From Mystras we drove through a high mountain pass, reaching the height of a pine forest and approaching the snowy peaks west of Sparta, merely to touch the coast at Kalamata for the night. Around noon on Friday we returned the Nissan to Nafplio, accepting the congenial John's offer of a καφές ελληvικός (Greek coffee) and chatting with him about his years in Thessaloniki, where Maryl was living at the time. In the afternoon Maryl and I finally found the strength to climb to the third and largest of Nafplio's fortresses. After a thousand steps up the rocky 700-foot peak behind the town, we reached outer wall of the Palamidi fortress (which, as we knew, had already closed its gates by the time we began climbing at 2:30.) Our efforts did give us an unequalled view of Nafplio, the promontory on which it lies, and the waters of the Argolid gulf in all directions.

By late Saturday afternoon we were back in Athens at an ouzeri a block from the Hotel Nefeli. An ouzeri is a traditional place for socializing that serves drinks like ouzo (anise-flavored liqueur), metaxa (Greek brandy), beer, wine, and, of course, coffee. The ouzeris in the towns of Chania and Fourfouras that Maryl and I had patronized on our trip to Crete in 1993 were very smoky places, occupied exclusively by older men who argued with each other† and played check­ers. It was probably a sign of a modern city and changing times that at this ouzeri in Plaka Maryl and I were probably the oldest customers. Groups of young men and women talked and laughed while sipping their ouzo or mineral water. And while just as many younger Greeks smoke cigarettes, at least the ventilation was good in this modern establishment.

Saturday night was our fourth night at the Hotel Nefeli. One thing we had experienced on the first night was the pre-dawn garbage collection seemingly just outside our window. I don't know how a driver could manage to maneuver a garbage truck down the narrow lane beside the hotel; he must have gone slowly, revving the engine, and perhaps grinding against a few parked cars to enhance the sound of what seemed an endless procession of cans being emptied. On the second night, imagine how delighted we were to find out that garbage collection was a daily affair. But somehow, due to exhaustion, we had managed to sleep off many loud distractions during the two weeks. By the last Saturday night I did not think that the garbage men would bother me. But there was a new factor. Because we had returned a day earlier than the Sunday night we had reserved, we were given the only spare room, on the first floor. Shortly before bedtime we realized that this room shared a wall with the “theater” next door. Periodically, something dramatic must have happened, for we would hear an uproar from the audience. Something like that would drag on for hours, I feared, culminating with hordes of men exploding out onto the street, raving about the spectacle. But either the walls were very thick or the show ended at an early hour; I heard nothing more after the first few outbursts around 10:30.

Sunday we decided to take a last look at the Acropolis. Sort of a farewell look at the star attractions, just as we had done on my first visit to Athens. Every evening as we had strolled among the shops and restaurants of Plaka, we could see the brilliant white Ionic columns of the Erechtheion just over the northern bluff of the Acropolis. Now, in daylight, it was only a 15-minute walk from our hotel to the single access point on the western slope of the hill. The day was ideal for this self-guiding tour. In spite of the fact that admission was free on Sunday, the hilltop did not seem crowded. Although there were clearly a few busloads of tourists speaking neither English nor Greek, the majority of visitors were, I think, Athenians out for a Sunday stroll. The air was calm and the direct winter sunlight—even in late morning coming at a low angle—lit the eastern and southern sides of the temples with good contrast and made the sky intensely blue. For me as a photographer, conditions were perfect. For an added bonus, although there is always evidence of restoration in progress at the Parthenon, the eastern end had far less scaffolding than when I first saw it, so I was able to appreciate more of the interior.

And I found easier to marvel at the Parthenon on my second viewing. The first time I had experienced an inevitable sense of disappointment. Since 1687, when the Venetians, shelling the Turkish-occupied city, ignited the Turks' store of gunpowder and blew the roof off the Parthenon, it has been closer to a ruin than to the intact building I expected from a casual look at photographs. Since Lord Elgin carted almost all the salvageable pieces to the British Museum in the 19th century—including the triangular pediments from the east and west ends, the 92 individual panels known as metopes from the north and south sides, and the continuous frieze, 159 meters long, depicting the Panathenaic Procession—there has been little original sculpture to see on the acropolis or even inside its museum. (For more information, see History of the Elgin Marbles.) And, sadly, since the growth of industry and proliferation of automobiles began putting pollutants into the air, acid rain has eroded the marble that still does remain exposed, rippling the once-straight fluting of the massive columns, taking chunks out of walls and out of ornate capitals, and erasing the expressiveness of the faces on the sculptures that did remain until recently (notably, the six original caryatids, women whose heads supported the roof of the south porch on the Erechtheion).

Centaur metope in British Museum

In addition to the Parthenon there are two other temples on the acropolis. The compact Temple of Athena Nike (winged Athena, a symbol of victory) has four Ionic columns at each end and a frieze depicting battles between the Greeks and the Persians (of which the heads have been lost). The unusual Erechtheion combines three sections on three levels. The central temple was dedicated to Athena, who had brought forth the sacred olive tree on a nearby spot. The north porch (the part visible from below in Plaka) has a large crack in the floor, left by Poseidon, according to myth, with a strike of his trident. (Was he enraged, perhaps, that his wife, Amphitrite, while cleaning house, had thrown out a winning lottery ticket?) The smaller south porch, as I mentioned, is now supported by plaster casts of the original caryatids, which are now protected in the Acropolis Museum.