An Evening in Athens

The juxtaposition is jarring: totally distinct and completely incompatible images flung together in a strange pastiche transcending time and place. Sometimes it’s east side L.A., murals of graffiti sprawling across every conceivable ledge, wall, door, or window. Sometimes it's an old-world main street, winding rows of quaint shops housing their keepers upstairs, vendors wandering the marble sidewalks in search of someone who will buy a rose, a whistle, a balloon. Sometimes it borders on the third world: dark narrow alleyways hiding who knows who or what, stray dogs roaming aimlessly or lazily curled up in a corner. The architecture can’t seem to make up its mind just how old it wants to be, the ruins of some archaic temple neighboring houses built 2 thousand years later. Yet somehow a noble serenity pervades this ancient city in spite of careening traffic and political uproar. And as I walk, stop, run, change directions, walk again, turn around in these narrow dingy streets--crowded at first, but soon deserted as a few drops turns to light drizzle turns to rain--I can’t help but periodically glance at the brilliantly lit Parthenon on the nearby hilltop just to make sure it’s really there.