Street Life

Leaving Lycabettus, I retrace the steps from my memory that lead me to the bakeries and kitchens we frequented 50 years ago that were just down the hill. I must remind myself of this fact. A half decade will issue changes; we see it all around us in our daily lives and appear to adapt relatively well to store closings without a great nostalgic lament. But childhood places are sacred. These memories sustain us and root us when present life around us speeds by in unsentimental fervor. Woe to the fates that dismantle them.

I cannot be sure of the coordinates, but in most directions there are no bakeries or hole in the wall shops. The narrow streets are neither swept nor hosed down and apartment buildings seem to be inured to the scrolling over with a spray can. Garbage dumpsters control street corners and cats lounge on car hoods. I walk further down to Ippokratous Street where the merchants seem to have moved to, and along this road non touristy shops are open for business using less English. Here I find a street restaurant with its lunch behind glass and locals peering in, talking about the day’s menu to the cook and his wife. I stop by and notice the stuffed tomatoes sitting in a layer of olive oil and cannot pass them by. I order one, and she tells me to sit down, and brings over a bottle of water and a plate of two rice filled tomatoes with potatoes on the side. Simple yet delicious and only €5.

Walking further down back to the square, I pass a bakery whose window is full of cellophane wrapped Easter chocolates, and something else that captures my eye not including the baklava. Along the bottom is stenciled “since 1974” and I want to say bravo, good for you, nice to see you again.

Back in Syntagma Square, I am just in time to see the slow motion tai chi-like dance of the guards. In spectacular pomp, they commence to move in synchronized movements for the changing of the guards ceremony. This is pleasing to see, as still after all these years there is something historically significant at play here, something along with the ancient ruins cropping up on unexpected corners that preserves Greek culture and its history.

Becoming better acclimated to surroundings and landmarks, I make my way back to the Plaka. The stuffed tomatoes were merely an appetizer, or so I tell myself, and a glass of Retsina to let the whole day’s experiences sink in sounds about right. I pave my way back through alleys that are full of flowing garments in Greek blue and white design hanging from awnings, pass the jewelry and beads (did find those worry beads after all), and everything and anything that may eventually find itself in a drawer of some kind back home if you’re indiscriminately shopping in the pleasure of the moment. Eventually I find my man on the hill, away from the the many others down the hill. It affords privacy and peace, and a view. One of the waiters ushers me in. “Choose anywhere you like. You have a view of Athens.” I thank him and point to my hill. “I’m here to see that.”

My glass of wine arrives and soon am ordering taramosalata (speaking of buying in the moment) which comes with a side of olives, peperoncino and a slice of bread drizzled with garlic infused olive oil. I do not get out of there without a complimentary dessert: a farina type of cake with raspberry syrup. This day is concluded well.

The next morning I leave my backpack before check out and hit the “flea market” over at the intersection of Evripidou and Athinas Streets just north of the Plaka. Not sure what to expect, I was overwhelmed by the aisles of fresh meet and fish stalls. Taking up one large block, the meet vendors were stationed along the outside of the square and lined up their cuts of carcasses: heads, entrails, tongues, hooves, whole bodies ready for the spit. Pig, cow, sheep, chicken. The inner of the square belonged to the fish mongers, and in silver, pink, white, and gray they nestled in beds of ice. The dry goods were lined up on the streets. What a selection for the chefs and cooks of Athens!

I return to the hostel, grab my bag, and take a taxi to the port of Rafina, another 40 minute ride. This time though, the taxi driver is engaged with phone calls, but that’s ok. I leave Athens in a Tesla sedan, with a full length window above my head to the sky. I feel a sense of resolve with past and present.