The Egypt and Greece Chronicles: Part VII

Morning of Sunday, 19 December, Athens: Yesterday morning, I checked my bags to make sure all my family's Christmas gifts were still existing and intact. After a thorough search, it looked like some bastard in Egypt was now enjoying the Egyptian Pounds coming off the silver bracelet I bought for my mom.

Auntie and I slept in after the late flight, enjoyed the best meal we’ve had in a week (three weeks for her)--consisting of turkey sandwiches for me and a latte for her--and then found the nearest Metro to take to the Acropolis.

After getting off the Metro, there was a nice cobblestone walkway winding around the base of the Acropolis. Along the walkway on one side were middle-class-looking buildings, each with a Greek flag stemming off, and street musicians with their healthy German shepherds (unlike the ones in Egypt) sitting on the Acropolis side. Perpendicular to the walkway (building side) were narrow streets with little European cars. The air was cold, crisp, and clean.

A tall Asian guy with an SLR camera took the same path as us to the top, though I wondered if we were actually being followed. He was very friendly--a little too friendly--and helped us locate the entrance. Then after Auntie went her own way he decided to latch on to me. (I guess that’s what some do when they’re alone in a foreign country and meet someone who speaks their language.) He went by “Howie” and came from San Francisco. Then after the Parthenon, we went to the nearby shops and saw him there, too. At that point he asked for my contact information. I gave him my email address.

Anyway, the good parts: the Acropolis and Parthenon. Just as magnificent as the photos, with a view of the city that’ll knock your socks off. From the top one can see another temple at ground level called the Temple of Olympian Zeus, and another hill across from the Acropolis called the Hill of the Muses. (“Gaius Julius Antiochus Philopappos was a prince of Commagene, a kingdom in Upper Syria, who was overthrown by the Romans in 72 [B.C.E.]. Exiled from his native country, he settled in Athens and became a benefactor of the city. Between A.D.114-116 he built his own funeral monument, in a very privileged position facing the Akropolis, which dominated the area and gave his name to the hill.” --http://www.akropol.net/philopappos_hill/philopappos_hill_page1.htm.)

The fascinating new Acropolis Museum was built over "excavations," which can be seen through the glass floor. (I put the word in quotes, because I wasn't sure if the "excavation" was real or if the museum was purposely built over where many of the reliefs and sculptures were discovered.) The museum itself was rather tiny, but had amazing pieces that I’m sure make the Greeks very, very proud.

Evening of 19 December: I’ve never known anything more hair-pulling than the elevators at this hotel. Before switching my room due to the smell of burnt hair, we were both on the seventh level. We pressed the "down" button, then the elevator started at level three, headed down to one, then up to eight, then down to five, then down to three again…

After waiting a good six minutes (We still haven’t located stairs exceeding level two in this place.), the elevator finally hit level seven. We entered, and from seven it went down to six, and then the lift would open, revealing a large group of people with whom we couldn’t fit because the elevator had already reached full capacity. Close. Level five, open—no one there, probably because they had given up. Level four, open—no one. Level three, open—a group of teens playing cards on the floor (I said to my aunt, “They might as well pitch a tent.”). Level two, open—too many people. Level one was the same, and five minutes later we reached the lobby. It must have been a mass check-in time because that was unbelievable.

We decided to visit the Archaeological Museum (self-explanatory, with more reliefs and sculptures) briefly because, my god, a combination of jet lag from flying and stomach pains from eating Burger King in Egypt is a fat SOB. On the way, we asked a woman working in a café for directions. She had no idea how to answer the question, even with decent English. Another woman interrupted her, brought us outside to point us in the right direction, and whispered with a thick Greek accent, “Don’t worry, she’s the stupid one.” Love it.