October 7, 2017:
Arrival was a nightmare. I'd hit the peak of stomach explosion on the Brindisi-Patras ferry, spending the rest of the voyage in my sleeping bag on deck. No memory of the train to Athens, but I vividly remember the near-run insisted upon by our drunken chaperone from station to Plaka, a type of torture which seemed egregious and malevolent. Apparently he was thirsty. Three and half miles of profound exhaustion, like the Bataan Death March only faster.
Naturally it was better this time, although twenty hours of flights and terminals and taxis took a definite toll. No time for laggards!, implies travel bestie, determined to make use of every hour of vacation daylight. Yups. Up and out and we'll wake up later.
Our first ancient site of the trip: Roman Baths outside the National Garden. She's never seen a dig before. I haven't in thirty-eight years.
Joyce said, "Rome is an old whore who makes her living displaying to tourists the bones of her dead grandmother." I think of him without sympathy as we explore ancient bones the next two weeks.