Life in Switzerland: Athens, Greece

Getting out of France was not the easiest thing I've done lately. My flight to Athens was scheduled for 6:35am on a Wednesday morning, so I dutifully got up at 4:45am to catch a taxi to Paris Orly airport, on the very south end of Paris. Unfortunately, since it's France, the ground crew and check in crew went on strike that morning with no warning, and all EasyJet flights that day got canceled. They rescheduled me for Thursday morning, so I spent another day in Paris with Audrey. That night, however, I decided to sleep in the airport instead of paying another 40 euros for a taxi. WHen I got up from my bench nap at 5am I disovered that the crews were still on strike and all flights were again canceled (bloody French). An EasyJet rep promised us that they would reimburse us for the cost of a flight on a different airline after we sent in our receipts, but that we had to pay for it up front because they couldn't book it for us. Not totally trusting the rep's word, I debated what to do, but eventually found myself buying a train ticket to Charles de Gaulle airport on the complete north side of Paris, with no real plan other than to see what flights were departing to Athens that day. It was now 7am, and I couldn't bear the thought of spending another day in cold, dreary Paris in a state of half delerium from lack of sleep when beautiful warm Athens was calling me. WHich is how, after the hour ride to CDG and a quick scan of the departures board, I found myself standing in line to inquire about an Olympic Airlines flight departing at 11am. It's also how I found myself saying yes to a 200 euro ticket and praying that EasyJet would keep its promise. It was the first time in my life that I had walked in to an airport and bought a ticket on the spot, and I felt like I was in a movie.

I've really missed Athens, and have been sad that it's taken me five years to make it back to visit since I lived there in 2004. I left a piece of my heart in that city more so than any other plae I've lived, and I needed to return to see the square where I used to live, the restaurants I used to eat at, and the friends I had made there. It felt like I was going home in a way, and that I'd been away far too long. I missed the cafes, the restaurants, the gyros, and the free flowing table wine at dinner that lasted until 11pm every night. I missed walking through Exarhia square watching the young anarchists try to look tough. I missed sitting on top of Phillapapus hill at nighttime absorbing in wonder the Acropolis at eye level. I missed the Mediterranean water that was so ungodly blue it made your heart ache.

Hearing the flight attendants say "Ya sas" as we finally boarded the plane and hearing the passengers around me chattering in Greek made my heart race with excitement. The flight passed quickly even though I didn't sleep. When we began our descent into Athens I realized it was raining. (It doesn't rain in Athens!) I took the metro from the airport to the city, and my best friend Michael found me at Evangelismos station, whisked me to his apartment in a taxi, then ran back to work to finish the day. I gladly had a rest, took a shower, and emailed some people to let them know I'd arrived safely. About the time I decided I was ready to go out and walk around I realized I didn't know where I was. I didn't know the house number, the street I was on, or even exactly what part of Athens i was in. It took a trip down to the street with pencil and pad of paper in hand and a quick Google maps search to determine that I was in fact in an area of the city I knew quite well.

Once I located mysel on a map I realized I was only ten minutes walk from the square I used to live by, Exarhia, so I set off in searh of my memories. I found my old apartment, my favorite restaurant, and my favorite bar. All were still there, unchanged. The biggest difference was the trees, which seemed enormous to me. (I suppose that's what trees do when you leave them alone for five years, but I was still surprised.) The last litmus test was to find my old kebab shop, the best in all of Athens. It was just where I had left it, and my gyro was a thousand times even better than I remembered it. A true Greek gyro is only lamb, onions, tomatoes, tzatziki, and french fries (inside the pita), and anyone who tries to put lettuce in it isn't a true Greek or is catering to Amerian taste.

As I munched on my gyro I set off in search of a restaurant where one of my closest friends in Athens used to work. I'd lost contact with him over the years, so locating his restaurant was only a third of the problem. I had no idea 1) if he was still living in Athens 2) if he still worked there and 3) if he would be working the night I showed up.

I found the restaurant surprising quickly, my fuzzy memory and questionable sense of direction serving me well for once. I lurked outside for a few minutes, scouring the staff without confirmation. Finally, I walked in and asked the old man behind the counter if Amir worked there. All of a sudden a young man appeared before me with a confused look on his face. There was an awkward moment of questioning silence until at the same time we both made the recognition. It was Amir - but without his trademark ponytail length long hair I hadn't known it was him. I couldn't believe it had been so easy to find him again, and we caught up as best we could while he ran food to tables and served drinks. Eventually Michael came and joined me for dinner, and we chatted for hours over food and drink just like old times. It's been a mystery to me, then and now, how we can consume carafe after carafe of table wine every night, yet never wake up with a hangover. There must be something magical in the Greek air and water . . .