I’m not one of those day by day, recap of every excruciating detail of my travels kind of girl. I hate that as much as I hate looking at someone else’s vacation photos where they tell you every single detail from over your shoulder (“Cousin Bob was just outside this shot, it was so funny, he was tying his shoe!”) God damn is that boring. So this will be a bit unconventional.
First. Borf is alive and well in Athens.
That sign behind shows how you would spell “Athens” or as it is known in Greece, “Athina.” The letter after the “A” is the Theta, so that stands in for the “th” part. And the “H” is really an “I.” Fucking confusing. Just use the regular alphabet you damn Greeks. Turkey does. (Oops. My grandparents just rolled over in their graves.) Anyway, here’s another:
Borf made it to the Plaka district of Athens. Well done.
Second, look at this kid. It was very hard to get these pictures. We were in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. My brother and I saw him and had this conversation about how people predispose their kids to being gay when they dress them like this.
It’s a boy by the way. In a sleeveless nipple shirt, short shorts and sandals. Jesus Christ.
Sorry they are so blurry, but when you are stalking a kid through a museum in a foreign country to take a picture of him, you sort of feel like a pedophile and you just want to get the hell out of dodge as fast as you can. Trust me. You don’t want to find yourself in a Greek jail having to explain yourself, because there is just no translation for “I have a blog in the United States and I want to post his picture on it so we can play gay or European!”
Third, here’s the Acropolis. Sorry about the scaffolding. They’re trying to save it or some crap.
That’s Athens. I was told it was a two-day city. I was told correctly. After five days there, we were ready to leave. I was thinking in my head, “If the islands don’t shape up any better, I’ll renounce my heritage and become Italian and somehow investigate changing the big old honking Greek Flag tattoo on my back.” The next morning, my brother announces at breakfast:
“If the islands aren’t nicer than this shit pit, I’m going to become Italian.” I wondered if I said that out loud or if we had just spent too much time in a hotel room together at this point.
Finally, I learned that in Athens, picking your nose in public is not disgusting. I saw shopkeepers, moped riders, pedestrians, cabbies – all with finger jammed in nose, digging for gold. I’m going to give this a test run in Dupont. I’ll let you know how it works out for me.