Sniffling and coughing, I made my way out yesterday into, thankfully, cloudy and cool weather. I headed up to the Acropolis, arriving around 8:30. By that point, the tourist faction wasn’t all that thick, and I got inside after being surrounded only once by a group, in this case, Russians on holiday. The bonus here was that all of the sites covered by the 12-Euro Acropolis ticket (Acropolis, agora and forum, Keramikos Cemetery, Temple of Olympian Zeus, and the Theater of Dionysus) were free– which is apparently the case on the first Sunday of each month (check my information on www.culture.gr).

You can’t get very close to anything other than the Propylaea, the entrance to the Acropolis. I would love to have been able, for instance, to walk around inside the Parthenon, and to study the Caryatids (replicas, all) face to face. I understand the necessity of the guard ropes, though, and I thoroughly enjoyed clambering around the site. A word of caution: good shoes are absolutely necessary here and especially on Mars Hill, described below; the rocks are sometimes slippery, and the ground not very level. I noticed more than a few fashionable, wobbling ladies bringing peril upon their ankles in heels. Again, praise to the Chacos!

My only other bit of advice, if that’s the right phrase, is that traveling alone, as I’m sure you already know, makes for a lot of pictures without you in them. All along the way, though, there seemed to be plenty of trustworthy individuals willing to stop and remedy that situation after noticing me trying to get my face into a self-portrait with monument in the background.

After leaving the Acropolis around 9:30, when the tourists were really starting to pour in, I walked over to Mars Hill, where the Apostle Paul made an unsuccessful pitch of the Gospel to the Athenians. It’s a nice, rough place to sit down and have a snack, and watch the stray dogs run around among the tourists. The view here is superb, and from there, it’s an easy stroll to the Roman agora, which I hit again, not having seen much of it the first time around.

My main goal here was the Temple of Hephaistos, which, according to the guidebooks, is extremely well preserved. Again, it’s not possible to walk around inside, but is no less impressive for that. The unexpected favorite of the place, though, was the Church of the Holy Apostles. There are frescoes here that, in spite of being in a state of decay, are absolutely beautiful, and the way the light plays from the cupola and windows is quietly awesome.

After wandering around the agora for a while longer, I meandered via the shops and cafes on Adrianou Street to Hadrian’s Arch and the Temple of Olympian Zeus. Surrounded by very busy streets, this site has an interesting feel to it, due to the convergence of two vastly different worlds.

I followed the traffic-heavy Vasilissis Amalias past the National Gardens to the Parliament building and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in front of it, where I waited for a few minutes to watch the changing of the guards. The two Evzones, as they’re called, who stand stock-still on either side of the tomb, are dressed in traditional Klepht– highland guerrilla– uniforms. You can take your picture with them, but don’t even try to make any silly poses or go past them to get closer to the tomb; in addition to having a soldier in camouflage shoo you away, you’ll hear the Evzone pound his rifle on the ground.

At five before the hour, three Evzones high-step into the square, and two of them replace the pair on duty in a slow, carefully choreographed ceremony. These guys may be wearing puffballs on their shoes, but going by their facial expressions, I wouldn’t want to get on their bad side.

In search of food, I skirted the Plaka on Mitropoleos, finding there the Mitropolis Cathedral and Cathedral Square. The former is essentially the HQ for Greek Orthodoxy, and like many churches, requires proper dress (no shorts) and behavior for entry; the latter features a statue of Archbishop Damaskinos, who defended Greek Jews against the Nazis during the latter’s occupation, and later served for a while as prime minister. The beautifully simple Church of Agios Eleftherios is next to the larger cathedral, and dates back to the 13th century.

As luck would have it, there was a pharmacy open near the church, where I got some natural throat spray. I was too frazzled to think about getting decongestant, but at least parts of my symptoms started to show improvement.

Getting hungry, I headed back to Adrianou, where a jovial guy convinced me to eat in his taverna. Constantinos (or Costas) talked to everyone, whether patrons or not, and had conversations in English, French, Spanish, Arabic, Greek, and no telling what else. I feasted on giant beans, greens, fried eggplant, coffee, and a honey cake, as he went into raptures on love and travel. He made a great sale– but was also a genuinely good sort.

Stuffed and tired, I stocked up on juice and made my way back to the hostel via Adrianou, to pick out of few small trinkets for family. I’m not big on souvenirs, but I was able to find a few tiny gifts that wouldn’t overload my packing. After an open-mouthed nap, I ventured out in search of more juice, and called it quits for the day, uploading pictures to the computer and getting some reading in.

This morning, head spinning, I walked through the National Gardens just south of Parliament. Soon after getting there, though, I was out of breath and convinced that I should just go back to bed, so I returned to the hostel, stopping first at the same pharmacy I’d been to the day before and picking up some pills, courtesy of the same woman who helped me yesterday. The contents are a mystery to me, but seem to be doing the trick. I’d planned to go to the National Archaeology Museum, but that’ll have to wait until my next visit to Athens; I’m headed to the airport tomorrow morning, and I’m hoping for increased health before then.

Off to bed now– see you for the wrap-up!

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

Well, here I am again, back in the noise and grit and wariness of Athens. I arrived in the port yesterday around 3:30, checked into the hostel a little over an hour after that, bought some juice, and slept. Lo and behold, I’ve come down with a cold, one of those that involves a sore throat in the mornings and a vague feeling of doom for the rest of the day. I’ll try to make the best of it, though, in spite of other inauspicious aspects of my return.

I’m in a dorm room this time, one of four beds in the same space. Thankfully, no one else was there last night, and I’m hoping it stays that way. I’m also on the first floor (second in the U.S.), on the other side of the building. So although I don’t have to make a five-story climb this time, the tiny window in the room looks out onto a brick wall, and there’s not much air flow.

But I’m just sleeping there, so no harm done, really. The toilets and showers are down the hall, so it’s back to trudging bags of belongings with me for the purposes of cleaning up. Here’s a helpful (and probably obvious) tip: make sure you keep your safety razor covered in some way; reaching into a bag and taking a chunk out of your index finger, as I did this morning, is in no way helpful, where navigating travel is concerned. I remember that the plastic covering came off of the thing in the apartment in Aigios Georgios, but thought nothing of it. I’ll know better next time.

I’ll know, too, to bring more band-aids with me. I thought I was being responsible with ten; no so. Thankful as I’ve been for my Chacos, which I even wore around town for a few days before heading out on this trip, one shoe’s been rubbing unforgivably against my big toe, and I’ve been trying to mitigate the discomfort via band-aids. Down to my last one this morning, I figured I should seal up the gash in my finger, instead of bleeding all over the place and/or getting a lot of dirt in it– and so my long-suffering toe will have to toughen up today, when I climb to the Acropolis.

Other than that, it’ll be as much juice as I can get my hands on, and if I can find a pharmacy and figure out what to ask for, I might just get some cold medicine. Now, though, it’s time for breakfast, so I’ll head out and see what the day has in store.

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

I’ve reached that point in my travels where I’m feeling fat and overly-fed. This isn’t quite a desire to go home (why in the world would I want to leave this place?), but an indication that my vacation from my usual dietary and exercise-related discipline is catching up with me. Good thing, then, that we had a hike yesterday up a volcano.

We set off around 5:30, driving for about half an hour over insane switchbacks to the other side of the island. With no guardrails to be seen, the roads that often curved right back in upon themselves seemed to offer up a double challenge. When we arrived– again, no signage to guide the way– we trekked up paths that combined lush green with dark red rock, continually amazed at the structures ancient eruptions had thrown up, and at trees’ ability to root themselves to and thrive upon surfaces that appeared completely inhospitable. We found a makeshift table among all of the stones and popped open a bottle of champagne, with almonds and oregano chips to go with it.

After that, it was an easy climb back down, and a twisty ride to a taverna in Vathi. This little harbor is home to a wealthy expat crowd– mostly British, it seemed– fancy speedboats docked in front of the many restaurants situated on the water. We had a variety of appetizers: white beans, Greek salad, fried zucchini, zucchini patties, greens, bread, rosette wine, and calamari and white fish as well for the rest of the table. We finished the meal off with Greek yogurt and honey and a glass of Metaxa, a particular sort of brandy that, even though it has a real kick, is still a nice way to finish off a big meal. At the table across from us, the cats that had been wandering around made quick work of the remains left by a party of four or five.

My ferry leaves for Athens today at 1:00, so I’ll pack my things after breakfast and make my slightly sad way back to the city. With two more days left after that to explore, I’ll head tomorrow to the Acropolis and see what the ruins, the view, and probably the tourists, are like from up there. Closing, then, my hugely enjoyable stay in Methana, I’ll report back next time from the big city!

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

At lunch yesterday, the conversation turned to the insulting nature of the media in all of our respective countries (the U.S., England, Ireland, the Netherlands, and Canada). Collective indignation gave way to laughter at the holograms, histrionic tickers, and live graphs used to convey supposed significance, urgency, and complexity to simple matters that merit maybe a five-minute mention. It all led, of course, to comparisons of some of the more ridiculous headlines and human interest bits in each of our home countries, and by the end of the meal, we were doubled over, combating global absurdity with giggles and guffaws. A definite reward of travel.

In the afternoon, my roommate and I made the thirty-minute trek to the town on the other side of our base, Aigios Nikolaos, to see the Pausanias baths, ruins of what was once an apparently regular stop for the Romans. We’d been warned that the little hut that remains might just feature a pool of stinky sludge inside, and when we got there, the prediction proved true. A few stairs led down to the most stagnant water I’ve ever seen; its surface looked like dark glass, and there was something eerie about the way in which it was still. One of the workshop leaders told us that if we climbed over some rocks and did some exploring, we’d find more leftovers. That we did; in a hidden cove that I can’t imagine ever having been convenient, we discovered a crumbling stone hut, with what looked to be a one-time pool filled in with rocks.

After snapping a few pictures, we walked into the town, a road along the sea that sported a few houses and two tavernas. We sat down in the first one, right on the bay, where an ancient man stared at us and repeated, “English.” His wife came along and pulled him away, and they moved off down the street with steps that seemed to get them nowhere. We waited for a few minutes, and then the proprietress came out; when, in response to her question, I said that we only spoke a little Greek, she asked about Spanish. Turns out, she, a Spaniard, married a Greek man, and they moved back to his village. After almost a week of being unable to communicate in any meaningful way with wait staff, I was giddy to have an easy conversation with a local. It was a good thing, too, to have found a common language; there were no menus, and the owner simply asked us what we wanted to eat. She started listing off options, and when I told her we were both vegetarians, she said she could do a Greek salad.  She checked to make sure her assumption was correct, that, being vegetarians, we wouldn’t want any feta. I nearly jumped for joy at her comprehensive understanding of my dietary preferences– but specified that my friend did want the cheese.

With dinner finished, we headed back, stopping in an olive grove along the way to undertake a futile search for a giant rock that had been described to us: a large structure that looked like a natural bed under a few trees. It was getting dark, though, so we abandoned our quest and headed back home, through gigantic gnarled trunks that would have been appropriate in The Wizard of Oz; the trees must have been incomprehensibly ancient. If I have time today, I’ll go back and look for the thing. If not, I’m sure I’ll be satisfied with this afternoon’s hike up a volcano.

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

I was thinking about how the color of the water changes according to time of day and to the weather. A greyish blue in the mornings, by the afternoon on sunny days, there are turquoises where the floor of the bay is sandy, and deep blues where rocks prevail. Yesterday was sunny and windy, and whitecaps rolled over water that had turned a deep, but also brilliant, navy. When I’m finally able to upload pictures in some mythical future point in time, I’m hoping that they’ll be able to illustrate what I’m talking about.

The highlight of the day, though, was an afternoon trip to the Mycenean ruins just down the road. Apparently, a German (I think) archaeologist had lived on the island a few years ago, and had tried to get the government to set up paths and make the site easily accessible to visitors. Nothing ever came of his efforts, though, and so if you want to do more than look from the road at the fortifications, you need to pick your way through high grass and thorn bushes, as we did, and make your own path over walls in order to reach the top.

The journey up and down was just plain fun, and required surefootedness and strategy. Every day here, I’ve been incredibly thankful that I bought a pair of Chacos before I left, and these shoes didn’t disappoint in helping me keep my traction over sometimes-slippery grasses and often-unstable rocks. I had to watch where I stepped, since open-toed sandals and thorn bushes just don’t mix– but in general, I don’t think I could have asked for a better pair of footwear in such conditions.

When we reached the top, we were all sort of stunned; this thing had been around for thousands of years, and the shards of pottery that we’d encountered all along the route were now given greater context. A well wasn’t quite covered over by a bush; an ancient sink/washbasin lay not very far from it. Old columns peeped out from underbrush every now and then, and we discovered here our best examples of old-world dish sets: the handle of a large jar, the lip of a good-sized pot. You could tell that this was the perfect spot for managing military defenses; from this point, you had a view of most of the surrounding islands, and would be able to tell when anyone was approaching, by land or by sea.

I was both thankful and saddened that the site was under no official protection or management; grateful for the ability to have our tea and snacks and literary discussion up here free from tourist mobs; just a little gloomy in thinking about what will happen to the place. Given the fact, though, that it’s stood intact for so long, after forces much more threatening than tourists or teenaged pranksters, I don’t think I can get too disheartened by the whole situation.

After snacks and some conversation centered around Herman Hesse and his views on writing, we meandered back down to the car, passing a vegetable garden that someone was keeping at the base of the fortifications. When we arrived back at the apartment, my roommate and I had a simple dinner of bread, avocados, melon, and figs– and were both a little disappointed that we weren’t joined by any new outsized insect friends. A little gecko hung out in one corner of the ceiling, but other than that, our company just consisted of the usual flies and mosquitoes.

It’s time now to make my way to yoga and breakfast, the workshop, and this afternoon– finally!– the Roman baths in the next town over. More to report when I have it!

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

It stayed cloudy all day at our little encampment on Tuesday, and so instead of taking a swim after tea and cake, I took a quick walk down the road, past an olive grove. It wasn’t warm, but was humid enough to make my venture brief, and I had to be back for afternoon discussion anyway.

That night, the leaders of our workshop had to go into Methana to get supplies, and so my roommate and I grabbed a lift from them, to explore the town a bit more than we’d been able to on arriving on Sunday. We didn’t have much time, but we did load up on fresh fruits and vegetables: avocados, tomatoes, strawberries, and melon; as well as fresh bread and some chocolate. After that, it was dinner at one of the many tavernas lining the beach, where we shared eggplant salad, dolmates, and string beans cooked in amounts of oil I haven’t seen since Spain, plus fried squid for my friend. We had time to linger at our table, and by the time we were picked up, we were more than ready for bed. The drive back, though, was just plain fun: puttering along over winding, climbing roads in a Mercedes station wagon, we all shared the fairy tales we grew up with, and laughed at the cruel morality of most of them. My contribution consisted of Struwwelpeter and Struwwellise– ill-behaved tramps who refuse to comb their hair and to buy into similar hygienic practices of Der Mann– and other stars of the Brothers Grimm.

When we got back to the apartment, far-off lightning was flashing over the bay, and the weather was cooler than it had been the past few nights. Thinking that the bugs would be less prone to hang around, we opened up the balcony doors to have tea before bed. The insect welcoming committee, though, had other ideas, and we were greeted by a spider at least the length of my middle finger, hanging out on the ceiling above our table. Scurrying back into the house, we took a picture before shutting everything up and falling into bed.

The sun’s back out today, and it looks like perfect weather for a late afternoon excursion to the baths and ruins, where we’ll have our afternoon discussion. We may also go into Aigios Nikolaios– but we might also need to catch up on sleep. And so, with those plans ahead, I’ll set aside this brief update, wonder which representative of the insect world we’ll meet tonight, and hope for plenty of tales tomorrow.

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

Monday, the start of our writing workshop, opened with yoga on the beach– which was undoubtedly the best place I’ve encountered for such an activity. Ready for the day, we dug into a breakfast buffet, where there were muesli, granola, breads, homemade jams and goat’s milk yogurt, soy milk (thoughtfully provided for yours truly), fruit, Greek honey, tahini, coffee, tea, and juice. In between workshops and writing, there was a lunch buffet (packed with Greek salad, another variety of bread that I couldn’t stop eating, fruit salad, an amazing eggplant spread, tzatziki, salty goat’s milk yogurt, and some sort of pink fish-based spread) and tea break (with apple tart!).

Before our final session in the afternoon, I cooled off with a swim. In spite of my sunscreen (hastily applied, I’ll admit) and brief time out, I came back noticeably darker, and looking much less like a pale sea creature trapped at the bottom of the ocean. After that, it was a struggle with Internet access; hopefully, I’ll soon be able to upload pictures along with my updates. I’m worried, though, that the visuals might have to wait until after I’m on the other side of the ocean.

There’s only one taverna in Agios Georgios, the town down the road. When my roommate and I walked up to it for the first time yesterday at 7:30 or so, it looked closed, so we wandered around near the church (also the only one in the vicinity) for a while and decided to head back in the same direction. If the restaurant was still closed, we could make our way to a town on the other side of the bay; if not, we were in luck.

There were a few guys out on the porch when we arrived, and the door was open, so we assumed we could head in and get a meal. We were stopped, though, as we were going through the entrance; what, they wanted to know, did we need? I managed to communicate that we wanted to get something to eat; the group went into a brief conference, and then one representative declared that, OK, we should sit down. With each party possessing rudimentary knowledge of the other’s language, we were able to order fried zucchini, the best fava beans I’ve ever had, a cooked green salad, grilled feta (for my roommate), and ouzo. Later on, the rest of our writing group drifted in, and they joined us, some opting for octopus, others for veal steak and fries, one person ordering retsina for everyone. Apparently, the taverna is normally only open on weekends– but it seems that the locals got wind of people dining on the porch, and some of them headed down to take advantage of the anomaly.

We headed off around ten, to find an impressively sized praying mantis sitting on the apartment balcony, doing a little dance every now and then. Not quite as sinister-looking as the locust of the night before, we let him hang around, hoping that he’d make quick work of some of his more irritating insect cousins. In the end, though, I think the challenge was just too much for him, and as we turned off the light to go to bed, spied him huddled down inside one curve of a rolled-up canvas.

It’s cloudy, cool, and breezy today, and, still full with an awesome lentil dish, melon, and yet another variety of excellent bread, I’ll probably skip the swim, and be energized for a trip tonight into Methana. Tomorrow, we’re hoping to walk to the Pausanias baths, which date back to Roman times, and have a picnic dinner among some Mycenean ruins. So, then, until the next update, keep your fingers crossed for photo uploading opportunities!

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

Last I left you, it was day three of my sojourn, and I’d just witnessed a pair of elderly Russkies saluting the morning with a couple of vending machine beers. After processing that vision, I headed out for a walk, since I had some time before check-out and before I had to catch my ferry.

Sunday morning is an excellent time to explore Athens; the tourists aren’t out yet, and the locals seem all to be either in a cafe or in church. Making my way through Monastiraki Square, I passed by the Roman agora and headed up to Anafiotika, a curvy, apparently residential neighborhood under the Acropolis. This area of town showed off the products of some great graffiti artists (as well as of the normal punk scribblers), and offered a different feel from the busy parts of the city that I’d explored the evening before. About to climb a long set of stairs, I was stopped by an old woman outside of a church, and we shared sparse conversation that was probably unintelligible to both of us as I helped her make her way to the service going on inside. It was one of many liturgies I heard intoned through open doorways, throughout my walk, and it was a refreshing change from (or addition to, depending on the area I was in) the cacophony of scooters and other urban traffic. When I first started taking pictures of the churches, I was able to keep their names straight– and then came across so many, that they all fell into a blur. I know that the Church of the Transformation was one that I met early on; when I ventured later up Ermou to Syntagma, the Church of Kapnikarea was another one whose name and location stuck out, maybe due to the gaggle of dressed-up little girls behind it, ignoring the service in favor of some bees that they found to be more interesting.

I wandered around without the use of a map, hitting roads that border parts of the agora (near the Thissio metro stop) that hosted craft vendors, and once I got to Ermou, a street known for its shopping, merchants of pretty much any product you could think of, including old grammophone ears and chain saws.

Getting your sense of direction in central Athens doesn’t seem to be too difficult; if I can go mapless and emerge unscathed, it must be true. I again made my way up Ermou to Syntagma, where Parliament is located, and where all the protests have been going down. On Sunday morning, though, there was nothing doing, other than– as everywhere else I walked– the locals having an apparently great time in the ever-present outdoor cafes. Unlike most other cities I’ve visited in Europe, Sunday morning in Greece doesn’t feel dead. Sure, church is going on– but most of the native population looked as if they were out enjoying themselves over long breakfasts.


I walked back down Ermou to the hostel for check-out time; in a little under two hours, I’d covered what looks on the map like a huge swath of the city. It was time to go to the port, though, so I hopped on the metro (1 Euro) and got to Piraeus in about forty minutes. Getting from the station to the gates isn’t very obvious, if you’re depending upon signage; I was happy to have good old Rick Steves’ Athens and The Peloponnese along to help me get my bearings. Once I’d made my way to E-8, the point of departure for the Saronic islands, I bought a ticket to my destination (Methana) for about twelve Euros, and stopped at a cafe across from my gate for lunch. Another dual-language conversation ensued, but I was able to communicate what I could and couldn’t eat– and received in return a huge Greek salad (not like the Caesar salads in the U.S.) of tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and undetermined seasoning. Normally, this would come with a hunk of feta on top, to be crumbled however the diner chooses to distribute it. That and a bottle of water cost me five and a half Euros, and left me, a big eater, completely satisfied.

After lunch, it was off to the gate to await my ferry. Always fascinated by the dropping and raising of anchors, unbelievably thick ropes, and, in this case, deck hands who maneuvered everything without the benefit of gloves, it was doubly interesting to see Europeans driving Jeep Patriots off the boats that would come in. I would’ve loved to have had a conversation with the drivers, to see how they felt about the model name, but thought it would be an inconvenience, and a fruitless one at that, to attempt it.

After an hour, the boat made its first stop at Aegina; I got off at Methana another hour later, where I was met by one of the leaders of the writing workshop. Three of the other participants, coming in by car, found us in the square, and we all had fresh orange juice– the best I can remember drinking in a very long time– at an outside cafe, watching the ships come in and making our introductions.

Methana– both the town and the parts of the island itself that I’ve seen– are gorgeous, and were exactly what I had envisioned in the idea of “Greece.” Unfortunately, as my workshop leader told me, most of the agricultural endeavors that had kept this place prosperous and well-known have, beyond family plots, shut down, thanks to large monocultural and shipping operations being able to provide Athens with fruits and vegetables at much cheaper rates than the independent farmers here were able to offer. With the younger people leaving the island for city, the place has gotten a reputation as a hot spot for old vacationers, who come here to enjoy the sulfur baths (which I hope to see at some point this week). Consequently, there’s really no tourism industry to speak of, which makes it the perfect retreat for a writing seminar, and pretty well-suited for someone who doesn’t have a lot of patience with kitsch and crowds.

Our dinner, on a balcony overlooking the Saronic Gulf, went late into the evening, and I and my roommate walked our way back to our apartment, getting lost a couple of times in fields, but ultimately arriving no worse the wear to a place that would be unaffordable at a more in-demand destination. The only mar upon our evening was the apocalyptically huge locust that lodged himself on my bedroom door. We managed to get the stubborn bug out the door, hopefully without doing it much harm. This morning, our workshop leader laughed at us for having left the windows open; apparently, this is the land of giant insects, where some of the huge flies take stealthy little chunks out of your flesh– as evidenced at breakfast by one participant looking at his leg to see a mysterious trail of blood running down it. It seems that even in paradise, there’s room for pests.

The only other practicality I should mention is the protocol used with Greek plumbing. Here and in Athens, it’s de rigeur not to put any form of paper in the toilet– including toilet paper. Otherwise, you’re asking for clogs and all the fun that they entail. Hence, the waste paper basket takes on an entirely different significance, and using the facilities becomes a much more conscious activity than it normally is for someone dwelling in the States.

Neither that fact, though, nor the bugs, nor the sparse availability of Internet access here has done a thing to dampen the mood. I’ve found exactly what I was looking for, and more– I never thought, for instance, that I’d be doing my Pilates on a balcony as the sun rose over the sea. For now, then, I’ll leave you with that happy thought, and report back with more stories to tell tomorrow.

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

The blur that is air travel began, of course, with a hiccup. Before I could jump over the ocean, I had to get to Washington/Dulles, where I was to have, under optimal circumstances, an hour to change to the plane that would get me to Frankfurt.

Superb. But then the weather decided to deliver a bit of comeuppance to all the self-assured travelers having anything to do with D.C. Storms there were throwing everything into a chaos that couldn’t be swayed by that great tool, reason– and reason, of course, along with that other aspect of civilization, courtesy, got tossed as soon as I and my fellow passengers started receiving travel updates on our phones, and finally, announcements from the gate agent. Where I was concerned, if the reports were true, I would miss my flight at Dulles, and consequently, the last leg to Athens.

Well– there was nothing to do but wait, and jump in line when the agent announced that she could start looking for reroutes for everyone. Suddenly, a great impatient line formed, I in about the fourth spot. You’d think some inconceivable crime had been committed, and that each passenger had needlessly and personally been insulted by the poor, lone lady at the counter, by the entire flight crew, and by the airline itself. The scene was ugly, egotism being its main ingredient. As the end-of-the-world stories of personal woe multiplied all around me, I thought, well, we’ll either get there, or we won’t. We’ll be out some money, we’ll be disappointed, and the world will go on. Odd tip #1? Yoga has some great coping skills to offer: breathing, clearing your mind, putting things in perspective. In the end, we were able to head out, delayed by only forty minutes, in a race to make our respective connections, and only three or four passengers had to be rerouted– successfully, thanks to the heroic efforts of the woman at the counter.

And so, my first semi-digression will be this: if there’s one job I’d hate to have, it’d be that of gate agent. No one seems to appreciate the quick thinking and cool-headedness needed on this person’s part in order to prevail in emotionally stressful situations; no one thanks you for your efforts; most clients seem to think that you’re persecuting them just because you can. Why in the world would anyone want this job? When I get home, and can figure out who my gate agent was, I’m sending United an e-mail to let them know that they have a fantastic employee in Austin, and that they’d better be treating her with all of the appreciation she deserves.

Like I said, though, we took off on our regional connector jet, and one of those cliched cinematic mad dashes for the gate ensued upon landing. Maybe it was only because I made it to my destination right as boarding started that I was thankful for the run– but that last burst of physical activity was a welcome occurrence, given the seven-plus hours of sitting I had in front of me. Remember that international flights close earlier than do domestic– so if you only have twelve minutes before your flight takes off, sprint for it– because in reality, you’ve only got two.

The flight was mostly uneventful. My travel partner for the portion of the trip was a nice kid, whose job, it turned out, is guiding the unmanned drones that make an end of people and things in Afghanistan. He enjoys his duties, but that’s as far as we got in that conversation; I just didn’t have the heart to go any further with it, and so may thereby have avoided an opportunity that travel offers– real discussion with people you don’t meet in your everyday life. I didn’t, though, want to spend seven hours in an ethico-politico-philosophical discussion, and so I read my book instead.

On the flight, I experienced the first instance of food-based challenge mentioned in my first post. One of the reasons I always take plenty of snacks with me is that I have often been asked my food preference, only to be denied it when the key moment arrives. The meal request fields you fill out when making your flight reservation include a vegan option in the drop-down menu– but I’m thinking that’s just for show, as my choice on this occasion was limited to chicken or lasagna. The flight attendant was incredibly nice, and pulled together a fruit plate for me that really hit the spot. If you have dietary restrictions, then, make sure (as I’m guessing you’ve already learned from experience) to pack your own provisions.

Make certain, too, that if you’re making a connection in Frankfurt to give yourself at least two hours to do so. Since this hub is often the first European port of entry, passport control and re-screening of luggage can take a surprising amount of time. The two hours I was allotted were just enough to get me through all of the hoops and on to my final flight– where I made my giddy inaugural use of my Greek, agreeing to change seats with a passenger so that she and her husband could sit together.

Arriving in Athens was blissfully straightforward. With no checked bags (only taking my carry-on), I glided to the metro stop, clear signage and helpful, English-speaking staff guiding me. The six-Euro train to the city was clean and pretty new, and got me to my location in under an hour.

And then, I stepped out of the station, walked a couple of blocks to my hostel, climbed to my room on the fifth floor, and took a deep breath of relief. For thirty Euros, this perfect, compact little room in Hotel Fivos (23 Athinas St.) was mine for the night. (The same amount, incidentally, will get you a bed in a dorm room at a Boston hostel.) The Acropolis, which I’ll visit when I return to the city next week, is visible to the right, and looks especially great from the roof.

After getting settled in, I stretched my legs and explored the neighborhood, noticing the Church of the Virgin, the Acropolis in the background, the Tzami (a former mosque), and the remains of Hadrian’s Library. It’s in front of the final site that I got a glimpse of something the guidebooks always talk about: as I was about to snap a picture of ancient columns, a pickpocketer knocked a woman down while grabbing her purse, disappearing quickly into the crowd. This section of town, Monastiraki, features loads of cafes, tourist attractions, and a giant flea market– as well, obviously, as those who know how to make a profitable way through crowds.

Heading back from my circular stroll, I picked up my first Greek “meal”– a huge bread ring topped with sesame seeds. I was too tired to ask what it was called, but it was only 50 cents, and was the perfect snack for the end of the day.

Just before I reached the hostel, I picked up a copy of Metropolis Weekend, a free newspaper that covers events and issues in Athens and beyond: here, too, they’re talking about Facebook’s ways of doing business! As for the rest of the articles, though, my brain was too tired to piece much of them together, and so I grabbed a much-needed shower, and headed into a deep sleep– until about 3:00 this morning, when time zone confusion had me up and listening to the constant traffic, vehicular and pedestrian, below my window.

This report is coming to you courtesy of a couple of three-Euro netcards (each good for thirty minutes) I bought out of the hostel’s vending machine, where I’m glad to know that I can also get a can of beer, if need be. A couple of Russian guys took advantage of this perk at breakfast this morning– at 7:30. The breakfast itself is included in the price of the room– and consisted of a buffet, at which I had two great types of bread with orange marmalade, two varieties of olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, and tea. Also available was cereal, milk, hard-boiled eggs, and lettuce, I assume for salad.

All in all, a good start to my trip. Now I’m off to pack up and head out to the port of Piraeus, where I’ll catch a ferry to Methana.

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.

And this time, there was added pressure: I wanted to pack smart.  Because I refuse to hand over even more cash to the airlines for the luxury of checking bags, and because I just don’t want to deal with Extraneous Stuff. Hence, the need to be efficient, and so also, ruthless about shaving off items I’m convinced I’ll need. In my zeal, though, I wasn’t aiming for all-out superpacker status, i.e., managing the whole shebang with one bag. For me, sticking to carry-on is a huge feat, so I’ll see how this little experiment pans out before I join the ranks of the packing pros.

First to get tossed were most of the toiletries. TSA regulations make this category an easy place to begin– because, as we probably all know, a one-quart bag just doesn’t hold much. I ditched the sunscreen, mouthwash, hairspray, and hair gel, pretty convinced that I’ll be able to grab all of those items at the airport or at my destination without any trouble, and that the third and fourth only have questionable power anyway, given my remedial styling skills and a recalcitrant head of hair.

On, then, to the clothing, lined up as seen in the picture. Following the advice of flight attendants, as featured in Christine Negroni’s recent NY Times article, I rolled every item that could be wrestled into a tube– and to my amazement, found that I’d created the clown car of suitcases. This packing technique has surely tapped into some super-secret properties of matter– because there was absolutely no way I thought that all of my clothes, much less the appliances and other miscellaneous items I got in there without a fight, would ever fit in my humble little roller case.

Behold, the proof: to give a sense of scale, I placed a standard-sized trade paperback next to the empty case. Just what did I manage to stash in there? All of my clothing (2 pair of shoes, 1 pair of trousers, 1 pair of yoga pants, 1 pair of pajamas, 4 pair of shorts, 7 shirts, 1 skirt, 3 tank tops, 2 workout tops, 1 cap, 1 small purse, 1 brush, 1 towel and pair of bath gloves, 1 swimsuit, a dual-wattage hair dryer, and the requisite undergarments). I also managed to fit in a single pouch containing all of of the plugs, chargers, connecting cables, and converters that go along with the technological gadgetry that, in spite of my best efforts, won’t let me out of its grip.

The finished product...

Other than the suitcase, I’ll be carrying a nondescript shoulder bag for notebooks (3), books (4), snacks (heavy on the raw food bars), toiletries, etc.*

Upcoming challenges?
1) Learning how to sleep on a plane– or in any vehicle, for that matter.

2) Food: I’m vegan (or mostly; I’ll eat eggs, if I’ve seen the chickens running around freely and vegetarian fed; as well as honey and yeast). We’ll see, then, what sort of success I’ll have at venturing beyond olives and salads.

3) Internet access. Most accounts seem to point to a somewhat dismal view, where the availability of wi-fi is concerned. “How to find Wi-Fi in Greece” is giving me a bit of hope for Athens; sites such as JiWire’s Global Wi-Fi Finder have been helpful to look at, in terms of planning. Considering the fact, though, that I’ll be on an island for a week, I may be lucky if I’m able to grab a pre-paid Internet card, and a port where I can make use of it.

4) And then, there’s always the language. With my rudimentary knowledge of modern Greek, I can bumble my way out of a pickle if it comes down to it, but I’ll win no awards for poetic phrasing. Good thing I find tests of linguistic prowess exciting, like the true nerd I am.

And so, packed and ready to go, hopefully less naive than I could be, where potential hitches are concerned, I’ll bring this first report to a close. See you at the next update!

* If it’s of any interest at all, the soundtrack that accompanied my packing ended up being both mood-appropriate and strangely alliterative. Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago; Bill Callahan’s Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle; and Bruce Springsteen’s The River (yes, sometimes, you just have to go there) kept my indecision and worry from getting out of control.

Katy Scrogin is a contributing editor to The Nylon Carry-All.