Athens is kind and crazy. It is the view from the top of the Acropolis, from here to eternity and three lifetimes beyond that. Athens is waiting for the bill while people smoke inside the restaurant and I, bizarrely, don’t care. It is steep, spiral staircases and the screech of a jackhammer outside my hotel window. 

Athens is the maternal smile of a '“yaya” touching the small hand of a refugee. It is the texture of my children’s forefathers and the smell of candied fruit. Athens is graffiti everywhere, on street corners, parliament buildings and the walls of five-star hotels. Graffiti outside art galleries and inside potholes. In Athens nothing is precious and that makes everything ironically, precious. 

Athens is peaceful demonstrations, political and social; greeting a friend on the side of the road involves loud, loving, generous and gregariously peaceful demonstration. Athens is itchy and hot. It is teenagers complaining about the heat and me, the mother, complaining about them complaining. 

Athens is the anarchy district, a suburb of people peacefully ruling themselves and eating in quaint side walk cafes as slowly, the world goes by.  Athens is young and old, old as time, which passes us by so slowly in this graceful, deeply inefficient city. Athens is glorious hotel lobbies and marble columns, even though sometimes the marble is fake. 

Athens is my heart filled with life and joy. And color and creation. Athens is... fuck; suffice to say I love this city’s guts.