Venice

Monday 23rd January 1984

We also had a well-deserved lie in until 09:30 hrs. cursing that it was not economically viable to stay another night in this cosy nest. We had to change up some more money in the bank across the road to pay our hotel bill and it was with mixed emotions that we discovered that the bank rate was 1,690 Italian Lira per US$ dollar or 2,400 Italian Lira per £1 sterling. It meant that things were marginally cheaper than we thought, but we had been ripped off with a poor rate of exchange at the autoroute stop.

We bought a 500 Italian Lira bus ticket from a newsstand and boosted our morale with a coffee break in a trendy stand-up joint by the Number 7 Bus Stop. We missed two buses due to the fact that they were not displaying a number and we ignored the Venizia headboard as we were under the impression that we were already in Venice.

We arrived at our destination, the Piazzale Roma which is a large square located at the end of the Ponte della Libertà and at the entrance of Venice. It is one of the only places in the city centre that is accessible to cars and buses. The Piazzale is not particularly interesting for tourists, but it is important since it is the city’s main bus station.

We quickly found the Tourist Information Booth which was overstaffed by eight giggly girls. They proved to be a lot of fun but totally useless on the information front. It was their first day, they apologised as they giggled and confused German language with English. Bewildered and 2,000 Italian Lira lighter we set off to find the main Tourist Bureau on Piazza San Marco, clutching an expensive map and a sheaf of useless information booklets in foreign languages.

Piazza San Marco, often known in English as St Mark's Square, is the principal public square of Venice, Italy, where it is generally known just as la Piazza ("the Square"). All other urban spaces in the city (except the Piazzetta and the Piazzale Roma) are called campi ("fields").

Our initial impressions of the canal-ridden historical township were favourable, and the slow overclouding of the sky did less to dampen our enthusiasm than the prices quoted for hotel rooms. We found from a boisterous woppy(Italian)-looking group of Aussie birds that the Carettoni at Lista di Spagna 130 (Ferrovia) – don’t ask me I just copied this down from a card – 30121 Venezia was the cheapest place around.

Lista di Spagna is not the most appealing part of Venice. It does, however, serve its purpose as a shopping and dining location, as long as you are not visiting on a Sunday! It is also the most direct walking route between the cruise ship terminal and San Marco Square. The name Lista comes from the Italian verb meaning ‘to delimit’, and it represented a part of the street marked by white Istrian stones, within which foreign diplomats could enjoy diplomatic immunity.

The Carettoni offered a double room for 22,000 Italian Lira which was warm and comfortable, in fact much better than we were used to. An abortive tour failed to find a cheaper crash pad, so we steamed in. Most hotels here had a crumbling ruinous exterior which gave rise to hopes of economy, when a step over the threshold revealed a hidden spaceship.

The room rate quoted was easily mistaken for a nine-figure countdown before the craft took off to another cosmos. These ultramodern space age interiors seemed to have been built internally without disturbing the external film set façade that characterises Venice.

We gratefully dumped our baggage in our new bedroom and set off to the Piazza San Marco full of naivety and premature joys of spring. Our hopes were dashed against the proverbial rocks as we discovered the true nature of Venice.

The whole town was a model of the future cunningly disguised as a museum of the past. Beneath the fading cracked veneer a thriving confidence trick was in full swing. Super modern stores, stamped from the same mould, sold extortionately priced conveniences relying on the tourist’s inability to grasp conversion of the multifigured price tags into sobering home sums.

Richly dressed mannequins stalked the streets like a moving Madame Tussauds, which left those of us without expensive furs or exclusive Parisian extravert fashionwear feeling shabby and underdressed. As all of the shops were shut and the restaurants would not allow entrance to lower level of humanity who could only afford £1 coffee without the indulgence of a scanty meal that you would require a mortgage to afford.

Incidentally, Madame Tussauds is a wax museum in London; it has smaller museums in a number of other major cities. It was founded by wax sculptor Marie Tussaud in 1835. It used to be spelled as "Madame Tussaud's"; the apostrophe is no longer used. Madame Tussauds is a major tourist attraction in London, displaying the waxworks of famous and historical figures, as well as popular film and television characters played by famous actors.

We headed back to our hotel and our spirits lifted as we passed a cinema showing the American movie “WarGames”, a new Hollywood release in June 1983 and directed by John Badham. With Matthew Broderick, Ally Sheedy, John Wood, Dabney Coleman. A young man finds a back door into a military central computer in which reality is confused with game-playing, possibly starting World War III.

We whiled away until 15:40 hrs., the first screening of WarGames, in a reasonably priced café on the main Piazzale Roma to Piazza San Marco drag. We sipped our coffee and fought back the tears in a near nadir of despair. At this rate of spending our money wouldn’t last five minutes.

At 15:30 hrs. we rushed off to the cinema to catch the film and despite our low ebb of spirit, we overrode the shock of the film having been dubbed into Italian rather than having subtitles, and gleaned enough to make sense of this overdramatised fantasy.

We made our way back through the now busy streets which relied on the cover of night to promote the illusion and cover the irregularities of this millionaire deception, this Italian Disneyland. We bought some bread rolls and an extensive selection of fillings from the now thriving shops and headed back to our room for a Thasos-style smorgasbord feast and some morale boosting music.

The resultant relaxation was just the ticket and the world began to seem like a rosier place as we passed out into oblivion at 23:00 hrs.

Mestre

Sunday 22nd January 1984

See yesterdays blog for a list of characters on the Magic Bus.

We crossed the Jugoslavian border during the night with a quick passport inspection and a dramatic briefing from Keith Richards, who told us to “keep quiet and don’t smile”. The snow seemed to start at the border and white fields slipped away on either side of the track during the night. We stopped at about 04:00 hrs. at a Jugoslavian roadside restaurant where Nellie took the spotlight.

“I’ve done this trip 14 times”, she wailed, “and they have never left the light on or played loud music after dark”. Her sincerity was undermined by her mad ironic cackle and a devil-may-care smile. She’d then light up another fag and either have a secret drink or just pretend to be intoxicated and adopt a drunken air.

Glamour Puss flitted from one male dominated table to another like an exotic butterfly, lingering sufficiently long enough to arouse sexual desire without inviting close inspection of her supposed femme fatale projected image.

Back on the bus I started reading “A Falcon Flies” by and a sleepy afternoon ensued with the characters of this play sitting stupefied with a hearty lunchtime meal, gathering their energy for tonight’s performance. A Falcon Flies is a novel by Wilbur Smith. It was the first in a series of books known as The Ballantyne Novels. The Rhodesian Bush War of the 1970s inspired Smith to research and write a book set in historical Rhodesia. He originally planned it as one novel, but it ended up as a trilogy.

The ponderous stupor was only momentarily disturbed by Ratty stealing a kiss from Totem Pole and following up with threats to expose his debatable proof of manhood. The landscape outside of this rolling menagerie, this careening circus, continued to consist of snowy fields, shadowy lines of indistinct trees, snow covered houses and a thick grey heavy sky.

The road at points caused Keith Richards, who was now at the helm driving the bus, to slow down and drive carefully and cautiously. We stopped twice. Once at a quiet place covered in snow and again at a lairy ski resort where we had a meagre meal as the Greeks cursed at the destruction of their illusion that the Drachma was the universal currency.

At the border between Jugoslavia and Italy the snow seemed to stop, giving the illusion that the snow was purely a Communist affliction. A protracted passport inspection and a random baggage search, which included George and I, served to increase the tension that evaporated in the mobile madhouse at the coach set off again into Italy.

Glamour Puss started the ball rolling with a frenzied verbal attack on, of all people, innocuous Auntie Bertha, who she accused of talking Italian contrary to Keith Richards instructions. Her final accusation that Auntie Bertha was a whore brought Reggie Weeble and his mum to their indignant fat feet, got Jim’s Mum up on her seat to watch the fun and had Ratty positively vibrating with an eagerness to join the fray.

Keith Richards upped the volume on the in-coach cassette player bringing the Greek equivalent of “You’ll never walk alone” to ear-shattering level and pitched in with religious zeal. Ranting and raving drowned our senses as Glamour Puss ducked out to leave the others to fight for domination of the debacle.

Auntie Bertha also kept her head down as Reggie’s mum moaned and bewailed, feigning tears and overacting like a petulant prima donna in a tantrum. Reggie was up, blocking out the light, as Totem Pole and Ratty chipped in, the latter taking the opportunity to grope and caress Soapy Green as he stuck his verbal oar in.

Prince Andrew kept a low profile in the ruckus although his dumpy bird refereed in true boxing style in a heavy Australian accent; her delight at the distraction from the days boredom being quite transparent, and her white banded head bobbed up and down with excitement.

George and the English Kid took it in turns to smother the music speaker next to us with the palms of their hands in order to protect our ears. True to form, we had also copped the overhead seat light which didn’t work and the non-openable window.

The fervour gradually died down and petered out and our coach party settled down to a semblance of normality when we reached our next stopping point. This was an Italian supermarket cum cafeteria with a deceptively duty-free air and an external warning sign to “distrust abusive pedlars” of items which the shop stocked at vastly inflated prices.

We changed American dollars in the Exchange at 1,450 Italian Lira per dollar and bought expensive apples and beer. We had a growing suspicion that you would require sponsorship from a substantial backer to even exist in Italy.

Another dozy four hours on the coach brought us to Venice with a sense of relief that was short-lived due to the unwelcoming rain-washed loneliness of the Venetian streets. We were expecting the stuff of legends, Venice is a famous city in north-eastern Italy and the capital of the Veneto region. It is situated on a group of 118 small islands that are separated by canals and linked by over 400 bridges. The islands are located in the shallow Venetian Lagoon, an enclosed bay that lies between the mouths of the Po and the Piave rivers.

The mobile carnival rolled off into the night and left us outside the “Hotel Centrale” in Mestre (pronounced May-stray) which is the nearest mainland town to Venice. Ratty scurried off into the darkness and we joined Prince Andrew and Dumpy Girlfriend in the hotel lobby.

Our joy at being free of the crazy, headlong situation comedy of the coach soon gave way to despair as we trudged the deserted streets in search of a hotel that offered a cheaper double room than the 30,000 Lira (£12.50 Sterling) charged by the tourist trap Hotel Centrale.

We were forced to desist our search after a footslog around the empty streets of the town revealed that this was indeed the cheapest we were likely to find. We booked in resignedly at 00:30 hrs. on Monday morning and settled down to an idyllic and well-deserved night’s sleep.

Bouzouki Bus

Above: The legendary Magic Bus with typical punters

Saturday 21st January 1984

Checked out of the Youth Hostel at 09:30 hrs. following a colossal draught of water to combat the desiccating effect of last night’s ouzo. We wandered down to Omonia Square lugging our baggage which we dumped in the office of Consolas Travel before continuing down to Syntagma Square for a final coffee in the sun.

We needlessly hurried back due to the time being wrong on the Consolas Travel clock which was well fast. We sat on our packs to await the coach to Venice. At 12:00 hrs. we were told to “follow me” and we joined the party jostling through the busy streets of central Athens to an opposite corner.

It would seem that little had changed since Simon Calder took the Magic Bus in 1975. He relates his experience, which was similar to ours in 1988:

That frightful week, I caught the last bus home from Athens. Buying a ticket was reassuringly tricky. You had to find a certain doorway in a side street off Syntagma Square, climb four flights of rickety stairs to a scruffy office where 1,700 drachmas changed hands. Your name was laboriously and inaccurately added to a passenger list and you were handed a scrap of paper which purported to be a ticket.

'Finally it turned up: I'd thought it would be psychedelic, but it was a just an ordinary, boring old coach.' A ropey old Bedford 53-seater, hopelessly unsuited to foreign travel, which had somehow limped from London to Greece. It was now presuming to crawl back along the E5, the European superhighway linking Syntagma Square with Parliament Square in London.

Forty-eight passengers got on. The back row of five seats was reserved for the drivers, and always occupied by a prone figure. The hot-seat changeover was the norm, with one driver taking over from the other in a bewildering manoeuvre where the main aim was to keep the accelerator flat on the floor. Stopping the coach had to be avoided whenever possible, because the starter had given up its struggle outside Zagreb.

We bundled onto the bus with all the usual commotion that is synonymous with large groups boarding a vessel with too much hand luggage. We set off and drove on to make a second pickup at 13:00 hrs. which delayed us until 13:40 hrs. when we resumed our journey.

I put on my Walkman headphones to blot out our companions, humming along to The Doors Greatest Hits as we left the dense buildings of Athens and rolled smoothly through the rounded Greek countryside. I finished reading Irvine Wallace’s “The Plot” and my batteries gave up the ghost, so for the next 30 hours (a 36-hour, 1153 miles trip!) I had nothing to distract me from the mad scenario that unfolded around us on this mobile stage.

We knew of the Greek tendency to get over excited, but this trip was well over acted. We were initially caused to be appalled by the stores accrued by our fellow passengers. Two old biddies had bags of comestibles that filled two double seats, along with two suitcases each in the boot.

Two girls to our right chain smoked avidly, ate constantly, drank frequently and had a range of medications and cosmetics that would stock a modest branch of Boots the Chemist.

Our journey is best presented in the format of a play.

The Characters

1. Reggie Weeble: a colossal overfed Greek in a trendy grey jacket who spent most of his time eating or standing in the aisle. Weebles is a range of children's roly-poly toys originating in Hasbro's Playskool division on July 23, 1971. Tipping an egg-shaped Weeble causes a weight located at the bottom-centre to be lifted off the ground. Once released, gravity brings the Weeble back into an upright position. The catchphrase "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down," was used in advertising during their rise in popularity in the 1970s.

2. Reggie’s Mum: the elephantine mother of the aforementioned barrel of lard, who was prone to exaggerated amateur dramatics. She kept giving us motherly smiles and initially tried to stitch us up with the next two characters.

3. Totem Pole: a masculine looking bird in a yellow rigout who had come prepared to withstand a siege and liked to shout and put on an exhibition.

4. Soapy Green: friend of the above. Dressed all in green - trousers, jumper and scarf. Prey to advances from Ratty. Sported huge sunglasses and adopted a trendy pose.

5. Ratty: horrendous little man, small and furry, balding, irregular teeth with a few gold ones chucked in, feral ratlike eyes which rolled back when he talked, lips that had a mind of their own when he spoke. Constant fidget and attention seeker with carrier bags full of travel brochures. Reminiscent of excitable, toned down version of the Elephant Man with a penchant for young ladies.

6. Keith Richards: Rolling Stones guitarist clone who was part-time driver and coach “housekeeper” with a fixation about maintaining the coach in pristine condition. Made himself popular by trying to ban eating on the coach! Came up to scrounge frequent fags (cigarettes) from Reggie and the girls. Thought he was “the kiddie” at international borders and tried to build up an atmosphere of sinister suspense at border crossings.

7. Auntie Bertha: Kindly looking old lady with red hair and glasses who deemed it her duty to supply the occupants of the coach with snacks and sundries. Kept us happy with chicken, crisps and sandwiches.

8. Glamour Puss: Flabby bird with exaggerated ideas of her own beauty. Her only claim to fame was a mass of brown hair which she constantly caressed and played about with. Flitted from one bloke to another and spat like a wildcat when “threatened” by other females.

9. English Kid: English mum, Greek dad. Our translator and supplier of free books and fruitcake. Fancied himself as a hard bitten marine in the future. At present a naïve schoolboy with romantic notions (bless him).

10. Joe Knowledge: Scruffy looking Greek know-all know-nothing bloke in a cheap anorak and stubble. Assured us that it never snowed in London and predicted that the coach would be delayed by fog in Italy. It wasn’t – far from it!

11. Nellie: A boisterous old Northern English woman who laughed loudly and grumbled and generally appeared to be intoxicated all the time.

Bit Parts

1. Mr Spock

2. Aloof denim-clad French bird

3. Aussie/Greek Prince Andrew lookalike and his diminutive but rounded girlfriend

4. Jim’s Mum: An avid and animated spectator to the mobile pantomime who looked like our friend Jim Bascran’s mum.

The Scene

Front end of a modern coach with blaring bouzouki music.

Between Athens and Thessaloniki there was much commotion and exuberance around us. Reggie Weeble moved from his seat where he had been wedged in with his mammoth mother in defiance of the laws of physics. They each took up a seat and a half so, together with their possessions and provisions it was a miracle how they had managed to squeeze in between the window and the outer seat arm.

Reggie settled into the vacant double seat across the aisle to our right and expanded back to his normal size, leaving just enough room for the nervously excitable Ratty to slip in on his left-hand side. Feverishly fingering his Walkman, Ratty soon got into a riotous exchange, brimming with sexual innuendo, with Totem Pole and Soapy Green.

Reggie and his mum joined in to contribute enthusiastically and before long Keith Richards was yelling his twopennyworth from the co-pilots seat (When somebody offers their opinion about something, usually to an ongoing debate, they might say " . . . that's my two pennyworth" [pronounced 'penneth']. It conveys a sort of modesty by valuing their opinion as only being worth two pence). Jim’s mum had her head craned round chortling at the riotous and lewd exchange.

They eventually calmed down but as the evening wore on the clamour was rekindled by Ratty who would utter an outrageous comment or don his Walkman and sing along loudly along with frenzied waving of his skinny forelegs (arms) as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra.

We stopped at a Roadhouse and left our new “companions” stuffing their faces to watch a burning tractor tyre outside and put away a bit of mum’s fruitcake supplied by our curly haired translator. These wholesome hunks of cake were individually wrapped in tin foil and doubtless came with a time and date on which to consume each slice on the 3-day trip to London.

Back on the coach the actors settled down for the night and we did our best to get some shut-eye on the reclining seats.

Areopagus

Above: Omonoia Square or "Concord Square", often simply referred to as Omónia is a central square in Athens.

Friday 20th January 1984

We grabbed our usual breakfast on the move as we walked down to Syntagma Square. We spent some time in a bargain record shop laughing at some pathetic album covers from little known artists, especially a lot of female singers whose virtues appeared to be wholly carnal!

Walking through the morning rush hour crowds we attracted what we considered unwarranted attention with our boots (I think they were high leg Dutch M90 Parachute Regiment Combat Boots which we had purchased from an army surplus stall in Brentford, West London as budget motorbike boots).

Fashionable extroverts and motorbikes were our chief source of amusement and many beautiful girls were a pleasant distraction. At our usual coffee stop the sun broke through the clouds for a short while and the waiter shooed away the shoe-shine boys and beggars alike. George got chatting to a bloke with a big head who luckily didn’t stay for too long.

We returned to the Flea Market and George substituted the scruffy shapeless bags that he had been wearing for some smart American police trousers, which he donned in a public toilet. We did the rounds of the stalls, amazed at the ill-temper of many of the stall owners. Surely it would be beneficial for their livelihood to be happy and courteous.

We went on to ascend Filopapou Hill, stopping midway for a coffee in a pleasant tree-circled open-air café which appeared to be the favourite haunt of the young, arty and trendy set. We passed Socrates Prison Cell, which was mostly ruined. We now know that this structure, the so-called Socrates Prison, is not where the great philosopher was imprisoned and finally executed.

Plato described Socrates's execution in his Phaedon dialogue: Socrates drank the hemlock mixture without hesitation. Numbness slowly crept into his body until it reached his heart. Shortly before his final breath, Socrates described his death as a release of the soul from the body.

The use of the rooms is yet unknown. Its cave-like structure and its proximity to the Athenian Agora must have led to the legend that the building is none other than the Prison of Socrates, or an ancient bath, as guidebooks and history books inform us. During the WWII, the structure was used to hide antiquities of the Acropolis and the National Archaeological Museum sealed up behind a thick concrete wall, in order to protect them from the systematic theft by the German looters.

We took some fine photographs of the Acropolis dominating the adjacent Areopagus, a prominent rock outcropping located northwest of the Acropolis. Its English name is the Late Latin composite form of the Greek name Areios Pagos, translated "Hill of Ares" (Ancient Greek: Ἄρειος Πάγος). In classical times, it was the location of a court, also often called the Areopagus, that tried cases of deliberate homicide, wounding and religious matters, as well as cases involving arson or olive trees.

Also called Mars Hill, it is the ancient site for the people of Athens to congregate and for speakers and orators of the day to address the public. Most importantly to Christians of the present time, this is the location where St. Paul addressed the Greeks when he was preaching in Athens during the first century.

The Filopapou Monument on the summit was an obscure relic of a once imposing building. The Philopappos Monument is an ancient Greek mausoleum and monument dedicated to Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos or Philopappus, (Greek: Γάιος Ιούλιος Αντίοχος Επιφανής Φιλόπαππος, 65–116 AD), a prince from the Kingdom of Commagene. It is located on Mouseion Hill in Athens, Greece, southwest of the Acropolis.

We wandered about the remains and I struck up an Eros pose on an unadorned plinth for a light-hearted photograph. We could see the sea, acres of white buildings and the observatory on the lower slopes. The National Observatory of Athens (NOA; Greek: Εθνικό Αστεροσκοπείο Αθηνών) is a research institute in Athens, Greece. Founded in 1842, it is the oldest research foundation in Greece, as it was the first scientific research institute built after Greece became independent in 1829, and one of the oldest research institutes in Southern Europe.

We walked back up Apostolou Pavlov Street, across the Flea Market and straight up Eolou, arriving back at the Youth Hostel at 16:15 hrs. The official siesta was still in force, so we were denied any food by virtue of the fact that all the shops were shut until 17:30 hrs.

Our Walkman’s filled the gap, music being the food of love. As we lay on our backs our stifled senses still took in the gallivanting about of the Greek occupant of our room. Although he never seemed to go out, he was constantly changing his clothes and grooming his hair none-the-less (Greek Care in the Community?).

At 17:30 hrs. we hit the supermarket and got “solid” on mammoth bread rolls stuffed with luncheon meat and beef tomatoes. We stayed in the cold Youth Hostel summer dining area writing our daily logs and remarking on the miserable faces of the family shoppers and shop assistants in the supermarket. Is life such an ordeal?

Back in the dormitory I mixed my bottle of Ouzo 12 50:50 with water in my water bottle. Resultant inebriation from frequent swigs made for a giggly tour of the cheapo shops around Omonia Square.

Omonoia Square or "Concord Square", often simply referred to as Omónia is a central square in Athens. Forming the centre of Omonoia. It marks the northern corner of the downtown area defined by the city plans of the 19th century and is one of the city's principal traffic hubs. It is served by Omonoia train station.

Omonoia Square is one of the oldest squares in the city of Athens and an important shopping centre. It is located at the centre of the city at the intersection of six main streets: Panepistimiou, Stadiou, Athinas, Peiraios, Agiou Konstantinou Street and 3rd Septemvriou Street.

We sat down at an outside table to watch the world go by. A seedy ugly ape-man in an ill-fitting off-the-peg suit came over and began pimping near us. “You want a little girl”? he asked men passing by.

Excited youths in military uniforms were going on leave, jabbering excitedly as they lugged their suitcases along. A waiter brought out some oily black coffee which we dawdled over before strolling back to the Youth Hostel.

Acropolis

Thursday 19th January 1984

We laid in until 10:00 hrs. before finishing the remainder of last night’s snack and packing our bags. It was a bit warmer today and we made our way to Syntagma Square for morning coffee. The sun glinted off the fountain as we sat in the usual spot, served by a waiter who knew us. We repelled the impudent shoeshine boys and tried to ignore the blaring tannoy and the chanting, fist waving political demonstration going on.

We continued our slog up to the official International Youth Hostel, jostling through the crowded streets who seemed to dawdle and falter without warning. We got to the hostel ten minutes before it reopened at 13:00 hrs. and booked in.

It was a pleasant roomy building which appeared to be purpose build and laid out according to IYHA standards. The fat, amiable warden saw us alright with a generous blanket allocation and we made up our beds with our sheet sleeping bags before moving out. Our dormitory had a small balcony overlooking the street.

We had a meagre lunch on a bench in Areos Park before steaming back southwards for a final look at the Flea Market. The Pedion tou Areos or Pedion Areos, meaning Field of Ares, corresponding to the French Champ de Mars and the ancient Campus Martius, is one of the largest public parks in Athens.

The park was designed in 1934 and its purpose was to honour the heroes of the Greek Revolution of 1821, 21 of whom are depicted in marble busts standing in the park. The initial plan included the construction of a "Pantheon" for the revolutionaries and also a major Christian Temple, dedicated to the Greek Independence.

At the Flea Market George found a reasonable pair of trousers but the old bastard on the stall wanted a “king’s ransom” for them. We found ourselves in Syntagma Square again, so we went into the Phivos Café for a coffee.

Our intention was to revisit the Acropolis but there appeared only one access route and all of our shortcuts were thwarted. We went on to finally reach the Acropolis just as it was closing for the evening. We discovered that a 150 Drachma toll was charged every day except for Sundays and Bank Holidays.

We sat and watched the sun go down behind Filopapous Hill. Again, there was a choice of spellings for this landmark. The Hill and Monument of Filopappou in Athens: Filopappou (or Philopappou) Hill is a green area to the southwest of the Acropolis. It is a favourite promenade of the Athenians and there you can have great views of the Acropolis, the whole city of Athens and the Aegean Sea that surrounds Attica. We took a few photographs and ogled the attractive girl on our left.

We headed back at dusk, walking up the main drag of Athens, which was reminiscent of London streets such as Oxford Street at night. We popped into a couple of record shops and back in Kipselis we bought some component food for supper.

George was intercepted as he entered the Youth Hostel and was diverted to a downstairs table outside where I joined him after a search for a purveyor of bread. After scoffing as many cheese sandwiches as I could, we returned to our dormitory where another Greek newspaper collector was already in bed. I had a much-needed shower and an early night.

Lycabettus

Wednesday 18th January 1984

Sometime during the night Michael packed his bags and did a moonlight flit. Only his towel and a box of cookies gave testament to his ever being there. He probably flew home to America, his best recourse in view of his out-and-out uselessness. Frenchie also packed his bags and moved out leaving Cat Stevens lookalike Zorba the Junkie to keep lonely vigil on the dimly lit dormitory.

After the usual breakfast we sauntered down to Syntagma Square for coffee in the sun. Several Chinese tourists were feverishly photographing each other with the backdrop of the central fountain. We read about British domination of the American music industry and toyed with the idea of becoming pop stars ourselves!

We moved on to explore St George's Church on the high point at Likavitos (as written in my log). Mount Lycabettus, also known as Lycabettos, Lykabettos or Lykavittos is a Cretaceous limestone hill which is 300 meters (908 feet) above sea level. Its summit is the highest point in Athens and pine trees cover its base. The name also refers to the residential neighbourhood immediately below the east of the hill. The hill is a tourist destination and on its two peaks are the 19th century Chapel of St. George, a theatre, and a restaurant.

We walked easily up the winding stepped slope passing hundreds of policemen who appeared to be on a day out. The summit of the hill gave us a superb view of the sprawl of white buildings of Athens which spread away in every direction. A huge Greek national flag rolled lazily in the gentle breeze as we settled down for a coffee in an open-air café with a superb panoramic view.

Back at ground level we visited the War Museum on Vassilissis Sofias Avenue. The Athens War Museum established on July 18, 1975, is the museum of the Greek Armed Forces. Its purpose is the exhibition of weapon artifacts and the relevant research in the history of war. It covers the history of war in all ages, but offered little to hold our attention, especially as all the information boards were written in Greek.

We gave the newspaper kiosks the once over as we made our way back to view Hadrian’s which was probably built to celebrate the adventus (arrival) of the Roman emperor Hadrian and to honour him for his many benefactions to the city, on the occasion of the dedication of the nearby temple complex in 131 or 132 AD.

The Arch of Hadrian, most commonly known in Greek as Hadrian's Gate, is a monumental gateway resembling, in some respects, a Roman triumphal arch. It spanned an ancient road from the centre of Athens, Greece, to the complex of structures on the eastern side of the city that included the Temple of Olympian Zeus.

The Temple of Olympian Zeus, also known as the Olympieion or Columns of the Olympian Zeus, is a former colossal temple at the centre of the Athens. It was dedicated to "Olympian" Zeus, a name originating from his position as head of the Olympian gods.

Construction began in the 6th century BC during the rule of the Athenian tyrants, who envisaged building the greatest temple in the ancient world, but it was not completed until the reign of the Roman Emperor Hadrian in the 2nd century AD, some 638 years after the project had begun. During the Roman period the temple, which included 104 colossal columns, was renowned as the largest temple in Greece and housed one of the largest cult statues in the ancient world.

The temple's glory was short-lived, as it fell into disuse after being pillaged during a barbarian invasion in 267 AD, just about a century after its completion. It was probably never repaired and was reduced to ruins thereafter. In the centuries after the fall of the Roman Empire, it was extensively quarried for building materials to supply building projects elsewhere in the city. Despite that, a substantial part of the temple remains today, notably sixteen of the original gigantic columns, and it continues to be part of a very important archaeological site of Greece.

For some reason the Temple, a collection of pillars, had a 30 Drachma entrance fee, but was closed at the present. We were now tired of trudging around sightseeing and after briefly watching a few half-hearted young athletes at the colossal Athens Stadium, we returned to the hostel for a siesta at 16:00 hrs.

We had the dormitory to ourselves, so we utilised our Walkman’s with the speakers after a brief snooze. Zorba the Junkie returned, presumably from a Cat Stevens lookalike job, and climbed straight into bed so we vacated and wandered the cold night streets of Athens.

“The boys” were out in force, engines gunning and tyres squealing. Most of the were on Honda 50 step-throughs but the real “kiddies” were in cars and seemed hellbent on eradicating the elderly. We saw one old boy struck by a young pup with a carload of cronies, but luckily it didn’t seem too serious. The old boy had a limp, but his wits were about him, and he soon had plenty of witnesses to verify that the upstart was speeding and driving on the wrong side of the road in an attempt to overtake a van.

We ended up in the Alex Burger for a coffee before returning to the hostel via a supermarket. We sat in the hall and tucked into bread rolls stuffed with luncheon meat and washed down with milk as a Greek bird dithered about before moving into the bathroom on a long-term basis at 22:30 hrs.

Zorba the Junkie went out on a nocturnal mission, so we moved back into the dormitory. I listened to Siouxsie and The Banshees Greatest Hits through headphones on my Walkman before going to sleep.

Patissia

Tuesday 17th January 1984

Luckily Micheal, the hapless Yank, had already gone out when we got up at 10:00 hrs. so we were free of an expected burden. We steamed down to Syntagma Square and completed our postcards in the fresh morning air over a coffee. We sent people a new post restante address in Paris for our final mail pickup.

Next, we booked up a Magic Bus to Venice for Saturday 21st January 1984 at a cost of $30 US dollars (3,000 Drachma) and I tried to get rid of my Iranian Rials in the Bank of Iran. Even they would have none of it, what a poxy worthless currency.

We had also picked up the European Youth Hostels Handbook and walked up Patisson to book bed space for Thursday and Friday night. Patission Street connects the area known as Patissia with Omonoia Square in the centre of Athens.

As usual the diversity of motorcycles on the streets attracted our attention as well as the wide spectrum of magazines on display at the many newsagent booths. We passed the bus office at 100 Eolou, next to the Post Office, where we would pick up the coach at 11:00 hrs. on Saturday.

Eolou became Patission which in turn became 28 Octovriou as we trudged along. The shops were now closed for the afternoon siesta. We passed Areos Park (Pedion tou Areos or Pedion Areos) which is one of the largest public parks in Athens, Greece. It is also the name of the wider neighbourhood.

We continued passed an open-air swimming pool and finally reached the official International Youth Hostel at 57 Kipselis. The warden told us that there was no need to book in advance, so we slouched back to the hostel where we were currently staying.

Earlier this morning we also did some further exploration of the Flea Market at Monastiraki by the subway station, outside of which there were fruit sellers. As it was so cold and likely to get colder, I invested in a USAF field jacket which was a snip at 500 Drachma after a bit of bartering.

We had coffee in a sunny square and “did a runner” after failing to find anybody to pay. We looked at a copy of LAM magazine which we picked up at the Magic Bus Travel Company office on Filellinon, and ideas for future trips blossomed as we scanned the possibilities. LAM magazine was aimed at travellers and backpackers in London and was available for free from dispensers on the streets of the capital, generally at London Underground Stations.

We gorged on bread rolls with pork luncheon meat, milk and Monster Munch (a baked corn snack, manufactured by Walkers in the UK) before re-entering the dormitory. Zorba the Junkie, who looked like Cat Stevens, got the needle when we turned the light on despite the fact that he was poring over his newspaper collection.

Michael looked relieved to see us, sitting up in his bed to pour out his troubles. Despite taking a taxi and possessing a marked city map he had failed to find the International Youth Hostel HQ. He blamed it on his lack of Greek language ability, but it was more a case of lack of common sense.

As he continued, almost to the point of tears, we realised how useless he was. Incapable of the simplest task he had resigned himself to a day in bed. “Where are the bars”? he asked as Frenchie began to tune up his guitar. We told him we didn’t know as we had been in any, but I suspect he thought that we were lying.

He got up and went out to see for himself and we bumped into him as we walked along Imitou. He reported failure to find any bars although we were standing outside one and could point out several more in close proximity. Presumably, his mark of a bar was a Budweiser sign in the window. He made to join us, dithered, then copped out as we walked decisively away down a side street. Hopefully, his trip to Europe taught him some life lessons and he returned to the States a better man.

We settled in a pizza café for Nescafé and wrote our daily logs as locals watched a sub-titled American situation comedy on the television. As we walked around town these last few days, we seem to have attracted the amorous stares of young Greek girls. We concluded that they must fancy a rougher looking breed than their fashion-conscious male counterparts as we look like a couple of soldiers of fortune fallen on bad times!

Another useless wretch that we encountered today was a local shopkeeper who took ages to add up our bill, got it wrong and then bowed, cringed and whimpered as he sought to rectify the situation. The buying of a few items which should have been a quick, simple transaction, was thus spun out for about ten minutes.

There seemed to be an unusually high number of old BMW motorcycles about on the streets of Athens. On our way back we popped into a record shop and had an absorbing rummage through the albums and singles on offer. It is good to see unusual foreign issues and records by little known British groups, but frustrating as 12-inch vinyl disks are not the most portable items for the budget traveller.

Back at the dormitory Michael was back in bed and so was Frenchie. Zorba the Junkie was out on his nocturnal foraging. Without further ado we hit the sack.