Arrival at Athens

One of the decisions Adrian changed when talking to the hire car rep was that he would return the car to central Athens rather than the airport and that he would do so at midday. Lamia is a healthy two and a half hour drive from Athens Airport, and at least we had a picture of a plane on the signs to follow for the airport. As we were drinking till at least three am it goes without saying that Adrian’s plans were a little optimistic. He leads me to greasy Greek pizza, juice and cola in an attempt to revive the navigator. The drive back seems long. We stop on a motorway to get air and stretch. A truck pulls in behind us. The driver jabbers at us in Greek and we mutter “Anglika” back at him. He makes a sweeping motion with his hand, like a knife cutting. Perhaps he doesn’t like English. “Machete” he says rather alarmingly, then tries French “couteau” and I realise he wants to borrow one as opposed to remove our liver with one. I’m still pondering how I am sure of this when I pass him my Swiss army knife, but then realise no one would want our livers after last night anyway.

Athens approaches. “Well,” I declare. “This is her test. If Athens can guide us in with appropriate signs from here to the city, then it’s ready for the Olympics.” This attempt to shift responsibility is pointless because if we get lost, Athens won’t care. But we will…

Somewhere we take a wrong turn coming into the city. I think Adrian followed a sign that said Centrum and came off the motorway. Blame was never attributed because it’s futile when you both want to get somewhere. Driver wanted navigator to be able to translate quicker, navigator wanted driver to pull over. Neither happened. In the end my translating got quicker, but it was pointless as the streets were not on the map.

Adrian was getting fraught as he is prone to do in traffic. No one was beeping us and I think he was doing fine. But we were still at odds to where we were, and using landmarks was still not getting us closer. We longed for a sign back to the motorway. But none came. All the likely candidates, bus stations etc were being translated until I decided there was enough time to dive into the dictionary to check the word I kept spelling out “eth –nik …” it sounded like a museum of ethnography to me… it turns out it was the highway.

Several “ooh that wasn’t the street I thought it was” and some “oh we can’t go that way” later we realised we were on track to drive right through the guts of Athens. Adrian, it was fair to say, was not thrilled. Some motivation from the navigator was necessary. “Adrian, I know where we are, I know where we are going. If you can’t take a road, just tell me and I will pick a new way. I am cool with it so enjoy this. You are going to drive through Athens… And I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it - NOW.”

We drove down Akadimias and came out in front of the Parliament buildings… “We need to do a right-left thing to get over there, can we do that? By the way that is Parliament and you’re doing great.”
… continued along Amalias “National Gardens… and we’re going to do a left-left thing to get over to that arch thing which is Hadrian’s Arch (gasp)… and you’re doing great.” and ended up at the hire car place. Job well done.

Athens hotels are not cheap and we chose the Art Gallery pension because it was cheaper than most, spoke English and didn’t need any other transport other than our legs to get there. It was a good call because the hotel was run and owned by two very charming cats. Much stroking ensued.

Our room was a huge and simple family room a top the pension. It came with a balcony with standing room from where you could see the Acropolis. That was special. We peered at it a lot and vowed to wait until morning when we were fresh and would get more out of it.

Rowena loses her wallet. Convinced it’s in the hire car, and with Adrian commissioned to checking it really is lost, she cancels all her cards. The wallet turns up moments later in a bag. It’s Adrian’s fault, naturally…

We walk the streets of Plaka, the old town, which are actually the old Turkish quarters. The streets are a narrow and haphazard as they wind their way around the Acropolis. The houses are painted ochre, orange, yellow and trimmed with bougainvillea and other bright flowers. The streets are packed with restaurants and souvenir shops but it makes for mindless wandering and the odd chasing of cats. We clamber a rocky outcrop and look over Athens and the Agora, the city is dotted with ruins hinting at its former glory. We walk around the base of the hill where the Acropolis is situated. Feral dogs and cats fight in the undergrowth. In parts the base is paved over, one side lined with genteel houses, the other with views of the Acropolis. We sit in one such street as the sun sets and the moon rises. A busker plays jazz saxophone under a tree and we give him money for providing the perfect soundtrack to a beautiful visual scene.

We eat al fresco so Rowena can watch the cats play at her feet. Despite appearances, the cats of Greece are pretty well fed, there being no shortage of restaurants with back doors out of the kitchen. It’s expensive to get a cat neutered in Greece, so perhaps the number of restaurants are not really for the tourists but to keep up with the growth in the cat population?!

We steal more glances of the floodlight Acropolis from our balcony before calling it a day.