The Acropolis of Athens, a Bedrock Foundation under Ruins

Athens is a dichotomy, a mix of magnificent ancient ruin and modern debasement. I expected something epic, and I found that, but I also found an ordinary city. Residents eat, sleep, work and play there, living out daily life without much awe of, or reflection on, their storied surroundings. It reminds me of the difference between a summer cottage and a winterized house on a lake. One is a dream; the other is reality, with bills, chores and a daily drive to work. Some districts of Athens are visually appealing, and some can only generously be called shambolic. But ancient Athens surely had its own lowbrow districts too, probably in the same areas. How time does soften our perceptions.

I'm pondering this as I sit by the terrace pool of the Ruby Princess, overlooking the port of Piraeus and Athens. It's hot, but not quite the sweltering of recent days. In the hazy distance is the Acropolis, our main destination this morning. My son Thomas is not here, preferring to read in our suite. He hasn't put on his swimsuit except for reluctantly at Glyfada beach on Corfu. I'm starting to think I should have just got us a hotel room in New Jersey for two weeks and called it Rome. It would have saved some coin.

A floating hotel is not a bad way to skirt the coastline and islands of Greece.

Modern Athens from the port of Piraeus. The hill of the Acropolis stands far in the hazy distance (center).

 

We started early, sparing ourselves exertion and exposure in the heat of the afternoon. The bus trip to the Acropolis from Piraeus takes about 30 minutes. It takes about eighty steps from the base of the edifice to the Propylea, the monumental gate to the temple complex. A few elderly tourists dropped off in the face of that, waiting out the tour in a shady spot below¹. How many had yearned for a lifetime to come here and were finally defeated by the last sets of stairs? I wondered how they felt. Outwardly, there appeared to be stoic acceptance. Maybe with age it's easier to accept the disappointing outcome of a well-fought struggle, like a farmer who has learned not to cry over blighted crops, but has found solace in the effort.