Griechenland

I arrived into Greece around midnight in a jet-lagged stupor (quite possibly the worst I’ve experienced) and went straight to my hostel, where the complimentary shot of ouzo and a few cheeky beers did nothing to put me to sleep. The next day was just as grim. You know you’ve got it bad when you arrive in a brand new country and your only thoughts are of sanctuary in the touristy part of town, where you’ll pay treble normal price for bad coffee and the privilege of sitting among people as disorientated as yourself

But a few pastries later I was feeling greatly revived, and went for a wander around some pretty spectacular sights. The Acropolis, with its outstanding view over Athens; the Parthenon, covered in scaffolding; the Temple of Zeus with one pillar toppled over like a stack of pikelets.

Athens to me resembles an eastern European capital city, which I guess technically it is. Commenting on the poor reviews that the town gets, a friend said that people come expecting a stylish and cosmopolitan Western-style capital (which it actually calls itself in tourism material) when it’s really a chaotic, unpretentious and polluted city with, you know, some of the greatest relics of civilization spotted here and there. Often in train stations. Or in the middle of roundabouts.

This leg of my journey I’m doing solo, and given the recent history of single Australian women travelling in this part of the world I’m particularly on my toes re: personal safety. The overly affectionate manner of some Greek men hasn’t helped. Many women resort to wearing a ring on their wedding finger. That seems like overkill to me – I’ve just reinforced the frostiness of my fuck-off face instead and am grateful that as far as the language goes, it’s all Greek to me…

Athens gave me an unforgettable welcoming. It was shortly before 8pm and I had dragged myself out of my room and into the bar area to make talk with the punters. Just when I was wondering how to extricate myself from a conversation about the relative merits of Melbourne suburbs with the typical Aussie crowd, there was an enormous !!!!BOOM!!!! The entire building shook and the sound of breaking glass was everywhere.

There was total stunned silence before someone said “That’s a bomb”, and suddenly car alarms were going off outside and people were yelling. We hurried on up to the reception area. The receptionist was ghostly white and on the phone with another two ringing nearby.

Being the stupid souls that backpackers generally are, we snuck down the stairs for a look around, but the police were onto us and shouted at us to get back inside. A couple from America remarked dryly that despite spending six months in Israel, they’d had to come to Athens to get close to an explosion.

Eventually we found out that in reaction to the massive election rally happening at the end of the street, someone had put a bomb in a bin down the road and timed it to go off just before the President’s speech. Apparently the police got word of it and had cleared out the street, so no-one was hurt. But it aptly captured the frustration of the population, expressed in a markedly more democratic way a couple of days later when the government was sent packing.

My next stop was a few days of Total Relaxation on the island of Santorini, a piece of paradise about 7 hours from the mainland. Peak season has ended and October is the last month before the place effectively closes down for the winter. Many parts of the island resemble a ghost town. Deck chairs are vacant. Restaurants are lonely places. Even the happy hours look depressed.

But this skeletal quality made the place even better. I’ve never known such peace or happiness doing so little. Most days I would wake up late, eat breakfast and mosey on down to the pool, where I’d spend most of the day swimming, reading, eating and drinking Pina Coladas. If I was feeling energetic I could stroll down to the famous black sand beaches for a dip in the ocean, or go hiking in the hills around the town, or take the bus to the other side of the island to watch the most beautiful sunset in Greece and get giddy from the romantic/sexual tension exuded by 200+ couples.

Santorini could have had me in its clutches for weeks, but I was destined for greater things. So 24 hours and a ferry, a taxi, a hostel and a train later, I met my friend Eleni in Thessaloniki, Greece’s 2^nd largest city. Eleni is a curly-haired, perpetually smiling Greek lass who I met in my language course. For the last 2 days I’ve been living at her family home and being lovingly pampered by her mother, who spoke no English but force-fed me Greek pastries and coffee, showed me how the shower worked, and slipped tissues, water and a spare jumper into my bag when I wasn’t looking.

A two-day visit is ridiculously short, but we fit a lot in. There was a late-night Erasmus party beside the harbour (bringing back all types of memories not yet committed to nostalgia), a language exchange and birthday party at a co-op bar, drinking icy frappes, climbing up and down ancient fortifications, hanging out with her beautiful and funny friends, learning some rudimentary Greek, and my personal highlight, eating four types of cheeses at one sitting.

And before I knew it the time had come and I was back on a train to Athens, and now I’m on the plane back to Berlin for one final week in Europe. My visa inconveniently expires on the 15^th and I’m leaving on the 18^th – I’m sorely hoping this is overlooked by the powers that be so that I can spend my final days climbing the Reichstag and going to the top of the Fernsehturm and having other touristic delights, rather than disrespecting myself in the immigration queues.

A more formidable obstacle to overcome before my departure is War and Peace. I haven’t touched Russian literature since Crime and Punishment got me into the few conversations I’ve had with sober strangers on Melbourne trams, albeit because they mistakenly believed me to be enigmatic and learned, with a masochistic kink.

I bought War (we’re on a first-name basis now) for 2 euro, knowing that the page:cent ratio was probably the best on the market. That was 10 weeks ago and the score is now 1094 pages to me and 480 to Tolstoy’s long-winded genius. The cover is long gone, the dedication and table of contents pages ripped off last week, and I’m rushing to finish it before I lose the introduction to the dark forces at play in my hand luggage.

If I don’t finish it now, it’ll never happen. There’s no way I’m taking that literary anvil in my checked luggage and forfeiting precious kilograms better suited to snow domes and beer steins.