Sunday in Athens

Well, the late Saturday night you spent at the rembitika club means you COULD sleep late but then you’d miss the best part of the day! Sunday in Athens is a day for strolling, pawing through flea markets and swilling tiny cups of coffee with your friends in outdoor cafes.

The Monastiraki Flea Market is open every day, but on Sunday it really fills up and is home to the most gawdawful junk, true antiques and rare finds. The hunt is the thing!!

When the clubs wind down at 5 am or so the flea market gears up! The flea market really does spread for miles, filling streets and alleys and is comprised of tiny stores, or street booths, carts and blankets spread on the ground. The ubiquitous African immigrants with their grimy swag blankets of knock-off purses/watches/electronics/CDs are sprinkled through the crowd like pepper. The meaner Greek teens will holler POLIZIA just to watch them scatter. But I rather like them - I mean honestly, where else can one get a REAL Dolce and Gabbana purse AND a Louis Vuitton suitcase for 5 bucks?

I love prowling the old brass shops. These have probably been there since the Turkish brass and coppersmiths established the Monastiraki area a few hundred years ago. Elaborate samovars, simple copper kettles, goat bells and church lamps hang from ceiling hooks. Makes me want to get out the polish! There are booths specializing in old LPs, vintage movie posters from the 30s, antique toys, silver, china, chandeliers, books and stamps. There are obvious family heirloom portraits of forgotten great grandmothers, perhaps an anonymous 19th century bride’s wedding headdress, daggers, grim souvenirs from the German invasions of WW2, fine linens and – my very favourite – old beat up musical instruments – bouzouki and kithara in every size and condition – lots of reed instruments – clarinets and saxophones and enough brass tubas, bugles and trumpets to gladden the heart of any chain store interior decorator. (Sorry Ian – no bagpipes that I could see). No baseball cards here, but lots of old men with plastic photo albums displaying their collections of modern phone cards and obsolete drachmas. Who knew they were collectible? I must own a fortune in spent phone cards by now!

Once you negotiate for that must-have treasure, you can squeeze into a seat along Thission – the edge of the Agora and people watch. By the way, the Agora offers free admission on Sundays and, when the weather is fine, you will see old men taking their canary cages out to give their birds a bit of a stroll in this area - lovingly cooing to them as they walk. The hurdy gurdy man will amble by, the gypsy kids will try to wheedle a few coins out of you for a Bic lighter or a rose and if you look up high – no, higher… over the top of the acropolis, you can see the golden eagles soaring.

Coffee blends into lunch by 3pm…… then it’s time for ice cream or a sweet….. and eventually dinner. So what did YOU do this Sunday?

Yes, it's winter. . .

. . . but the trees are heavy with fat ripe oranges, the first of the wildflowers are appearing and the cyclamen are in bloom. I'm not sure where these mutant strawberries are from, but they are as big as my fist!

The eagle has landed - with a thud!

Like Aunt Clara in Bewtiched, I’ve finally landed with a thud in Athens – a bit befuddled, jet lagged, amid a welter of baggage and briefcases, trailing scarves, duty free swag and dropping euros like confetti. Snow squalls and delays in Montreal and Zurich be damned – I have arrived in Athens and the real miracle is that my baggage train did too! Thank you, airport gods!

Funny how the jet lag melts away when faced with sunshine, balmy breezes, trees heavy with fat ripe oranges, and great lashings of demstica – er, that’s Greek for vin that is pretty ordinaire but goes down well after the first bottle or so.

Obviously, I must be tipping too much in this damned town, for the hotel concierges and owner came to the desk to greet me with many hugs, triple-cheek euro-kisses (and not those pansy opera air kisses mind you), and faces wreathed in smiles of welcome. A bottle of Tsipouro awaited me in my room. After a brisk nap, I set out in the sunshine to hike through favourite streets of the Plaka – a jewelry store owner came out of his shop to greet me – “MADAME! You’ve come BACK!” Then later, I ran into my favourite waiter – Yiannis – hadn’t seen him in 2 years and we both beamed like lost cousins. I had an exquisite lunch punctuated by city gossip and discussions of politics (the world is apparently going to hell in a handcart here too) followed by his gift of fresh baklava. This is a city of about 6 to 8 million people – no one is quite sure of the count actually – and to run into people I know feels very odd, but quite, quite lovely. I either stand out like a sore thumb, am famous by my insane largesse or, as Sally Field said – “they like me, they really, really like me!” My friend Gary says I have a sumthin’, sumthin’ that people remember; my doctor says I have “presence” and own any room I enter – another life lesson – I didn’t know that. I think it is the supreme joy oozing out of every pore when I’m here that is memorable – honey, I’m home!