The Summer of '93

A date with Athens

"So I will get the bus in from the terminus still?" I had never driven in Athens, thankfully. It requires a strong, brave constitution.
"Yes that is the best situation."

I caught the bus into the city. It always made me smile when I saw the neoclassical Parliament building as the bus headed to Syntagma square. It struck me that the buildings were very built up and modern, flanking such a historical area. All the grief and euphoria that had been experienced within this historical hub was from ancient times and whilst I understood that it was the heart of the city, I always thought that the building was not sympathetic with its spirit. I headed to the Bank to cash in some of the traveller's cheques I had bought. The Banks were always modern glass fronted, quite clinical buildings. They oozed cool processed air over polished marble surfaces. I approached a free counter after waiting a while. Armed with my old friend in multiple denominations I was let loose.

My love affair with Athens was firmly established in 1997 and it was almost a pilgrimage to head up the Acropolis every time I visited. It's a steep climb, but the museums and little boutique shops I stumble across during the visits made me happy. The only conflicting struggle I had was my phobia of statues. Part of that phobia was the faceless shadows that hung around them, and what's more, they were always cloaked in darkness surrounding the museums they were contained within.

From every angle the Acropolis draws you up to it. The ascent was equally interesting because of all the street artists such as puppeteers that line the way to attract coins from the tourists. Walking through the Plaka the sprawl of buildings was punctuated with the odd beautiful Greek church. There seemed to have been no town planning and the construction placement made no sense to me. The glazed windows and interesting fonts on the shops caught my eye and of course the architecture. Most of them spilled their wares onto the streets, geared towards the tourists, with souvenirs and tacky trinkets, especially the Satyres. There's a tinge of reminders of the Ottoman architecture projecting into the close, clinging to the outside the buildings in the form of a mashrabiya. The Plaka was a haven for boutique jewellery shops, tshirts, littered with tourists trying to get their bearings in the warren of streets, with leather goods and sponges, hats and postcards to divert them. Frontage hung with canopies to provide welcome shade and the odd cafe wafted its coffee aromas, pastries and even Souvlaki kebabs into the walkways. Waiters tried to coax me in with their silver trays in their hands, pointing to tables clothed in white tablecloths. Crazy paved steps had a sprawl of wooden tables and woven whicker seats tucked into them, with ash trays and serviettes and serviette wrapped cutlery, ready prepared. Wirey dark green leafy trees provide the shade. I am reminded I'm in Greece with white painted kerbs and tree trunks. There was also the familiar post office logo next to where the postcard venders were. At every turn I got a glimpse of my destination. Cars lined up like bricks along the narrow walkways and the walls were washed with the odd ugly graffiti. Motorbikes had been parked in pavement thoroughfairs. They would be impounded in edinburgh for parking like that. I was in my element.