Field Notes: Athens
Some things I noticed during my first trip to Athens.
As we drive into Athens from the airport, the first thing that strikes me—apart from the traffic and the reckless driving—is that the streets are lined with trees heavy with big, ripe oranges.
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We sit in a café when a cover of Seabird comes on. This song is tied so closely to our trip to Portugal last year. This version is by Babeheaven, and from this moment on, it's constantly playing in my head as we wander the streets of Athens.
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At a restaurant one evening, the welcome is reserved at first. But later, we’re given free beers, raki, and heartfelt goodbyes. As we leave, full and happy. The crew dances behind the bar, singing along to Greek songs.
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My favourite part of the Akropolis is how much it feels like a construction site—a hammer and nails left on ancient stones. Workers are climbing around on the scaffolding lining some of the temples. The cranes stand still but look ready to lift marble into place. Around the Parthenon, crumbling stones lie numbered and arranged like oversized puzzle pieces.
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They serve the beer here in ice-cold glasses—just like in Tokyo. It’s not the only thing in Athens that reminds me of Japan. I make a mental note to put glasses in the freezer when we’re back home.
Caffé Freddo, medium-sweet, is the perfect pick-me-up on long days of walking.
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As we leave a wine bar, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots by the Flaming Lips plays. I keep humming it as we walk back to the hotel.
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There are cats everywhere in Athens. They don’t look feral but are well-fed and seem taken care of. I read somewhere while they are strays, the inhabitants of Athens see them as part of their community, so they care for them. We keep seeing little shelters built for them and bowls of food everywhere. One evening, as we walk home, we encounter two cats sleeping on tiny beds in the window of a bookstore like little kings or queens. On our last evening, we spot an elderly woman feeding cats in the evening sun.
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I envy the city’s mild February climate and balconies rich with monsteras, rubber trees, and tall cacti. I shed layers of wool as we sit outside in the sun and collect the first freckles of the year.
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Near the old Olympic stadium, we walk down an alley lined with orange trees. The air smells like freshly squeezed juice.
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Inside a restaurant, The Cranberries’ You Can Go Your Own Way hums from the speakers. Outside, a garbage truck rumbles past; the men riding on its back fly by, laughing—like someone had choreographed them to the music.
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We drink Greek wine that tastes like ripe tomatoes—a taste I have missed all winter.
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As the plane ascends, taking us back to Zurich, I wave goodbye to a sea of white buildings draped across green hills at dusk, the Mediterranean lying beneath us.
