December 4, 2017:

For our final morning we go searching for the scene of the crime.

Once upon a galaxy in a lifetime far, far away, there was a tatty-ass students' bar in the Athenian Plaka. There, thirsty travelers drank warm Amstels and were hit on by expat bartenders from as far away as, say, Newcastle, England. And bizarre quadrangles ensued.

The bartender I'm thinking of liked to play games with the stereo. If I came through the door he'd play "The Greeks Don't Want No Freaks"; unless my wayward GF was there, when he'd play "Heartache Tonight". Either way he played the Eagles, which already consigns him to a certain eternity in Hell.

One segment of our group chose that bar as their home-away-from-home, which, given the world of alternatives, I still fail to understand. I typically chose not to participate, for multiple excellent reasons. First, I was physically unwell from stomach poisoning at the start of our adventure, leaving me weak and disinterested. Second, I was ferociously dedicated to my schoolwork, so that given the choice of studying the assignment versus drinking Amstel in some Athenian shithole my course was clear. Third, I was repulsed by the shallow narcissism of hanging out in bars being hit on by expat bartenders. Fourth, I had no ambition to be one of the cool kids and, if we're aiming for full disclosure, for the most part didn't like them. Fifth, and perhaps most importantly, I really didn't give a rat's ass.

In my absence, that sad scene resulted in considerable heartbreak-chaos-and-mayhem. For ten years after, I considered that address to be the center of Evil's presence in the universe, until San Francisco and a whole other epic level of destruction. That's a story for another time.

So where's that bar now?

Gone. The building is nowadays a clonelike mid-scale jewelry shop, which, to my amusement, it turns out we'd passed many many times on our way to and from places which are actually interesting. Granted the enormity of renovation throughout the Plaka I'm only able to identify it by the unique white-on-blue street sign embedded in the masonry. It's called "Golden Studio", is at the corner of Thespidos and Adrianou with the number 142 over the door. Here it is on Street View should you be so inclined. God rest your silly soul.

Fortunately for the universe its erstwhile evil has been totally exorcised by the presence of a happy, colorful ukulele shop next door. Alright, alright — if you're gonna get all literal about things — I'll grudgingly admit that thirty-eight intervening years may have contributed. Still, it's the ukes which drive the final nail.

God bless Us, every one.