The term “baksisi” (μπαξίσι) is used to refer to a tip, gratuity, or small gift of money given for a service. It’s similar to the concept of tipping in English, but in Greece and some other Balkan countries, it can also carry a broader sense of a little extra reward or bribe to ensure better service or faster handling of a favor.

So depending on context, it can mean:

It has roots in Ottoman Turkish “bahşiş”, which also means gratuity.

Owning a small boat in Greece is less about freedom and more about paperwork. To tow a boat, you need:

The absurd part? The weight your car can tow is not what Toyota, Honda, or any manufacturer says. It’s whatever number the DNV dreams up on inspection day.

So, off I went one hot morning in July, towing my pride and joy behind a humble Toyota Corolla. I had visions of weekends in Vouliagmeni Bay, diving off the stern, sipping ouzo as the sun melted into the sea. But before the sea came Office 7.

At the inspection site, they weighed the car and trailer, scribbled numbers on a clipboard, and sent me to — of course — Office 7. Nobody ever went to Office 3 or Office 11. Always 7.

Inside, a clerk with a face carved from boredom looked over my papers. He vanished behind a door, reappeared five minutes later, and announced my fate like a priest at a funeral:

“Sorry. No permit.”

I blinked. “Why not?”

“Too heavy.”

“How heavy?”

“415 kilos. Limit is 375.”

“But Toyota says 550!”

The shrug was Olympic-level. “DNV says 375.”

And that was that. Back home I went, dragging boat and dreams behind me.

My father, watching me sulk, suggested a clever trick: “Borrow the light tender from the service yard. Just for the inspection. No one cares if it floats — they just want numbers.”

So I did. A tiny boat, light enough that I could practically carry it under one arm. Surely this would pass.

Second trip. Same site. More stamps. More drachmas. New weight? 480 kilos. Heavier than before.

At that moment, I realized the scale wasn’t measuring mass. It was measuring despair.

As I stood there, sweating in the Attica sun, a man sidled up and whispered, like some shady prophet delivering divine wisdom:

“A hundred… slip a hundred under the papers.” Come back tomorrow with the same boat.

The next day I returned, same boat, same papers. This time, a crisp 100-drachma note rested discreetly under the top sheet.

The clerk smiled like an old friend.“How much should I write?”“347,” I said without hesitation.“Perfect. Approved.”

And just like that, I was seaworthy and I earned my Middle School diploma. Time for High School.

A few years later, I was working at my father’s company. He and a partner imported tropical timber logs from West Africa — the kind of massive trees that arrived by ship, stacked like cigarettes in a pack.

When the ships docked at Elefsis, my job was paperwork: import forms, duties, Customs clearance. By then I was fluent in the language of bureaucracy — signatures, stamps, counter-signatures, more stamps. If a form had an empty corner, someone was going to put ink on it.

One summer, a ship arrived late, and our clients were desperate. Every hour mattered. I raced to Customs with the completed forms, stood in line, and finally reached the clerk.

That’s when I learned the secret menu of Greek bureaucracy:

It was a revelation.

Greeks had invented Amazon Prime decades earlier.

No tracking numbers, no shipping confirmation emails. Just a piece of paper stamped so aggressively it smelled of ink for days.

School gave me history books and algebra problems. But Greece handed me the real curriculum: how to survive a system that looked immovable until you gave it a gentle nudge.

Not every lesson comes from a classroom. Some come from Office 7, a weary Customs clerk, and a folded note no thicker than a cigarette paper.

Because in the end, Greece doesn’t just run on sunshine and olive oil.

It runs on baksisi.