Greece, Final Thoughts

It’s not often that my mind can relax at 4:37 am. 4:37 ams, if I’m awake to experience them, usually involve sinking eyes, coffee, open textbooks, and a steadily decreasing speed in my typing. This 4:37am, I am sitting inside a cold, ceramic tub in a decadent bathroom. A long day of travelling and hiking around Delphi had left me so exhausted that I fell asleep before sunset. I woke up early, and figured I’d just get started with my day.

The floors are tiled with veiny marble. The lights are reminiscent of an art gallery. There are 3 towels for each person. There is complementary shoe polish.

The walls are embroidered.

It’s chilly in the room, and I’m gradually increasing the water temperature from scalding to boiling. There is no shower curtain, so I can’t drench myself in a steaming spray of water without flooding the entire room. I can’t figure out how the drain in the bathtub works either, so a warm soak is out of the question. My only option is to leave the shower head running and hold it in place (leaving it unbridled would make it spray everywhere in fervor, also leaving the bathroom floor soaked).

So here I am, sitting cross-legged in a cold bathtub, at 4:37am, my arms and back covered in goosebumps. I’ve strategically nuzzled the shower-head in the joint of my right knee, my calf and thigh holding it in place. The head is pointing towards my torso to provide maximum area of warmth. A few tiny spouts of scorching water are hitting the inside of my thigh, slowly cooking them. “Scalding…” I mutter, “just like Blanche likes her baths.”

If she can do it, I can too.

Think warm thoughts.

I’m inside an oven… basting myself in soapy water.

Ugh, gross.

I’m relaxing beach-side, sunlight flooding into my every pore.

Better…

But no matter how hard I try, I am cold. I accept my fate and begin shampooing my hair. The shampoo smells musky, like old perfume. I wouldn’t have expected anything else from such a posh facility.

Something about this doesn’t feel Greek. It’s in Greece, sure, but this isn’t Greece. Greece is graffiti and litter and grime and pollution. Greece is dust. Greece is minimal, basic. Greece is clear waters for miles, the only vivid color in the water coming from swimsuits. Greece is plain white walls, a small tv, a hard bed. This isn’t Greece… is it?

I decided to check.

This tub was made in Italy, according to the inscription near the tap. And the tap, the tap! It’s made in Germany! The glasses on the sink are made in France.

I am cold, wet, soapy and taking inventory of the conglomeration of posh items from all across Europe in this decadent bathroom.

And as I stand here, shivering in a symposium of bathroom appliances, my memories of Greece meshing together—ruins, beaches, ruins, ruins, ruins, beaches, ruins, gyros, ruins—the water trickling down my calves and pooling around my feet on this veiny marble floor, I only have one thing on my mind. 

Italy.

A presto, mio amore.

And goodbye, Greece.

Rebellion (or, Cape Sounion)

“This is what I imagined when I thought about Greece,” I say, gazing at the clear waters of the Aegean, my face pressed against the glass of the coach treading along to Cape Sounion. The bright magenta exterior of our bus is exactly the shade of printer ink. We are a giant, traveling ink cartridge.

Mountains—some the shade of okra, others more like stale cilantro leaves—burgeon from every side. To their probable dismay, they found it difficult to hold my attention. My eyes scan the pristine mountains as quickly as when I search for something specific through stacks of old papers. I search for the prize, the temple where one of the most famous ancient statues of Poseidon once stood, and no more than acknowledge the presence of natural beauty around me.

I could hear her sigh from Phoenix. My dear friend, a connoisseur of biology, would have spent more time analyzing the invasive plants in the ruins than the stones themselves. “There is so much intrigue in what’s living,” she always says, “there’s nothing quite like it”.

My brief knowledge of geology allows me to notice the folding layers of sedimentary rocks on the cliffs and off the shore. As we hike up to the temple itself, I’m a little disheartened when I notice it’s built on top of folding layers as well. “This is just waiting to sink into the water,” I think to myself, unwittingly reminding myself that, despite the endurance of all the monuments I’ve seen over the past week, they will eventually erase into nothingness, and no will be able to know of their majestic history outside of books. It was like noticing a loose strand around the hem of a dress, the trivial thread steals all attention away from the other fibers.

“Everything is temporary,” she told me as we sat outside her lab that winter afternoon. She was shaken up and upset, but her wisdom was unclouded. “You really have to embrace the present. You don’t know how long you have it. You have to enjoy it while you can,” she said. She was right in more ways than I realized.

The strand of melancholy breaks away, letting my eyes focus on the bigger picture. There is a thrill in this moment. In knowing that the temple standing before me, in its suburban-house-beige glory, is only here for a limited time. And I am lucky enough to experience looking at it before it erodes completely, or before the Greek government becomes so poor that they began selling these away to the highest bidder.

“Hey Cassie, you wanna get in trouble?” I say, approaching my roommate. I already knew we weren’t allowed to pose in front of monuments or statues because it was considered offensive (the screaming woman in the National Archaeological Museum made that extremely clear). But we were only here for an hour, and I had recently learned that Greece doesn’t deport anyone. So I figured… the most that could happen is that we’d get kicked out of the temple. 

This temple is only here for a limited time, I’m only here for a limited time. So with a big, metaphorical raise of my middle finger to the Greeks’ policy on posing, I stood in front of the temple, outstretched my arms, and took the stance of the famous statue of Poseidon that previously graced this Cliffside. 

The shutter clicks. 

The moment is captured. 

I am victor.

Brief Encounters with the Agora

After class ended at 12:45pm, my friends and I headed over to cross some things off our “Athens scavenger hunt” (an assignment we have to do, where we document certain things to get ourselves oriented with Athens). The two major things we hoped to do were go to the flea market and the Agora. We wanted to spend more time at the Agora, so we figured we could hurry through the flea market to get our picture, have a quick look, and spend the rest of the afternoon frolicking in the Agora (an ancient marketplace).

The flea market was a huge waste of time. Everything was ridiculously overpriced, and the stuff I could barter for, I didn’t really want. Most of it was gross, and groping hands were reaching out everywhere. We hurried around and got to the Agora by around 1:30, 2 pm. 

After spending some time in the Stoa of Attalus (which was recreated and now houses a small museum), we made our way through the ruins of the larger stoa, heading towards the Hephaesteion (temple of Hephaestus, and possibly the best preserved temple in Ancient Greece). 

Then, it happened. 

We heard the shrill sound of a whistle. Some… guy… was blowing on his whistle and telling everyone to leave. At 2:45pm. When the place is supposed to be open until 5pm. Was there a fire? Were bandits in the area, looking to seize the artifacts? No, no… it was nap time.

Alright, guy, I know you want your siesta—I want naps all the time, trust me, I understand—but you can’t close the Agora at 2:45pm! It’s kind of a big deal and a lot of people come from all over the world to see it, and you’re turning them away because you want to leave! You are not more important than the Agora!

We decided to sneak in some time between a class and a field trip tomorrow to come back and finish seeing everything. Because this is just ridiculous.

I had a consolatory gelato before heading back to the hotel. There's nothing like ice cream to cheer me up.

Civil Disobedience

“Do you hear that? Sounds like a protest,” my roommate Cassie says as we wander into the Temple of Olympian Zeus. “Wanna go check it out?” I say, enticed by the opportunity to observe civil disobedience. We followed the noise and chants for about 15 minutes until we finally arrived at the source:

(I took videos, which I'll upload (hopefully) soon, here are pictures for now)

The police were standing nearby with riot-gear on, watching patiently and giving the protesters plenty of room to march. Even the traffic diverted itself so the protesters could use the street (and this is a major street, equivalent of a highway), which was pretty impressive, since Athenian drivers don’t stop for anything. We tried to figure out why the protest was happening, but figured we could just ask one of the participants.

After asking around until someone vaguely understood English (even though they didn’t speak it very well, they could understand our questions), we found out that they aren’t happy with the current man in charge (he’s very dictator-like, apparently) and want to see changes in the government union.

What I found most fascinating about this entire event was the relationship between the police and masses. I’ve personally never had a bad experience with an American police officer, but I do know plenty of people who hate the police (most often because of how strictly they enforce drug laws, next most often because of how strictly they enforce traffic laws). Athenians and their police have a completely different dynamic—likely because the police officers here are extremely lax in enforcing drug/traffic laws, which I think they consider petty—and the protesters seemed to appreciate having the police around. The officers stood afar and observed, ready to intervene if things got violent but offering plenty of room to protest. They were even redirecting traffic instead of breaking up the protest!

The Greeks seem to be much less apathetic about their politics and government than Americans, too. Protests apparently happen very frequently here, though I can't say how effective they are. It’s also interesting to see “The Socialist Party” and “The Communist Party” in the playing field, instead of “The Conservative Party” and “The Slightly Less Conservative But Not Too Much Because We Don’t Want to Offend Party”.

Μοναστηράκι (Monastiraki)

“This… is the best gyro… I’ve tasted in my entire life,” I say, standing amidst a local piazza. The pita was soft and warm. The tzatziki and dill mixed together perfectly with the tomatoes, beef, and onions. And all this for 2 euros! My palette was enthralled to add this to the list of things it’s experienced. I chewed my food almost twice as long before swallowing each bite, savoring every facet of flavor hitting my taste buds.

I’m in Monastiraki, a city-center-esque place with live music, dancing locals, food vendors, and a wonderful gelateria nearby (where, I might add, I got to practice a bit of my Italian). The food is cheap, the mood is warm and inviting, and the scenery… oh the scenery. I have never been this close to the Parthenon, and I’m going there later this week, but watching it lit up at night… It’s love at first sight.

I can still see it from my room and I can’t help but stare. I keep looking back, as if I have a crush on this magnificent piece of history.

Who am I kidding? I do have a crush on the Parthenon.

And I can look at it as much as I want. 

Athens, First Impressions

“There will be another protest today. Yesterday there was 20,000 people, it was peaceful, but more are coming today, I think,” my cab driver says in a thick accent, the reflection in his aviators showing the endless sea of buildings as we make our way into the heart of Athens.

“Why are people protesting?” I ask, having only a vague idea. My neck was stretched so that I could see outside into the city.

“The economy… it’s screwing everyone over. We should just sell off some islands, we have so many already!” he says. I laugh, and he adds, “They’re just some rocks! We have like 1,500 islands!”

He teaches me some basic Greek on the way to the hotel, laughing occasionally at my accent.

“I thought I was doing pretty well with my accent! Is it that obvious?” I ask, somewhat disappointed that my accent was so far off that I roused laughter.

“No, no, it’s not that bad. You just sound unsure of everything,” he says, still chuckling. My inflections, that’s what gave it away. That, and I was speaking at the pace of a sleeping sea cucumber.

I feel like I’ve been to Athens before. The familiarities are unsettling. The city looks like it was plucked out of India—the apartments and houses are remarkably similar to those you’d find in large Indian cities. The geography looks just like Arizona, Athens is in a valley surrounded by sloping hills and the drive from the airport was eerily similar to rides home from Sky Harbor. The physical similarities land me at quite literally the midpoint between my two homes. And the parts that don’t look like Arizona or India—the Acropolis, Hadrian’s Library, et cetera—are still connected to me. A lot of it, I’m sure, is because I’ve studied them for so long, but I also feel like I know them.

But Athens, I’ve come to learn, is a city of contradictions. It’s so familiar, yet completely unfamiliar at the same time. The smells are completely unique. The combination of food, people, locale, humidity... it's very unique. The color is a pale yellow, not as bright as I was anticipating. The language barrier isn’t as bad as I anticipated either, because almost everyone knows English. Reading signs, however, is extremely difficult because I can’t read Greek. I don’t know how to pronounce signs when I see them, nor would I be able to identify places on a map if I became lost. The subway system here is fairly straightforward, but not being able to read any of the signs is still a handicap. I’m still getting a feel for the culture here, I’m watching people interact with each other to get a better idea of what it means to be Greek, and the painting is filling itself in slowly.

Oh, and it’s been raining off and on all day, but the weather is fantastic. The light patters of the raindrops against out balcony door sound like applause. I’m sitting in my hotel room, comfortable, warm. After an uncomfortable week at a hostel and hectic week making sure everything (and everyone) was safe, I am at peace. 

I am in Greece, mere kilometers away from the Acropolis, and I am at peace. 

Greek Thunder

...is not like American thunder. Or Indian thunder. Or British, Irish, Scottish, what have you. No. While thunder and lightning in the rest of the world I've visited so far is, well, what you know and expect, Greek weather doesn't allow the clouds to merely clap a little and shed some tears.

Greek thunder is like being under attack. 

It’s like being inside a drum, around a curious 2-year-old. 

And it's not even raining. Maybe a light drizzle. It’s not difficult for me to imagine why the ancient Greeks attributed these sounds to some divine origin, because normal sky doesn't make these sounds. 

But hey, who knows? Maybe Zeus is really happy to see me. 

Or really angry. 

Let’s hope for the former.