Athens

Winding through the narrow streets of stone the Acropolis, that perfect wonder of the ancient world, appears suddenly on high, at the top of a steep rocky mountain. Even at this distance it takes one's breath away. According to my guidebook, purchased at a corner news stand:

No wonder the violet-crowned had been envied by gods and men ever since Poseidon and Athena disputed the patronage of the newly found city. The God of the Sea struck the rock of the Acropolis with his trident, and water as well as a fiery steed sprang forth. Yet the Olympian gods sitting in judgement awarded the coveted prize to the Goddess of Wisdom for her olive tree, symbol of peace and prosperity.

The approach appears to be working for them.

The people of Greece live their daily lives in the shadow of these ancient gods, past and present melding, not seamlessly but beautifully, like parallel universes existing side by side but on different planes. In places, the fabric of time has worn sheer enough to see through to, and perhaps even touch another, ancient reality. Motorcycles whip by medieval mosques and chic young things in skinny jeans and stilletto-heeled boots saunter past Byzantine churches while chattering into blackberries. Here are classical landmarks known to every student of art history: the Roman Agora, the Temple of Hephaestus, the Arch of Hadrian and, of note because it is now my favorite monument name ever, The Bath House of the Winds. Gazing up to that mountain and its gleaming marble temples silhouetted against a darkening sky, it is easy to imagine oneself at the mercy of tempestuous gods.

Regrettably, we only had a day and a half in Athens, and a serious exploration of such incredible sites requires more. After an exhausting and very cramped flight in from Atlanta, we landed at Marco Polo Airport around 11:30 am, picked up a cab at the taxi stand and made our way directly to the Acropolis Museum Boutique Hotel; chic and charming, with easy access to the plaka and Acropolis. After freshening up just a bit, we hit the ground running, without direction or plan. We wandered through the winding streets of the old town, encountering the remains of a Roman library, Hellenic ruins and Christian basilicas. We wound our way dreamily past bustling shops, markets, and tavernas. And all the time climbing, climbing, long and twining, under what proved to be a very hot, hard, Mediterranean sun.

When finally we reached the Acropolis, poor Turk, who's been battling arthritis in his legs and whose feet, ankles and knees were badly swollen from the long flight, sat down on the steps of the Propylaea and announced he could go no further. He found a spot to rest while I mounted the stairs, walked through a brief passageway and looked upward to see, looming quite suddenly it seemed, the mighty Parthenon.



Situated on the highest platform of the Acropolis, majestic in its proportions, it is so much larger than I had ever imagined to be, and tremendously impressive. The ground we stand on appears to be all natural marble, veined pink and grey and ivory. It is beautiful, slippery, shiny and smooth.



I decided, standing before the Erechthion with its famous Porch of the Caryatids, that if I ever decide to denounce my atheism and worship a deity (or three) Athena, she of Olympian wisdom, would be my goddess of first choice. Built on the site of an earlier temple of Athena between 406 and 393 CE, the Erechthion is dedicated to both Athena and Poseidon, the God of the Sea, to whom I am also perfectly willing to pay tribute, should the occasion arise. But I fell in love with the the Caryatids way back in high school; those lovely, graceful figures of young women in flowing drapery and elaborate head dress supporting that immense stone structure has always appealed to me as an image of feminine strength and beauty. Without the goddess, there is no temple. Without support, the roof collapses. Without women, the world comes tumbling down.

I went back, grabbed the Turk and begged him to come up and meet the temple gods. He did, and pronounced them good.










The sun was setting as we wound our way back down the hill. We stopped at a tiny, picturesque taverna, with tables set on either side of a narrow street. When we told him we wanted to sit outside, the owner ~ there is always an owner, manager or family member enticing you in, bidding you welcome ~ beckoned us to one of these tables, saying, "Here is outside ~ in the middle of the road! Watch out for cars!" We laughed. And realized, as a small vehicle inched past our knees minutes later, that he was only half joking.




Rested, we wandered down into the Plaka, where the narrow lanes have preserved their local color and the tavernas, shops, nightclubs and bars are alive with the musical chatter of locals and tourists of every nationality in nearly equal numbers. The shopping is indeed marvelous, with fabrics, clothing, leather goods and jewelry literally spilling out onto the street. It has all the liveliness of a modern bazaar.


One of the elements in this city of parallel realities that struck me as most surprising was the quality of the grafitti. Much of it was startling and beautifully rendered. My first thought was that some of it belonged in a gallery, but this was quickly replaced by another ~ that it was perfect just as it was; an art that lives, breathes in the streets, an intrinsic part of an exciting community.







Later that evening, at an attractive winebar called Brettos we met the garrulous sommelier/owner who regaled us with tales of his many travels in search of the perfect wines for all occasions. Looking over the menu I told him that I had never tasted absynthe. He insisted on pouring me a glass.

"This is not Greek, it is French, but your first must be the very best," he said with a conspiratorial wink.

Turk looked on warily. "Isn't that stuff supposed to make you hallucinate?" he asked, sounding for all the world like a man not anxious to have his wife hallucinating in public.

"I believe that is the point," I said cheerfully, watching the clear emerald liquid turn cloudy as the ice dissolved in the tapered glass. I took a long, slow, anticipatory sip.

It was delightful; refreshing, licorice-y, a bit like Pernod. I can't truthfully say I saw any little green fairies that evening. But I did get a fabulous night's sleep.