A(nother) Stroll Through the Agora

“Say, you guys going back to the Agora today?” The day before they kicked us out after not more than an hour because apparently keeping the Agora open past 3 is too much to ask.

“Yeah, we’re leaving right now. You can come if you want.” She quickly stuffed a notebook in her purse and stood.

“Perfect, mind if I run up and grab a different pair of shoes?”

She turned and looked at me. And the face I saw was not the face of the friend I knew and loved. The fire of Athena burned in her eyes. I knew that no delay would be tolerated.

So, with only rubber flip-flops on my feet (shoes, wallet, and camera all safely tucked away in my room on the fourth floor) I struggled to keep up with these two apprentices of classical Greece, my mere mortal means of transportation no match for the invisible mythical force compelling them heedlessly forward.

Soon we were back at that famous center of Ancient Greek commerce, once a bustling outdoor marketplace dotted with various government and commercial buildings, now a maze of pathways between stone ruins and overgrown vegetation. As we reached and slowly circled the Temple of Hephaestus, I couldn’t help but admire the solemn grace of this building so well preserved after thousands of years. However, my appreciation was totally insignificant, I was but a Philistine next to these two religious pilgrims, enraptured by the temple’s very presence, who spoke with tongues of fire the language of the gods:

“I’ve been thinking of something looking at the διάζωμα. Why aren’t temples more specific to the specific gods? You’d think the temple of Ήφαιστος would have more metal.”

“Good point. Why the κένταυρος διάζωμα? What do κένταυρος have to do with Ήφαιστος?”

Unable to contribute anything intelligent, I could only listen to their inspired speech and try to pick out a word I recognized now and then, for what I could understand brought so much insight and drama to these ruins which otherwise seem only a stack of very old rocks.

Eventually we found ourselves before the city jail--the very same jail where Socrates---the Socrates--was held and executed for "corrupting the minds of the youth" when in reality he was simply inspiring them to think for the first time. What agony, what aggravation my companions were driven to in being resigned only to gaze at this spot so sacred to them, their desire to stand on, to touch the same soil as Socrates thwarted by a single sentinel rope. How ironic it seemed to me that at that very moment a grimy landscaper wielding a whining weed eater stepped over the barrier and shuffled indifferently across this holy ground, crudely buzzing at patches of foliage seemingly at random before moving on without a second glance, leaving the grass seemingly more haggard than when he entered.

At this point it was time for me to make my exit, for I hadn’t made the necessary preparations to stay out longer. I left the two disciples of ancient Greece to their mythological journey and wandered alone down the stony paths towards the exit. A thought drifted across my mind: Why not leave with a souvenir? A piece of the hallowed ground itself? Wouldn’t it be something to give that to someone when I got back? A rock from the Ancient Agora, perhaps touched by Socrates himself? Yes, indeed it would.

I waited for a clearing and discreetly snatched one of the sacred stones. Wasn’t I clever? But as I looked down at it in my palm, its glow slowly faded until all I held was a rock like any other. Removed from its home, this was no longer a part of the Agora at all, it might as well have come from my front yard. There was no magic left. I walked a few paces. I stopped. Finally, disenchanted, I tossed it back to the ground. Immediately it regained its splendor, shining with the rest of them. It seems I couldn’t take the Agora with me.

But there will always be the rocks in my front yard.