Athens
Athens, Greece
On the windiest night, of the windiest day, of the windiest week, we landed in Athens. Barely. We quickly found our driver who would tell us that Greece has “never really been this windy before.” A statement we seem to frequently hear on our travels, “never this windy,” “never this rainy,” “never this much snow.” A true testament to the change and unpredictability of the climate of our the planet. A reminder to listen to people in the places we visit and to tread lightly and responsibly wherever we go.
On the drive to the apartment that we had rented in the shadow of the Acropolis, our driver and I would strike up a conversation about food, typical of most of my conversations. He would tempt me with tales of amazing Greek meals I should try as the night lights of Athens blurred by outside the van windows. Creeping up to our second floor apartment, we tucked the kids into bed and fell asleep ourselves to the sound of happy, drunken tour groups making their way down the cobblestone lane outside. At the time it seemed excessive, but I’d give anything for happy groups of travelers wandering down my street right now.
In the morning we swung open the doors of our balcony and watched the adjacent sandal shop begin to set up on the sidewalk before venturing out for (more) coffee and breakfast at a cafe down the street. At the top of the kid’s list was the Acropolis. Having just finished the Percy Jackson series, Greek gods and goddesses were still fresh in their minds and imagining great battles came easily. We waited briefly for tickets before scaling the steps to the top. If we had thought the previous night’s landing was windy, staying upright while standing atop the plateau was a marvel rivaling the ancient ruins.
Koulouri slung about our arms like bangles from a street vendor, we munched our way downhill to the Acropolis museum. We checked our coats and warmed up on some stone cubes near the window overlooking the ruins, while the kids admired a scale model of the ancient city crafted completely of Lego. I began to feel something I’ve only felt once before, but recognized immediately. I turned calmly to Paul and said, “Earthquake.” The floor rolled gently beneath us, for just a moment. The newspapers would later report an earthquake in the mountains north of Athens, where we would be headed to ancient monasteries balanced delicately atop of ancient hills. No one else seemed to notice. I would recall feeling more safe within the new, modern museum than from a precarious balcony in a monks quarters later in the week, although the ground remained calm.
The remainder of the day we spent weaving throughout the streets, shopping and snacking until we landed in Monastiraki flea market. We navigated our giggling posse through the market amidst sidewalk stands of enormous hand painted phallic bottle openers. Serendipitously, we happened upon Hans and Gretel, where they now stood, stunned by a fairy tale come to life. The kids’ little brains wiped nearly clean of the painted penes, we indulged them in bags of candy and glitter-dusted ice cream cones, topped with mini ice cream cones. The cones were scooped by real life Gretels while hard candy sticks were delicately heated by Hans and sliced, plied into curves and offered warm to the kids. We took refuge with our cones from the busy shop through a tiny door at the back of the shop, into a tiny room and sat upon tiny furniture while the smells of candy swirled around us. As it began to grow dark, we made our way back toward our apartment and dined in a tiny tavern. I only remember incredible olives and wine, but what else is there really.
The next morning: Another climb, but not before we psyched ourselves up at the Panathenaic stadium. I imagined myself hurdling down the wide lanes. Paul, I’m sure imagined himself finishing the marathon, arms in the air, and the kids were all talk of completing The Amazing Race here and greeting Phil Kogan on the mat. We slowly made our way to the base of the mountain, stopping at neighborhood playgrounds and admiring the wisteria covering everything. Before Peter narrowly perished once again from hunger, we snuck into a lovely cafe for what I recall being the most expensive sandwich on Earth and a two perfect cappuccinos. Neighboring tables read books from the honey colored bookshelves that lined the modern space. We stood out front beneath giant flags. Buoyed with visions of gold and gold plated club sandwiches, we were ready for Lycabettus Hill.
We’d agree to pass up the opportunity to ride up in a gondola sunken into a shaft in the mountainside and instead take the stairs. I blame the stadium hype. Once at the top, we had a view of the entire city from the Holy Church of Saint Isidore. We’d make an attempt to visit the National Archeological museum. We were only allowed into the gift shop because riot police were packing up after an afternoon protest. We put our weary feet in a cab and headed home. Dinner was early and delicious like everything else I’d put in my mouth that weekend and like every other dessert, ice cream. This night we would be serenaded by boys playing accordions and singing slow, sad songs on the adjacent stoop. Early the next morning we would leave for the monasteries of Meteora.
