Spring Break in Greece

I imagine what Greece used to be like. I picture Aeschylus’s Agamemnon performed at the Delphi theatre, and how the Agora used to look: the bustling marketplace full of women buying ingredients to make baklava and mousakka for their families. Women with a purpose. I buy hologram postcards so I can see more than just the skeletons of these places.

It’s our last night of spring break, and we lounge on the rooftop of The Heroidion in Athens. I say to Max, “This trip has been like a weird, lucid dream.”

Her response: “I’ve eaten enough garlic to turn into a clove.”

This is the kind of talk between best friends: disjointed and comfortable.

During the last 11 days, I’ve learned that my skin turns glossy from Mediterranean olive oil; that in touristy areas, the Greeks serve Americanized gyros with oregano fries piled high; and I learn to downplay tripping on the cobblestone streets. I am a step away from grace.

“Yasa!” we shout as we tip back our last ouzo shot and cheers to this trip.

We sit, stargaze and feel the soft spring breeze.

“We have a better view of the Parthenon, up here, than we did paying admission,” I say.

Max nods and jokingly says, “Wish Rula was here to describe this.”

Rula is our Greek tour guide, chain smoker and professional espresso drinker, who has a knack for saying English words in a dirty way. “Olympics” becomes O-limp-piks and “fortress” into four-undress. Imagine her description of this postcard worthy view: “marble” to ma-ball, “temple” to tim-pile and “rubble” into rawr-bull.

Max trickles off to bed but I stay up.

I look at the Parthenon with the scaffolding illuminated by construction lights. It is old juxtaposed with new.

Then I see a single shooting star fly above this ancient temple. It reminds me that just like a human body, the bones outlast. Life swirls around us, even as we struggle, always evolving.