Finding Zero Read Free

the birth of Greek democracy, architecture, sculpture, and mathematics.
    My father loved the good life—and as ship’s captain, he lived it. In every port, the local shipping agent invited him to dinner at the most expensive or most unusual restaurant in town. In Piraeus, the ship’s agent was Mr. Papaioanis, a jovial, paunchy Greek originally from the island of Patmos. He invited us all to dinner at a beach restaurant called To Poseidoneion (Poseidon’s), on one of the backstreets facing the sea. When I think back to that outing so many years ago, I can still smell the fresh shrimp grilling on an open fire and feel the gentle sea wind brush my face; when I close my eyes, I can still see the lights of distant fishing boats gently rolling in the water and hear the waves crashing on the sand. It was a wonderful evening and I hoped it would never end. It was my introduction to Greece and its pleasures. After this wonderful meal, we all took a long walk along the edge of the water, eventually winding our way all the way back to the Port of Piraeus and to our ship, docked by a central pier flanked by two ferries.
    The next morning, Laci woke me up early. “When your sister and mother go shopping today, let me take you to see the ancient Greek numbers,” he said. “Great!” I answered as I jumped out of bed and started to get dressed. This was going to be an exciting day. I went to my father’s large cabin to wait for Laci. He had already prepared my breakfast, and I enjoyed the hot chocolate and the freshly baked, still-steaming croissant made in the ship’s ovens.
    My father was up on the bridge, and while I was finishing my breakfast—my mother and sister were still asleep—he came down and into the cabin. “You’re up early,” he said. “Yes,” I answered excitedly, “Laci is taking me to Athens to look at ancient Greek numbers!” My father nodded. I wasn’t sure that he understood—orappreciated—how important to me my relationship with Laci was: that I would even give up time with my family to go look at some numbers with him.
    Laci came, and we went down the gangway to the pier and into a cab that was waiting for us. We drove through the heavy morning traffic of greater Athens, climbing up the densely populated hills between Piraeus and the Greek capital. The pollution was heavy—the Athens area, like Los Angeles, suffers from a thermal inversion pattern that traps gasses and particles—and the bad air made me cough frequently. In about an hour we came to the center of Athens and the cab dropped us off at the Plaka, the city square below the acropolis, full of shops and boutiques and cafes. From there, we climbed up the steep path of the acropolis hill to the Parthenon, the fifth-century BCE temple to the Greek goddess Athena.
    We walked slowly up the white stone path. The air was clear and crisp here, and crocuses were blooming; I could smell the fresh scent of the pine trees around us. At the very top, we paid the entrance fee and went into the ruins of the ancient acropolis. We then slowly climbed up the stone stairs to the famous Parthenon. I stopped from time to time to catch my breath and to admire the incredible view of the temple from below as I climbed toward it.
    â€œBeautiful, isn’t it?” asked Laci.
    â€œYes,” I said. “It’s a very pretty building with these columns.”
    â€œThese are made of marble,” he said. “But you know why you find it so beautiful?” I said I didn’t know. “It’s the proportion,” he said. “The Parthenon follows the ancient Greek proportion called the golden ratio. The ratio of its length to its height is about 1.618,a number that seems to characterize many things we consider beautiful—and it also appears in nature.” I was fascinated. He explained that the golden ratio came from a mathematical series of numbers called the