When the taxi departed the coastal highway to
make its way to the center of the capital, I saw
that Athens, like Los Angeles, was bound by
mountains that the major part of the city was
built in a basin.
Minutes after turning away from the sea, I
discovered smog wasn't something exclusive to
Southern California. A bilious blanket of
yellow/brown exhaust hung over the megalopolis
like a thick layer of rusted fog. And, it smelled.
A toxic, oily odor not foreign to gas, but more
pungent. A smell I had never detected back home on
the West Coast; heavier and cruder, somehow, but
just as biting.
Hundreds of thousands of five-story apartment
blocks plastered the landscape on both sides of
the road, all the way up to the edge of the
distant barren hill; a composition of cement,
antennas, and dusty oleander. How depressing:
filthy air and a conglomeration of pasty white
concrete boxes. Not even an occasional skyscraper
or high-rises to give the scene depth. Just row
after row of flat, featureless apartment blocks; a
suburban nightmare that made Los Angeles look like
the city of angels.
Mind you, it could’ve been worse. When I booked
the trip, I thought I'd end up somewhere in the
Middle East where people lived in tents, rode
donkeys, and used lanterns to light their way
around dirt pathways. The sight of so many
buildings, featureless or not, assured me that, at
least Athens had electricity and running water.
Ten minutes away from the sea, a large hill
appeared ahead of us looking much like a
black-head on the pock marked face of an East
Coast gangster. Totally mislaid, as if the city
planners had placed a dumpsite in the middle of
the city. Worse yet, the oversized mound of earth
and rock was crowned with a collection of white
ruins.
When the taxi got close enough for me to
differentiate the forms, one of the ruined
buildings took on the form of an East Coast city
hall, state library, or courthouse, kind of like
the neoclassical architecture I’d seen in New York
City. Albeit roofless, that it was a work in
progress. Either that, or the city had run out of
money before the project was finished. Why the
city council would have agreed to leave such an
eyesore right in the center of the city, was
beyond me. If I had been the mayor of this city, I
would’ve called it quits long ago and cleared the
rubble away. What a blight.
Passing along the side of the hill, I finally
realized the structures were, in fact, actual
ruins. Ancient ruins. Not the beginnings of a new
museum or courthouse, but leftovers from a time
long gone. Age old blocks of stone, time-worn
steps and rocky pathways, huge broken columns: all
lying helter-skelter on the summit of a mound of
rock.
What a backward country, I thought. Not
even enough money to clear away this rubble that
had certainly been lying around for thousands of
years.
Once past the notion it was an erroneous dump
heap, I considered it might have been used as an
amusement park, like the Greek version of Knott’s
Berry Farm or Belmont Park in San Diego.. But, if
that were the case, why hadn’t the city planner
had the foresight to see the population of the
city might explode someday and make this “ode to
an ancient time” superfluous? Well, maybe not
superfluous, but out of place. Even Walt Disney
had the prudence to put Disneyland outside the
city and not in its middle. What a waste of
valuable space. This antediluvian theme park sat
on acreage that must have been worth millions.
Wouldn't it have been more lucrative to move the
antiquated attraction out of the center and into
the suburbs leaving space a few sets of
skyscrapers? The uninterrupted view of the ocean
would've been stupendous... and profitable. But
who was I to pass judgement? Obviously someone,
somewhere, thought it was a good idea.
The Acropolis raced by and disappeared in an
orange cloud of smog.
(It was my first encounter with the world-famous
Acropolis. Hence, my consternation. Never having
studied ancient history in High School, all I saw
was trash on a hilltop. Naïve, but certainly
understandable.)
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