Narrative of an urban tour

It has been almost a year since I came to live in Athens. I didn’t realize when the last ten months passed, just as I didn’t realize when the previous ten years passed in London, the city where I lived before coming to stay in Kypseli, in an apartment in a 1959 apartment building, fifteen floors above the home of Dido Sotiriou (1909-2004). Although I was born and lived in other places, Athens always exerted a peculiar charm on me as a visitor, an attraction that I still find difficult to decipher, in the same way that no one can follow the invisible roots of a centuries-old tree, except perhaps to sense them, to imagine them flowing in various directions, geographical and chronological.

It is Sunday today, in the middle of November, but the sun seems to have forgotten what season it is. I decide to take a walk around the hills of Athens’ historic center, up and around the capital’s “seven hills” – corresponding to the seven hills of Rome or Constantinople. Most sources agree on six: the Acropolis, Areopagus, Nymphs (or Observatory), Pnyx, Muses (or Philopappou), and Lycabettus. Ardittos and Tourkovounia are vying for seventh place. Of course, the Athens basin—surrounded by the mountains of Hymettus, Penteli, Parnitha, and Aigaleo—has more than twenty hills (Strefi, Profitis Ilias, Ippios Kolonos, Skouze, Finopoulou, etc.): a “creased” geotextile imbued with myths, historical events, urban customs, and emotions. Among these hills lived and worked the architect Dimitris Pikionis (1887-1968), who designed the exterior layout of the archaeological site around the Acropolis and the surrounding hills (1954-1957). “We climb and descend with the terrain on its curves (…) we measure the earth with the effort of our bodies (…) this deserted path is infinitely superior to the avenues of big cities, because with every fold of it (…) it teaches us the divine essence of individuality subjugated to the harmony of the whole,” he wrote in Emotional Topography in 1935.

I walk down Patission Street. The air is clear and in the distance the eternal Parthenon shines on the rock of the Acropolis, in the Castle of Athens. I continue along the Aeolus pedestrian walkway and approach this steep rock that was first conquered by humans five thousand years ago. Initially a small settlement, protected on the plateau (300 by 150 meters) of a natural fortress, then—during historical times and up to the Byzantine era—a religious site with shrines and temples, then as a military fortress during the years of Frankish rule, Ottoman rule, and the first decades of the newly established modern Greek state, and finally, in modern times, as a global symbol of cultural heritage—as yet another “Mecca” for tourists, the modern-day travelers of our time who flock here from all over the world to “worship” at the cradle of Western European civilization.

I have arrived at the Roman Agora and the Clock of Kyrrhestes, at the Tower of the Winds. Above my head, at the edge of the acropolis wall, hangs the Erechtheion, where it is rumored that the hero Theseus, the mythical king of ancient Athens (15th century BC), once lived. I climb the narrow streets of Plaka and come across Theoria Street—what a beautiful name!—the pedestrian walkway between the hills of the Acropolis and Areopagus. A metal staircase takes me to the top of the rocky hill. I am surrounded mainly by tourists balancing on the sharp rocks and admiring Athens, which spreads out emphatically around us, as well as the Propylaea, the western – and only – natural entrance to the Acropolis. There are various theories about the etymology of the name Areopagus, but I prefer that of “Aron” (or “Erinyes”), the chthonic deities of punishment and vengeance, while “pagos” means rock. According to tradition, Orestes was tried here for the murder of his mother, Clytemnestra, and was acquitted by Athena’s vote. Moreover, this rock was the seat of the judicial body, specifically the Areopagus, whose powers included the trial of cases of premeditated murder, arson, and sacrilege. On the hill there were two stones, the stone of “hubris” (of the accused) and the stone of “anedeia” (of the accuser). A few centuries later, in 53 AD, the Apostle Paul, upon his arrival in Greece, preached Christianity to the locals from the top of the hill, converting the prominent Dionysius Areopagitis, who later became the patron saint of the city of Athens.

I return to Theoria Street and descend towards Dionysius Areopagitis Street, trying not to slip on the smooth, well-trodden paving stones designed by architect Pikionis. Opposite me stands the complex of the Nymphs-Pnyx-Muses hills. I turn onto Apostolou Pavlou Street, heading towards Thiseio, and via Aiginitou Street I climb the hill of the Nymphs (Astronomical Observatory). The hill owes its name to the sanctuary of the same name that was founded on its summit in the 6th century BC, which was dedicated to the Nymphs, protectors of vegetation and fertility. From the middle of the 5th century BC, they were worshipped together with the Demos, the deified people, after the radical reforms brought about in the democratic polity of Athens by Ephialtes and Pericles. During medieval times and up until the Ottoman occupation, the locals believed that the “evil sisters” lived in a cave on the hill: Plague, Cholera, and Smallpox, who were blamed for the “deadly” diseases that occasionally struck the area. Today, the neoclassical building of the National Observatory of Athens, designed by Danish architect Theophil Hansen (1813-1891) and built between 1842 and 1845, stands at the top of the hill. For several decades, shortly before noon, a brown ball was hung from a pole on the building and dropped abruptly at 12 o’clock sharp. This “fall” informed the churches in the area, which rang their bells to inform the Athenians of the exact time.

I then descend to the lower, neighboring hill of Pnyx. Here, during the classical ancient Greek period, the “dense” Ecclesia of the Municipality (amphitheater capacity 10,000 people), the executive body that dealt with all matters of public interest in the Athenian Democracy. In more modern times, according to a newer Athenian tradition, the “Kalokyrades of Segios,” the Fates who revealed the fate of the city’s unmarried girls, lived in a cave on the hill. When a girl got engaged, the elderly women of the house prepared and placed a platter of loukoumades outside the cave. If the platter was empty the next day, it was a good sign, while the opposite was bad.

Then, I head towards the church of Ag. Dimitrios Loumpardiaris at the foot of the hill of the Muses (Filopappou). Next to the temple, Pikionis built a refreshment bar that is no longer in use. However, it serves as an oasis of calm, surrounded by dense vegetation, a place that reminds me of the harmony and timelessness of traditional Japanese architecture. After a short break, I climb to the top, where the tomb of the benefactor Philopappus (2nd century AD) stands. Due to the hill’s location, the area was used as a strategic base and campsite by those who besieged Athens from time to time. From here, in 1687, the Venetian Francesco Morosini (1619-1694) bombarded and blew up the Parthenon, which was used as a gunpowder store by the Ottomans. The path leads me to the Greek dance theater “Dora Stratou” and to the site of an old quarry, west of the hill, where 800 refugee families from Asia Minor built the invisible and isolated “favela” of Asyrmatos in 1922 overnight, where they remained for almost four decades. In 1961, Alekos Alexandrakis’ (1928-2004) neorealist film “Synikia to Oneiro” (Neighborhood of Dreams) was filmed here, which was censored by the government at the time because of the negative image it projected abroad about Athens and Greece. Returning to Dionysiou Areopagitou, I wonder how far 1922 really is from 2022, with today’s “parasites” of immigrants and refugees “hiding” in the basements of the capital, an image that does not correspond to the dazzling and official tourist image of modern Athens.

I leave behind me the Acropolis Museum on Dionysiou Areopagitou Street and come across the 16 remaining columns of the Temple of Olympian Zeus and Hadrian’s Arch. Then, via Vasilissis Olgas and Vasileos Konstantinou avenues, I “cross” the underground Ilissos River and drive to the pine-covered hills of Ardittos and Agra, between which lies the Panathenaic Stadium (Kallimarmaro), on the site where the ancient Panathenaic Games (in honor of the goddess Athena) were held and where the first modern Olympic Games took place in 1896.

During the 1920s, the hill of Ardittos became known in the wider area for another reason besides the Stadium. At that time, a coffee shop owner built 11 makeshift wooden boxes (two and a half by two meters) on the outskirts of the stadium and equipped them with a divan, chair, bedside table, oil lamp, and door. He painted the outside green and rented them out for two hours, with coffee or a snack with a drink included in the price. The police at the time found these romantic hideaways convenient. They would no longer have to chase “illegal” couples from the neighboring garden of the Zappeion. However, in 1937, dictator Metaxas (1871-1941) banned the “separés,” which were demolished, much to the delight of Athens hoteliers. Today, the hill is officially closed, but open to those who know how to enter, while every November the Stadium is flooded with runners participating in the classic Marathon.

I walk up Herod Atticu Street—one of the most expensive streets in Europe—and arrive at Kolonaki Square, which is now covered in sheet metal due to the construction of the new metro line. I continue my ascent, via Tsakalof and Pindarou streets, to Katsikadika (the old name for Kolonaki, due to the goats that once grazed here) until I reach Lycabettus Hill and the steep path that leads to its summit. After a strenuous climb of about 200 meters, I reached Lycabettus Hill, helped at times by the feeling of the rock. The church (of St. George) is white and indifferent at the top of it all, like an old man at the foot of a large bed, where a bunch of indifferent faces sit, sleep, and make love—he turns his back on them and pulls them toward death. Beyond, the Acropolis is anchored, ready to set sail with a Greek flag flying alone, pinned to the edge of the rock. Suddenly, before my eyes, the students Glezos (1922-2020) and Santas (1922-2011) appear before my eyes, who in 1941 took down the Nazi swastika without being noticed by the German guard, the first “act of resistance” in occupied Athens.

Mythology says that Lycabettus was a rock that the goddess Athena carried from Pallini to fortify the Acropolis, but it fell from her hands because of some bad news brought by a crow. This hill has seen Athens change its face, bury its rivers, and be flooded with tons of cement. It is the stone giant that gave its body so that the capital could build its stone houses. It is the steamed-up windows of lovers’ cars, the memories of sweaty concertgoers at the open-air Lycabettus Theater, the endless conversations of passersby, the silent sighs at sunset when everything is bathed in the colors of twilight.

I leave Lycabettus Hill full of emotions, taking the “back” path that leads to the Kountouriotika neighborhood near Alexandras Avenue. After a while, I easily get lost in the streets of Gyzi, Panormou, Nea Kypseli, and Nea Filothei, in my attempt to reach Attiko Alsos and the top of Tourkovounia, my last stop on my “long” tour. Tourkovounia—formerly known as Lykovounia—is the highest hill range within the Athens basin. During the 20th century, quarries operated here, hence the geomorphology of the area, which has been destroyed in many places. The quarries are now closed, but the industrial element remains strong in the area.

I walk among the “forgotten” farmhouses of the Georgios Papandreou settlement on the southern plateau of the hill range and arrive exhausted at the end of the road, at the highest natural observatory in Athens. According to legend, it was from here that Zeus, the father of the gods, hurled lightning bolts and thunder at humans, an image that contrasts with tonight’s sunset, which promises to be sweet, with no hint of unsettled weather. All around me, the lights of the city and its monuments are slowly coming on, while the clear sky reflects the image of a bustling Athens. Just before I start my “descent” to my apartment in Kypseli, I remember the “image” of the Franco-Swiss architect Le Corbusier (1887-1965) for Attica, who in one of his texts compares it to “a sloping shell, in the center of which there was a pearl, the Parthenon.”