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Greece’s sun.
    At one of the series of ‘summits to save the euro’ in autumn 2011, amidst forced smiles and fake bonhomie, the prime ministers of the Eurozone nations signed up to yet another interminable communiqué. Buried in paragraph 13 of this intergovernmental understanding there was something quite unprecedented, something quite extraordinary, relating to a massive solar energy project: ‘Greece commits future cash flows from project Helios or other privatisation revenue in excess of those already included in the adjustment programme to further reduce indebtedness of the Hellenic Republic by up to 15 billion euros with the aim of restoring the lending capacity of the EFSF.’
    The sun’s healing rays were now being focused on Europe’s highly problematic experiment with economic union, in which there was a shared currency and a shared monetary policy, but no shared approach to tax, or spending, or borrowing. In the place of a convincing system of European fiscal transfers to compensate for the inability of troubled economies to devalue currency, adjust interest rates or print money, was this deal: a promise to transfer solar radiation.
    Project Helios was certainly ambitious. The plan was to carpet 200 square kilometres of Greek land with solar panels, starting in Crete. It had been announced by the Greek energy minister in Hamburg in September 2011. The cost was up to €20 billion, with €3.5 billion probably paid for by German investors. The electricity generated was then to be transmitted through a new €10 billion line to Germany, providing 2 gigawatts of green solar energy by 2020 and 10 gigawatts by 2050. It sounded like a win-win for everyone. As the boss of the private solar park at Athens airport told me, ‘Greece can be the Saudi of solar.’ At the time, Greece’s annual solar output of 0.2 gigawatts was tiny for a country with 300 sunny days a year and which received 50 per cent more solar radiation than Germany, the world’s leader in solar power production. There were also advantages for Germany: the provision of Greek solar power would help to dilute its reliance on Russian gas.
    But what paragraph 13 seemed to suggest was that the first chunk of the optimistic estimate of €80 billion of expected revenues would flow directly to Greece’s European creditors. Greece was being forced to mortgage its sunshine to pay for the bailout.
    The twist emerged later in Athens. George Papandreou told friends that he consented to the deal at the European Council under pressure from northern European countries to come up with some security for the expanded bailout. Mark Rutte, the Dutch prime minister, was one of the loudest voices calling for some kind of guarantee from Greece. At this point, German chancellor Angela Merkel dodged laying down the law directly to Greece. It worked better for all concerned if smaller members of the triple A creditor bloc got their hands dirty rather than Berlin. The putative solar swap was a striking symbol of how Greece was no longer master of its own destiny.

From demos kratos to technos kratos
    Sunshine was not the only asset owned by the Greek government. At the old Athens airport, on the Athens Riviera, the case for the Dutch and German position could be viewed up close. It had remained closed for a decade and largely abandoned since the 2004 Olympic Games. Intact aircraft remain at the side of the runway, used for training emergency services. Part of the old airport hosted a major cluster of Olympic venues. Again, most lie unused, totems of the excess spending during the good times required to host the Games. The original plan had been to create a massive park for Athenians. But hard times meant hard choices, and a more commercial redevelopment plan emerged for a plot of land twice the size of Monaco, with its own marina. There was no shortage of takers to spend billions of euros to develop what would have been the largest redevelopment in Europe, but the Troika