Beneath the paths we walk

I am in the Athens airport waiting for my flight to Lyon. I am almost happy to leave, possibly because some of my expectations weren’t met. Whenever in the past I Googled images of Athens, I found amazing ancient white buildings set against vistas of blue sky, scenes bristling with the classical past – and I did see those, but not without a search. 

Athens, like New York, is full of closely stacked apartments, and it’s not easy to see the sky. Seen from taxis, almost all streets seem to be dark streets; but it’s different when walking. What you see on a walk is daily life, punctuated with loud conversations that seem like arguments but end in laughter. And cats! Athens is rife with feral cats who seem well-nourished and easily accepted in the hearts (and garbage pails) of Athenians.  Every block has its bright boutiques and welcoming restaurants. Even the hole-in-the-wall varieties are remarkable. The other night, my cousin Ryan and his husband Ryan took me to a restaurant they call PoPoPo because the cook and the waitress are always running around saying po-po-po––Greek for a number of emotions from happiness to deep overwhelm. 

Diners start in the kitchen where the cook, a garrulous old guy whose family have owned the place for more than 50 years, shows you what he’s been cooking since morning: giant runner beans in a savory sauce, meatballs, okra, sauteed wild greens, a chickpea soup cooked all day in a clay pot and flavored with lemon. The three of us made our choices, and then the waitress, a cheery, almost toothless Ethiopian, escorted us to the back garden hung with grape vines and edged with lemon trees. Rickety chairs and tables rocked on the stone surface as we took our places. She joked with us about how rich they were –“See how many chairs we have?”—and there were indeed many stacked about. She brought us wine in a small metal pitcher whose edges were scored with dents and cracks—“The cook—he broke his tooth on it!” We laughed our way through a marvelous dinner.

Athenians live. Despite the dark streets, they make their own light. I think this may be because of the streets beneath the streets: the multitudinous vestiges of Greek Civilization–houses, temples, agorae that saw the birth of democracy, philosophy, and the lively arts. History, in the form of hundreds of potential dig sites, provides an effervescence that bubbles up into their world and supports them through the chaos, uncertainty, and relative poverty that beset them in this crazy world. It allows them to hope and to laugh.

My time with Ryan and Ryan was excellent. I hadn't seen my second cousin (Ryan E) since he was in junior high, and he has grown into the promise he showed then: well-versed in the arts, literature, politics, and at ease with his many talents. His partner, Ryan W, is likewise talented and witty, with deep experience in art, music, writing, and editing. There was never a dull conversation. Together we walked the paths beneath the Acropolis and over the site of the house of Proclus. We poured wine into the dirt at the cave-prison where Socrates may have spent his last days before being forced to drink hemlock rather than betray his truth.

The Ryans moved to Europe after the first Trump election because their clear vision and perspicacity issued a warning: they would no longer be safe in the United States. As we now see, they were correct. One of the many things I admire about them, though, is that they have not sunk into the darkness of our times; instead, they celebrate the pleasures of being alive and recognize that, despite everything, art, music, literature, fine food and wine still uplift us and help us to survive. Their podcast and substack at Epicurean Vagabonds help me to weather the times and maintain my serenity. And, through them, I found my joy in Athens.