I landed in Athens last night through leaden clouds and onto a wet tarmac. It’s been five decades since I was last here. A walk-through, digitalized passport experience made me feel like I was entering any city in the world. No longer should there be any intimidation from a passport officer, scrutinizing your face against the photo, asking you of your address while here, your length of stay, and purpose for it; lengthy silent gaps drawn out between each, and finally, a forceful thud of a rubber stamp onto one of its pages approving your reasons for the visit. Now, thanks to the EU, technology and AI, you scan your passport photo page and walk right in. So I did, and then out and into a taxi to take me to the hostel. Still memorizing Greek phrases I would need while visiting and still unsure of my elocution, I was put at ease with my taxi driver’s quick switch to English. I commented on its fluency. “I love learning English,” she said proudly. “This way, if I don’t want to be a taxi driver anymore, I can teach English.” I applauded her choice. “I used to live in Athens, in 1974,” I told her. “Hah! I was ten years old then,” she said. “So was I!” “A lot has changed. You’ll see.” We entered the city center, and the evidence of hard times was easy to see indeed: although it was relatively early, shortly after 8, many shops and bars were shuttered and padlocked; if they’d been shuttered too long, graffiti artists or activists or criminals had something to say in spray can frenzy. “The euro killed us,” the taxi driver commented, continuing in the direction of the conversation and the hostel. “It tripled prices overnight. The government didn’t care. Or they weren’t thinking. A 50 lepta bottle of water was suddenly 50 cents.” She waved her bottle of water in the air, she shook her head, remembering life with the drachma. “Then the austerity measures came into effect,” my taxi cum history teacher continued. “They took money from pensions. My father’s pension was 2,500. After the cuts, guess how much?” I was silent. I hadn’t a guess. “1,200.”
I was let out at the Athens Backpackers Hostel, paid the handsome amount of 50 Euros for the ride and introductory course, and made her smile for the first time in the 40 minute ride from the airport. After an easy check in, the receptionist gave me a welcome shot. So Greek! An amber grain alcohol with cinnamon and honey made its way down into my dry gut in two gulps. I slept well.
Next morning I study the map and make my way down to breakfast. With a plate of bread, cheese, egg and coffee, I plan my route for the day. Outside the window from where I sit, I notice oranges ripening and full of color hanging from the trees lining the narrow one way street. I head out to find the Athens I knew from once a long time before.
Write Down the Road 