From my diary: “It is 10 a.m. and I am now sitting in the first class lounge of the boat, having showered and had breakfast (bread, boiled egg, coffee, juice—600 drachmas, or around $2.50). Joy is sitting outside enjoying the fresh sea air, reading. We both regard this every bit as good as a cruise ship. Who needs shuffleboard? The boat is scheduled to dock at around 3:30 p.m. The plane to Egypt leaves at 6:30 but we haven’t booked tickets yet so there is no panic to get there on time. If we miss that plane we’ll catch another one.”

As soon as the boat docked we headed for the nearest ticket office in Pireaus, right across from the harbor. We sought a place to store our excess bags but nobody knew of anything in Pireaus. After much back and forth deliberating and talking to travel agents on the phone, examining all the possibilities, we decided to spend the night in Athens at the Adams Hotel (a place I was very familiar with from my two-year Greek experience) then fly to Cairo the next day, Sunday, at 7:30 p.m. on Egyptair.

I was full of anticipation as the taxi drove us up to the Adams. We were given a room on the top floor with a view of the Acropolis for about $30. Peter’s Pub, to my dismay, was dark and empty and obviously no longer a central hub. A doorway had been made connecting the lobby of the Adams to Peter’s Pub, so I went inside and stood there for a moment reliving fond memories. It had been remodeled and redecorated without charm—cold and depressing, a place where hotel guests could have breakfast or a hasty cocktail. In the old days the heat of many bodies kept it warm, even in winter.

After settling into our room, we took a walk through the picturesque stone-paved streets of this oldest section of Athens. It appeared to have undergone extensive renovations since I was here last; the souvenir shops were much trendier than I remembered them—back then they were run by locals but now had a Rodeo Drive flavor and prices to match. We bought some postcards and ate dinner at a taverna on the main square. 

Even the simple tavernas had become shinier and glitzier and the menus more tailored to Americans than Greeks, but when lined up in a row the magic was still there. I was delighted to see that the English side of the menu was still loaded with spelling mistakes—for instance “green hills” were going for around 800 drachmas—I was tempted to order them just to see what I would get! Once again we were the only ones eating as the Greeks rarely come out before nine or ten p.m.

Sticking faithfully to our early-to-bed schedule, Joy went up to the room immediately after our meal but I stopped off to have an ouzo with the new owners of the Adams, Kostas and Dimitris, with whom I rehashed the old days when I lived in Plaka. Dimitris even claimed to remember me. I didn’t remember him, and he was probably being polite, but he definitely remembered Stefanos when I reminded him of the big blue Citroen!

I asked about Mary and Chris Petropoulos, and he told me Mary had committed suicide a few years after I left, on Mother’s Day, after her son was found dead of a drug overdose in Amsterdam. Chris was still running the Magic Bus but had lost interest in Peter’s Pub after Mary died, and it sat unoccupied for years until Kostas and Dimitris took it over. I felt sad, feeling the ghosts of the past, and thought of the saying, "You can't go home again."

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