|
FIRST THING
this morning we changed rooms.
Those top floor rooms, we
realized, are great in summer
but not in winter. We were given
a large room below with private
bathroom and two balconies for
12,000 drachmas, complete with a
remote control heating system.
After
settling into our room, we
walked around looking for a
place to eat, this time going in
the direction of Syntagma
Square, one of the main squares
in Athens and one that Joy
hadn’t seen yet. It was a mess,
being dug up for reconstruction,
with noisy jackhammers and
shouting workers making
conversation between us
impossible. We wandered back
through the labyrinth of streets
to quieter Plaka and found a
souvlaki place, the same one
where we’d had breakfast a few
weeks earlier.
Joy
admitted that she was getting
tired of sightseeing, and since
I’d already seen the sights of
Athens we decided to go to the
airport and pick up our stored
bags. The easiest way, we were
told, was to catch the bus in
front of MacDonald’s on
Syntagma Square, so we
headed back in that direction,
this time taking a different
route, the boulevard running
alongside Hadrian’s Arch. The
sun was out but we were both
shivering in the cold, biting
wind.
 The
focal point of Syntagma
(Constitution) Square is the
parliament building which stands
at the highest point of the
square. Built in 1840 under King
Otto, this monumental building
served as the royal palace until
1910, when it was destroyed by
fire. It reopened in 1935 as the
seat of the National Assembly.
The
changing of the guard (who are
dressed in traditional uniform)
takes place in front of the
building every hour on the hour.
This is performed by a larger
group of soldiers every Sunday
at 10am.
At
Syntagma, as we approached the
royal palace with the
traditional Greek guards
marching back and forth, I told
Joy: “If there are ever any
demonstrations, here is where
they take place, in front of the
palace.”
No
sooner had I said it, than large
groups of teachers and students
came marching toward us from a
narrow side street, carrying
banners protesting the new
education system and the new
Minister of Education. (A fellow
spectator gave us this
information, as the signs were
in Greek.)
We
watched and waited for a while,
but soon realized that any buses
to the airport would have to be
delayed as they could never get
through the streets that were
being blocked off by the growing
crowds. I suggested we walk
against the stream to the end of
the protesters. Halfway down Joy
began limping on her sore foot,
so we stopped to sit on a vacant
bench and struck up a
conversation with a man who told
us he was from Kurdistan now
living in Greece.
There
were literally thousands of
rioters and spectators streaming
together from an unknown point
of origin. All else in this part
of town had come to a grinding
halt, and I had a sudden urge to
get away from it all.
Leaving Joy still talking to the
Kurd, I took off in a different
direction, passing a battalion
of uniformed policemen with
bulletproof shields before
ducking down a side street.
Within a few blocks it was a
different world with business
being conducted as usual, and I
walked around for several hours
browsing at my own pace and
reliving sights and sounds from
my life in Athens twenty years
earlier.
When I
returned to the room, Joy was
sitting on the bed sorting out
her things. A strange odor
permeated the room. She told me
that right after I left all hell
broke loose. She had gotten
caught in the riots and had been
sprayed with mace, which
accounted for the odd smell. The
MacDonald’s facade had been
smashed in, as well as a jewelry
store window, which had left the
help scrambling to collect all
the valuable pieces that had
gone flying. It was the top
story on the news, with
reporters and television crews
getting tangled in the fray as
well.
* * *
We
decided to give the airport
another try, this time going in
the opposite direction to catch
a bus in front of the Royal
Olympic Hotel. After
successfully collecting our
bags, we brought them back to
the hotel, repacked, and had our
final vacation meal at a little
downstairs taverna on the nearby
square.
Back
in our room we crawled into our
beds and talked for a few hours
before falling asleep, reliving
some of our experiences. Joy
asked, “Why don’t people want to
talk about religion?” My answer?
“I guess they’d rather just talk
about life.”
|
previous
