Sofia Costa

Athens is hot concrete with a temple on top. My first night I sat in Plaka and looked up at the Acropolis, lit gold above the rooftops, and decided to be at the gate when it opened. I was. The marble was cool, the light came in sideways, and for twenty minutes the Parthenon was mostly mine and the swallows'.

The rest of the city is better than its reputation. The Central Market at dawn is figs, feta, ice and shouting. Exarcheia has murals painted over murals, and a small bar where loose jazz played under a tired fan. At night I went back to Plaka for rembetiko, the old songs of the port towns. Athens grows on you. Mostly through the soles of your feet.