Profile
Blog
Photos
Videos
Check-Out Time
"All the sorrow and trouble of this world is caused by unhappy people... The search for contentment is, therefore, not merely a self-preserving and self-benefiting act, but also a generous gift to the world." - Elizabeth Gilbert (Eat, Pray, Love)
For Meg and Chris. Congratulations on your future son. And for my nephew, Robert Ford. Your world will always be filled with love and compassion.
It was 3AM when the phone in my room shrilled to life. Dazed, I picked it up, half-expecting a garbled voice to tell me to rendezvous on a nearby street corner. "Hello, Miss," the receptionist chirped. "This is your wakeup call." Oh, yeah. Exactly four seconds after I hung up, the alarm on my cell - which I'd set in case the phone call failed - went off, startling me into scattering the contents of my nightstand.
It had been a bizarre thirty-six hours. With every minute that counted down to my departure to Peru, Athens multiplied its appeal. It was as though the city suddenly realized I was leaving and decided to be nice to me.
It started Saturday night, when I treated myself to dinner in Ancient Greece. I'd first heard about Archeon Gefsis from Antonio during my first few days in Athens, all those weeks ago. The owner of the theme restaurant is passionately staunch about authenticity. Every menu item has an attached citation to an ancient text in which the dish was mentioned. They don't serve anything that wasn't part of the Greek diet circa 500BC (so no tomatoes, potatoes, rice, chocolate or sugar). They don't provide forks (tridents were considered taboo as the weapon of Poseidon) or glassware. Wine is served in stemless clay cups. They even offer the chance to participate in a 'symposium', a meal eaten while reclining on couches, complete with togas, servants washing your hands and feet and philosophical rhetoric. This was a package only available to groups, though.
Besides a visit to the Acropolis, a meal at Archeon Gefsis was the one thing I decided I couldn't leave without doing. Antonio tried to discourage me with the argument that the restaurant was touristy and expensive. In his opinion, not worth the price tag. He thought he was doing me a favour by refusing to let me go while I stayed with him, feeding me delicious home-cooked meals instead at no cost to me. What he didn't understand was that eating at the world's only Ancient Greek restaurant would be living out the fantasy which prompted me to select consecutive Classical Studies courses on elective sheets for five years. I'd taken a rotating topics class on Alcohol in the Ancient World, and even wrote an entire research paper on ancient food and wine. I couldn't not go to Archeon Gefsis.
There was only one problem. When I called to make a lunch reservation, I was informed they were only open for dinner, after 7PM. At first I'd thanked the man and hung up, my plan thwarted. My norm in Athens was to go out sightseeing during the day, have my main meal in late afternoon, then a snack in my room before bed. That way I never had to be out after dark. It should have occurred to me before now that Archeon Gefsis might not be open for lunch. Most higher-end places weren't. I'd scouted the restaurant's location the day before, and found it to be in an even worse neighbourhood than the one I was in. There was no way I was walking there alone at night.
Ah well, I thought. I'd seen and done more here than most people would ever get the chance to. I should be grateful. I looked out the window with a resigned sigh, paused, then glanced down at my watch. It was eight-thirty. The sun didn't go down here until after nine. I did some mental calculations, and hope sprang back into my mind. If I got there as soon as it opened... I called back and made a reservation for Saturday at seven. I should have plenty of time to eat and walk back to the hostel. If the meal took longer than expected, I could always call for a cab.
And so it came to be that I put on makeup and dress shoes Saturday night, reclaiming my 'sophisticated self' for my first real dinner date since San Rocco. It didn't matter that I was taking myself out. That only made it all the more special. I left early, walked most of the way there and then stopped in a bar for a glass of Prosecco, satisfied that I wasn't going to get lost or be late.
Archeon Gefsis wasn't nearly as expensive as Antonio made it out to be. Sure it wasn't a steal, but it wasn't extravagant. I'd paid more for less, and it was well-worth it to me. I sat in the outdoor courtyard, decorated with faux doric pillars, fountains and climbing ivy. The only lighting (besides the still-blazing sun) came from candles. I ordered an ancient aperitif made from sweet wine, honey and rosewater that I remembered writing about in The Paper. Bread, olives and olive oil arrived, followed by an entree of lamb cooked in a clay pot with apples, pears, cabbage and goat cheese. I was prepared to be disappointed in the food. Theme restaurants usually survived on their gimmicks, the quality of the food an afterthought. I would have been happy to pay for the experience alone, but I didn't have to. The lamb was tender and delicious with tons of flavour from the salty goat cheese and sweet cooked fruit. I ate with a knife, spoon and my hands, as the ancients would have.
Walking back to my hostel, I was glad I'd decided to take the chance and go. I raised my eyes to the sky and judged that I still had time for dessert. I stopped in the cafe where I normally had my morning freddo cappuccino and breakfast pastry, and ordered loukoumades, warm donuts traditionally topped with cinnamon and honey. I'd wondered if I would get the chance to try them before I left, and here the opportunity had presented itself without me even having to ask.
The night only got better after that. In the morning I woke up thinking I'd had the strangest, most wonderful dream that I'd seen my family for the first time in over two months. Then I realized it wasn't a dream. You know when you get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or check on something, and then have only the vaguest recollection of doing so in the morning? That was the way I remembered Skypeing my sister at 1AM to find out the sex of her first baby. Add semi-consciousness to the surreality of seeing the smiling faces of my siblings, siblings-in-law, father and cousins, and it was almost as if it had never happened at all. "And you were there, and you, too, and you were there, and you and you..."
I remembered hoping, before signing on to the call, that we could keep this short so I could go back to sleep. Then once I had them on the line, I was ready to keep them there all night. My sister suggested we Skype another time when she didn't have a yard full of people and it wasn't the middle of the night for me, and I wanted to reach through the screen, grab onto her and scream, "No! Don't go! Stay with me!" But I let her go. I hit the 'end call' button just as my dad was in mid-sentence, saying he didn't know how to hang up. That's me now. I just take care of business. My sister's backyard disappeared, replaced by a blank, silent blue screen. And just like that, I was alone again.
In the morning I packed my suitcase, memorized my flight details and set my electronics to charge. Once all of that was taken care of, I walked to the city centre for The Last Meal. I chose Attalos Taverna on a backstreet of the Monastiraki flea market. The prices were decent, the food was homemade and the waiters were friendly but not at all pushy. It turned out to be the best meal I had in Athens. I kept it classic: a glass of white wine (one euro less than everywhere else), stuffed "vine" leaves and grilled halloumi with green salad. Bread was only eighty cents, and they didn't charge a cover or for water, as most places did. I know I use the phrase "the best I ever tasted" a lot, but it's true a lot. One of my favourite parts of travel is discovering new flavours you never knew existed, like finding a colour you couldn't place on the known spectrum, and being inspired by its beauty. The grilled halloumi was unlike anything I'd ever had, warm and squeaky like cheese curds, naturally salty, but also sweet and sour from the vinegar-and-honey dressing, and slightly smokey from the chargrill. It hit all the notes, and was hands-down one of the best things I've ever put in my mouth (don't even go there). I couldn't believe my luck that I'd decided on a whim to try it my last day here.
I ate so much of the halloumi that I couldn't finish my grape leaves. There were two left on the plate - big, meat-and-rice-filled ones the size of goose eggs. "You want to take away?" The older, bespectacled waiter asked. I was about to politely decline and explain that I would, but I was flying out later that night. Then another idea occurred to me.
"Yes," I said. "I'll take them."
Sometimes I like to abstain from ordering dessert just to see if any surprises come my way. One did. Complimentary halva, a traditional Greek cake made from olive oil and semolina that was coincidentally the last dessert on my list to try, with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. Service was just slow enough to relax while I enjoyed the discrete view of the Acropolis across the train tracks, and by the time I'd finished eating, the bread that was still on the table had gone from pillow-soft to stale, a sure sign of freshness. It very well might have been homemade, too.
After lunch I wandered Monastiraki and Plaka some more, even though I already had more souvenirs than could be justified. I walked slowly, looking in every shop for nothing in particular. I was in the forested hills above Plaka, strolling the road at the base of the Acropolis, when an antiquities guard asked if she could help me find something. I told her I was just looking for an ATM, which was partly true, and she arched an eyebrow as if to say, "Wanna try again?" It was around this point that I became aware that I was stalling. Why? I wondered. Athens and I hadn't exactly been BFF's. I should be only too happy to go back to my room and see the last of this city. Even its name was feminine and combative - Athena, goddess of war. But Athena was also the goddess of wisdom. And maybe it was that invaluable gift which kept me roaming her streets that afternoon.
I had half a mind to hike up to Areopagus Hill one last time, but that only got me halfway there. I'd taken to making this hike daily. It was good exercise, like walking to the end of the pier in the Old Port of Heraklion, but uphill. Today, however, I could feel my black yoga pants (unpacked for the plane ride) sticking to my legs. I squinted up at the blazing sun and slumped under the weight of my bag, my shoulders and lower back screaming, the soles of my feet throbbing. Slowly, mindlessly, I stopped. Looking up the hill, I wasn't seeing the Acropolis anymore. I was seeing Machu Picchu. I was seeing Sedona. All at once, I felt very tired. What would it say about me if I walked halfway up the Acropolis on my last day in Athens, my last day in Greece, my last day in EUROPE, and turned back? I sighed. It would say I was being kind to myself.
Athens was being kind, too. It was as though she were apologizing, making nice. When I sat to rest on the steps of the metro station in Monastiraki Square, one of the young African men with the string bracelets approached. I bristled, knowing what was coming. "Where you from?" He flashed me a smile so bright it was blinding against his black skin. By now I was able to recognize the question as a tried-and-true foot-in-the-door, a way to make tourists think you were just being friendly before you tried to sell them something.
The conversation went precisely the way I thought it would, and this time I was sitting down with my back against the wall. He had me cornered. I was startled, however, when he seemed to recognize this as much as I did, and backed off instead of using it to his advantage. "Okay," he beamed, raising both hands in surrender when I shifted uncomfortably and shook my head, "no problem. Have a nice day." With that, he was gone. I was shocked.
On the way back to the hostel, I passed a homeless man sleeping on a flattened cardboard box. He was swaddled in a jacket, despite the fact that it was ninety degrees out. I set the takeout container with the dolmades in it down next to him. For the barefoot gypsy I denied shoes, I thought. 'Pula' I am not. For the three individual beggars who approached me the night before while I was stuffing my face with a plateful of loukoumades. A server had shooed them away as if a stray dog had wandered onto the patio, then apologized to me, as if I shouldn't have to share the same space with such lowlife. But I hadn't felt bothered. At least not in the way he thought. I felt ashamed. The situation could have easily been reversed. An unfortunate turn of events, one false step, and I could lose my credit cards and ID. Would people help me when I was nobody? Or would they shoo me away, assuming I would use the money for drugs?
This trip was equipping me with an arsenal of identities to answer the call of any circumstance. I wasn't oblivious to the fact that tough-skinned resilience was one of them, but I wanted to prove to myself that compassion was still a dominant part of who I was.
When I checked out of the hostel, I thought of it more in the sense of checking out at a grocery store or from ordering books online. I'd chosen the knowledge and experience I wanted myself to have, paid the price for it, and now I was leaving, the lessons tucked securely under my belt.
In the last four days I'd gone through a bottle of oregano oil, a kilogram of strawberries, a litre of orange juice and innumerable bottles of water. Taking the taxi to Athens International Airport before dawn, I felt great. Now the question was whether it would be enough to stand up to a thirty-six hour transfer across the Atlantic to South America. After flying three hours from Greece, I would have one more stopover in Europe that would last thirteen hours, then a twelve-hour flight and four-hour layover in Lima before the two-hour homestretch to Cusco. It wasn't until I was staring, glassy-eyed, up at the gate listing for Madrid on the departure screen that it finally hit me; I was going to Spain.
- comments
meaghan Love you soooo much! Glad you arrived safely. And can't wait to see your smiling face for real. Muah. Xoxo