Letting go in Greece
By: Moya Lothian-Mclean
Tags: Exploration, Culture, Travel, Greece, History

I went to Athens because I had been talking about it for so long, I feared it was going to soon join my pantheon of impossible dreams, former burning desires downgraded in status as they get superseded by something more immediately achievable. Athens, I thought, was a concept that deserved more than only being wheeled out to impress a wired stranger at 3am in someone else’s kitchen.

Unlike my book on Jeffrey Dahmer or idea for an app that maps local off licences, Athens was within reach with a bit of disposable income and a ‘I’ll sort it as it comes’ attitude. For a brief period in May, I was in possession of both. So I booked a Ryanair flight, sourced an Airbnb and was on my way.

Prior to arriving, I’d done almost no recon on the city. Beyond a required traipse around ‘the old bits’, I hadn’t set any firm itinerary either. This lackadaisical approach could have gone horribly wrong but it didn’t, mostly thanks to the fact that using your mobile data while abroad doesn’t cost anything extra anymore.

I could plan on the fly, soar by the seat of my pants as the mood took me. I was in Athens, I realised, to potter about, to do fuck all, to float around a city without any particular destination in mind. It was the antidote to a solid half-a-year of work, during which all I’d done was to barrel furiously towards a set goal that I didn’t even want. This trip would be one of leisurely discovery, a gentle rejoinder to the pressure of purpose.

Thankfully, Athens lends itself to this sort of approach; it almost begs to be explored by foot. Its three-million inhabitants are spread across 30+ districts in total but visitors to the city are likely to spend the majority of their time pootling around the seven neighbourhoods that make up central Athens.

My base — a sunlit, fourth-floor apartment, complete with balcony — was located on the border of Exarchia, perhaps the district with the most instant international name recognition. Shorthand labels it the ‘anarchist area’. It’s famed as the home of left-wing radical politics and resistance in Athens and the graffiti that plasters the weathered buildings lining its streets is testimony to this. Pro-communist, pro-socialist and anti-Airbnb sentiment abounds. Beware left-wing travellers; winding my way up Exarchia’s hills every morning quickly reminded me of my hypocrisies.

Evenings are when Exarchia comes to life. A small square in the centre of the district is the designated gathering point for those living in the blocks that surround it. Tourists stick out like sore thumbs but hostile glances don’t translate to anything more — it’s in the Omonia section of the city where you need to watch your back(pack). The rule of navigating Exarchia is the same as anywhere else: respect the residents and don’t be a dick. Also, wear shoes with grip, it’s extremely hilly.

A scattering of bars and restaurants litter the streets around Exarchia’s main square, including Rozalia, a taverna where I ate a cheap but cheerful meal of lamb and herby potatoes, learning that if you want vegetables in Athens, you must order them on the side. Around the corner was also Salerno, a wine bar where I had my most memorable bite to eat; a beautifully seasoned sea bass, that drew me into a war of attrition with a street cat determined to sample it too. I won but it came at the price of a scratched calf.

For those looking for the livelier nightlife spots however, Psyri and Gazi, just off Omonia (take a cab or public transport if it’s after dark) are where the major glut of trendy bars and clubs sit. One evening I got roundly pissed in one of them with my cousin, who’d arrived on a surprise vacation, before ending my night drunkenly eating mince pastries and ice cream from one of the takeaway shops bookending Psyri. Gourmet darling… you simply cannot say no!

For day activities though, I went further afield. Ticking off the Acropolis on day one meant trekking through Monastiraki, stuffed with flea markets and bric-a-brac stores, and Plaka, the most tourist-heavy area thanks to its location at the bottom of the slopes that the ancient citadel perches on.

The trend for ‘authentic experiences’ mean it’s profoundly uncool to admit you’ve been suckered in by exactly what you’re supposed to. But I adored Plaka: the narrow lanes, the sun-bleached houses, the soundtrack of buskers, plucking out traditional Greek songs in the hopes of prising a few-euros from tight-fisted tourists. It was a deeply charming place; turning a corner early on during my walk to the Acropolis revealed a 10th Century Byzantine Greek Orthodox Church aka a religious building that was both ancient and extra, two of my personal culture kinks.

Plaka’s streets also housed Da Vinci Gelato, a gelato parlour producing Instagram-friendly desserts so decadently delicious, I went back on my last day for another. The gelato was almost more memorable than the Acropolis. Which, despite my friend James’ assertion that it was open to the public at no charge, cost 18 euros to enter. Worth it for a first trip but if you happen to find yourself in Athens save your visit for a Sunday, when it’s free to go poking around the ancient stones.

On par with the gelato though was my expedition to the National Garden. A first attempt to visit was scuppered as it quickly transpired it was 1 May — International Workers Day. A heavy police presence in Syntagma, mid-point of Athens, meant the gates remained firmly closed as parades of lustily singing communists walked by.

But on my final day I was able to spend two-hours wandering through wisteria-wrapped tunnels and paths lined with palm trees. As a city, Athens is already wonderfully green — every street is lush and leafy thanks to some savvy urban planner who planted a surfeit of trees. The garden was pure paradise though: laden orange trees, water features and flowerbeds bursting with colour. Even the sad petting zoo at the centre, featuring disgruntled and jail-busting goats, was not enough to dampen the joy it brought me.

I also spent a day at one of the nearby beaches that make up the so-called ‘Athens Riviera’ — the stretch of coastal spots that Athens residents flock to every weekend. These are sorted into ‘organised’ and ‘unorganised’; ‘organised’ ones are privately maintained and visitors must pay to enter. As I was low maintenance, skint and simply in search of somewhere to soak up some much-needed Vitamin D, I opted to go to Glyfada, around 30 minutes outside of the city if travelling by cab and one-hour or so if taking the tram (extremely easy to navigate, like all of Athens’ public transport).

You can’t really quibble with a beach if it’s clean, the sea’s a nice turquoise colour and the sun is beating down. The stretch I’d chosen turned out to have no toilets but… there was the Aegean. I stayed there reading my book and rotating every hour so I was equally singed both front and back, until the sun waned enough that I even I had to admit defeat.

Riding the tram back, drunk on sunshine, I listened to Arthur Russell and stared out the window as the the city I’d dreamed so much of visiting, yet had such a vague conception of, passed by. I did not want to leave, even though all the bakeries put mayonnaise in sandwiches as standard. My escape had been wholly successful. I vowed to return, if I only for a third round of gelato.