2019: Odyssey on the Fly—From Athens to Ithaca
From the moment my future PhD position in Canada was confirmed in early May 2019, I knew I was going to spend that summer on a long-awaited holiday in Greece. After the surprising personal discoveries and new friendships I’d written about in earlier posts, the idea of exploring my distant ancestral roots had grown too powerful to ignore. And with my long-standing, tongue-in-cheek claim of being a modern reincarnation of Odysseus, King of Ithaca, I felt a genuine urge to embark on my own quest across the country. Thus, the planning for my 2019 Odyssey on the Fly—from Athens to Ithaca began.
Even though I had already travelled to quite a few countries and lived abroad for several years, this was going to be my first true solo adventure — the prototype for how I’d plan all my future travels: set my key destinations, book the essentials, and then wing everything else along the way.
Planning and Logistical Challenges
My approach to this solo trip was simple. I had a starting point, Athens, and a final destination, Ithaca. Athens was the obvious place to begin: the capital, the largest airport hub, and the gateway to any Greek adventure. When searching for flights, I found a direct option from Geneva, conveniently close to Lausanne, where my friend Eddy had recently moved for his PhD. Perfect — I could spend a few days in Switzerland visiting him before heading down to Greece.
The only downside was that the flight was at 6:00 a.m. Brutal. Even worse, I wasn’t coming from Lausanne itself, but from a small village outside the city — meaning I had to get to Geneva Airport for one of the earliest departures of the day. My only option was to take a late-night train and spend the entire night at the airport.
Unfortunately, the terminals were closed overnight, so all early-morning passengers had to wait in the public area, where there wasn’t a single comfortable seat. Every bench had metal armrests to prevent people from lying down, so those hoping to rest were forced onto the cold, hard floor. I joined them. It was not a comfortable night… not at all. My overnight experience rating of Geneva Airport: 1 out of 5 stars. Terrible.
Time Allocation
Next I had to figure out how much time I would allocate to Athens, Ithaca, and any places in between. Athens is huge and overflowing with things to experience — but also expensive. I decided on around four days, staying in a shared hostel dorm to keep costs low while staying right in the center of the city.
Looking at the map, I realized that the legendary sanctuary of Delphi was almost exactly on my route. Having been fascinated by Greek mythology through books, documentaries, and visually immersive games like Titan Quest, I felt compelled to stop there and finally see those landscapes in person. Modern Delphi is quite pricey, though… but for the adventurous budget traveler, I discovered a campsite within walking distance of town that offered shared tent accommodation for a tiny fraction of the price. Three to four days there sounded just right.
Further west lay the larger city of Patras, at the mouth of the Corinthian Gulf — and the port from which I’d have to catch a ferry to Ithaca. I managed to find a really cheap hotel option, so I figured I’d take two nights and give myself some time to explore the city. As for Ithaca itself, accommodation options were limited, so I splurged on a proper hotel room for a couple of nights. By far the most expensive stay of the trip — but since I was “going home”, it felt like the right move.
The Plan Takes Shape
After some digging, I found bus and ferry connections for each leg of the journey. Some routes, like Athens–Delphi or the Patras–Ithaca ferry, I could book in advance. Others, like Delphi to Patras, were impossible to reserve online, meaning I simply had to trust that tickets would be available when I arrived. So be it — improvisation was part of the charm of this adventure.
The last challenge was finding a quicker route back to Athens without retracing the entire journey. The only realistic option was a domestic flight from the nearby island of Kefalonia. Not wanting to skip the chance to explore somewhere new, I booked two nights in an Airbnb in the small village of Spartia on Kefalonia as well.
With every accommodation sorted — hostels, tents, hotels, and rural Airbnbs — and an itinerary that wove together ancient ruins, museums, mountain hikes, beaches, islands, and quiet village life, the plan was complete. I was finally ready for the adventure of a lifetime: my Odyssey on the Fly—from Athens to Ithaca.
Arrival
Memory of the flight and the journey from Athens Airport to my hostel is a bit fuzzy—mostly because of how exhausted I was. I remember flashes of being impressed by the well-decorated Athenian airport and a surprisingly smooth bus ride into the city. The moment I reached the hostel, I crashed straight into bed and slept for four hours.
I finally woke up sometime in the afternoon. After a desperately needed shower, I headed out for my first Greek meal: moussaka. The restaurant was right next to the hostel—kind of attached to it, but also its own thing. That meal was on a completely different level, better than anything I’d tasted before. I was instantly convinced of the superiority of Greek cuisine and ended up returning to that same spot every day. That’s also where I befriended Nikos, a cool, friendly, constantly-smiling waiter who turned out to be a fellow metalhead and music connoisseur.
Once I finished that heavenly dish, I took a quick walk around the neighborhood to get my bearings. The rest of the evening I just chilled—attending the newcomers’ event, having a drink with other travelers, and enjoying the incredible view of the Acropolis from City Circus Hostel’s rooftop terrace.
Day One Detour
After a long, glorious night of sleep, I woke up fully charged and ready to walk the hell out of Athens. But before I could start exploring, I had a pretty important side quest to complete. Actually, it was more of a main quest.
At the time, I was in the middle of applying for a Canadian student visa, and for that I needed to get my biometrics done at a Canadian embassy. Luckily, it didn’t have to be done in my country of residence or citizenship. So while planning this Greek adventure, I made sure to book an appointment at the Canadian Embassy in Athens for the first day after arrival.
This meant my first morning in Greece started with a taxi ride to the northeastern part of the city, to a quiet residential neighborhood where the embassy was located. The whole process was smooth and quick, and soon enough I was free—with the entire day ahead of me. So I thought: Well… might as well start exploring from here and walk my way back downtown.
Just about 10 km.
On foot.
This is where one of my staple solo-travel habits was born: walk until my back breaks and my feet fall off.
Modern day Athens
So I started walking—down quiet residential streets, taking in the hot-climate architecture I’d never seen before. White and light-colored buildings everywhere, decorated with intricate grill-style window and balcony designs. Pointy rocky cliffs in the distance. Lush parks scattered along the way. Orange-tree-lined streets glowing in the sun.
Orange trees. In the middle of the city.
This was completely new to me. Naturally, I had to try one.
Instant regret.
I later learned they’re decorative, not edible.
But the surprises didn’t stop with the oranges. Soon I began spotting Greece’s famous olive trees. Then I passed a particularly ancient one—girthy, fenced off, standing proudly in the center of a busy boulevard. The plaque said fifteen centuries old. Fifteen centuries. Holy-oldy.
Nearby towered a massive modern sculpture rising above the traffic like some kind of metallic-glass titan.
By then, I was really feeling the midday heat. My water bottle was empty, and after hours of walking I desperately needed a boost. I ducked into a gas station and spotted a Gatorade-style drink. I normally never buy those, but if there was ever a time for electrolytes, this was it. And oh boy, did it work. Ten minutes later, I was fully recharged and marching ahead at full speed.
Athenian War Museum
Even with my energy restored, the midday sun was getting a bit too enthusiastic, so I started searching for a place where I could cool down before melting into the pavement. Since I was already close to central Athens, I had plenty of museums within reach, but it was the Athenian War Museum that caught my attention. Something about the combination of ancient Greek lore and modern warfare just clicked with my overheated, curiosity-fueled brain.
The museum itself was founded in the 1970s to showcase Greece’s long, turbulent military history—from classical hoplite warfare all the way to the 20th century. Walking in, it felt like stepping into a compressed timeline of the country’s battles, heroes, and strategic obsessions. Greece has basically spent several millennia fighting off everyone from Persians to Ottomans to Nazis, and the museum doesn’t shy away from any of it. If anything, it seems proud to lay out its entire warrior résumé in chronological order.
Inside, the first thing that hit me—apart from the heavenly, life-saving burst of cold air—was a wall of iconic medieval shields. Round ones, kite-shaped ones, Maltese-style crosses, all neatly arranged like some kind of “Choose Your Fighter” selection screen from a medieval RPG. Nearby were tables and displays full of swords, halberds, axes, and all kinds of pointy objects that would make even a fantasy dwarf proud. I probably spent way too long just staring at steel.
From Ancient to Modern
Further in the exhibits jumped forward in time. Suddenly I was surrounded by WWI and WWII-era weaponry—machine guns, flamethrowers, uniforms, radios, and other gear from Greece’s involvement in the wars. There’s something surreal about seeing the evolution from bronze shields and hoplite helmets to gas masks and belt-fed machine guns under the same roof.
Somewhere between these halls of steel and gunpowder, one quieter but far more emotional piece caught my eye: The Execution of Patriarch Gregory V on Easter Sunday (1821) by Nikiforos Lytras. The painting portrays the moment the Patriarch was executed by the Ottomans at the start of the Greek War of Independence — despite the fact that he had publicly denounced the uprising. Lytras captured the tragedy with stark intensity: the tension of the ropes, the muted horror in the surrounding faces, the clash between spiritual authority and authoritarian power.
Back outside, the museum courtyard delivered an entirely different vibe: a lineup of full-size military hardware from the modern era. Helicopters, artillery pieces, and sleek fighter jets stood silently under the blazing sun — an open-air gallery of 20th-century firepower contrasting sharply with the many ancient and medieval artifacts inside.
A Stroll Through the National Garden
Once I left the cool comfort of the war museum behind, I instantly felt oppressed once more by the scorching afternoon sun. Luckily, a nearby grand park offered just the right shaded environment for a gradual reacclimatisation to the high temperatures — the Athens National Garden.
Originally commissioned in the 19th century by Queen Amalia, the first queen of modern Greece, the garden still carries her imprint everywhere. As I wandered in, exhausted but determined, the shift from blazing concrete to deep, lush shade felt almost magical. Tall palm trees, winding gravel paths, and dense greenery wrapped around me like a cool oasis in the middle of the capital. It was the perfect place to slow down, rehydrate, and give my legs a fighting chance after hours of constant walking.
At one point I reached Queen Amalia’s Pergola, one of the garden’s most iconic structures — a long walkway lined with tall Corinthian pillars, once covered in vines and still carrying that mix of royal elegance and Mediterranean charm.
Between the shade, the occasional breeze, and the pockets of history tucked into the greenery, the National Garden became the perfect intermission in my long Athenian march. After exploring a more modern setting of Athens, it was now time to slip much back in time again — all the way to the birthplace of the first modern Olympic Games. With renewed energy and curiosity, I set off toward the legendary Panathenaic Stadium.
The Marble Furnace of Athens
From the shady park back out into the blazing sun, the Panathenaic Stadium ended up being only a brief stop. I’m pretty sure the closed metal gate didn’t allow casual visitors to waltz right in, but honestly, it could just as well have been the desolating sun blasting the entire stadium without a single ounce of shade. As impressive as that horseshoe-shaped arena looked from outside, the idea of stepping onto a giant marble heat magnet in 30-plus degrees was a level of suffering I was not keen on enduring.
The Panathenaic Stadium, though, is undeniably iconic. Originally built in the 4th century BC for the Panathenaic Games, it was refurbished entirely in white marble by Herodes Atticus in Roman times — a unique feature it still boasts today. Centuries later, in 1896, it became the venue of the first modern Olympic Games, symbolically linking ancient athletic tradition with the rebirth of the global sporting event. Even from the outside, its gleaming tiers of marble radiate a kind of timeless grandeur… and also, on that day, enough heat to cook a gyros.
Aristotle’s Lyceum
Moving on, I finally headed to my first major archaeological site in Athens: the Ancient Gymnasium — Aristotle’s Lyceum. It was here that I bought the unifying 7-site Athens pass for the incredibly reasonable price of 30 euros, granting access to the major archaeological sites across the city. A true bargain… and sadly one that was discontinued in 2025.
The Lyceum itself isn’t a grand towering ruin but rather a quiet, open archaeological space — the foundations of ancient training grounds, lecture areas, and courtyards that once buzzed with brilliant minds. This was the very place where Aristotle taught his students while strolling through the peripatos, shaping ideas that would echo through millennia. Walking through it, with the dusty outlines of old walls, one could imagine the philosophers debating under the same Athenian sky thousands of years ago.
Despite its modest size, the site has a uniquely contemplative atmosphere. The shaded patches of trees and the soft hum of cicadas gave it a peaceful, almost academic calm — fitting, considering this was one of the birthplaces of Western philosophy. I lingered for a while, soaking in the blend of ancient intellect and having another shady bench-rest, before heading out toward my next stop.
Temple of Zeus
With the worst of the afternoon heat finally easing, I continued onward to the Temple of Olympian Zeus — a site that, despite being mostly open to the sky, felt surprisingly manageable in the mellowing light. The approach led me first through the ornate Hadrian’s Arch, which still stands like a proud ceremonial gateway separating old Athens from the new. Passing beneath its marble frame felt like stepping through a threshold in time.
Beyond it stretched the vast archaeological grounds of the temple itself. Even in ruin, the sheer scale of Olympian Zeus’s sanctuary is staggering. Only a handful of its towering Corinthian columns remain standing, but those that do rise with such improbable height and elegance that it’s easy to imagine the full colonnade dominating ancient Athens.
The fallen drums lying around them add to the dramatic sense of age, as if the gods themselves had toppled the temple in slow motion over the centuries. Apart from these striking remnants, the archaeological grounds were a relatively brief walk — a final open-air stretch before I moved on to the last target on my day’s ambitious hit list.
National Archaeological Museum
After hours of wandering through the layered story of Athens—its streets, its gardens, its memories—I made my final stop for the day: the National Archaeological Museum. The building exudes the gravitas of a place that guards not simply artifacts, but identity—centuries of artistic vision, religious devotion, war, myth, and memory distilled into stone, bronze, and clay.
Inside, the first items that spring right up are the pots. Those ancient Greek vases—depicting hoplites, centaurs, scenes of war, and countless other figures and activities—crafted in such precise, elegant forms that they immediately drew me in. I simply adore the effortless balance of the silhouettes, the way the clean black lines capture motion, tension, and personality with such economy. I could really see myself owning a few of those one day, decorating a fancy kitchen in a hypothetical future home of mine—One day…
Beyond the Artefacts
As I moved deeper into the galleries, the sculptures took center stage. The serene faces of the korai, with their almond eyes and faint, enigmatic smiles, radiated a stillness that felt almost alive—like they were quietly observing each visitor, deciding whether to reveal their secrets.
A remarkable piece that stood out to me was the relief of a centaur in violent combat with a Lapith man. A relief sculpture that used to adorn the Acropolis depicting a powerful mythological scene. The scene likely belongs to the mythological cycle of the Centauromachy, symbolizing the conflict between order and chaos, civilization and barbarism.
Finally, there were the pigments — a vivid wake-up reminder that these statues and reliefs were once drenched in color. As modern-day visitors wandering among bleached-white archaeological sites, temples, and sculptures, it’s easy to forget that in their own time these places were alive with striking, saturated hues. The fragments and ruins we see today are really just the outlines of an empty coloring book, their details long washed away and eroded by the passing millennia.
After walking nearly 20 kilometers on my first day in Athens, I was more than ready to return to the hostel for a hearty meal and a well-earned rest. As the sun began to set, I paused by one of the museum’s high windows and gazed out at the Acropolis glowing on its rocky throne above the city. With a tired grin — and a spark of anticipation — I looked forward to finally standing up there the following day.
Another day, another 20 km walk
Fast forward to the next day, my lower back was slightly sore from the long march of the day before, but I wasn’t going to let something like that slow me down. In fact, if memory serves, the second day I ended up somehow walking even more than on my first. And it all starts with the hike up to the Acropolis.
The ascent begins with a steep climb of roughly 157 stone steps, each one worn smooth by thousands of years of footsteps. At the summit, you’re greeted by the Propylaea, the monumental entrance gate of the Acropolis, with its grand Doric columns and majestic symmetry. Walking through this ancient portal feels like stepping directly into the past, each stone a silent witness to the rise and fall of civilizations.
Once inside, the Acropolis reveals itself as a sprawling complex of temples, monuments, and sacred spaces. Originally built in the 5th century BCE, this citadel has been a center of religion, politics, and art for over two millennia. Today it’s the center of the daily swarms of tens of thousands of tourists.
The Acropolis survived Persian invasions, Roman occupation, and centuries of decay, yet its elegance still commands awe. The view of Athens sprawling below is breathtaking, a mosaic of terracotta rooftops and bustling streets framed by the distant mountains, with the Greek flag flying proudly above as a reminder of resilience and heritage.
Temples and Monuments of the Acropolis
From the summit of the Acropolis, the ancient city unfolds in every direction, dotted with temples, monuments, and reminders of the religious life that once thrived here. One of the most striking is the Temple of Athena Nike, a small yet exquisitely preserved temple that sits gracefully on a bastion overlooking the city.
Dedicated to Athena as the goddess of victory, it’s renowned for its elegant Ionic columns and the kore figures adorning its friezes. These finely carved maidens, which I also encountered the previous day in the National Archeological Museum, depict both ceremonial processions and mythological scenes, giving a vivid sense of the devotion and artistry that characterized ancient Greek worship.
At the heart of the Acropolis stands the Parthenon, the temple dedicated to Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. Constructed between 447 and 432 BCE, this masterpiece of Doric architecture is famed for its perfect proportions and intricate sculptures, particularly the friezes that once depicted the Panathenaic Festival in vivid detail.
Walking around it, you notice the subtle curvature of the columns and the optical illusions built into the design, a testament to the genius of ancient Greek architects. During my visit in 2019, the a large portion of the structure was blanketed by a web of scaffolding as it underwent reconstruction. I’m not sure of the state of it today.
The Acropolis skyline
From atop the Acropolis hill, Athens becomes a treasure map of ancient ruins among the modern day labyrinth. For example the massive ruins of the Temple of Olympian Zeus stand clearly in the distance. After my visit there the previous day, seeing the entire site from above was quite rewarding.
Nearby, the Philopappos Monument crowns its own hill, visible from many points on the Acropolis. This grand funerary monument, built in the early 2nd century CE, commemorates Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos, a prominent Roman consul and benefactor of Athens. Its commanding position makes it an integral part of the Acropolis skyline, a reminder that even outside the citadel proper, ancient Athenians celebrated civic pride and personal legacy with impressive architectural statements.
Another striking temple, the Hephaisteion, or Temple of Hephaestus, rises atop the ancient Agora. This Doric temple is one of the best-preserved classical Greek structures in existence, its sturdy columns and well-defined proportions hinting at the craftsmanship and reverence for symmetry that defined the period.
Though I would visit it later, even from afar its presence reinforces the richness of Athens’ sacred landscape, a testament to centuries of religious devotion woven into the very fabric of the city.
The amphitheaters
After spending a good chunk of time soaking in the sights atop the Acropolis, I slowly made my way down on winding paths descending the slopes opposite of the many stairs and grand entrance. Smaller temples and sanctuaries decorate the path on the way down. Below, two grand amphitheaters are carved into the side of the hill.
The Odeon of Herodes Atticus, a stone theater built in 161 CE, still hosts concerts today, its acoustics as perfect now as they were nearly two thousand years ago. Likewise, the Theater of Dionysus, the birthplace of Greek tragedy, is occasionally used for performances, connecting the modern city with its dramatic past.
Walking these paths, it’s impossible not to feel the hum of history beneath your feet, as if the whispers of philosophers, playwrights, and citizens long gone linger in the air
From the Acropolis to the Agora
After leaving the Acropolis behind, I made my way to the next big target on my checklist: the Agora. Basically the big public gathering space for ancient Greek city-states, the Agora was where everything happened. It was the beating heart of civic life—athletic competitions, artistic performances, political debates, philosophical arguments, business transactions, religious processions… if the Acropolis was the sacred realm of the gods, the Agora was the everyday realm of the people.
One of the first structures to command attention is the Stoa of Attalos, a long, brilliantly reconstructed 2nd-century BCE colonnaded building that now runs along the eastern edge of the site. A stoa was essentially an ancient Greek shopping arcade and public meeting hall—a covered, open-sided walkway designed for merchants, philosophers, and everyday Athenians seeking shade or shelter.
The Stoa of Attalos is one of the most striking reconstructions in Greece. Restored in the 1950s by the American School of Classical Studies, it gives a rare and vivid glimpse of what ancient Greek architecture actually looked and felt like when it was new. The polished marble columns, smooth wooden ceilings, and symmetrical two-story layout make it easy to imagine bustling stalls, citizens debating the latest decrees, and students gathered around their teachers. It’s one of the few places in Athens where the ancient world feels almost tangible again.
Exploring the Agora and its Museum
Inside the Stoa lies the Agora Museum, home to an array of artifacts unearthed from the site. The collection is filled with more of my favorite painted vases, some depicting mythological battles and others adorned with simple everyday scenes—athletes training, women preparing for festivals, men at symposia.
There are also terracotta figurines and theater masks, tokens of the city’s artistic spirit, alongside jewelry, tools, coins, and personal items that once belonged to the Athenians who walked these very streets. Each display case offers small windows into daily life 2,500 years ago—objects touched, worn, and used by people whose names history has long forgotten, yet whose lives helped shape Western civilization.
Stepping out of the museum into the large Agora, I walked along the maze of scattered low ruins of Classical and Hellenistic period houses, their red-brick courses still clearly visible. These foundational remains outline courtyards, workshops, kitchens, and living spaces, giving a sense of how densely packed and vibrant the neighborhood once was.
The walls are low now, barely knee-high, but they trace the footprint of an entire community that thrived here centuries before modern Athens rose around it. In the distance, rising above the tangle of ancient streets, the Temple of Hephaestus stands like a sentinel—unyielding, unmoved, and utterly intact. Two and a half millennia have slipped by, yet the god of fire and metal still watches over the Agora from his marble fortress.
The Temple of Hephaestus
And then, of course, there is the Temple of Hephaestus—the jewel of the Agora. Dedicated to Hephaestus, the god of metalworking and craftsmanship, this temple is one of the best-preserved ancient Greek temples in the world. Built around 449 BCE, its sturdy Doric columns and marble entablature have survived millennia of earthquakes, wars, invasions, and weather.
What makes it especially magical is that it remains almost entirely intact: the friezes, the cella walls, even the original roof structure are still in place. It’s one of the only places in Greece where you can stand inside a 2,500-year-old temple and look up to see the same beams, the same interlocking marble slabs, that ancient Athenians walked beneath.
Just a short walk downhill from the Temple of Hephaestus stands another remarkable structure—much younger, yet still centuries old—the Church of the Holy Apostles of Solakis. Built around the 10th century CE, it’s one of the earliest surviving Byzantine churches in Athens, marking the transition from the classical world to the Christian era.
Its compact, cross-in-square design, graceful arches, and weathered stone walls give it a quiet charm, as if it has been tucked into the Agora to watch over the ruins with gentle patience. The church’s interior is small and intimate, but the frescoes and icons echo the devotional life of medieval Athens, reminding visitors that the Agora didn’t simply vanish after antiquity.
Agora hopping
Having finished exploring the ancient Greek Agora of Athens, I made my way toward another agora close by—the Roman Agora, along with a neighboring archaeological site: Hadrian’s Library.
On the way, I encountered more of the happy stray cats that Athens has in abundance. Completely unfazed by the endless traffic of people and vehicles, they lounged in the sun, stretched on marble blocks, or dozed in the shade of ancient stones. These are their lands, and we are mere servants passing through their kingdom.
The Roman Agora is smaller and more compact than its grand Greek predecessor. Built in the late 1st century BCE and early 1st century CE—after Athens became part of the Roman Empire—it served as a new commercial hub for the city. Unlike the sprawling, multifunctional Greek Agora, the Roman one was more purpose-built: a tidy marketplace framed by colonnades, shops, and administrative buildings.
One of the highlights here is the Gate of Athena Archegetis, an elegant marble entrance supported by towering Doric columns. It feels like the gateway to a miniature city within the city. A few scattered ruins stand beyond it—broken columns, fragments of workshops, and paved walkways that hint at the bustle of Roman-era trade.
The Tower of the Winds
Another interesting structures within the Roman Agora is the Tower of the Winds, an octagonal marble clocktower built in the 1st century BCE by the Macedonian astronomer Andronikos of Kyrrhos. Part scientific instrument, part architectural curiosity, it’s essentially the world’s first multifunctional weather station.
Each of its eight sides is carved with a relief of a different wind deity, representing the cardinal and intercardinal directions—Boreas, Notos, Zephyros, and the others—each depicted with their own personality and symbolism. Inside, the tower once housed a complex water clock powered by a system of aqueducts, while the exterior featured sundials to mark the hours throughout the day.
Despite its age, the structure is impressively intact, and its sharp geometric form stands out beautifully against the surrounding ruins. It’s one of those buildings that feels ahead of its time—a reminder that ancient Athens wasn’t just about temples and philosophy, but also about engineering, science, and ingenuity.
Hadrian’s Library
Just next door lies Hadrian’s Library, commissioned in 132 CE by the Roman Emperor Hadrian—a famous Hellenophile who adored Greek culture and tried to revive Athens as an intellectual capital of the empire.
The library wasn’t just a place for scrolls; it was a grand cultural complex. It once held lecture halls, reading rooms, gardens, and a central courtyard lined with 100 columns. Today, only portions of the massive outer walls and a line of restored columns remain, but they give enough shape to imagine its former scale.
Nearby are the remains of the Tetraconch Church, a Byzantine addition built much later. Its four-apsed design is still visible in the foundations, marking yet another layer of history stacked onto this compact patch of Athens.
Despite their modest size, both the Roman Agora and Hadrian’s Library feel like a small microcosm of the city’s long story—Roman ambition, Greek legacy, Byzantine faith—all coexisting within a few hundred meters.
Six down, one to go
With these two last sites being much smaller, I had now managed to tick off six of the seven major archaeological ruins of Athens on my pass. And with one and a half days left, I had plenty of time. So, to avoid the deadly noon heat, I retreated to the hostel for lunch and a bit of rest.
The cool interior was a welcome relief from the sun-baked streets, and I refueled with a hearty lunch: a chickpea stew to start, followed by osso buco with orzo and parmesan. Absolutely delicious, the rich, tender flavors of the osso buco paired with the creamy, cheesy orzo made it an instant favorite—so much so that it ended up becoming one of my staple “learned” Greek recipes together with the traditional moussaka.
After the meal, I rested for a couple of hours, letting the midday heat fade and enjoying a bit of downtime. During that quiet period, I reviewed the photos I had taken so far, reliving the incredible sites I had explored that morning. With the seven major archaeological sites of Athens almost behind me—save for the final stop—I also began planning targets for the next day, which I envisioned as a more relaxed city exploration walk, capped with a hike up another of Athens’ iconic hills.
Once rested and recharged, I was ready to head out to Kerameikos Archaeological Site, the last of the seven, to complete my archaeological journey through the city.
Kerameikos Archaeological Site
The rest helped for sure, but the moment I got up to walk, my back and legs felt sore as hell again. Luckily, the Kerameikos Archaeological Site was just 10 minutes away from the hostel. By the time I arrived, it was golden hour. The slowly setting sun cast a warm, honeyed light across the ruins, illuminating the city and creating the perfect conditions for photography. This was, without a doubt, my favorite time to explore and capture Athens.
I still had about an hour to wander before closing, and after the bustling crowds at the Agora and Acropolis earlier in the day, Kerameikos in the early evening felt like a quiet, almost meditative oasis.
Kerameikos was ancient Athens’ main cemetery, active from as early as the 12th century BCE and continuing through classical times. It also encompassed part of the city walls, including the impressive Dipylon Gate, where funerary processions would begin. Walking through the site today, low stone walls and fragments of tombs create a park-like landscape, blending solemnity and serenity in equal measure.
The remnants of funerary steles, altars, and columns rise here and there, whispering stories of Athenians long gone. Some are elaborately carved, others simple markers for everyday citizens, yet each carries the weight of centuries of memory.
Olive Trees and the Kerameikos Museum
Interspersed among the ruins, I spotted olive trees heavy with green fruit—a first for me! After the whole bitter orange experience earlier, I wisely didn’t try these either, but it was fascinating to see them thriving among the tombs.
Nearby, the Kerameikos Museum offered one last dose of artistry for the day. Inside, beautifully preserved vases, figurines, and sculptures illustrated the funerary practices and everyday life of classical Athens, a perfect complement to the outdoor experience of the site.
Nearing closing time, I left Kerameikos and decided to explore some more of the neighborhood in the twilight.
Reflections on the Troubles of Modern Athens
On my way out, I remained a little wary—Athens in the evening had its charms, but also its hazards. Earlier in the afternoon, back at the hostel, I had a brief adventure that reminded me of this. A Japanese girl staying at the hostel was on the verge of tears: her wallet, containing money and ID, had been stolen somewhere near the Acropolis.
I offered to walk her to the nearest police station to file a declaration. At the station, the officers were all very serious, tough-acting types, and I had to clarify that I was just a friend helping her out. Eventually, one of the more approachable officers softened, and we had a short conversation about petty crime in the city—a reality of Athens in 2019, with immigration waves and economic pressures often creating friction.
Another encounter earlier in the day had been equally vivid: a group of street vendors approached me, aggressively offering bracelets for charity, insisting I pay for them, and creating a tense-but-absurd moment. After a mix of small change and a 5-euro note, the situation resolved itself, but it reminded me to stay vigilant while exploring.
An Evening in Athens
With these experiences in mind, I walked carefully through the streets of Athens, passing residential areas, parks, and canals, heading toward a local metal bar recommended by a girl at the hostel after noticing my rocker bracelets and long hair. By this point, I wasn’t much of a night owl anymore, so my goal wasn’t to drink heavily or mingle late; I just wanted a glimpse of the city at night and maybe discover some new music.
The bar was quiet—9 PM still early by local standards—but perfect for a relaxed beer. I chatted with the bartender at Intrepid Fox about Greek metal bands, and this is where I first learned about the deviously delightful Septic Flesh, a symphonic death metal band that would become one of my favorites. After finishing my beer and soaking in the early evening ambiance, I headed back to the hostel, letting the city settle into its nocturnal rhythm.
Day two had been long, packed with history, exploration, and a few minor adventures. According to my pedometer, it also held the record for my longest daily walk thus far—around 22 km—a title it would keep for a long time. As I climbed into bed, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated—ready for whatever the next day in Athens would bring.
Day Three – A Different Kind of Exploration
The next day was my last full day in Athens. Since I had already visited the seven major archaeological sites—along with a couple of major museums—I felt like taking things a bit easier. No more racing between ruins with my pedometer having a nervous breakdown. Instead, Day Three would be a leisurely city walk, rounded out by one final hike up one of Athens’ great hills.
Athens, after all, is a city built on hills as much as around them. The most famous, of course, is the Acropolis—but two others rise prominently from the urban landscape as well. To the southwest sits Philopappos Hill, topped by the impressive Philopappos Monument, while further northeast stands Lycabettus Hill, the tallest of the three, crowned by a small whitewashed chapel visible from nearly anywhere in the city. For today’s adventure, I decided to set my sights on Philopappos.
But before heading toward its green slopes and winding footpaths, I wanted to explore some of Athens’ more modern landmarks—its neoclassical heart.
A Leisurely Morning in Modern Athens
I began my morning stroll toward the Hellenic Parliament, one of Athens’ most recognizable and symbolically important buildings. Though it’s relatively modern by local standards—completed in 1843 as the royal palace of King Otto—it still carries itself with an understated authority. Its long, symmetrical façade and the colonnaded front entrance feel like a respectful nod to the city’s ancient DNA.
In front of the parliament building I came across one of the Evzones—the elite Presidential Guard—standing at his post in the iconic blue-and-white guard shelter (known as a “phroura” or sentry box). Their traditional uniform is striking with a red feathered cap, a white fustanella kilt with 400 pleats symbolizing the 400 years of Ottoman rule, embroidered vest, white leggings (perahan), and tsarouchia (pom-pommed shoes).
Witnessing such a meticulously preserved tradition right in the heart of the city made me notice something else too: Athens doesn’t just hold on to its past in ceremonies and uniforms—it does so in stone. As I continued walking, I realized that even its “modern” architecture is threaded with echoes of antiquity. Columns, pediments, and careful symmetry aren’t merely stylistic flourishes here; they feel like a natural continuation of the city’s identity.
A short walk away, the neoclassical style becomes even more striking. Buildings like the National Archaeological Museum and the Academy of Athens show just how willingly the city embraced its ancestral aesthetic.
Where Modern Stones Wear Ancient Shapes
The Academy, especially, looks like a temple that simply decided to time-travel into the 19th century—complete with Ionic columns, a sculpted pediment, and statues of Athena and Apollo standing guard from atop tall, elegant pillars. It feels deliberate, almost defiant: a country reclaiming its heritage after centuries of Ottoman rule, rebuilding its identity not with glass and steel but with marble, myth, and memory.
Yet the closer you look, the more the building reveals itself as something more than a neoclassical homage. The pediment above the entrance depicts the birth of Athena, rendered in a beautifully balanced composition that echoes ancient temple sculpture without ever pretending to be ancient itself. The figures—gods, goddesses, and divine attendants—are frozen in that solemn, harmonious moment when the goddess of wisdom emerges fully formed, the centerpiece of the scene. Along the façade, traces of soft polychromy survive, giving hints of how vibrantly such sculptures once looked in antiquity.
Flanking the staircase, the tall columns carrying Athena and Apollo add a sense of ceremonial grandeur. Athena stands poised with spear and shield, the eternal protector of the city, while Apollo holds his lyre, patron of the arts—together embodying exactly what the Academy aspired to cultivate: knowledge, creativity, and the spirit of Hellenic culture. With the Greek flag waving above it all, the building becomes almost symbolic, a physical assertion that modern Greece chose to root its future in the language of its past.
The Quiet Hill Overlooking Athens
I then left behind the neoclassical district and marched across towards one of Athens’ hills again. I wanted to end my Athenian journey somewhere a little quieter—somewhere above the noise, away from the crowds, with a final wide-angle look at the city I had just spent days exploring from the inside out. So I turned southwest, toward the green rise of Philopappos Hill.
Philopappos Hill—one of the trio that shapes Athens’ skyline—sits right across from the Acropolis, close enough to share its breeze but far enough to escape its chaos. Unlike the marble crown across the way, this hill is free to climb, covered in wandering footpaths, shade trees, and pockets of silence. The ancient Athenians knew it well too: scattered across the slopes are remnants of old roads, meeting spots, sanctuaries, and caves woven into philosophical lore.
Caves and tranquil trails
My first stop was Socrates’ Prison, a small stone-cut chamber carved directly into the bedrock. Historically, unconfirmed whether Socrates was ever held here, but tradition is stubborn and the place has become a symbolic site connected to his final days. One could imagine the philosopher’s calm acceptance of his fate—the cup of hemlock, the arguments about the immortality of the soul, the devotion of his students gathering around him as he turned his own death into one last lesson. Whether or not this was truly his cell, the atmosphere carried the weight of his story: a reminder that Athens wasn’t only a city of temples, but a city of ideas, lived and died for.
Further up the slope I came upon the Fountain of the Pnyx—or at least, what remains of it. Today it’s sealed behind a metal door, but historically it was part of a larger waterworks system connected to the ancient political gathering place of the Pnyx, where Athenian democracy was literally spoken into existence. The fountain once supplied water to the area, serving the citizens who met here to debate, vote, and argue their way into political history.
Past the cave, the path softened into a leafy park-like trail—palm fronds, pines, shrubs, and that bright Mediterranean glow reflecting off everything. After two days of battling crowds at the Acropolis, Agora, and every other major site, this felt like discovering Athens’ hidden breathing room. I walked slowly, enjoying the shade and the breeze, letting the soreness in my legs spread out and settle.
A Final Gaze Over a Legendary City
The final ascent brought me to the summit, crowned by the Philopappos Monument, the grand Hellenistic mausoleum dedicated to Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos. The same monument I had seen the previous day from the Acropolis hill.
Today however, the tables were turned and I beheld the perfect, unobstructed view of the Acropolis. From this angle the entire complex stands proudly: the Parthenon blazing in the sun, the Erechtheion’s caryatids in silhouette, and the long procession of tourists crawling up the marble steps. I finally got my perfect view and shots of the legendary ancient ruins completing my checklist of Athens. I lingered for a while, taking in the panorama. It felt like a fitting farewell.
After descending the hill, fatigue finally hit me. Rather than push myself further, I returned to the hostel and spent the rest of the evening resting, sorting through all the photos and planning the next leg of my journey. This was my final night in Athens, and although I didn’t do anything noteworthy after the hike, I didn’t need to. The city had given me more than enough.
The following morning, I would board a bus to Delphi—leaving the sprawling metropolis behind in exchange for mountains, myths, and the whispers of the ancient oracle. My odyssey was far from over.
