Texts for Translation:
  Ian Ferguson

Omonia to Acropolis

I prepare to leave my hotel room – a room that is more than satisfactory. The bed is firm and provides welcome comfort after a long day in the mad and maddening capital of the Hellenic Republic. The bathroom has a strong shower that pricks the skin of my face like hot ashes blown from a bonfire. Fluffy white towels are provided daily and the room has more than enough space for a weary traveller seeking parole from exhaustion after the trials and pleasures of trekking throughout Athens.

After a claustrophobic descent in the two-person elevator I arrive on the ground floor in time to see the receptionist, Natalia, dealing with an American woman holding a yappy Chihuahua and demanding a non-smoking, English-speaking taxi driver. I wait while she arranges the utopian taxi ride.

Natalia is polite and helpful and, like so many of her countrywomen, she is beautiful. Her hair is blacker than ink; her almond-shaped eyes are of the darkest brown; her figure would put an hourglass to shame. However, her smile is her most captivating feature. It lights the day and, as I approach, it is there for me.
“Kalimera, Natalia.”
“Kalimera, Mr. Ferguson.”
“Please, call me Ian.”
“What can I do for you today, Mr. Ferguson?” she asks and I understand that her job doesn’t allow her such familiarity with guests.
“Can you tell me how to get to the Acropolis?”

I know how to get to the Acropolis. Natalia knows that I know, however, I cannot think of a better excuse to talk to her this morning.
“Do you have a map?” she asks. I fish for it in my rucksack then spread it out on the desktop. With one immaculately manicured finger Natalia traces the same route that I had planned. I take this coincidence as a sign that we are meant to be together for the rest of our lives.
“Efharisto, Natalia.”
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Ferguson. Have a nice day.”
Reluctantly I drag my heart away from the desk and take myself outside.

A cacophony assaults my ears as I step out of the soundproofed hotel and into the baking heat of mid-morning Athens. The buzz and hum of Omonia Square are punctuated by the pitch of a nearby newspaper vendor selling his wares: Ta Nea; Kathemerini; Elefteros Typos. He competes valiantly against the car horns and air brakes as I weave my way through the mid-morning crowd, going against the tide like a salmon swimming upstream to spawn. Already I sense the urgency of the city. By the time I reach the other side of the square I’ve travelled one hundred and fifty yards and yet, already, I feel exhausted. I’m relieved to find an unoccupied wicker seat in Brazita Coffee.

I order an espresso and unfold my map of the city. I plan to walk southeast along Panepistimiou to the Parliament Building. I’ll take the metro from Syntagma to Monastiraki and, from there, a leisurely stroll through the sun-drenched alleyways and market streets of the Plaka. Along the way I will avail myself of several Mythos beers once the sun has risen above the yardarm. Convinced that I have a robust plan, I sip my espresso and settle down to watch the bustling activity of the square.

The Acropolis will, be busy today, I think as I drain my cup so I pay for the coffee and set off for Panepistimiou eager to reach the Sacred Rock before the entire population of Japan descends upon it with flashing Nikons and Fujis. I sense today will be a good day.

By

Ian Ferguson, Travel writer

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