Athens in Flip Flops
It was the memory of my sandals hitting the stone road that kept me up. Not the jetlag or the stomach full of rich foreign foods but the incessant “flip flop” noise of each past step sounding and crashing into unknown territory. Thanks to the loud image replaying endlessly in my mind, I lied awake.
It seemed like an easy shoe to travel with, those silver flip flops. Easy to take off for the security check and comfortable enough to endure a cheap crammed seat from a questionable European airline. Matched with my sweatpants, a sweat shirt, and a messy ponytail, I couldn’t imagine arriving in Athens any other way. However, next to my sister my relaxed attire was quite a jarring contrast.
We waited our turn to purchase train tickets to take us to our hostel. After nearly two weeks in Europe, the Greek language seemed just as intimidating and difficult to decipher. Three hours later, after a long deafening train ride and a claustrophobic’s nightmare subway trip, we emerged from underground into a circus of activity like moles peaking outside on the first morning of spring. Armed with our heavy suitcases and an almost comically vague map, we two very obvious Americans stepped out in search of our destination. One eager and optimistic, one anxious and weary.
The trip so far had been deemed a success. Fourteen days of guiltlessly portioning extra dessert, removed from work demands, and distracted enough to allow any wounds of the past to heal just a little bit without fully noticing.
It hadn’t been the easiest winter. After a few scattered incidents of crying in greasy fast food restaurant seats, sleeping more than a coma patient, and stomping my way through tattered remains of my expectations, my sister helped me to focus on a trip, thus providing the ultimate medicine. Suddenly my gloom was replaced with the promise of European delights in the form of new foods, strong caffeinated beverages that would put my beloved Kuerig to shame, and the adventure unknown awaiting in ancient architecture. So we planned quickly; scooping last minute internet deals on airfare and securing our homes away from home. With some very limited laptop clicks, an entire trip and been organized. Our only task was to find a pet sitter, start packing, and distract ourselves until we left.
Athens was our final destination before returning back to the reality of the lives left behind. For Kate, she could be happy anywhere. And while I know she greatly enjoyed our times abroad, I swear I could almost see her muster a similar amount of excitement for an evening of cleaning our apartment. I continued to cling to our vacation gaining needed energy in new places and sites. Here, in these undiscovered corners, my past mistakes had a harder time finding me. Without familiar smells and the haunts of the alternative version of myself, I felt lighter than I had in months.
Well, excluding the time in between hostels when I was forced to haul my suitcase. A victim of over packing and a need to constantly layer clothing had taken a toll on my cat clawed luggage with a broken wheel. Each time we ventured into a new city, we relied on our own strength and sensibilities to get our belongings to their temporary new dwelling. Luckily for us, our map reading skills generally proved to be fairly decent after being forced at an early age by our father to develop a sense a navigation.
And so we assumed in this final attempt, finding our hostel would be a piece of cake. However, with our unclear internet directions, the bags only managed to get heavier and heavier with each clipped step. Painful red blisters formed on my raw hands while my stomach howled aching for a proper meal outside of airline convenience. As I started to slip into a sulk, my endlessly graceful sister, glided forward.
Thirty minutes of excess grunting, sweating, and complaining later, I was reaching a breaking point. Kate remained incessantly optimistic that our haven was soon approaching. I learned then, in an instant, that if you take a simple moment to catch your breath, you ultimately provide the perfect amount of time to attract the attention of a Greek gentleman. In this case, two. They spotted us from their small street kiosk where they were working. The younger of the pair looked my sister up and down and with his sparked glance and in broken English, offered a hello.
My sister grinned, her big white teeth breaking out into the late hour and asked if he could help point us in the direction of our hostel. The man actively grabbed her map and directions in an attempt to unlock their secrets. He moved like his life depended on it. “I’ll take you,” he smiled slowly, “it’s not too far.” And with a nod to the older man he stepped away, his longer dark hair catching a street light.
Kate beamed and followed behind, finally exposing my presence. The man’s face revealed a look of surprise before it darkened, like the sun being quickly drowned in clouds before a storm. He sighed and walked closer to Kate as I continued to trudge behind, forever struggling with my things.
The man began to immediately speak of Athens in a stream of warnings. Which I considered a bold and surprising choice. I thought his flirtation skills could use some finesse. Though, I guess since the “come here often” question had been taken off the table maybe this was his go to move. Maybe outside of America, the small talk is tossed aside to get right down to scaring the ladies. And with that curiosity, I listened to his words.
He cautioned that men here were aggressive and dangerous. All of them. Continuing to stress how treacherous the city could be at night; specifically the very street where my flip flops currently cracked along. The man continued with cautions regarding theft and advised being watchful with our belongings because it was a common practice for tourists to lose things to sneaky hands. He said that we should never allow a stranger to hold our belongings, even if they seemed kind, because almost always, they would steal it.
It was then that my silver flip flop caught a crack in the street causing me to lunge forward with a loud “whack”. The man smiled at my sister, turned around, and asked if I wanted him to carry my bag. I answered him with a questioning stare. Now, I hadn’t really found this guy to be particularly kind but he was certainly a stranger to me. Was this a joke? Considering his flirtation technique, maybe this was him showcasing his silly side. Was he trying to teach me a lesson? Why would he stumble through his English to speak only of men taking bags and then immediately offer his service? Not wanting to actually know that answer, I shook my head and pleaded with each and every Greek god to grant me strength. And avoided looking down to my now throbbing foot and broken toenail.
Since I’m sure those Greek gods had nothing better to do but listen to my cries, I thank them for ending our struggle and getting us to our final home away from home. I wiped the bangs that were now plastered to my forehead to the side and offered a thank you to our helper. Shockingly, he ignored me and put his attention onto Kate.
“If you want to reach me, you can come back to my store. I’ll give you a tour of the city,” he said hopefully. I’m almost positive you could hear the sound of my eyes rolling. I suddenly felt very much like a wicked stepsister keeping the beautiful princess hostage under his presence.
