ATHENS, GREECE

by Dan Winters (posted by his more techy savvy daughter)

"I had to go to Greek school where I learned valuable lessons. If Nick has one goat and Maria has nine. How soon will they marry?" -- Tolla Portokalos, My Big Fat Greek Wedding

Athens is mad-dog crazed. There is too much of everything—history, graffiti, beauty, filth, Mopeds, buses- too much (except, money and sensible economic policy.) It's great. We went from Athens purgatory to perfect, or better in Illinoisese from wasteland to Wrigley Field. The first morning we became, in Carol's words, "tour bus lemmings" following our tour group and a four foot ten guide. We and maybe five thousand others were attempting to squeeze up though the six foot wide uber tripping hazard stairs, the only entrance and exit to the Acropolis. Carol noted, "This could be purgatory." It was so stupidly crowded that everyone was in a pretty good mood. There was a lot of time to chat as we baby stepped sort of upward. Brad and Jackie were from Minot, North Dakota. He was a former season ticket holder of Minot's former baseball team, the Minot Mallards, which could be my favorite team name after the Macon (Ga) Whoppees. Pittsburg Lois' daughter lives in San Francisco and has multiple degrees in climate change effect on the ocean (it's real). Rene, to our eye, the only black women on the

Balkin peninsula and her huge husband Theodore (a ringer for Big Pussy of The Sopranos) were from New York City. Rene laughed, “This don't bother me, I do this every day. But I usually don't fly eight thousand miles to do it."   Finally, up top at the Acropolis, virulent giddiness swept over the sweating mass –gag photos, silly dancing, giggling. Plato would have been appalled. Carol figured it was PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.)

We were connected to our tour group only by a purple folder raised up by our midget guide. Held at its tallest, it was shorter than Big Pussy. We were supposed to follow it. Then, Carol went rogue, actually looking at what she wanted to look at. By the time I found her, the purple folder, Big Pussy and our group had been swallowed in a sea of cell phone clicking humanity. We had lasted 45 minutes.

Escaping, we hopped on a Hop on/Hop off Bus. Carol is kind of a Hop on/Hop off junkie.  Seated on top with our ear pieces in, we were on a bumpy diesel powered ride to perfect. We hopped off at Omania and found a not so peaceful (moped short cut), almost American free cafe in an alley way. We gyroed and Greek beered. It tasted like home. Later in the evening, we tried to get to some places that we saw but unhopped, so to speak. We

failed, as usual, but stumbled onto Ermou Street (high mall fashion), Monastiraki (1/2 flea market/1/2 bar scene), and Plaka (old city market/restaurant row/tacky souvenir hellhole). Rivers of locals, bold streams of young people, thin brooks of tourists flowed by. Guitarist, singers, harpists, and flamethrowers performed. All towered over by the Acropolis which looks a lot better from a quarter mile away, btw. Carol found a roof top bar with a scarlet sunset in the west, a spotlighted golden Acropolis in the east and a tasty moussaka in the middle and a couple of ouzos on order. That kind of perfect.                                   

P.S. The Temple of Zeus rocks.