its brutal occupation on the city. It is this beauty that attracts visitors – which, consequently, threatens to destroy the area. This is the dilemma that mass tourism poses to every part of the planet worth visiting: When the world discovers an area that is quaint, colorful or interesting in any other way, this immediately attracts the merchants and services needed to cater to the influx of visitors. Development can quickly turn to exploitation – first by small businesses, then by bigger and bigger operations. It takes careful and inspired planning to strike a balance between the beauty that brought people to the area in the first place and the need to protect it, as ever more souvenir shops, tavernas and hotels spring up.
We saw this when mass tourism hit Greece in the late 1960s, with Plaka at the center of the whirlwind. Soon, nightclubs, restaurants and hotels had sprung up and many buildings were demolished to make way for the nondescript concrete monstrosities that were sweeping across the city. Noise, unruly crowds and the lack of adequate regulations and policing made the area uninhabitable. As the long-time residents moved out, even more commercial establishments moved in. Before long, Plaka was no longer what it was. In the 1980s, the government took radical steps to save the neighborhood. Strict regulations controlled shops, clubs and tavernas and legislation decreed that properties could not be converted into anything other than what they were already used for. For example, if a greengrocer was located in a certain building, it could be replaced only by another greengrocer.
The measures worked, enabling Plaka to remain unique while still providing services to visitors. People began to move back. The state took over many particularly striking buildings in a bid to save them. But, as we have often seen in Greece, when legislation is not strictly enforced (allowing the cleverer among us to trample over everyone else) or does not adapt with the changing needs of the times, pressure builds up for a radical change that could destroy all that has been preserved. Many buildings are abandoned, because the state cannot afford their upkeep, their owners have died or people cannot afford them. At the same time, businesses need to expand to keep chasing after profits.
That’s how Plaka, which has been saved once before, suddenly faces the danger of greater commercialization. The issue raises the broader question of what kind of tourism we want – and whether we can strike a balance between preserving what is beautiful and offering the necessary services and facilities to tourists. This applies to all of Greece, where legislation setting out tourism zones has not yet been adopted. The way the Public Works and Environment Ministry handles Plaka will indicate how serious it is about protecting what is still worth saving in Greece.
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