Pt2 - 8:

ATHENS

 

I had my bearings immediately. Within half an hour of arriving in Syntagma Square in the centre of Athens we’d installed ourselves in room 811 of the Hotel Astor on Karageorgi. The balcony boasted a view of the Acropolis and we had CNN for the first time since Tiberias. With less than a week to go to the election the IRA is stepping up its terror campaign at railway stations and airports in Britain; we can only cross all our digits and hope Bill doesn’t get caught up in any carnage and/or his flight isn’t cancelled at the last minute.

In the meantime, we have a day to settle in. I led Tess back through Syntagma and up to the Plaka. Normally a hub of lively activity the Plaka was quiet today for Orthodox Easter Sunday. That’s ok, it’s just nice to be wandering around in t-shirts, and it gave Tess a chance to scope the place out without being harangued by restaurant touts.

*

We’re still tiring easily on the tail end of the Istanbul bug and have two days to go yet on the antibiotics, so we’re forced to continue measuring our activity for the moment. Pretty excited to find Corn Flakes and fresh fruit on the breakfast board in the top floor dining room this morning, the small pleasures of travel, and the view across the rooftops of central Athens up to the Acropolis promises a warm day as it glitters in bright sunshine. We feel fortified as we take the lift down to ground and hit the street. Carefully calibrating our energy, we spend a lazy day dawdling through the empty, echoing galleries of the National Archaeological Museum, then strolling back to the Astor in a wide looping arc via the Botanic Gardens where five minute portrait artists are set up with their easels and charcoals and balloon sellers are busy with families enjoying this public holiday around the large duck pond; on to the Athens Olympic Stadium, the Temple of Zeus and the Plaka, where we feast on pork souvlaki and moussaka with Greek salad featuring real feta.

Despite its ancient mythology, only a patriotic Greek could describe Athens as beautiful. It’s grimy in parts and seems to have been largely redecorated in the sixties, with lots of glass and aluminium and little sympathy with the iconic classical architecture. While it lacks the romantic cachet of Rome or Paris, it’s at least a city on a user-friendly scale and easy to navigate on foot; indeed, the sidewalks are so polished with use in some areas my boots slip on the smooth surfaces.

Time stamp: CNN just aired a report on the first anniversary of Port Arthur…

*

There are two tasks to take care of before we meet Bill’s plane at 5:30. The first, organising flights to Crete on Friday, we dispense with inside an hour. Posting a parcel home, though, is to dream the impossible nightmare. And a warning: the following is likely to make you want to throw your cat out the window.

The saga begins at the central post office in Syntagma. Naturally, they don’t do parcels and direct us to a special parcel PO down the road. Here I join a long, immobile queue of Athenians all paying some kind of bill. It takes me twenty minutes to realise I’m wasting my time. Also, I discover the special parcel PO doesn’t sell special parcel boxes and we’re expected to provide our own. None of the several shops we try are willing to part with their precious boxes so we’re reduced to prowling the streets around Syntagma until we finally scavenge a couple of oversize cartons from a trailer parked down a dim alleyway. We have better luck finding packing tape at a stationery store.

Back at the Astor we divide the roughly 5kgs of loot accumulated since Çanakkale as nearly as possible into halves by estimated weight, slice up the cartons and make two neat packages. We return to the special parcel PO and each join one of the two now longer and even more immobile queues. After about 30 minutes travelling time I reach my window first. I hand the two parcels over. The woman weighs them and tells me the slightly larger one, at 2.75kgs, has to go to the next window. I’ve anticipated something like this and it gives me immense satisfaction to hand the package over to Tess just as she reaches the window beside us. My woman is seriously miffed and has several animated words with her colleague, who exacts petty revenge by forcing Tess to fill out a series of stupid forms, rudely treating her like an imbecile and making her wait another twenty minutes, all for the sake of .25kg. On the way out I mentally hurl a molotov cocktail through the front window. Thunderstorms erupt as we awning-hop our way back to the hotel.

We’ve calmed down by the time we step out of the cab at the East Airport to meet Bill. His flight touches down at 5:45 and 30 minutes later the old bugger emerges from Arrivals. This calls for a long, dedicated celebration and swapping of travel stories back at the Astor; we’ll worry about the inevitable overhang tomorrow.

*

We’re hung over and the weather is shitty. We make the Plaka for lunch, then return to the room where we convalesce and make empty promises to behave ourselves tonight.

*

Today got off to a lively start when a boiler exploded in the kitchen while we were breaking our fast. There was an almighty BOOM! and for a mad moment I thought it was a bomb. I scanned the dining room to see worried faces weighing up whether to dive under the tables or rush for the exit. A second later the kitchen doors flew open and the staff scrambled out, some with aprons held up to their faces. They were just beginning to calm down when the manager appeared at the front of the room, explained the situation and with grovelling apologies invited us to leave in an orderly fashion. The whole episode had taken just minutes although it seemed to unfold in slow motion.

The showers have cleared overnight, so we’re in better spirits as we mount an expedition up to the Parthenon. It’s surprisingly uncrowded, which makes for a pleasant and leisurely visit. Some of the ancient building is fenced off for reconstruction but it is still an impressive piece of architecture and it’s enough just to be enjoying each other’s company and writing our own chapter of personal history in this historic spot. Later we wander across to the Fillapapou Monument with its panoramic view of the city and then dine extravagantly on the Plaka, with lots of wine and good cheer, which we continue late into the night at the Astor. It’s warm enough to sit on the balcony and admire the illuminated Parthenon and enjoy the soundtrack of festive street life below.

*

It’s been a big deal for Bill to detour to Athens. I’ve been assuming he’d fly on to Toronto from here on his round-the-world package but it turns out that the terms of the ticket require him to return to London to resume his trip. We’ve just said our goodbyes at the East Airport on what will be a very long day for him. Now, while we wait for our flight to Crete at the West Airport, I’m feeling a little deflated. At the same time, I’m grateful we’ve had the chance to connect and for the comfort of familiar conversation and friendship. I don’t do homesickness, don’t even understand it, but I realise I’ve missed the mateship thing.

It is lightly drizzling and the wingtips of Olympic Airways flight OA 532 trail moisture as we gather take-off speed.

Next time: Great Zeus, it’s Crete!!