37 Athenon doesn’t exist any more
After the subway and the team from downtown to Glyphada I saw nothing familiar. I was looking for the house I lived in from 1963-1969, not that far from the town square and the harbor, a trip we made almost daily. Swimming off the end of the breakwater, buying bread at the charcoal fired bakery, fruit and vegetables at the farmers market. Now it was all tall buildings.
My good friend John had made the trip with me, as he is always up for an adventure.
He stopped walking and said, “We need to ask a taxi driver. They know the streets.” In a minute we found a taxi stand with three Greek taxi drivers my age. They passed around the paper on which I had written 37 Athenon. Finally one said, “They changed the street to Papandreu. Right that way turn left at second traffic light. Look for the number.”
In a few minutes I was standing in front of this house. The other houses in the neighborhood had been replaced as well.
The olive trees are the same, but the rest is gone; the fruit trees, the neighbors, the field I flew my first model airplane in, the kids across the street who seemed to spend their lives with a soccer ball always in motion.
The harbor is there but much changed.
The water is still sparkling.
Perhaps you can’t go home again after all. They only live in memory.
We rejoined our group in time for this yet another Greek meal.