The National Archaeological Museum

Thursday, Aug. 8

Oswaldo leaves early for the IIP assembly at the congress while I busy myself with the many e-mails and phone calls that accompany my changed circumstances.
When he returns we have a little lunch in our room and then head out in the boiling, merciless sun to find the much-praised National Archaeological Museum. In this the old neighborhood, Plaka, where pavements are composed of marble slabs polished glossy by millenia of use, but never really even, I can testify to the fact that it's terrifying to sit at wheelchair level ahead of the person (however well-meaning and cautious) who pushes you. Cars pass on your sides with mere centimeters to spare, and tourists, overvhelmed by the heat, are too distracted to move out of the way. Luckily, we soon find a (non-English speaking) cab-driver, who takes us straight to the museum and delivers us on a shady side street, near the wheelchair ramp.

The museum is filled with treasurers, many of which look familiar - probably way back from our school books.  Here is Zeus

and the beautiful Antinous, who was the Emperor Hadrian's male consort, and who drowned very young in mysterious circumstances.

This lovely young woman reminds me of my niece - the nose, the wide-set eyes,

and this is the famous Poseidon thunderbolt throwing sculpture.

Who wouldn't want these gorgeous earrings?

After spending a long time marvelling at everything we descend to an inner courtyard cafeteria, where we sit outside in the shade. Some persistent pigeons join us and one actually lands briefly on my toes, exposed by the cast, eeech. We enjoy our excellent expresso frappees and a shared piece of carrot cake.

Then we consult the map and realize we're not that far from the hotel. What the heck. We're going to try to walk it. The worst thing for me right now is that I cannot just walk all over the way I love to in any new city. So Oswaldo indulges me and starts pushing me gamely.  Soon his hands are very red and sore, but we find a body-building store, where a hugely muscular young man sells him a pair of work-out gloves, which are perfect. We pass by the University of Athens building (not the one Oswaldo has been going to) with its beautiful dark red interior wall.

Then we head down a pedestrian passage across from the university and luck into a very chique looking sidewalk café, Clemente VIII (photo shows entrance as well as bourgouis apartments in front mirrored in the glass),

where I have an interesting combination of cold tea and lemon sherbet served in a tall glass, and Oswaldo a coupe of Belgian chocolate icecream. We chat to and older man scross from us. He speaks beautiful English, but says he is "unfortunately" Greek. 

 We also find this homage to Brazil on the floor.

We notice we are surrounded by luxury stores such as Longchamp, but the Mont Blanc store seems to be shuttered as are all the stores in another formerly exclusive passage. Effects of the tottering Greek economy. When we turn the corner to the main street that will take up home I glance longingly at the much alive Hermés store, with it's beautiful scarves and shawls, and wait, there's the Dolce and Gabbana....but my driver has turned and we're firmly headed in the direction of our hotel. This involves a dramatic uphill push, followed by a long rattling walk with mostly no ramps on the cross streets, but we make it home.

We have invited 2 philosophers, Danielle Macbeth (Haverford College) and our dear friend Dan Isaacson (Oxford) over for drinks, when we share a bottle of Greek champagne, courtesy of Dan, while they talk about their rather successful session the day before at the Congress. We then walk over to Daphne's and share another 2 bottles of wine with dinner. At some point I have to be wheeled around the corner, out in the street, and then lifted, chair and all, down 4 steps to reach the bathroom - all by very kind waiters - then leave my chair in charge of an embarrassed French girl about 11, who happens to be washing her hands, while I hop into the tiny toilet. Once out, I address another French child with my best Delf 4 Alliance French to get him to open and hold the door for me. Then the waiters again - up the stairs, out on the street, around the corner, and so on. Oswaldo leaves a big tip. We all go back to our suite and unwisely share yet another bottle of wine, while I DJ on my MacAir, playing anything from "Victor's kind of music" to him actually singing, Zambujo and whatever else I can think of. Fun evening, which ends after 1am - and we have to get up early....