Η Ακρόπολη

The Acropolis.

It’s always there.

Looking down on the city

as if from Mt. Olympus.

The crown jewel.

We’d saved it for the last day.

But lying in bed before sunrise, Pa and I retraced our walk from the Archaeological Museum the afternoon before. We’d chosen a different route for the return home. Just to see.

It was a post-apocalyptic walk. Buildings in decay, crumbling, providing refuge for addicts, prostitutes, the mentally ill and the homeless. Out of respect, we took no photos.

Had the long economic downturn caused it, or were the roots much deeper?

Could they be traced back to the earliest years of capitalism - or even before?

To the time when family and village somehow morphed into patriarchy, hierarchy, and the differentiation of classes.

But the sun rose, and we drew back the curtains,

and recalled a wonderful sentiment by Monica Baldwin . . .

The moment you first wake is the most wonderful of the twenty-four hours. No matter how weary, there is the possibility that anything may happen.

Determined to beat the crowd, for there is a crowd even in February, we set out on a search for beauty, however it might manifest.

But even though we were in the “nice neighborhood,” the one safe for tourists, we occasionally stepped back to the afternoon before.

Staying focused, however, we thought of Ann Frank

who somehow remained focused the entirety of her young life.

I don’t think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.

So we continued,

taking the back way,

delighting in the journey.

After a time, that seemed without time, we were there.

And heard the whisper of Abraham Heschel - scholar, mystic, peace activist -

who at that end of his life was asked what he’d hoped for.

To which the good rabbi replied:

Never once in my life did I ask God for success or wisdom or power or fame. I asked for wonder, and he gave it to me.

And we wandered about,

not caring to study the history of the place, for that could come later.

Just to be there,

that was enough.

I don’t know if Simone Weil,

the young French philosopher who died of starvation in protest of the Nazis, ever visited the Acropolis.

But I’d like to believe that, though knowing well its tainted history, she would have appreciated its beauty nevertheless.

Everything beautiful has a mark of eternity.