A Day in the Clouds

We said goodbye to Athens under a sliver of (ungodly) early morning moon.

The only compensation once we got to the airport was having a final wedge of spanikopita with my morning cereal because if not here, where?

Before officially leaving Greece, I got interrogated by an airport employee at the Aegean Airlines line, an encounter that began innocently enough. Where had I been? Athens, Dubrovnik and the U.S. before that. Who was I traveling with? I pointed to Mr. Wright in the ticket line, answering his own set of questions.

What's your relationship with him? Um, boyfriend? For how long? Sharing the date of our first date, that's when things got seriously personal.

Has he proposed, he wants to know. What the...? No (and what business is it of yours?).

What do you do? I'm a writer. What do you write? Restaurant reviews, art pieces, feature stories. He says this is interesting,  then tells me to have a good trip. Leaning in as he hands back my passport and boarding pass, this man I've never laid eyes on before assures me that he will propose and points at his own wedding ring.

Since when do airport employees forecast the relationship future of travelers? All I can think is, it's way too early for this kind of stranger interaction.

The flight from Athens to Geneva allowed me to finish my second book of this trip, Anais Nin's "Delta of Venus" (because where better to read '40s erotica than Greece?) and leave it at the airport for another reader to discover (Inscribed with my name, Richmond, Virginia and the date I finished it, natch) and enjoy.

Members of the international reading community unite.

Coming into Geneva provided a gorgeous view of Lake Geneva, a blue-green beauty so still that the trees ringing it were reflected all around the shore and a white boat cutting through the water left a picture-perfect V-shaped trail behind it.

The 8-hour flight from Geneva to Dulles afforded me the opportunity to read Jerzy Kosinski's 1977 semi-autobiographical "Blind Date." Imagine my surprise when I was only on page 10 before discovering that it was set in Switzerland, the country I'd just set foot in for the first time.

I ask you, what are the chances?

Mind you, because I was reading a 1978 paperback copy that's been on my bookshelf for goodness knows how long, the pages were yellowed and brittle and by page 8, the front cover came off, although it took all the way until page 50 for the back cover to disassociate itself from the book.

But what could I expect from a 40-year old paperback, after all?

The book was full of references that could only have come out of the '70s - a woman in a Foxy Lady t-shirt and  a man described as stylish "in a well-cut suit with a wide tie." You couldn't very well live through that era and not recall how wide the ties were.

Although I really had no memory of the book or author, it was clear from the pages of accolades about him and his other books (he also wrote "The Painted Bird" and "Being There," another important film I've never seen) that Kosinski - a Russian/Polish Jew whose family had survived the Holocaust before he immigrated to the U.S. in 1957 - had been a very big deal back then

One of the most surprising anecdotes involved an invitation for the author to visit his friend in Los Angeles, but his luggage was mistakenly sent to New York City, so his trip got delayed by a day. Praise be to the inefficiency of airlines because he was headed to Sharon Tate's house and that night was the one when Charles Manson's "family" showed up and slaughtered everyone there.

With an 8-hour flight, finishing the book between meals was a snap and I still had time on my hands. Determined to get my body back on local time, I refused to take a nap and at one point, I was the only person in the front cabin awake.

I might have started to flag a little on the quickie flight from Dulles to Richmond, but the angle of the sun made the reflection on the clouds so brilliant inside the tiny plane that shutting my eyes was more a matter of self-preservation than anything.

And, just like that, we were back in my adopted home town and I could escape the overly cold air-conditioned air of three planes and three airports. Greece was lovely for many reasons, not the least of which was the temperate climate.

The Moroccan taxi driver ("Nine years here and we can't find a reason to leave!" he crowed) taking me home to J-Ward was none too happy to get off I-64 and find streets closed due to the Second Street Festival. Worse still were the hordes of people trying to cross streets everywhere but at the corners and the inevitable Broad Street accidents slowing down traffic at every turn.

Listening to him go from pleasant and chatty to cursing and furious at the delays would not have been my first choice for re-entering the 'hood, but I've learned that not everyone has the equilibrium I do.

Back in my apartment, the plants were well watered, the windows still open and  ten days of Washington Posts neatly stacked on my desk for perusal once life settles down. The only unfortunate event greeting me was that I had no internet or phone service and goodness only knows how long it had been out.

I can leave the country without a second thought, but I do not want to return and feel cut off from the world, which is exactly what happened. How's a girl supposed to earn a living, much less make plans and respond to correspondence if she's got no internet connection? I was way too tired to deal with such a dilemma after traveling for 16 hours.

The phone I can live without, but even after 12 hours of sleep last night, I'm at a loss without being connected to the virtual world. How desperate am I? I took my iPod with me en route to the pipeline so I could avail myself of the internet (to summon help) while on Brown's Island, that's how desperate. So desperate I'm at Lift Coffee Shop, a few blocks from home, eating lunch and answering emails, invoicing my editor and writing this post.

And, if I'm honest, missing the carefree time I was having with Mr. Right before reality settled back in. Ah, but the memories...

The Athens Happy Train

Poseidon was the god of earthquakes...and other things I learned over the past two days.

Riding the hop on/hop off bus, we were apprised of the fact that the god of the sea and his trident had other responsibilities beyond water. Disney doesn't tell you that. Also news to me: that New York College has an Athens campus, a fact I can confirm because I saw it with my own two eyes.

Not particularly impressive by Athens standards, I have to say.

Fortunately, we also saw the University of Athens, a far handsomer building, even if it was designed in the neo-classical  style and built in the 1830s. I'm realizing that there are far more grand 19th century buildings that I'd expected in such an ancient city.

One thing that makes me smile every time we see it is the Athens Happy Train, which, despite the name, drives on the narrow roads but resembles nothing so much as a bright red locomotive straight out of "Thomas, the Tank Engine." Pulling a string of open-air carts behind it, the train provides entertainment doing nothing more than navigating hairpin turns on busy streets, somehow without swiping pedestrians or cars.

Also gleaned: traipsing around Athens, even when it's only 80 degrees, sometimes necessitates a heat nap. The noises and voices below may not stop, but we do.

It was dark and the Plaka was alive with lights, people strolling and vendors calling to passersby when we finally hit the streets in search of dinner. After considering a variety of menus, we chose a corner table on the shrub-lined patio of a modern-looking restaurant, close to the hustle and bustle of the street, but secluded enough for easy conversation.

Samaropetra Sauvignon Blanc eased us into the night post-nap and a plate of fried pita chips riding shotgun with hummus, melitzanosalata (eggplant dip) and fish dip made up for the hours since lunch.

Dipping and sipping, I regaled Himself with news from home: Beau thinks "Himself" is not nearly descriptive enough a name for my main squeeze, coincidentally, a name he and Pru embraced. When I pointed out it was a bit cumbersome, they shortened it to MS. Meh.

Beau liked "the architect," but it came across a tad dry to me, so Pru came up with Lovin' Spoonful. Please. Finally, one or both of them suggested Mr. Right, which, when presented to Himself, was immediately reworked into Mr. Wright, thus covering two bases and hopefully satisfying everyone, reader and participant alike.

Could it be the blog needs a suggestion box?

My sea bass with tagliatelle, celery veloute and caviar not only spoke to my unladylike appetite but also to how fresh tasting fish is here. Mr. Wright tried to convince me that his grilled salmon over vegetable ratatouille surpassed mine, but it was a hard sell.

Tables around us filled and emptied as we took our time with our meal and watched as the middle-aged tourists milling the street were replaced by younger people and bands playing a block or street away. Our server had assessed us early on as not the dine and dash types and encouraged our lingering, taking her cues from us as she refreshed water and wine.

Big topics were on the table, namely future trips and how to best negotiate them without losing our shared love of new experiences in new places. No formal resolutions were reached by the time dessert arrived, so the conversation was tabled.

After sharing a lidded mason jar full of dark chocolate pudding with sea salt caramel, a crown of heavy cream and croutons (I loved how un-American that was), we were fuller than we'd been since coming to Athens and our brilliant server noticed and reacted. Delivering two glasses of Mastika, a Greek liqueur made from an evergreen called the Mastic tree, she observed that we might need a digestif.

Unlike Underberg with its heavier, more alcoholic taste, Mastika was a breath of fresh air after a lot of food and hours sitting talking. The kind of spirit that, we decided, needs to find its way home with us.

See: dinner as learning experience.

Today's ruins were Hadrian's Gate, built so long ago that it was part of a wall meant to separate the old and new city, complete with inscriptions making sure everyone knew which was which. Behind it stood the Temple of the Olympian Zeus, or at least the remaining fluted columns and their Corinthian capitals. One of the columns came down in a long ago storm and continues to lay where it fell in  pieces, offering a unique look at column construction.

All around the perimeter of the site are roped off areas of - surprise! - bits and pieces of antiquity, although none of them are labeled or given any context for the archeologically curious. The little signage that existed was for the Roman baths (and latrine), which was enough to get the attention of an American group of three bros and one babe.

Walking by the ruins, clearly intent on leaving, one of the guys noticed the sign and called out to the others, "Hey, this is where the Romans took a bath!" That was enough for the other three to halt and make a U-turn to admire something they could identify with.

After a cursory look, they continued toward the exit, one of them with his thinking cap on. "What if this is what Cleveland is like in 100 years?"

Safe to say that Athens affects each of us in different ways.

What if Richmond had leek hand pies as good as the ones we snagged on the way home from Zeus' temple? It boggles the mind.

Gyros and Grape Leaves

Athens is big, way bigger than I realized.

The genial Greek man holding the sign with Himself's name who picked us up from the airport Monday morning assured us that the rain and storms that had dominated the weather for days had finally moved on and there was nothing but blue skies ahead.

Exactly what you want to hear when you set foot in Athens for the first time.

And blue skies here means seriously blue, intensely blue, a blue meant to blur the line between sea and sky and provide the backdrop for the wispiest of clouds. A blue that makes all these whitewashed buildings stand out in high relief against it.

The apartment we're staying in is on the main drag of the Plaka, the old historical neighborhood emanating from northern and eastern slopes of the Acropolis. Around here, it's called the "neighborhood of the gods," with ancient, crooked, narrow streets lined with shops, restaurants and, seemingly at every corner, a fence surrounding a ruin, column or cluster of capitals.

It took exactly one afternoon to realize that you can't swing a dead cat without hitting an antiquity. And not to disparage cats, but this place is positively lousy with them, lounging on window ledges, curled up by tavern doors and strolling down cobblestone streets like they own them.

Which is, according to Himself, a good thing because when you don't se them (say, in China), that means they're being served up somewhere. Already, pigeon is showing up on an awful lot of menus we've seen, if you know what I'm saying.

After getting acquainted with the apartment, we headed out to see what the 'hood was about. Earlier, when our driver had motioned and stopped the car to unload us on the one car-wide street, I'd been amazed that the line of cars and motorbikes behind us had waited patiently as we gathered our belongings. Not a honk was heard or angry face seen.

Civility reigns in Athens.

When we set out on foot a couple of hours later, inching along the foot-wide sidewalk (curb was more like it), next to a line of stopped/slow-moving traffic, we paused to look at the map. Like tourists do. An older Greek man in a Mercedes glanced over a time or two as he sat waiting in traffic and when his car had inched forward so he was a foot from where we stood, he smiled and asked if he could assist.

Considering we'd just barely arrived in his country, I felt no shame in handing over the map and asking the way to the market. After turning the map right side up, he graciously explained that it was barely two turns away before handing it back and inching forward, perhaps to aid more wayward souls.

Our driver had been correct: Greek people are friendly.

After leisurely sipping wine at a bar in the tree-covered square, we decided to have dinner on the apartment balcony and set out in search of grub. Although Himself took issue with Eat at Milton (whether for the directive-sounding name or because Milton sounds so decidedly un-Greek, I really can't say), the Greek salad and gyros were solid and probably extra tasty for being enjoyed next to window boxes of geraniums while looking down on the evening promenade below.

I'm not going to lie, yesterday's sightseeing didn't exactly get off to an early start, but nevertheless we were in line to get tickets to view the wonder of the Acropolis by early afternoon anyway.

Hey, this is vacation, so no schedule police, please.

While I don't recall exactly when I first became aware of the Acropolis, it may have been in an architectural history class my second year of college. Translation: a loooong time ago. What I learned yesterday, besides how pushy and bossy a tour guide can be when she wants to get a photo of her group, was that the renovations of the Acropolis began right around that time, after centuries of misguided restoration attempts.

The sheer height of the columns, the few remaining figures of the pediment and the exquisite beauty of the stone against those blue skies was breathtaking. I had no issue with the extended climb up the hill, the rocky, uneven terrain or the slipperiness of the pavers worn down by time, but man, the humanity you see as part of that is eye-opening.

Selfie sticks should be outlawed, that's all I'm saying. Meanwhile, the staff was kept busy blowing their whistles like lifeguards at a pool every time some idiot sat on a wall or ducked under a rope they weren't supposed to. I overheard an American tourist looking down at the grand amphitheater nearby say with surprise, "Look, they're playing music in the stadium!" and bit my tongue to keep from correcting him. That's a theater, son.

As they used to say at the Byrd Theater, some people need parental guidance.

Afterward, we climbed up to where an enormous Greek flag was planted to admire the view of Athens below and the sea beyond, both the flag and panorama a visual symphony of blue and white.

We found seats on the stone wall and watched as people came up long enough to snap a photo and head back down rather than take in the view. Neither of us would have been at all surprised if someone had demanded our spot (as the tour guide had done to a  British couple with the audacity to sit down on a bench to contemplate the surrounding history) but I'd been ready to tell anyone who tried to get lost.

Since arriving in Athens, I've been called a confident contrarian, but that could be amended to cocky, confident contrarian, too.

Walking back toward the apartment, we stopped at a  crosswalk where a small, paper sign warned pedestrians to pause after the light change because, "Drivers often violate the red light," and then went on to editorialize, "Probably because they're on their cellphones."

You think? I only wish the signs were larger and permanent, not that it would likely make a difference.

Moments after the light changed, we heard a Scottish voice behind us say it was okay to go. "We've been here a week, so we know," said the smiling man as we started across. "Not like in Rome, where you had to protect yourself," said the woman, holding up her scraped elbow. "Rome was tough."

A late lunch was taken at a tree and umbrella-shaded outdoor restaurant where we lingered over two kinds of crusty bread, whipped olive oil with herbs, tzatziki and olives, followed by a house-smoked salmon plate and something labeled "Variety of hot appetizers" that included such things as dolmades, spanakopita, falafel and who knows what else I couldn't identify.

Looking around at the other diners, I spotted the woman behind whom we'd stood in line to get tickets many hours earlier.

How about that? Even in a  city of five million people, it's still a small world here. Even smaller when you want it to be.

The right balcony company, it seems, works wherever you go. And, I might add, never more so than in the neighborhood of the gods,