(no subject)
Last night in Athens. Four days and I feel I've only scratched the surface... On my way home tomorrow and already planning a return visit. Tonight we had dinner under the Acropolis and I think it's just hit me what that really means. Funny, I don't think I was much impressed by it until tonight. It takes a few days for the tourist hype to subside, before you can realize where you are. It's an amazing place. But not in the way the moneymachine wants you to think it is.
I'm not ready to leave. I like the shabby hotel room. I like the high ceilings with its sloppy, 60 year old moldings and I like the lime green paint, and the open window to the building next door, and I like the marble floors and how every sound carries. I like the tiny sink. I like the wooden chair. I like that everything I own right now is in a backpack. I like that no one knows me. I like the rundown feel of the streets in Omonia, the graffiti scrawled on these romantic old buildings. I love the moped and motorcycles. I love old Greek men feeding pigeons from a park bench. And the sad Nigerians, and the sad Pakistanis. And that the fellow selling me olive oil and olive soap and loukumi spoke wonderful English, had something to say, and liked me back. And how later that evening he passed my mother and I as we sat for coffee at a sidewalk cafe, said hello, kept walking, stopped, hesitated, turned around to see if I was looking at him, turned again, turned back, lost his nerve and kept walking.
Either I am romantic or the house wine is terrifically cheap.
Long flight tomorrow. A long journey back to all of that... though there are some nice things waiting for me. Along with perhaps more heartache than I can handle.
I'm not ready to leave. I like the shabby hotel room. I like the high ceilings with its sloppy, 60 year old moldings and I like the lime green paint, and the open window to the building next door, and I like the marble floors and how every sound carries. I like the tiny sink. I like the wooden chair. I like that everything I own right now is in a backpack. I like that no one knows me. I like the rundown feel of the streets in Omonia, the graffiti scrawled on these romantic old buildings. I love the moped and motorcycles. I love old Greek men feeding pigeons from a park bench. And the sad Nigerians, and the sad Pakistanis. And that the fellow selling me olive oil and olive soap and loukumi spoke wonderful English, had something to say, and liked me back. And how later that evening he passed my mother and I as we sat for coffee at a sidewalk cafe, said hello, kept walking, stopped, hesitated, turned around to see if I was looking at him, turned again, turned back, lost his nerve and kept walking.
Either I am romantic or the house wine is terrifically cheap.
Long flight tomorrow. A long journey back to all of that... though there are some nice things waiting for me. Along with perhaps more heartache than I can handle.