Before Greece had credit cards, plastic money, and “άτοκες δόσεις” (interest free installments) screamed on TV commercials, it had something far more old-school, far more theatrical: the συναλλαγματική (sinalagmatiki) and γραμματιο (grammatio). To outsiders in both cases it was just a promissory note, a simple IOU on fancy paper. To Greeks, it was part contract, part handshake, and part high-stakes comedy show.
According to the Greek Civil Code, once a child turns ten and until adulthood, he or she has what the law calls “περιορισμένη δικαιοπρακτική ικανότητα” (limited legal capacity). In theory, such a minor could only enter into contracts in very narrow circumstances. In practice, however, my father marched to court so that I, still underage, could sign binding agreements for the sale of apartments. The court approved. And so, while my peers collected soccer cards, I collected signatures on real estate contracts.
The first step in those transactions was the prosymfono (προσυμφωνο), the pre-contract. Think of it as an aravonas—an engagement—between buyer and seller. And like every good Greek engagement, it came with gifts. Villagers would arrive carrying baskets of eggs, figs, homemade pies, sometimes even a live chicken. Money might change hands too, a few thousand drachmae here and there, meant to seal the promise.
But promises in Greece also came with the appropriate paper form: the gramatio or sinalagmatiki. Now here is where the legal definitions matter. A γραμματίο (promissory note) is issued by the debtor—the one who promises to pay—while the συναλλαγματική (bill of exchange) is issued by the creditor and then accepted by the debtor. In the Greek marketplace, the συναλλαγματική prevailed because sellers usually kept stacks of them ready, just like engagement favors at a wedding. Buyers, by contrast, did not always have a ready supply of promissory notes in their pockets.
My father’s business thrived on these pieces of paper. With a bag stuffed full of gramatia, those fragile, handwritten promises of future payment, he would send me off to the local branch of the National Bank of Greece in Korydallos. My job was to deposit them as collateral, so that we could secure loans and keep the construction of yet another polykatoikia moving forward. Picture a 16 year old, officially of “limited legal capacity,” walking into a bank with a sack of promissory notes under one arm and a faint smell of village chicken under the other.
So while the law defined me as a restricted minor, Greek reality had already upgraded my role. I was not merely a courier of documents. I was a participant in the country’s great economic ritual: the transformation of eggs, chickens, and handwritten promises into bricks, cement, and apartment buildings.
Few years later, our timber-import business in Elefsis also ran on γραμματια and συναλλαγματικές the way Kalamata runs on olives. When a customer came in for lumber to build a house, he didn’t bring a bag of drachmas. Instead, he sat at a desk, sipped his Greek coffee, and solemnly filled out a stack of these magical slips. Each one a miniature oath: “I will pay you in 30 days. Then again in 60. Then again in 90.” By the time the customer left, we had a drawer full of promises, neatly tied with string like fishermen’s nets.
Both γραμματια and συναλλαγματικες were more than a piece of paper—it was currency.
And like currency, it circulated. A merchant could endorse the back and sign it over to someone else. One of them might start at a timber yard in Elefsis, travel to a tile supplier in Athens, then get signed over again to a cousin who needed to pay off his butcher. By the end of the month, a single IOU had collected more stamps and signatures than a Greek passport.
Of course, nothing in Greece escapes taxation. Enter the χαρτόσημο. The very price of the “promissory note” itself depended on its face value, because the government slapped a revenue stamp on every one. The bigger the amount, the bigger the stamp. So even before anyone paid (or failed to pay), the state had already taken its cut. Only in Greece could your promise to pay also come with a down payment to the tax office.
If the promissory note wasn’t paid on the due date, the party holding it had weapons: they could file for a διαταγή πληρωμής (a court-issued payment order) or sue for unjust enrichment. And the unpaid ones didn’t just vanish—they went straight to the dreaded μαύρη λίστα του Τειρεσία (the Greek credit blacklist), the bureaucratic version of eternal damnation.
The ritual was oddly beautiful. The paper had pre-printed boxes, the handwriting had to be impeccable, and the amount was written both in numbers and in words, because nothing says “Greek bureaucracy” like spelling out “πενήντα χιλιάδες δραχμές” (fifty thousand drachmas) in your best penmanship. Witnesses were optional, but cousins and “koumbaroi” (best men) often showed up to co-sign, serving as human collateral.
In Kalamata, these promissory notes stretched beyond business. Families used them to buy dowry furniture, appliances, even the occasional car. A daughter getting married? Off to the furniture shop. The father signed twelve συναλλαγματικές, and the groom’s family prayed each one wouldn’t bounce higher than a goat on Taygetos.
And bounce they did. Courtrooms in Athens and provincial towns alike were clogged with cases about ακάλυπτες συναλλαγματικές (uncovered notes) or unpaid γραμματια. Entire legal careers thrived on chasing them down. My father used to joke that Greece’s national sport wasn’t football, it was negotiating an extension on a συναλλαγματική. Tavernas became unofficial debt-restructuring offices: “Niko, give me two more weeks. The olives are late this year.” Grace periods were granted between sips of ouzo and bites of octopus.
By the late 80s, the συναλλαγματική started fading. Credit cards arrived, bank loans got easier, and European regulations frowned upon these handwritten dramas. But they lingered in smaller towns well into the 90s, stubborn as a goat blocking the road to Mani. But if you think they have disappeared, think again. Here is a link to buy some:
Today, the word mostly makes older Greeks sigh—some with nostalgia, some with heartburn. For one generation, these notes made marriages possible and homes livable. For another, they were traps that led to debt, embarrassment, and endless afternoons in court.
But one thing is certain: both συναλλαγματική and γραμματιο were never just paper. It was trust, obligation, and theater. It was bureaucracy with a human face and a shaky signature. And like so many Greek inventions, it left behind equal parts laughter and scars.
The συναλλαγματική (from the Greek for “exchange paper”) and γραμματια were formally introduced in Greek law in the 19th century, modeled after similar instruments across Europe. In practice, though, it became uniquely Greek: half contract, half folk custom.¹
¹If you don’t believe me, ask any Greek lawyer over 50—they probably still have a dusty box of them in storage, right next to their fountain pen and the carbon paper.
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