An old Greek and his son... climb to the top of the highest mountain in their city. At the summit, the old man throws a sinewy, leathered arm around his son's shoulders and they look west, over the city. ""You see our city, my son? When I was born it was nothing more than a half dozen huts and stone mounds. I, Stavros, built the city up with my bare hands, every face on every edifice, until it became the finest metropolis on the peninsula. But do they call me 'Stavros, builder of cities? No."" He now turns his son to the south and and with a wrinkled, olive-colored hand gestures towards the harbor. ""When I was born, there was not one vessel in the entire sea. I, Stavros, constructed the entire fleet you see before you, the warships, the merchant vessels, with nothing more than a hammer and my own strength. But do they call me 'Stavros, master of ships?' No."" He then whirls his son to the east, and squinting against the dominating Mediterranean sun, they gaze out at the vast network of roads, dissecting the Greek terrain and stretching off into the vast horizon. The old man gripped his son's shoulder. ""When I was born, there were no roads connecting the cities of Greece. I conquered the mountains, the terrain, the beasts, and beat the paths where no man had dared tread before. It is my trails that allowed the vibrant exchange of ideas that advanced our knowledge hundreds of years to take place. But do they call me 'Stavros, unifier of men?' No!"" Forcefully, the old man gripped his son by the shoulders and turned him; suddenly they were face to face. The old man's eyes narrowed. ""But... screw ONE lousy goat...""