Dear Frank,
Theseus grew up a regular boy in an ancient time. He dreamt to be as brave Hercules and fight for a better world. It wasn’t until adolescence that he learnt he was the son of King Aegeus, the primordial ruler of Athens. Unspoiled and full of zest for action, young Theseus joined the royal halls as a prince of Athens, eagerly awaiting the day he could become a hero.
King Aegeus was a good man, though weak in a time where greater kings ruled the Hellenic world. The legendary King Minos of Crete was one such leader. King Minos’s promising eldest son, Androgeos, was set to take over his father’s reign. Tragically, however, he was killed in Athens while competing in a sporting event.
Mighty King Minos wasn’t amused to learn that his son and heir died in Athens and decided to punish King Aegeus. Minos demanded that every year the seven most beautiful young women and the seven strongest men of Athens were to be sent to Crete. There, they would be sacrificed to its most infamous inhabitant, the Minotaur. Knowing that his Athenian fleet was no match for Minos, poor King Aegeus was forced to obey.
The beast lived in a labyrinth, built specifically for him. He was the bastard son of Queen Pasiphae of Crete and Zeus. Zeus had seduced Pasiphae while taking the shape of a bull, hence the mutation of their offspring. King Minos wasn’t particularly fond of his wife’s little sexy adventure with Zeus, but killing the son of your wife and the King of the Gods is probably not a clever idea. Instead, Minos used the Minotaur as a source of power and intimidation. He no longer needed to throw his enemies into prison cells, but simply send them into the labyrinth doomed to never find their way out and meet their end at the hands (or horns) of the Minotaur. It’s understandable that a creature that is half man, half bull, is frightening and distance and thick stone walls would make you feel more comfortable. I definitely get the whole labyrinth idea in that respect. However, from what I hear, the Minotaur never did anything to deserve this unholy fate – I guess we all pay for our parents’ decisions.
With the demands of King Minos, Theseus was given a perfect cause to prove he was an honourable prince of Athens, and more importantly, a hero. Young and fierce, he was keen to fight for justice and put an end to the horror his people were suffering. Despite his father’s pleading, afraid his son might find his death in Crete, Theseus joined the group of young Athenians to be sacrificed to the Minotaur. Together, they set sail to Crete.
King Minos wasn’t only blessed with sons but also a daughter, Ariadne, who seemed to have a soft spot for young princes. Upon Theseus’ arrival in Crete it took Ariadne mere minutes to fall for him, and not wanting to lose the new love of her life, she offered her knowledge on how best to fight the Minotaur.
When young Theseus walked into the labyrinth, he was prepared due to Ariadne’s help. He found the Minotaur at the centre and a great fight between beast and prince broke out. Theseus victoriously killed the Minotaur liberating his Athenians and they returned to their boats, heading for Athens along with Ariadne – because if a foreigner kills your half-brother you sail away into the sunset with him.
On their way home, the crew stopped on a small island to rest overnight. Now, it’s not quite clear what happened on that island because there are different versions to the story, depending on whom you ask. I’m sure Theseus would tell us that Ariadne was a lady with a short attention span and had already fallen for another man. The kind of relationship you might expect from a woman whose mother had a fling with a bull. Ariadne might say, Theseus rudely abandoned her on the island. In any way, the next day Theseus sailed forth towards Athens without his girl which had fatal consequences.
Theseus had promised his father Aegeus to set white sails if he had been successful in Crete. Muddled over Ariadne disappearance, Theseus forgot about their deal. Instead, he approached Athens with black sails leading Aegeus to believe his son had been killed. Struck by grief, Aegeus plunged from the highest cliffs into the sea below. His final act is remembered today in the name of the sea; the Aegean.
And so, Theseus became king of Athens. Despite the unfortunate incident that led to his father’s death, he became the Athenians’ most loved regent. Theseus is known as a reformer who brought civil order to Athens, laying the foundations for the city to rise to greatness. When Theseus claimed the throne, he united people living in autonomous entities scattered around Athens to one great city-state. He centralised the government and established democratic and juridical structures. His reformation was a milestone for the Greeks, making Athens a modern stronghold and laying the foundation for what will later be known as Europe’s first great civilisation.
Theseus is, as we know, just one of many heroes of the ancient world. Their epic stories of battles against evil, finding undying love and struggling with bad-tempered gods linger with us. Their tales paint a picture of a Greece that is home to brave warriors, clever minds and righteous folk. The one question that has followed me through my childhood while I read book after book about Cassandra of Troy, the Pythia of Delphi or Theseus of Athens, is, what is left. Millennia have passed since the Greek empire finally fell and its heroes became residents of the stars. Are the Greek still visionaries like Theseus, fighting for a better world? What has become of the cradle of western civilisation? I’m here at the birthplace of democracy and modern philosophy to finally find out.
Luckily, I’m not alone on this most important of missions. My long-standing companion, the hairiest possum to walk this earth, Mr Sam Macleod, remains at my side. We are joined on this special occasion by another adventurer. He is a cool bean, a New Zealand original, a Pokemon master, a muppet like none other, the one and only Josh – or George, as the Greeks call him.
Josh made his way from New Zealand to the UK a couple of weeks back to live and work in London for a year or two – a Kiwi classic. Before the least amusing part of Josh’s trip, the tedious job hunt, he has promised to keep us company for ten days and explore Greece.
We pick Josh up from Thessaloniki airport a day after we’ve arrived. There are hugs and smiles. It’s been a while since we last saw each other. Truth be told, having been away from New Zealand for nearly half a year, it feels good to have another connection to my new home. Josh and Sam became friends in high school and stayed close ever since. I got to know him a little over two years ago when I first came to New Zealand to see Sam. The thought of meeting all of my new boyfriend’s mates was rather intimidating. I was yearning to come across as the cool and funny girlfriend in front of everyone. You know, the kind of woman that’s a pro at computer games, loves beer more than champagne, produces a decent burp, and can do it all with seducingly sexy elegance. That’s what guys find impressive, right Frank? I’m not crazy, am I? Well, you don’t have to be a genius to know that I was doomed to fail. As Sam reminds me daily, Germans can’t possibly be funny. Also, my posture resembles more that of a farmer than a ballerina and don’t get me started on my pitiful burps. Josh, however, didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t meet any of the cool girlfriend criteria. With one goofy laugh of his, he washed away all my insecurities and I warmed up to him instantly. Today, nothing has changed, neither the warm feeling nor the goofy laugh.
Since there are now three of us, it’s more affordable to rent a car, than worry about buses and trains. Having our own vehicle should also make it easier to explore as much of Greece as possible. Sam has been chosen to be our chauffeur. I end up as co-pilot, navigating Sam through the madness of the roads here, and Josh gets cozy on the backseat entertaining the crowd up front. Disc jockey roles are free for all, but of course, I have the final say on the playlists.
In our little Fiat that we christen Grith, inspired by the registration number, we leave Thessaloniki behind and head north-east. Sam soon loses his mind in the wilderness that is the Greek roads. Desperately, we try to make sense of the jungle ahead of us but it’s hopeless. There’s only one rule: use your hazard lights. It seems they are the most important tool, indicating anything and everything – a U-turn at a red light, in the middle of an intersection, for example. If you decided to stop and leave your car blocking the road or you zigzag across three lanes of traffic with no apparent logic, just use your hazard lights. In roundabouts, we discover, you give way to oncoming traffic. But only sometimes. No hazard light required here unless you stop in the middle to have a chat with a passing neighbour. Sam tries to follow the conventional traffic rules as far as possible. He swerves out of the way of mad Greek drivers and attempts to understand the hazard light lingo until we finally reach the motorway. The traffic becomes quieter and less chaotic once a barrier requires you to stay on your side of the road and we are able to relax a little. Hopefully, U-turns are less likely here. As we get further from Thessaloniki, almost all madness is subdued and all Sam has to worry about are potholes.
Half an hour on the motorway and we hit the first toll barrier. Three Euro. We pay the fee with apprehension, fearing that this might not be our only stop. Twenty minutes later we stop at the next checkpoint, 4.50 Euro and the road is getting crappier. I check online and soon find out that all big motorways are toll roads. Awesome. We try to get the local perspective while travelling, but we weren’t planning on our Geek experience including bankruptcy. Quickly we switch to a toll-free country road. Our new path leads us through sleepy villages and arid plains. Maroon rocks scatter the land and dusty olive trees grow without structure. Along the road, we see countless wayside shrines, so-called kandilakia. Built from stone, metal or wood, these little shrines usually hold an oil lamp or candle burning inside. In northern Greece, where we are now, they resemble miniature chapels, about a foot tall, elevated on poles and neatly decorated in colours you could only call Greek. The kandilakia are set up for travellers as a place to rest and reflect on their journey. Candles burn to keep them safe. If you read about the kandilakia in Greece, authors often mention that the Greeks are Orthodox and strong in their beliefs which is why the wayside shrines are so popular. I reckon it has little to do with orthodoxy. Many cultures have tokens to keep travellers safe. I’ve seen pictures of the Virgin Mary alongside Ronaldo hanging in taxis, golden figures of elephant god Ganesha sitting on a bus driver’s dashboard and rearview mirrors hung with amulets of all shapes and sizes. My Mum has a kiwi sitting next to her in the car. I believe the shrines are the same idea in a different colour, to remind you of home, and your loved ones.
The sun climbs higher and the midday heat starts to cook me through the windscreen. I ask the boys whether they would fancy a swim in a nearby lake I’ve found on our map. The suggestion is greeted by general euphoria, and we stop shortly after between ripe blackberry bushes on the side of the road. The ground around the lake is boggy and we slowly waddle closer, careful not to disappear in a hole. What had looked like a cool and tranquil lake on the map, turns out to be a large mud puddle that’s becoming less and less inviting. Disappointed, we disperse in different directions for a quick wee before we hit the road again. I’m just pulling my pants back up when I hear Sam yelling.
“Guys, come look at this! You won’t believe what I found while peeing.”
Oh dear, first day with two boys and already the penis jokes are starting. I walk over, ready for a very questionable punchline. Josh reaches him first.
“Holy shit, a tortoise! Where did that come from?”
Now I can see it, too. The little guy wobbles helplessly, his feet searching for purchase in midair as Sam holds him up.
“He was in the long grass, and I just picked him up. Poor guy’s lucky he didn’t get a shower.”
Lovely. Boys are just lovely. Sam hands our new friend over to me. I’ve touched a living tortoise before but that was in the zoo. Holding a wild tortoise in my hands is an entirely different experience. They are funny creatures – looking like grandfathers the day they’re born with their wrinkly skin and beady eyes. They are cute nonetheless. After admiring our new friend for a few minutes and introducing him to the idea of a selfie, we put him safely back into the grass and he zooms off – surprisingly fast – away from the weird humans.
A few hours later, we arrive at our first destination, Kastoria. Historians haven’t come to an agreement on where the name Kastoria derives from, mostly relating to boring linguistics. One theory, however, is more entertaining, as far as historical linguistics go. It includes Greek twins Castor and Pollux, who were the brothers of Helen of Troy and sons of Tyndareus and Leda, the king and queen of Sparta. Well, not quite. Castor was the mortal son of the royal spouses, whereas Pollux’s father was Zeus who had (unsurprisingly) seduced their mother, Leda. Hence, Pollux was immortal. When his beloved brother was killed, Pollux begged Zeus to share his immortality with Castor so that they would stay together forever. Zeus granted his son’s wish and the pair was sent to the skies and transformed into the Gemini constellation, lingering as eternal partons for the sailors. Along with living eternally in the stars, Castor is said to be the namesake of the lakeside city, Kastoria.
Surrounded by limestone mountains, Kastoria nestles itself along the shores of Lake Orestiada. Once known for mink fur trading, the city’s boundaries stretch onto a green peninsula skirting the lake. It doesn’t take a historian to see that Kastoria is old. A confused labyrinth of streets and alleyways meander slowly through the city, weaving in and out of the inner walls. Pomegranate trees have lost their blossoms and are starting to grow fruit. You can feel the quiet and peaceful lifestyle that one might have here, writing from their terrace in the afternoon sun.
The heat of the day is slowly subsiding and people are returning to the vacant streets as we find a park for Grith. Our host in Kastoria is a middle-aged German woman who rents us a neat little apartment with large sun-filled windows, overlooking cobbled streets. Speaking German with Mariele, I introduce the boys.
“This is Sam and Josh. They’re both from New Zealand.”
“Ah, George. My son is also called George.”
I smile and nod, finding it better not to correct her as she seems very fond of Josh’s new name.
After exploring Kastoria for a day, Grith takes us up to the northwestern border of Greece, to the Prespes National Park. Most of the national park is covered by the large Lake Prespes, home to a pelican colony and other bird life we’re hoping to encounter. Also on the agenda is to finally go for a nice, refreshing swim. Lake Orestiada in Kastoria, as it turned out, wasn’t particularly suited for swimming as most of the waterfront is occupied by vicious geese and swans, who cover the quay in green slimy poop. No thank you.
In the national park, a narrow bridge leads us onto an island, Agios Achillios, in the middle of Lake Prespes. Agios Achillios is only inhabited by a couple of families who live in basic houses with quaint garden patches. The earth we walk on is dry and cracked. Animal droppings that host swarms of flies cover the path. One of the local families sell us some sticky, sweet sorbet before we head out to explore the island. We find ancient ruins and a flock of goats who are probably the source of the poo everywhere. We see fat pelicans far out on the lake enjoying the sun, and presumably the fish. After a couple of hours, we have walked the length of the island and back and have to give up our search for a place to swim. The water is an alluring deep blue, getting to it is the problem though. The coast is again covered in vegetation and mud.
Still hunting for a suitable swimming spot, we drive deeper into the national park and are finally rewarded. A tiny rugged shoreline isn’t the picturesque beach you imagine when you think of swimming in Greece, but it will definitely do. With the ancient world on my mind, I dive in and ensure that everything, including my ankles, is fully submerged. Mortal weakness is something you don’t mess with here. The water is perfect. Crystal clear and free from bird excrement. Swimming out further I can truly appreciate the national park from lake level. Hills climb from the water around me and between them offer spectacular vistas. I lay back as my body slowly cools, the thick air temporarily forgotten.
Content with our swimming success we bath lazily in the sun before making tracks again. Growling tummies reminding us of the time, we look for lunch in the lakeside village nearby. A cute restaurant with a sun-sheltered patio and large flagstones underfoot lures us in. Amazingly most places we’ve visited on this trip are prepared for ignorant tourists who don’t speak the local tongue, having menus either printed in English or full of appetising pictures. In this case, the menu is in English. We order regional food and I play with the cats that sneak under tables, waiting for a treat from the punters.
Greeks enjoy taking their sweet time with preparing food and more so with eating it. Meals are an important social event. The takeaway culture so popular back home is not as loved here. Food has to be enjoyed thoroughly, sitting and, preferably with others – not on the go. Savoured, you could say. It’s undeniable, Greeks make amazing food. My mouth waters as the waiter eventually serves our lunch. I had always considered Greek salad to be boring and bland but that was before I ate my first bowl in Greece. With rich, juicy tomatoes and cucumber grown under the hot Mediterranean sun, the most flavoursome pickled olives you can find, and a patriotically large chunk of creamy feta cheese, my views are forever changed. This is simplicity at its best. The flavours work together perfectly and my tongue fills in the gaps of the story. How old Greek women had pitted the olives by hand as they gossiped and laughed. How the men had woken early to milk their sheep for the creamiest feta. How the tomatoes were planted in soil rich with history, somehow knowing they were more cultured because of it. We’ve also ordered a local dish of giant beans in a spicy stew that I scoop up within seconds. Sam and George may have wanted some, but in their late twenties they’ve learned not to mess with hungry women. Grilled peppers stuffed with mince and other secret ingredients pile high on another large plate. Even the bread tastes heavenly. Our lunch is a feast fit for the gods.
With my stomach ready to burst, I lean back and relax, wondering how the old Greek cuisine was and what the folk from the ancient world ate. Located at the crossroads between Europe, Asia and Africa, the ancient Greeks chose a lucrative little spot for their empire. Their neighbours in Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Levant (today the approximate territory of Jordan, Syria, Israel and Lebanon), Anatolia and Persia were also highly developed civilisations. Trading of spices and various produce would have allowed for many flavours in the kitchen.
Next to exchanging food, the Greeks profited from the knowledge of the bordering societies. There had been elaborate mathematicians, inventors and great thinkers long before the Hellenic people came along. Due to their geographical proximity, the Greeks were able to acquire large amounts of their neighbours’ knowledge, and master it.
They advanced the political field, mathematics, theatre, philosophy, astronomy, and historical recordings. The Greeks even had a modern approach towards homosexualism and polyamory. We owe good old Theseus and his kind a great deal. Thanks to our prince of Athens we cannot only visit Crete without getting torn to shreds by a humanoid bull, but we also have a developed political system that lets everyone participate. Sam would point out now, that the old Greeks were clearly smarter than we are today because they didn’t give women the vote. Despite their disregard for women, they were the forebearers of our modern democracy – the rule by the people, as it is translated.
The word “democracy” is only one of over 80,000 Greek terms that we (that means, educated English speakers, and I thought, I would include you in that category, Frank) use in our everyday lives, by the way. That makes five percent of our vocabulary. The most frequently used words include place, problem, school, system, programme, idea and paper. If you take a look into science books, the percentage rises exponentially. One of the most significant linguistic influences of Greek origin was a Phoenician princess named Europa who became the namesake for an entire continent. Some elements of her story might sound somewhat familiar to you. Zeus had fallen for Europa and decided to seduce her. To win her trust, he transformed himself into a white bull and mingled with the herd of Europa’s father. Europa saw the bull and was intrigued by its majestic beauty. She touched him gently and eventually climbed onto his back. Zeus seized the chance and hastily swam with her on his back to Crete. Here Zeus revealed his true identity. As a result of another sexy adventure, Europa became the first queen of Crete. She also mothered three of Zeus’s children, Rhadamanthus, Sarpedon and Minos. Yes, that very same Minos from the beginning whose wife was seduced by Zeus and gave birth to the Minotaur. Cruel world, isn’t it?
But there is more I have to tell you about Greece’s relation with nearby societies. Having smart neighbours in Persia and the Levant came with a price, especially as the Greeks lived in a prime location. In order to enjoy their feta and ouzo at the end of the day, the Greeks had to constantly fend off invaders at their borders. The Persians, in particular, had an eye on the appealing Greek territory along the Mediterranean and for centuries they poked and prodded.
Eventually, it wasn’t the Persians who brought an end to the Hellenic glory. The Battle of Corinth in 146 BC between the Greek city-state supported by its allies and the Romans marked the beginning of the Roman domination over the Greeks. Roughly 400 years later, they were annexed into the Byzantine Empire. The Greeks abandoned their gods on Mount Olympus to become Christians and worship a single god. Despite them now being part of the European super-empire, the Greeks still had to fight enemies in the east. Not everyone was happy with the ongoing warfare and so it happened, that in the ninth century a group of pacifistic hermits retreated to the plains of Thessaly. Here they found a most peculiar sanctuary to stay safe from the invading enemies. Rising vertically over the landscape, a group of stone pillars, called Meteora, dominates the plains. These mighty pinnacles of rock reach an average height of 300 metres with the tallest being 550 metres high. The ascetics deemed the stone columns a decent hiding place and climbed to the top where they spent the rest of their merry lives meditating, unbothered by the eastern menace. By the 14th century, the hermits decided it was time to get a roof over their heads since their lofty retreat made the winters pretty chilly and frostbite had become a common friend. Together, they built 24 monasteries in Meteora. These guys somehow managed to construct two dozen complexes on top of freaking high pillars using rope ladders and windlasses.
Seven hundred years later, Meteora has changed. At the foot of these giant monoliths – where you would normally build – a city called Kalambaka has grown. Only six of the monasteries remain. The once thriving brotherhood of monks has slowly shrunk, with about 60 inhabitants left in total, most of them women. The good news is, in order to visit the remaining monasteries, you no longer need to be a world-class rock climber with nerves of steel. In the ‘20s, someone took pity on the poor monks and carved steps into the rock.
Meteora is some miniature world wonder and therefore has become rather popular amongst tourists. Much to my dismay, we get up early to avoid the largest crowds of the day and explore the place unbothered. Surprisingly, we’re not completely alone in this ingenious idea. The road that leads up to the largest and most popular monastery, the Monastery of Great Meteoron, is already packed with parked cars.
In spite of the hour, the sun has already started burning and pearls of sweat start to form on my forehead as I climb the stairs. With amazement, I watch a family carry up a pram up the stone pillar. Honestly, why? I mean, don’t leave the kid in the car obviously, but why bother with the stroller? I don’t have any pram-expertise but from what I can see, the monastery grounds can hardly fit on a tennis court. Again, I’m no expert.
The top of the pillar offers spectacular views over Thessaly. You can see why people come here to meditate and escape the busy life far below. Wondering around, it seems the old monks occupying the place developed a fondness for booze, judging by the enormous beer barrels. I’m not quite sure how that suits the celibate and extremely simple life they supposedly had but I’m sure it all makes sense. Scaling these cliffs would make a cold beer all the sweeter. After exploring three of the monasteries, we decide it’s time to retreat back to Kalambaka. Perhaps, I hope, I could have a little snooze to make up for the early wake-up call. A traveller’s life is not easy, I tell you.
Our drive back down to the valley turns out to be more complicated than expected. As it’s midday now, the majority of the tourist groups have arrived and they haven’t come with tiny Fiats like our Grith but in bulky tour buses. They model the cliche wide, beige hat with the complementary sweat-covered shirt, showing just how cold their summers at home are. Pink skin and bumbags complete the look, and you wonder how anyone could guess they weren’t locals. A long queue of cars and coaches try to push up the road leading to the monastery where we’re parked. It’s a dead-end, one-lane road and all car parks are taken. Even though the path is jammed-packed, the drivers in the oncoming queue have absolutely no interest in backing down or giving way. So we sit, bonnet to bonnet, glaring at each other from behind our windscreens and waiting for our vis-à-vis to move. A few minutes and the opposing bus driver is fed up. He pushes towards us. Since bus beats Fiat we are forced to back up along with an entire queue of cars waiting behind us. In an unbelievably tight maneuver, the bus eventually manages to get around us and the driver of a Mercedes behind him also tries his luck. Sam is prepared to fight this time as dignity on the mountain is everything. We roll forward until the driver is forced to accept that rental car with full insurance beats private Mercedes. I start feeling sorry for the guy after he has reversed a full kilometre and Sam is still at his bumper, then I remember he is in a Mercedes and my tears all but dry up. After almost half an hour, we’ve escaped and drive, miraculously without a scratch, downhill.
Other than our Meteora experience, driving has become much less stressful. The rural roads are quiet and we see wildlife, spartan settlements and the ever-changing Greek flora. I’m delighted to discover that the fig season has finally begun. We stop at a fruit stall on the roadside and buy a bag full of chubby white and red figs from an elderly lady. I show Josh who has never eaten fresh figs before how to indulge them, of course not without spilling sticky juice all over our shirts. Delicious. As we travel south, we also travel back in time. While Meteora granted us an insight of the post-Greek empire and the rule of Roman Catholicism, we are heading way back into the heyday of ancient paganism at our next stop. We visit nothing less than the epicentre of Greek polytheism. It is, indeed, the centre of the world. This is Delphi.
In search of the centre of the world, our man Zeus had sent out two eagles – one to the east and one to the west. Flying back towards each other, the birds eventually met on a slope of Mount Parnassus. Searching the spot, Zeus found a large rock, the Omphalos which he identified as the navel of his grandmother Gaia, the earth titan. As you do.
Right there, at the navel of the earth, Apollo once fought and killed a giant python. After the fight local people of Delphi built a temple to worship the God of the Sun. The carcass of the serpent lay slain in a chasm over which the temple was erected. Soon, Apollo’s earthly throne became more than a place of worship. When the priestesses placed a stool over the chasm and breathed in the fumes arising from the dead python, they fell into a trance which opened the doors for Apollo to possess their bodies. And through the priestess, the god spoke to people who had come to hear their fortune.
The Oracle of Delphi was immensely popular, even though people hardly ever understood any of the jibberish the high – no pun intended – priestesses conveyed. The ladies of the temple were also referred to as Pythia and were mostly Delphi locals. Initially, they sent young, beautiful virgins of noble descent to serve Apollo but after the girls got kidnapped and assaulted several times, they changed their strategy. Instead, ladies who were well into their golden years were appointed to serve in the temple. Poor Apollo was forced to possess grandma along with her bad knees and questionably racist comments. Oh, how the mighty fall. Now, Apollo only resided in his home in Delphi during the summer months. In winter Dionysus, God of Wine, conveniently came for frequent stays. If there’s one thing we know from the ancient gods, you always do your best to keep them happy and to avoid their wrath. So when the God of Wine hangs around in your temple, you better keep refilling those glasses.
Today, Apollo’s famous temple is referred to as the archaeological site of Delphi. A couple of kilometres up the road, the modern settlement of Delphi has grown. New Delphi is small, basically containing two parallel roads lined with houses. Yet, it emits a lot of charm with its colourful buildings and lively town folk. We arrive late in the afternoon and decide to delay the exploration of the archaeological site to the following day. Finding some food and beer is much more important. On one of the two streets, we spot a simple bistro with a friendly owner who serves delicious kebabs. We eat and drink while piecing together our collective knowledge of Delphi. Full to the brim, I enjoy the last of my beer when I notice a peculiar look on Sam’s face. He grins sheepishly.
“I kinda want another kebab,” he announces.
“Yeah, me too,” Josh laughs.
I shake my head in disbelief as the boys walk up to the counter to order their second dinner. The owner looks just as surprised. Sam seems happy to have someone who understands the importance of second dinners. Sometimes it’s the simple things.
“Grab me another beer while you fatties are up.” We may be here for a while, and I’m getting thirsty.
The following morning, we stroll down the road from new Delphi to old Delphi. It’s a large complex with a variety of ruins and a museum. The ancient path winds uphill until we reach a plateau where the glorious temple of Apollo once stood. One requires a bit of imagination to picture it but the foundation and a few columns are still left, which is more than I would hope for after a few thousand years. Sadly, the mighty python has stopped emitting hallucinatory fumes. It’s a shame, I would have loved to hear about my glorious future as a world-famous journalist living in a majestic mansion on a private beach and most importantly, sipping mojitos all day.
Though ruins are all that is left of the renowned Oracle of Delphi, the place is truly magical. From the slopes of Mount Parnassus, you overlook a vast valley full of olive groves. Beyond sparkles the Gulf of Corinth in the golden sunlight. Josh, who had taken classical studies in school, says how seeing these places he learnt about in class is a dream come true. With all the mystic aura that’s intertwined here, visiting Delphi is especially exciting. I can only agree. As a teenager, my favourite book genre was historic novels about Troy and the Greek gods. Being here is like reaching the end of a chapter I started reading so long ago.
After Delphi, there is only one place left for us to see. The very same city where Theseus became an unforgotten hero, uniting the people of Attica to one great city-state, Athens. Athens is a vast city and home to three million inhabitants. The Acropolis, the famous hilltop citadel, dominates the cityscape like an ancient reminder of the glorious Greek empire. From the spacious apartment we’ve rented for a few nights, we have prime views of the Parthenon, the temple that sits atop the Acropolis.
“Have you looked up what there is to do in Athens?” I ask the guys the evening of our arrival in Athens. We sit lazily in our air-conditioned accommodation. We’ve got another cool beer in our hands and a giant bowl of Greek salad on the table.
“Ah, not really.” Sam shrugs. Classic.
I grab my phone and start searching.
“There’s the Acropolis,” I say after a while. “And the Parthenon on top of the Acropolis. And a bunch of other temples next to it.”
Josh chuckles.
“So the Acropolis is worth seeing then, huh?” he asks. “Anything else?”
“There’s a museum about the Acropolis.”
Sam frowns and grabs his phone.
“There must be something else to see in Athens. I mean, it’s Athens!”
After a few minutes, he looks up.
“I guess, we’re going to see the Acropolis and the Acropolis museum,” he says. “Seems like you were right, Possum. That’s all of Athens.”
I really need to record his words when he says “You were right” for future discussions that question my integrity. Sam just doesn’t seem to understand quite yet. I’m always right. Well, except when I’m not, but then it doesn’t count.
So the Acropolis it is. Luckily, we’ve allowed four days for Athens in our itinerary so hopefully, we’ll have enough time to explore the very important hill. The word Acropolis means the highest point of the city. It’s self-evident why. The rock that bears the famous citadel rises 150 metres above sea level. Pericles, an influential Athenian aristocrat, coordinated the major construction projects of the site in the fifth century BC. Not all buildings that can be found on the Acropolis were built at that time but the most important monument, the Parthenon, was completed during the Periclean era. The Parthenon, that has become synonymous with the Acropolis, was dedicated to goddess Athena, the patron of Athens.
Throughout the ages, the temple was repurposed several times. In the Byzantine Empire, the Parthenon was used as a church worshipping the Virgin Mary. After the Ottomans conquered Greece in the mid-15th century, the invaders turned the temple into their garrison headquarters. The Erechtheum, a temple on the northern side of the Acropolis originally dedicated to Poseidon, was used as the private harem for the Turkish governor.
The site was heavily damaged in the 17th century during the siege of Athens by the Venetians. The Ottomans had stored their gunpowder in the Parthenon. Eventually, the inevitable happened and a Venetian mortar shell hit the temple blowing off the entire roof. After the Venetians retrieved, the ruined temple was partially repaired to become a mosque. Before the Acropolis was declared a protected heritage site, thieves managed to loot the citadel and today you can find its pieces in museums all around Europe.
Once again, to avoid the heat of the day and busloads of tourists, we show up early at the gates to the Acropolis. After walking uphill from our apartment, I remind myself how soon there will once again only be one seven o’clock in my day. The admission fee is 20 Euro, which seems to be the standard price in Greece. It’s as though the ruins around the country have unionised.
We climb majestic stairs built of marble and limestone leading through a strikingly large arch. A few more steps and we’ve reached the top of the Acropolis. A vast, barren area extends in front of us. Massive chunks of carved stone, once part of some temple, lie scattered across the courtyard. Beyond the edge of the hill, the city stretches between neighbouring mountains, almost to the horizon. Hardly anyone here cares for the views, however. All eyes are glued on one monument only. Rising 14 metres high, the Parthenon dominates the site and has clearly stolen everyone’s attention.
Since the Parthenon is such an immense symbol of the ancient remains in our modern world, the stones feel familiar to me. Countless photographs and footage of the building make it feel like I have stood at the foot of its columns before. Despite the feeling of cognisance, I’m filled with awe as I’m faced with this imposing monument. Size is something never truly captured in a photo.
I can see where the legendary stories of the Hellenic era derive from. All the old monuments we have seen, bear witness to a time of grandeur. I would sure as hell give a toe to get a glimpse of the days of the old gods. But sadly, those days are past and people have come a long way. The reign of kings and queens – divine or mortal – are over and the rule of the common people has begun. Democracy is growing around the globe and while it may rock us about at times, I’m grateful for Theseus and those who brought the idea into our new world.
Still staring at the Parthenon, my train of thought is interrupted suddenly. A young woman in a white toga walks past. Funnily enough, she looks quite out of place. She wears a golden wreath of ivy leaves over her curling iron hair, protecting her alabaster skin under a parasol.
“Further away, further away,” she yells at a lady holding a camera. The lady looks like an older version of our Greek princess, so I will assume she is her mum. And what a lucky mum. We watch the pair walk across the Acropolis, the woman standing in dramatic poses in front of various temples whilst bellowing at her mother. I truly hope social media will appreciate her and her mother’s great efforts. The historical accuracy of the selfie-stick-toga combination really brings the look together.
After having visited the Acropolis, the Parthenon on top of the Acropolis, all the other temples on the Acropolis and the Acropolis museum, we are familiar with all of Athens and we have an excuse to relax. We explore markets and shops at dusk, but during the day Josh and I get into a heated Pokemon contest on our phones. To be a successful Pokemon master, one has to work systematically and show endurance – qualities a good German learns the day they are born. With my biological advantage, I keep up with Josh’s unexpected wit as Poke-trainer. I tell you, it’s a hard life. These Pokemon don’t catch themselves.
Our days in Athens pass quickly, and soon we load Grith for one last ride. We follow the Aegean coast north and the further we drive, the more abandoned the country becomes. As the boys sing song after song from Linkin Park’s album “Meteora”, I spot thick black clouds coming from the east. I sympathise with Cassandra of Troy, as my warnings go unheeded. Too late now to escape, we watch with eyes wide as the sky changes from a peaceful blue to a threatening jet black within a matter of minutes. It starts to rain.
Crash.
Thunder rolls loudly over the plains of Thessaly, echoing off far away mountains. Moments later lightning rips through the sky above. White light tears at the darkness leaving momentary imprints in my vision. Heavy rain pounds the windows as we drive cautiously through the erupting storm. The thunder grows louder. The lightning moves closer.
“We are somewhat safe in the car, right?” I ask for reassurance.
“Probably, but I’m not a very good electrician,” Sam says with a grin. Cheeky bugger.
“This is so cool!” Josh says from the backseat, sounding ecstatic. “This is the biggest thunderstorm I’ve ever seen. We really must have pissed of Zeus.”
Crash.
Another lightning bolt shoots from the sky, this time so close that the thunder is immediate. I really hope Zeus has no intention of grilling us. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d become annoyed with Sam’s and Josh’s singing. They don’t exactly sound like nightingales. I have faith he’s aware of my love for his ancient world. No grilling today, please.
The rain slows and the dark clouds head west. Just as sudden as it began, the storm is gone and the air is fresh and clean again. On the clear horizon, we can now see a mighty rockface rising high over the land. It’s the highest peak in these realms – the seat of the gods. Mount Olympus.
Love,
Julia