Hellenic Musings

Where's my muse? Right here. Athens in springtime. Whod've thunk it. Athens has become a world-class capital. Sure, not Rome or Paris or London, but a great city. And right in the heart of it is the Acropolis and the incomparable Parthenon. She is like a beautiful woman: from any angle, in any light she is utterly fascinating. Like a star-struck lover if not a stalker, I have resolved to walk past the Parthenon every day I am here. And its not just me. We have all heard about people in places like Athens or Rome who walk past the world's most magnificent creations and barely niotice. That's not what I hav seen. Every night at sunset Athenians yound and old--but mainly young, gather at the foot of the Acropolis with friends and lovers for mezedes or drinks or coffee. They marvel at the view at one another and it IS magic.

And then you walk up and then down the pathways around the ruins and on to Dionysios Areopagitou street and you are so proud! The pedestrian walkways are magnificent. All around the sacred rock and out to the rest of Athens, which never looked better. And now there is the new Acropolis museum which is a fine piece of architecture and you know that the world will take notice when it finally opens in September and the campaign to recover the Parthenon marbles picks up steam.

But for now there is a cool breeze and a cresenct moon floating above the temple of Wingless Victory --Nike and over here there is an excellent guitar player, and futher down the path a nice accordion player, and even a barrel organ and a santouri player. The man playing the santouri is dressed like a tsolia -- an outfit inspired by the garb of the soldiers of the Greek revolution of 1821, now worn by the guards of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Syntagma square in Athens, familiar to Greek Americans from their annual visits to our Greek parades. Yes, the santouri player is a bit incongrous, yes his greek accent suggests his origins are a little more northern than he'd admit, but you gotta give some credit to someone who would wear that outfit in public, even in Greece. Ernest Hemingway, who as a journalist covered the initial progress and ultimate destruction of the Greek Expeditionary forces in Asia Minor 1920-1922, gave a less than charitable description of the handful of modern Greek soldiers who were dressed that way, but what about those guys at the St. Patricks day parade dressed in kilts?

And above us unfolds a light show for the ages. First the incomparable Pentelic marble shines white, then as the sun sets there is a golden glow. Things go dark for a while, then the electric lights yield a modern glory and after all is said and done, nobody wants to leave.