Apollo's lyre

Hostel's right at the heart of the Plaka. The historical neighbourhood of Athens. A labyrinth of narrow streets.


Finding the hostel itself was bad enough. I made circles around the Plaka, straight lines up and down streets and right angles at intersections. I pass local Greek #1 twice. He catches my eye. I'm about to open my mouth. He points down the street and says, 'Hostel.' No brainer there: me looking lost with backpack. Kind soul.


Stepping out of a restaurant with a pork souvlaki, I decide to look for the Acropolis in the dark of night. A few twists and turns and I see it looming up before me on a high plateau with steep cliffs, gleaming white in the bright light of powerful spotlights.


Lost again. But making my way in the general upwards direction, I find myself at the locked entrance. Then the Areopagus: a rocky outcrop approximately 115 metres high (according to the information plaque). And there before me, lay all of Athens.


Lost again. Yes, again. But a Greek melody on the wind finds me instead, directs me through candlelit open-air restaurants and keeps me company till I find my hostel. A blessing from Apollo himself perhaps. In the land of friendly Greeks.