A Week in the Cradle

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'Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence.'
John Milton.

'Athens is gross and really dirty, you only need to go there for 2 days.'
Every seasoned backpacker we encountered on our travels, who has been to Athens for 2 days.

The thing is, we had a week to spend in Athens. And to everyone else, this seemed an inordinate amount of time to spend in a city that's 'only thing going for it is the acropolis.' And the other thing is, I loved Athens. I loved everything about it. The weather (searingly hot) the food (fresh, cheap and delicious) the shopping (markets, boutiques) and the fact that overlooking the entire city, visible from where you might be having your morning coffee, is the world's preeminent symbol of antiquity, The (astounding, beautiful, jaw droppingly incredible) Acropolis.

We were staying in Hostel Zeus. Yep. Hostel Zeus. Perhaps the most spartan of all hostels thus far (and that was completely unintentional ancient history reference,I promise)Hostel Zeus provided its guests with a mattress cover, and the option of a terrace bar ... that was boarded up in 1986. So, all in all, extremely pleasant. We were, for the first night, alone in our 4 bedroom dorm. And then, the next morning, as I dropped my towel and went about putting together a suitably cool and floaty Athenian outfit, our fourth dorm mate walked in. Satie flung herself at the door, he reversed out apologising profusely and I clothed myself. A few days later, I would walk in on Forrest having an intimate moment with himself and the visual stimulation provided by his laptop. I feel like Forrest and I got to know each other on an intensely personal level, despite the fact he was gay, 40 and we slept in opposite bunks.

Athens has long dominated my education landscape - from year 12 Ancient History when we were forced to watch videos of a woman in white linen super imposed against all the big monuments, saying 'dis is deee A-crop-o-lissss' all the way through uni where professors in sandals and billowing haiwaiian shirts waxed lyrical about all things Greek and Roman. And so when our Ancient Ruins Day dawned, I felt the nerd blood begin to pump. It was a suffocatingly hot day and there is little respite offered by any of the monuments, except thimbles of lemonade for 6 euros outside the Acropolis. Which, by the time you have walked up there, is a bloody enticing offer because any bottled water you may have brought with you will undoubtedly have boiled en route and your are about to start licking the ground for some sort of moisture. Not that the ground would have any moisture.

Anyway.

Ancient Ruins Day was the culmination of hours spent with my nose in Thucydides and listening to my uni tutors get so excited about Pericles they literally foamed at the mouth. It was a day that I promised myself would happen all those years ago, in ancient history class with Leni when the now infamous phrase of 'disss is deee A-CROP-O-LISSS' was first uttered. That day, one I will never forget, I stood atop the Areopagus and surveyed a shimmering Athens, walked through the propylaea and sashayed around the Acropolis, stood in front of the Parthenon and stared, did it again with the Erechtheion, sat in the audience of Dionysus' theatre, and, as the sun set, took a turn about the Ancient Agora. I had conquered Rome and now, finally, Athens.

(It must also be noted that Athens boasts the most incredible Starbucks. In the world. A testament to the Athenian architectural eminence, it is three levels of Starbucks heaven.)

We farewelled Athens with a payment dispute with the oily haired youth who manned the desk at Zeus. His parting words were 'I was going to give discount on air conditioning. Not now.' The discount comprised of 2 euros, and clearly out concern that we had booked the hostel under one amount per night yet were being charged for an entirely different amount altogether, was grounds to negate an act of such generosity.

And so Greece was over. My list of Ancient Ruins had been ticked, my list of Foods to Eat had been ticked three times over, and I had finally tracked down what all cool Mediterranean girls were wearing that Summer, Aladdin pants. It was time to move on. Time for the tans to fade, for Satie to get her wish for cold weather and time to trade dolmades and moussaka for cake and chocolate. That night, after a brief interlude with one of life's constants, Athens Airport, we were in Vienna. It was 13 degrees and raining. There was not a dolmade nor a cocktail in sight.

Our Mediterranean Summer was over.