Passing Days in Athens

Academics and learning, academics and learning, academics and…. I have to repeat it and remind myself that I still need to be in classes and I still have books to read. I try and set my mind into the rigorous mindset of schoolwork and schedule. But my classes themselves are as much to blame for the undefeatable feeling of vacation as any thing else. Our first history class took us through the Plaka and past the Acropolis to the top of Philopappos Hill for an unobstructed view of the Attican Valley and the port of Piraeus and the many temples snuggled around the Acropolis. Our next class, art history, was a walking tour through the Dark age, Orientalizing, and Archaic periods of Greek art at the National Archeological Museum; a location that will serve, every Wednesday, as our classroom. After classes, if we don’t jump right into a siesta, a group of guys will head to the basketball courts to play around. In the intense midday heat of Athens, we can get a great workout and sometimes compete against local boys, games which can get competitive and we bump and scuffle hard against the Greeks but both parties enjoy the game. Other days, I head to the hill that the Marble Stadium (of the 1896 opening games) is built into and start running on the track set along and hidden by the uppermost seats of the stadium. Local men run through the shade that the trees hanging over the track offer, or do pull ups and climb rope ladders on the outdoor equipment. An oasis, a truly local spot where I can train like a Greek Olympian of yore (although clothed) on track and simple machines while also hoping to bronze my pale Irish complexion. And coming home from an exhilarating run, breathless from the exertion and the sight and atmosphere that the track lends, I climb through our kitchen window and make my way up steel staircase to the roof of our building. The odors of Phil’s cooking (making true to his promise) are still in my nose promising a delicious feast to come. A glass of Greek wine—procured from a merchant on our street who fills the big plastic jugs directly from wooden barrels—sits in my hand having been stuck there by Phil with a smile and a ‘bloody hell, here drink this’. I can see Buddha, Andreas’ dog, prowling around outside his salon and then pissing on a street corner. I can see the Parthenon and Lykabettos Hill, like green and rock megaliths breaking the white housed sea continuum of Athens. I see solar panels on every rooftop. I hear the church’s bells chiming again and the cool breeze rustling my hair. The sights and sounds plus the refreshing offering to Dionysus clutter my sensory platter. But like the omnipresent rays of the sun, its setting overpowers everything else and I find myself breathless again.