It begins with Barcelona.
With an Instagram reel of Familia Sagrada, “Let’s go!!” I type to Dalton, a coworker always up for going somewhere.
We work together at the gate. Talk about dates. Planes are wide open.
We make announcements about Valet Tags on Bags.
He gets hotel discounts because he works at Hilton. But his discount rated rooms are unavailable. So it’s a regular hotel. Christ, they are expensive. WTF.
We board regional jets. We move jet bridges. Go home, text coworkers to cover our shifts.
Spain loses power. They don’t know why, but they are pretty sure it wasn’t a terrorist attack. Maybe…
My mom is also joining us, is also concerned about traveling to Spain right now. I tell her, Athens, Greece is wide open. I text Dalton while he’s in Hawaii with coworkers. Now, we are going to Greece.
In the days preceding our planed departure, Derby weekend hits the bluegrass with it’s usual clumsy, fat fingers. Our bosses pay us extra to just motivate us to not call off. We are working entire shifts without lunch breaks. Without bathroom breaks. Without water. Which is only slightly an exaggeration. But we know it’s bad, when even our supervisor calls in.
Dalton and I are so tired of being stranded, abandoned, and ignored the entire day we are at the gate, we think about calling in the day before we leave. We can’t get fired for calling in, if we aren’t traveling. What would they do, if they didn’t have us turning planes at the gate all day without human needs?
It’s tempting. A day to rest before a big trip? What a luxury. That is truly having it made.
We chicken out, or reconsider the cost. Our supervisor calls in, again. Which means our General Manager fills in. Who, I have no doubt would have fired us, or made our lives hell if we had called in.
I hope the VIP passenger enjoyed his three course meal and mid-flight snack.
Dalton and I, miraculously, get off work early. We are high off good fortune and despite being given the opportunity to go to bed early-to wake up early-we all sit up late and discuss Greece, with mom who is along for the ride, and Josh, who isn’t going but would maybe consider being jealous we are going, if not for the long plane ride.
You can take my the late nights, but you can’t take my sleep deprivation.
We wake up, leave plenty early enough. The group is three in number, and the portion of us that would rather sit at the airport for hours (than spend an hours drive wondering if two hours is enough time to arrive early) is larger than the portion of us who can leave with just enough time to not be too early (but also risk not having that cushion time if say, there was spontaneously horrible traffic on the highway at 7 am).
TSA pre-check is a crock of shit. Our precheck line is halted for something called “CLEAR.” Which is some other thing that cost money, but gets you expedited to the beginning of the line. It’s all a fucking joke, because while passengers are buying access to not take their shoes off, and hop in the shorter line, and skip even the shorter line, the regular security line is shorter than them all.
This whole time, I have done a really good job of not saying aloud that there is only 1 seat available on our first flight. I ask Dalton, “have you looked at the seats?”
He says, “Yep.”
And it is agreed, we won’t stress. We’ll either get on our plane to JFK, to connect to our plane to Athens, or we won’t.
We find our gate for JFK and finally, out loud, consider other options if the 1 seat doesn’t turn into 3.
Zurich, Switzerland. Except, we’ve packed our swim suits and I advised mom to leave the coat.
Paris, France. Except, we’d have to get to JFK, and leave tomorrow. Which is fine, we can spend the day in New York City until our flight. A little micro-adventure, before a big adventure. All in the name of Why Not?
We are minutes from the cut off and 3 seats open up. Dalton is more than 6 feet tall and robust, he does not fair well in main cabin. I am first in line for first class seat, I tell the agent to give it to him, I tell him to get me red wine. On the plane, I ask for a Dr Pepper, put it my purse. They deliver my wine 30 minutes in. I am seated next to a woman with an afghan sweater, and I am in my daisy sweater. We compliment each other. We are otherwise quiet. Two people who would rather say nothing, but can’t help but make note of a good sweater.
I don’t feel like getting my head phones out-subtitles don’t work on the inflight entertainment-so I write about my last trip.
I am getting tipsy. I think about how:
I like wine when I fly
Beer when I’m here and there
And liquor when I’m near my bed.
That almost rhymes right?
We have arrived in JFK. Dalton has admirals club, we get to be “guests.” The bathrooms are clean. There is hot food, decaf coffee, snacks, desserts. I can never go back. What can I sell to get access to the admiral clubs.
I fill my reusable Ziploc bags with some dry snacks. Always know where your towel is (and your containers for food are). You never know where snacks can come from. Or when you’ll wish you had stuffed your pockets with goldfish.
We have whittled away our four hour layway with ease, thank you Admirals Club. We go to our gate, and try to get a row of four to ourselves, but the gate agents are being difficult, and we are too nice to tell them we know how this works, what the fuck are they doing?
We take our row of 3. Board the plane.
The pilot (female, if you’re curious) announces, the departure will be delayed for 23 passengers coming off a delayed flight? Unheard of. What is happening. The airlines don’t do this. We decide this is not about 23 people, this is about 1 VIP passenger in first class. Dalton and I can see his or her empty seat in our work apps. 22 people have no idea how lucky they are.
Through our apps, we can also see that two rows of four, are blocked off. Who got the rows of four over us? The gate agent did a favor for someone, but who?
Ahhh, mystery solved. A flight attendant, and her friend. This place is bullshit. Wow. Dalton and I are like mean girls with a burn book.
Our thirty minute delay turns into 90 minutes. We break into our snacks. Fog has now blanketed the airport. JFK is “experiencing departure delays of an hour and 15 minutes and increasing” due to weather.
My, oh my, how Lady Luck kisses you on one cheek and slaps you on the other. At least she hasn’t sliced our legs off, Kill Bill style.
The pilot comes on and tells us, we haven’t moved, look around, the taxi way is a parking lot.
Our taxing path on Flight Aware is a skinny circle shaped more like a worm. We have truly gone nowhere since departing without our VIP passenger. When we start moving, our path is more like the letter “F” like it’s also screaming fuuuuck.
I send it to Jenny, who makes it her screensaver.
Our 9 hour flight is now 12 hours and there is not adequate food provisions. We get no extra meal for waiting for the VIP passenger. I am sure he or she is enjoyed their three course meal, and mid-flight snacks.
If you don’t buy a magnet, did you even go to another country?
Upon arrival, we find the train station where I buy a lighter. This is promising.
I am told smoking “is prohibited” but it is punctuated with a shrug. Google tells me smoking is pervasive and enforcement of any bans is practically nonexistent. Greece can’t quit the public smoking.
Dalton finds a Hilton discounted room on the coast. It’s an hour from the city but it has a pool, a beach, and the feel of a resort. Sure, why not.
Our transfer to the Kiato line is unclear. Two fellow travelers over hear us, mention Kiato and give me a thumbs up. I give them a thumbs up back.
Wait. Did they just ask me if this line is to Kiato, or did they tell me that this is the line to Kiato. I allow myself to believe, for a second, that I do not look like an American, while I check the map, which I can’t read.
The train that arrives, says Kiato and I still don’t quite believe someone told me this was the right train. I still, may have been correct, when I gave someone else a thumbs up. There are Police on our train and everyone acts as though this is normal, so we do too. The sleep deprivation helps.
A little ways out of the station and it’s dry and arid, and industrial, and residential. It is not white walls and blue roofs. But, I can see water. Dalton is exited for a pool. Mom is excited for the beach. I am excited to see a bed.
The train buzzes like a bug zapper. Pops, like hydraulics farting. I watch commuters. Greece isn’t the Wild West, but it’s a mighty commuter to fight past the crowd to get off the train. A women crosses her chest, like she has entered a church. I wonder if we have passed a church or if she is talking to god. The Greek Police leave the train.
We finally arrive at our stop. Our walk is 16 minutes and there isn’t a sidewalk, per say. The road gives more alley than public street. I’m not walking fast because it makes me nervous but because I have to pee. In my haste, I can still admire the gates, the courtyards, the lemon and orange trees, and euro sized cars parked under olive trees. There are plowed fields between small homes. There are chickens and loose cats. As we get closer to the hotel, there are schools and daycares. The number of loose cats tells me Greek kids can wander safely here.
We reach a Main Street and I am reminded of a grittier key-west meets Stanton, Kentucky. Nothing about this area says they need tourists, but they don’t mind us walking their graffitied streets, which are mostly residential. There is no tourist shops. There is what looks like a general store with candy and toys outside, a single restaurant that has the first English we’ve seen, but that is all there is, in the near mile walk from the train station.
The hotel is recognizable from a distance. I kind of hate that. How dare Hilton interrupt this town’s we don’t give a fuck with its modern architecture, and paradisiacal landscaping. And yet, it does make me feel safer and more sure than I was on the walk here. Oh, to be a human.
We are upgraded when we arrive. Since Dalton is an employee it is not a surprise. The room has a full bath, half bath, and then a bath tub in the main room. A tub with a view of the Greek coast.
Dalton is excited about the bath tub. Gives us the bed, so he can take the sofa bed, but wants to use the tub at some point.
Mom and I laugh. “That’s fine! We aren’t interested in the bathtub.” My mother never learned to draw a bath, if you know what I mean. Which means I don’t know what to do in a bathtub with a view.
Dalton isn’t waiting on us to go to the pool. We’ll meet him there.
Mom and I change out of airplane clothes. I put on my swimsuit, but only because I am here. Not because I intend on getting wet by any measurable degree.
The resort grounds are small and empty. It’s as if there are only a dozen people staying at here. The pool’s edges blur into the ocean behind it. Dalton and mom convince me to get in. I wouldn’t normally risk my microbiome in a hotel pool but I cup my hands and taste the water, like an insane person. It is a salted instead of chlorinated. I have it in my head this is better. Plus it is heated.
I swim for a few minutes and sit on the edge to watch the waves. We are talking about our plans tomorrow already. We need to look for a hotel for tomorrow. It is slightly chilly to have left the heated pool and offered myself to the cool Hellenic breeze. I wrap myself in a towel and look up hotels. Mom finds a lounge chair in the sun and tans. Dalton calls a hotel to find out if we can leave our luggage before check in. I book it. Then he promptly falls asleep. I sit and admire the fact that I am sitting and staring at the water that extends endlessly in front of me. Go me. Finally doing nothing.
Mom sits next to me. I tell her we booked a hotel. I expect her to be excited we found one so cheap. She asks if it’s in the Omonia area. It’s a bad area. Tourists shouldn’t stay in that area.
The name sounds familiar. It might be. Now I’m worried.
Okay, the hotel is not in the Omonia area but it is in the Metaxourgio area, which according to search engines, has been known for its drug addicts and prostitutes. But apparently it’s being “turned around”. And police stay present. If you’re traveling in a group, you should be fine. Maybe don’t walk the streets at night. Also maybe, don’t bring kids.
I only tell mom, “Nope; it’s not in Omonia.”
We sit for a few minutes before the doing-nothing becomes too much. She wants to walk the beach. I don’t want Dalton to wake up to us gone so I ask that we just sit for a minute. She gives me ten. Dalton begins to stir and we tell him our plans. Text him my mom’s phone number in case my phone dies.
We change out of wet swimsuits, into dry, clean clothes and start down the path that follows the beach.
The path is both a cobble stone road and a sidewalk between the bay on our left, and the town on our right. There is sometimes seating for the occasional restaurant. Most of the buildings are 2-4 story apartments. Some look to be humble housing with elderly residents sitting on balconies crowded with potted pants and rugs airing out over railing. Some look to be abandoned or not presently in use.
We see at least 10 dogs, some loose, walking along side us, or snoozing beneath beach umbrellas. Others pass us, going the opposite direction, not even sparing us a glance. Oh to be a dog in Greece.
We also see cats, a few kittens falling asleep sitting up. There are cafes but they look empty, despite windows and doors wide open. This place is an open air town.
Mom is surprised there aren’t shops. What she means is she is surprised there is no place to buy a fridge magnet. As if a place doesn’t exist, if there is no shot glass or keychain that says so.
When we return to the hotel, Dalton has already enjoyed the bathtub with a view, and meets us downstairs. We are famished. We head to the restaurant that has english words on the front. When we walk in, we are greeted with English menus. Our Americanness is that obvious, apparently. My hopes of looking, at the least, European are dashed. Someone told me where the Kiato line was.
We order gyros. I get saganaki for us all to try. It is a Greek fried cheese. The food is delicious, but the cheese steals the show. The beer I have also ordered, cements my exhaustion and I’m not sure I will make it to sunset at 8:30. Dalton orders a Gyro, skewers, and a side of cheesy bacon fries. Doesn’t realize his meal comes with fries. He has three plates in front of him, two of which are filled with fries.
We all manage to make it until sunset, watching from chairs on the beach. When I can go no longer, I announce I am going to bed. Dalton and Mom can do what they want. I call Josh at 9 pm Hellenic time, and he is on his way to work. We talk briefly, share I-love-yous. I am, irrationally, afraid if I don’t sleep while I am tired, I’ll get a second wind.
Wam Bam! Athens in (basically) 24 hours.
I am awake at 3 am. I lie there until I hear Dalton stir around 5 am. Call it. I get out of bed, hear Dalton eat chips on is pull out sofa. He tells me good morning and then falls back asleep. I make myself espresso, sit on the balcony, eat a banana from the jfk admirals club, a fig bar from the plane, pita bread from the restaurant, and smoke cigarettes using the provided ashtray, as the sun rises.
House sparrows cacophony (I use this as a verb because I am not aware of a better alternative, and no I don’t want to use it as an adjective), as I look up the Wikipedia for this town. There are ruins in the hills to my left from 1000 BC, but nothing online explains why there are so many incomplete apartment buildings. Why there is a resort in a town with no sidewalks on the streets from the train station.
Mom finds me out on the balcony around 6:20. Asks if we should wake up Dalton. I’m not waking up anyone. If she wants to, go for it.
Dalton doesn’t stir. So we give him 20 more minutes. If he doesn’t wake up by then, we will miss the 7:25 train and will be stuck until 8:25. I am fine with this. It will give us time to enjoy the breakfast at the hotel. We won’t have to rush. We’ll all be rested (except for me). But mom has no chill, (geez, I wonder where I get it from.)
I try to wake Dalton and he stirs. He is sleepy when I tell him, we can get up and go or take our time, eat breakfast, catch the 8:25 train. No big deal. I’m surprised when he pops up and immediately begins to gather his things.
We are leaving the hotel at 7am. We have 24 minutes to walk nearly a mile.
We make it with 2 minutes to spare.
The train into the city is about an hour. When we reach the Athens station, we can walk or take the metro. We decide to walk. I’m navigator. I guide us past a gentleman who is standing amid trees, staring at the ground, yelling in Greek. I imagine when we walk past, we are ghastly shadows across his vision. It upsets him more.
We cross the street and there aren’t cross walks, so we are jaywalking. Dodging speeding cars. What even are the rules here.
I am walking fast. I could use the bathroom, but also, do we have to walk through Omonia? Is the area north of Metaxourgio also known for drug addicts and prostitutes? I look over my shoulder, Dalton and mom are still behind me. Go, go, go, wait! Look left and right before crossing the road.
We near a BP gas station and Dalton says he wants to go inside. He didn’t get coffee this morning, bless him. He finds iced coffee in a can, and a bar of chocolate.
We go, go, go. I check over my shoulder: yep, they are still following.
Check my phone, almost there. Just around the corner, past these coffee shops. Everyone seated outside looks so relaxed. Our hotel greets us with wood paneled patio areas. Table and chairs with ashtrays. Heavy wooden doors.
“Hallo!” I say, with the silent “h”. As if, I could be mistaken for Mediterranean.
A handsome, squattier George Clooney greets us. I tell him my last name. He is witty and charming, so much so, I have already forgotten what he says.
Our room isn’t ready, but we really just want to leave our bags and come back. He literally takes the weight off our shoulders. Not even waiting for us to hand it over. A gentleman taking our coats.
The hotel lobby is so charming. There is a menu and I make a mental note to order Greek Coffee later.
We head to the Acropolis. It is big, big piles of rocks. Old rocks. Okay, marble. Old marble. Piles of old marble. Guides and their guidlings clog up the veins that wind through the piles of rocks. With their bright colored flags. With their accented tongues and their mythologies.
The main steps are so many different kinds of stone. I’m not convinced any of it is as old as I think, but they are beautiful regardless. I take photos of them. A man blows his whistle at another man reaching his fingers out to stroke the marble columns.
“No touching!”
The Parthenon greets us, smiling with braces, head top blown off.
In a fever haze, I watched a lot of YouTube ideas about Athens before I got here. I only remember two things: one, that we like to think about Greece as the home of democracy. How great things like the Parthenon comes from civil contract, and popular votes. But actually, money to build the Parthenon comes (partly? Mostly?) from the treasury of the Delian League, a confederacy of ancient Greek states led by Athens. Athens taxed these states. Debatably, against their better interest. Which I find fascinating, because maybe all tasks accomplished by big states, are at the expense of smaller states and isn’t a democracy only ever a “democracy” when it is considering only the votes it cares about?
And two, that the Parthenon has been a temple to Athena, a church to Jesus, a mosque to the God of Abraham, and storage for gun powder. What’s an enemy to do, but target the most explosive building on the highest point in the city. Did I mention there are no trees on the acropolis? Nothing but light and air to conceal the big, fancy gunpowder shed.
It is the fate of all gods, to lose to weapons of war. Anyways, no use being mad about it.
The Parthenon is still here, post explosive past, post greasy tourist hands, and post the Brit who disassembled and stole half of the friezes and marbles to take back to Great, Great Britian.
Oh hell I’m not a Brit or Greek so what do I care. As an American, boy do I have my own problems.
I’m a good girl and don’t mention the marbles. We walk around the remains of the biggest pile of rocks. I am assigned the duty of photographer, giving Dalton a helping hand with his future Instagram content. He doesn’t know me as a photographer. My past life. I look at the Porch of with columns that remind me of Eva Green in gloves from The Dreamers. There is one thing over here that I really want to see not because I believe it is real.
It is the olive tree that Athena gifted the city, to win their favor. After Poseidon gave them salt water, bless his heart. The small tree is happily in the shade of the Erechtheion, whose front faces the city. Guidlings circle their speakers and we stand in one spot long enough to hear the myth of the two gods competing for the city’s patron god-ship.
I hear the detail, that the present day tree is barely 150 years old. Or not even that, maybe 50. I still love it. I am glad to take a photo of it with the disposable camera APP on my phone.
We are ready to find food. I’m not sure what doesn’t sound good at the first place we find, but I am with picky eaters so I let them be picky. I’m fairly certain the second place is chosen because two people stand outside and wave us in. These two will crumble under peer pressure.
Mom and Dalton split a pizza, and I get Strapatsada, a menu item near the omelette. It is not an omelette, however. It is a $10 breakfast, that after googling, I read it is popular due to the availability and low cost of the ingredients. Ironic.
The servers give us free desert: havas. It is delicious and I will gladly eat Dalton’s because he can’t have the cinnamon on top.
Near by is Hadrian’s Arch. On the way, we get distracted by souviner shops. Let’s be honest, it’s why mom and Dalton have come all this way.
I can also get lost in the trinkets. I am not impervious to the gold Julius Ceaser headbands that they all sell, that I also saw in the Athens travel episodes, and I kind of really want. But will I pay 3 euro to mark my self as a tourist.
The Arch is slightly more than a roadside bit of rock that looks like a strong wind could push it over. We run across the street, take some selfies, run back.
I am navigator, still. I should get a brightly covered flag for mom and Dalton.
Monastraki is a square I immediately recognize from the youtube tourist videos. I see the three buildings that are supposed to be important. Yes, there is the really old Church of the Pantanassa, and there is the pretty old Tzistarakis Mosque, and there is the not so old, but not modern Monostraki Metro Station. Three eras in one square. When I say this out loud, no one cares. They see the alleys with the markets where things can be bought.
The alleys are narrow and charming. Stores sell souvenirs and also souvenir crocs and souvenir band T-shirts and souvenir guitars. I find a Greek coffee cup for making a single cup of greek coffee on the stove top. I also see a TSA size bottle of olive oil. I mean to make a joke about taking a shot on the plane later but forget. I also find a gold leaf headband for one euro. I will look like a stupid tourist, but I just really want the pretty gold (tin) leaves in my hair. I want to feel pretty despite my unwashed hair.
We venture into a music shop. Guitars and other more hellenic instruments are on the wall. Dalton asks about the key one of them plays in. Mom sits in the corner, lets us waste time. They have a melodica. It’s missing the hose but it’s so cute and retro.
They bring a second out. It has the hose. It looks too big for my backpack. How will I pack it back. It has a handle. I could just carry it. Dalton says as much. Offers to put it in his backpack.
Okay, I think, this will be a nice gift for Josh.
I am getting lost in the streets, now. I am the worst navigator I’ve ever been. My internal satnav is broke. Dalton helps navigate. We walk past a thing I recognize and won’t pay to go in. A church bell rings behind us. Hadrians library is ahead and before I can approach the fencing to snap a photo between the bars, I am accosted by a woman who wants to give me free food. I decline. She acts as though I am the dumb one. “Why would you not take it, it is free.” That’s my Cue. I’m willing to lie to get out of this sales pitch. “Allergies.”
“Awww,” she says.
Then tells me she is raising money to feed the hungry. I smile. “No, thank you.” She picks up a bucket. Asks me for just a few coins. “No, thank you,” with a smile. “Not even one?” Bitch, stop being a predator. A man approaches. Asks me where I’m from. “Kentucky”. Puts his hands on my shoulder. I would be mad but he pats my shoulder like he pities me. I can’t help but laugh. Now I’m just gonna walk away. Goodbye!
Damn gold leaf crown.
I open my disposable camera app and snap my fucking photo of Hadrian’s fucking library. Just a few hundred yards away, men play music in the street. I would rather give them my money.
We are all carrying more than we want to continue carrying. The blue “I ❤️ Greece” bag that contains the Melodica is cutting into my wrist. We all agree to head to the hotel, shed some weight and head back out.
The Melodica doesn’t fit in my back pack. Dalton shows me how it will fit in his. No problem. This is very kind of him, I concede that my gift to Josh will be in part, Dalton’s doing.
We head to the 1000 year old Chapel Kapnikarea. Every inch is covered in icons. It is small and dark, but also brilliant and awe-inspiring. Gold leaf clings to the little bit of light that it can, winking at me as I move past the sacred gazes. Pigment clings to the stone and wall that it can, unsure if anyone will come and save it, or know how to save it.
Dalton FaceTimes Jenny, who is sad we are here and she is not, but is happy to see us all, and the icons which she knows intimately. I vow to bring an icon back for her.
It is time to check in for our flight and I have no service. I walk around the square and find a Guess store with Wi-Fi.
Yes I agree to the terms.
I am connected. I pull up my reservation and click check-in at exactly the moment that I can. Mom and I are at the top of the priority list! We might get business class if no higher ranking standbys check in after us.
Dalton is counting standbys and counting seats. Checking in 30 seconds after us, has knocked him out of the running for business. He checks the seat map. He checks checks checks. He says he should get premium. There are so many empty seats, he can war least get a row to himself. If mom and I can get business then maybe we can all rotate.
Okay, Dalton. Look at this though!
I have to lead everyone into Mitropolis. It is a larger, more modern cathedral, but is just as rich with icons. I dare say, six stories of important figures stand in archways with their recognizable features looking down on Dalton looking at seat maps, and mom taking photos and me taking photos and telling Dalton to look up. Christ is looking down from the central dome, an important document in his hand, eyes also on the empty seat map below.
We enter the Playa area. According to online reviews it is a web of narrow roads worth waltzing through. The tower of the winds is hidden in the maze but we find it. Snap our photos.
A Rolex shop greets us as we move swiftly past. Cafe tables crowds the already narrow paths. Staircases seat dining couples right on the worn-smooth stone, their view worth it.
We get lost again, my phone service abandoning ship, my paper tourist’s map at its limits, streets boldly winding inward without street signs.
To get lost in the cobble stone streets of Greece is hardly a hardship, our senses being rewarded around every unidentified corner.
We find gelato. Pick out two flavors to split among us. Buy water, which is blessedly, cheap.
Meander onward and debate the next touristy location. There is a scenic view at the top of lycabettus hill, accessible by a mile path or a 12 euro funicular rail car. We decide that would be best at sunset. We debate trying a Greek McDonalds. It is Dalton’s ritual to try a McDonalds in every country. They all have their own spin. What does Greece do?
I, in fact, love this ritual. It’s not that I think people should eat McDonalds all over the world. I am just equally curious how much better everyone can do than America, even at American things. I want to try American staples in Greece. I want to shop grocery stores. I want to smoke cigarettes and drink from the tap.
We linger at a restaurant at a crossroads a little too long; we get corralled into the outdoor dining area. Mom and I order a Greek beer and more fried cheese. Dalton looks up the menu and nearest location for McDonald’s.
We walk the half mile to the McDonalds and I decide against ordering food. Take a single chicken nugget when Dalton offers. He enjoys a big tasty, which just looks like a regular burger with bacon: sauce unknown. I cannot detect a difference in the nugget, and also, maybe it’s been too long since I had an American chicken nugget from the Golden Arches.
My service has returned and I get us to the nearest metro stop to the funicular railway entrance. It says it is an eleven minute walk. It does not say that it is more than 200 steps uphill. Dalton and Mom are laughing. Where have I brought them. What have I done.
We stop and rest on a bench. We stop and take photos of the great distance we have climbed behind us. We stop and take a photo of a beautiful flowering bush, a story and a half tall.
We arrive, buy our round trip tickets for the funicular railway and wait in line.
We crowd by the window, hoping to catch a view of the city as the rail ascends Lycabettus hill.
We are met with a dark tunnel adorned with only a meager led light show, and some spinning words (Ads) for local Greek groups and events.
At the top, it is a general consensus that we could have saved our 12 euros. Could have walked the foot path. (And could have hailed a taxi to the top, if only we had known what was in store.)
The view from the top, makes everything okay. We wander, snap photos, find the Parthenon on the acropolis, despite the sea of Instagram content creators that have posted up camp to save their spot for the sunset. Hardcore. Unmoving. Unsympathetic. We just want our silly photo and then we will give the spot back. A girl refuses to let Dalton squeeze against the railing. He storms off. Mom and I follow him to another Parthenon-less scenic view, the sun barely an hour from sunset.
Exhaustion has set in, heat has enhanced its effects, and we have all already spent more than we planned. Set up camp in our own spot, our backs to the sun and our gaze alternating between persons piling into for their own sunset photo of the Parthenon and the “top 10 things to do in Athens” lists on our phone screens, we are finally met with the debilitating dilemma before us. How do we spend our last evening in this beautiful and vibrant city?
In the spirit of the big tasty, I suggest we go to a supermarket and buy the weirdest snacks we can. Dalton is all in. Mom isn’t into the “weird food” but is otherwise fine with just hanging out at the hotel and starting early tomorrow.
We take too long to get to the hotel, wait a bit too long to find a store open, and must settle for a small convenient store. It delivers some bizarre and some other pretty tasty looking options.
The spicy mango gummies aren’t spicy so much as they are just not sweet mango. The weirdest thing is the rose gelatin. The chorizo and onion Lays are good. The pizza Cheetos are so like pizza, they are disgusting. The chocolate wafers are so good I wish I’d bought more.
There are two bottles of vodka from our flight here still floating around our luggage. I decide, in the spirit of weird and hopefully wonderful, I make rosehip tea and add a bottle of vodka. It is not good but I will drink it regardless, because not even a bad cocktail can ruin smoking on a greek balcony at night time.
I call Josh. We talk about Greece, and his folks, and dungeons and dragons. I get sleepy and tell him goodnight. I love him.
Mom is already asleep so I sneak through the bedroom, change into pjs in the dark and crawl into bed.
Olives and Greek Coffee, please.
I awake surprised that it is 8 am. After some time, we finally wake up Dalton, poor guy. They are kind enough to keep our bags at the hotel after we check out.
I have learned pedestrians make their own way across streets. There is sometimes an indicator, but most times not. Cars and mopeds do not seem bothered by this. I lead us across the street and notice a moped coming halfway. I stop. The man on the moped waves me onward, in the most gentlemanly way, with a slight nod of his head. I laugh. Of course I had time. I still have time. I carry on across and he passes behind me seconds later. Seconds are longer than I think.
We head to Central market. Through the “bad parts”. There are those who appear to be unhoused, but not angry.
At the market, there is so much raw meat. A horror film of calf heads. I am splattered with fish juice. I just want olives. There is a vendor selling antiques; I dig a wooden icon out for Jenny.
Finally! Olives. The man selling olives wants nothing to do with me. I’m such a useless tourist. I see the olives but not the containers. What do I put the olives in? He is eating something that looks delicious. Puts it down. Waves his fingers in my general direction.
I hold my hands up, cupped. I initiate a game of charades. Container?
He takes another bite. Grunts. I hold up 4 euros. He asks me what kind I want. I can’t read any of the signs. I go off looks alone. The green olives with black speckle seasoning look delicious. He joins me on my side of the olives. Pulls a plastic bag from a not-so-concealed central spot in the olives. Me, idiot. He shovels olives into a bag. It is so many olives. I tell him that’s enough. He takes 2 euros from me. I thank him but he doesn’t even look at me as he returns to his lunch. I see myself out.
Breakfast is chicken skewers. Mom and I help Dalton eat a plentiful dish he accidentally orders. In the way that he thought he ordered skewers, just, but when the food is delivered, it is in the greek way, with tsaziki salad, tomatoes, onions, pita bread and fries. All in addition to the order of cheese fries he already ordered.
I help him gladly. I will eat literally anything from this country. I wish I lived here so I could eat everything they offered.
Time to go. If I can just find a Greek coffee.
I remember the hotel has Greek coffee. I am a very good tourist and do not ask for a Turkish coffee. The man doesn’t charge me. It is everything I dreamed off.I
It is thick and gritty. Warm and dense. Mom and Dalton are talking but I’m holding my cup and saucer, thinking about how I never thought it’d make it to Greece. Some places seem intangible to me. Like Mecca. It seems so distant, and exotic, and like I may need a guide, or in the least more knowledge to just show up. And I would have said the same about Athens, except now I have just shown up and walked the streets, and inhaled the air, exhaled my own breath in return, and I’ll never be the same again.
I have finished the greek coffee. We catch the train to the airport. There is no madness. Dalton and I talk about our new work schedules. I’m excited about mine, Daltons options are shit. I have no doubt he finagle his way, swap shifts, and make a non-rev masterpiece of his work week.
We arrive at the airport. We are at least an hour earlier than we should be. Mom is happy, Dalton is chill. I get to smoke outside before we go in. Security is a breeze. Customs is a breeze. We are breezy, breezy, breezy, excited for business seats.
We fill up water bottles, find a seat in a spacious area, and Dalton shows me where the smoking room is. They have a smoking room in the airport?! Of course they do.
It’s official. I love this country.
We chat, and discuss how this is not an accessible country. No wheelchair access anywhere. When they say mind the gap—it is the gappiest gap I’ve ever minded.
We are denied business because of a weight restriction. Although we keep our thoughts to ourselves, we know this is just not logical. We confirm this is BS with our pilot friends. Everyone on standby fits in premium economy.
Mom and Dalton don’t eat half of what is offered them on the plane. I eat 3 portions worth.
We land in JFK late in the evening. Our original plan to spend the day in New York City looks like eating too much at an all you can eat buffet. We decide to fly out first thing in the morning. Ubering to the airport because the hotel shuttle doesn’t begin early enough.
There are only 4 seats left on the direct flight to our car in Cincinnati but 15 on an earlier flight through Charlotte. We take our chances.
We land in Charlotte, learn we would have made it but oh well. Sometimes we are lucky two different ways and we cant be mad we picked the safest first.
I am excited to tell people about Greece. It’s hard to be granted the time to explain all the ways the experience enchanted me. The way that the Greeks move, how they crowd the exit for the trains. They do not provide a path for those exiting the train. This teaches me we will all get there, we will all make our own path. No one has to pretend to be polite. Just keep moving. I don’t have to sacrifice the most direct path. I don’t have to be told it’s okay to proceed forward. I can judge the safety and speed for myself. Seconds are longer than I think. Gentleman drive mopeds too. At least, in Greece they do.