{"id":188,"date":"2026-06-18T10:54:48","date_gmt":"2026-06-18T14:54:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/?p=188"},"modified":"2026-06-18T14:52:04","modified_gmt":"2026-06-18T18:52:04","slug":"new-jerseyan-in-athens","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/new-jerseyan-in-athens\/","title":{"rendered":"A New Jerseyan in Athens"},"content":{"rendered":"

On my sixth morning in Athens, a Saturday, I woke and dressed in synthetic clothing<\/span>, preparing to roar with strangers more closely descended from chimeras than I at my gym\u2019s cross training class. <\/span><\/p>\n

That night, I would go to the theater with my classmates \u2013 this I knew, but as for the hours in between, only time would tell.<\/span><\/p>\n

According to my mental calendar, I had now lived in this city for one point five years (meaning I say things like \u201cmy gym\u201d) \u2013 but in reality, it had been a mere six days. <\/span><\/p>\n

On Monday, the first of these days, I landed at 7:30am, and did what any Central New Jerseyan would do upon arriving to the Mediterranean: I went to the beach.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Beach:<\/span><\/p>\n

My chosen patch of sand at Zen Beach Club, was, unfortunately, right in the crossfire of two children playing volleyball, a pastime that was certainly new to them, judging by their aim, which resembled that of two people with vertigo. Coming up short on the \u201czen\u201d end, at least there was a beach.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

In the bathroom, where I\u2019d gone to check on my sunburn, I heard an unlikely voice, the words, \u201cHello beautiful girl!\u201d Grossly fried and terrifically underslept, it was an unconvincing lie, but I appreciated the stranger\u2019s charity.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

By the time I knew where Nora was from \u2013 Bali \u2013 and how many kids she had \u2013 one daughter, still in Indonesia \u2013 I thought it fitting to shake her hand, but when I reached out to do so, I discovered such pleasantries rendered difficult by a yellow rubber glove, one which swallowed her tiny arm whole. I found her ungloved left hand and shook it awkwardly, deeming this better than conceding the impossibility of physical contact.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

If I had to guess \u2013 though I am famously useless at this game \u2013 I would put Nora somewhere between an old thirty and a young forty. She had been in Athens three years, sending home remittances. There were many Indonesians in Athens, who, like her, had secured seasonal work through an Indonesian agency which took a big cut from them, but Nora was not here to be social. She was here to work, and then get back home to her life. After she\u2019d used all the English she knew, I bid Nora farewell, and she went to clean the next toilet.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Pagrati:<\/span><\/p>\n

Chelsea Hotel, the cafe of which I am already a devotee, unfolds onto Pagrati\u2019s sidewalk in an eclectic mix of metal chairs and colorful woven cushions. Populating them are skinny old men eating nuts one at a time, as if consuming each one requires immense effort. They wear brown leather shoes. Several days in a row, I’ve seen a British woman on her own, sporting a tuft of white hair swept to one side so as to resemble a cockatoo. She is an English teacher, which I know because a posse of her tweeny students, dressed in crop tops and tapered joggers, are also regulars, and I overhear them chatting about upcoming exams and summer vacations. The teacher\u2019s presence does nothing to scare away the tweens\u2019 rigorous vaping practice. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

One day I asked Fiona, the foxy waitress with the full lips and ambitious blowout, what time the cafe closes. First she said 3am, and then she thought some more, and said \u201cEh, we don\u2019t really close.\u201d On Google Maps, the hours are, indeed, listed as 24\/day. Fiona tells me that young people particularly like it here \u2013 the cafe, the neighborhood \u2013 and that there are many old people living here too, who appreciate having the young around, and the young, too, are happier for the presence of the old.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

The Gym:<\/span><\/p>\n

Alter Life seemed like the most appropriate choice of gym, as it was the only result of my Google search not presenting itself as a single buff bald man with some dumbbells and a yoga ball, welcoming you to come exercise on the top floor of his souvlaki shop.<\/span><\/p>\n

Alter Life is populated by many buff bald men, not just the one. There are men with hair, too, and with it they\u2019ve done bold things, like shaving a lightning bolt in one case. Alter Life could very well be in New Jersey, though the people here are fitter, and the women, instead of doing micro movements on a mat (pilates), squat beneath some amount of weight identifiable to me as <\/span>that of a<\/span> small car.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Exarchia:<\/span><\/p>\n

There is something inherently apolitical about a European farmers market. In the States, they\u2019ve been co-opted by Bo-Bos (bourgeois bohemians) as places to take naturally-birthed children for cruelty-free kombucha and grass-fed bone broth marshmallows. \"\"<\/span>In Europe, farmers markets are just happy places to buy zucchini from other people\u2019s grandpas. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

The farmers market felt like the most normal thing about Exarchia, the only few hours of the week where one might honestly mistake their surroundings for Provence. And then, a pierced passer-outer handed me my first flyer, decrying the war in Gaza.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

In the bathroom of the trendy cafe I went to \"\"next, someone had written \u201cNO NAZI GRAFFITI,\u201d to which a response arrived: \u201cYea, but what if it’s the old version?\u201d Another wrote: \u201cFuck Israelis.\u201d Then “Israelis” got crossed out, replaced with \u201cNetanyahu.\u201d Below it, rewritten, was \u201cIsraelis.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Back out in front of the cafe, hot young people sunned themselves. One read Camus’ <\/span>The Stranger, <\/span>and several ate the sugar free, gluten free, vegan banana bread, advertised by the cafe as \u201cnot baked, designed<\/em>.\u201d The confluence of politics and trend perplexes me here, as always.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My last stop in Exarchia was Mrs. Dalloway\u2019s, a \u201cconcept store,\u201d selling \u201cgifts,\u201d the worker explained. I spotted a mug that said \u201cThe World Needs More Women Like You,\u201d a tote that read \u201cMy Baggage,\u201d and a vase, sold for 59 euros, covered all over with the word \u201cFUCK.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The name of the literally blue-haired woman manning the shop was Athanasia, meaning \u201cimmortality,\u201d and when I asked her how Exarchia has changed, I hoped she would deliver a spiteful answer about how shops like the one that employs her have found ways to profit off of politics in the tragic kitschification of anarchism. Instead, she said that Exarchia is \u201ca relatively affordable neighborhood with handmade products and high quality food.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Kolonaki:<\/span><\/p>\n

In Kolonaki, the poshest neighborhood in town, I found emaciated middle-aged women in ass-hugging bellbottom jeans smoking cigarettes next to their fat Massimo Dutti-clad husbands downing croissants. I heard a lot of Hebrew. The flyer the students gave me in Exarchia read, \u201cWe take action so that Exarchia remains an unfriendly place for IDF soldiers and their supporters.\u201d So they came to Kolonaki instead? Down the street, in Zara, I contemplated a bifurcated city.<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

Pride:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

There is only one thing to do upon hearing Shakira\u2019s voice, and that is, to follow it. In the central Syntagma Square, I got lost in a sea of rainbow flags, drag queens, and Eastern European uncles sporting tracksuits and crimson haired wives. Suddenly, the city seemed wholly united. Plunked down on some garbage covered grass, sandwiched between an uncle and a queen, I broke open a Magnum bar that had been handed to me \u2013 and everyone else at Pride \u2013 for free. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n

Theater:\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The evening’s production of <\/span>Lysistrata <\/span>took place at the 5,000-seat <\/span>Odeon of Herodes Atticus <\/span>amphitheater, built entirely of stone before AD 161. On the stage’s center stood a gaping vagina, out of which a cast of performers emerged, pelvic thrusting, in a storm of sequins and tulle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\" \"\"<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

More soon!<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

On my sixth morning in Athens, a Saturday, I woke and dressed in synthetic clothing, preparing to roar with strangers more closely descended from chimeras than I at my gym\u2019s cross training class. That night, I would go to the theater with my classmates \u2013 this I knew, but as for the hours in between, … Continue reading A New Jerseyan in Athens<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7885,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-188","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/188","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/7885"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=188"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/188\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":205,"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/188\/revisions\/205"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=188"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=188"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/commons.princeton.edu\/jrn350-su26\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=188"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}