Let the record show that I’m writing a series of travel posts not to say LOOK AT ME! I can get on the jet plane and go to faraway places, so suck it! but instead to share a little bit of my extreme and overwhelming joy. And also to avoid forgetting the important details of a trip like this one, because let’s face it, people, I’m old and only shaved one leg this morning. I hope you enjoy. The posts, not the unshaven leg.

Also, happy birthday, Dad. I miss you so much. I’m also full of hope that Paul Newman has been assigned to your dinner table.

Day 1. Athens.

I’m immediately struck that the ruins and monuments are just a regular part of the city, like sidewalks and street lamps, simply woven into the landscape. Our guide notes that metro building in Athens is delayed because of the regular unearthing of ruins, and points out the remains of Roman baths to our right. And there they are, stones below street level clearly outlining what once were rooms, located beneath the surface of this bustling city. They’re flanked by bus stops and ATMs and people on cell phones simply going about their days as if it’s all simply not there. It’s a far cry from DC, where all of our monuments are given a three-mile wide berth and are encircled by a gazillion American flags and more acres of sod and possibly even more carts peddling hot dogs and pink FBI hats.

We stop first at the site of the first modern Olympics, and I feel a little bit sad for the stadium, because while it is a worthwhile venue in its own right, it’s unfortunately the Opening Band. We snap obligatory photos and wonder when we’ll get to the real deal, the big guns, the Springsteen of the group. It’s a pretty good tease, of course, as beyond the stadium entrance and streetcar cables and cars seemingly parked on every last available inch of street, the Acropolis is well within view. I turn my back on the stadium and take a picture of the towering structures in the distance. I feel a pang of guilt.

Within a half an hour our tour group is unloaded at the park entrance, an unassuming spot that seems to be forty to fifty miles below any visible stone. I contemplate faking a cramp in the heat. I may or may not be biting my nails with excitement and am impatient that I have to wait while staff rip individual tickets. There is no gift shop or drink stand within sight, but elderly women are selling linens. I don’t see anyone buying. Stray dogs dot the park entrance. They’re all lying on their sides and seem exhausted and pitiful. It’s a carnival of mange, and the animal lover inside me wants to sneak at least a couple onto the bus, to what end I have no idea. I ignore them and feel more guilt.

One by one, we enthusiastically make the trek up the winding path and the endless stairs and come to the ruins. The site is overwhelming, as are the throngs of people posing and climbing and stopping inappropriately on the walkways. The entire grounds are simply immense; I can only imagine what it looks like when a dark cloud isn’t putting a cap on all available sky. Without much thought, I tweet that I’m at the Parthenon, quite possibly including multiple exclamation marks in the transmission, and I’m simultaneously disgusted and struck by the ability to do so. We fiddle anxiously as our tour guide tells us something about Greeks and inscriptions and friezes, and I doubt any of us hears all that much of it, because we’re a bunch of seniors waiting for the bell to ring. I study a steady stream of ants, some carrying objects twice their size, until the first on the train disappear beneath a massive grouping of broken stones. The parallels are lost on me.

Set free for 45 minutes, we are like children on a first trip to the ball park. We scale (appropriately) and we pose and we study some angles for minutes without exchanging a word between us. We make our way up the walkway on the Parthenon’s north side and I see a cat among the stones. I’m immediately captivated, important historical distractions be damned, and I follow it for minutes as it stalks a dove. I care not that the globe will know I’m on the verge of becoming a cat woman who watches the Joy Luck Club like it’s her job; I instead consider Athens lucky I didn’t wear my bedazzled Christmas vest that afternoon.

My sister and I note that at first glance the Acropolis is unbelievably intact, not only in the columns and stones themselves but in their detail. Only later do we see major surgery being performed on the south side, the face essentially turned away from the camera. The wound is a very large one, and at least one massive crane and a complex network of scaffolding protrude from its side. The tour guide tells us they’re taking all the original stones down. They’ll be putting them in a museum to preserve them and replacing the originals with replicas. The plan sounds incredibly disappointing, and I’m once again glad that I didn’t wait for another year, and more specifically an eventual honeymoon, to make this trip.

It isn’t lost on either of us that we have to remove the cameras from our cheeks and scatter my father’s ashes. My sister and I agree that we like the ruins of the Erechtheum best, and for once acting as two adults not one of us giggles at this. It’s an absolutely beautiful structure, and I find myself wishing my zoom could get me closer to the Porch of the Maidens. Though small in stature when compared to the rest of the site, each separate sculpture is absolutely majestic. We settle on two stones to the east. Dad always wanted to live in a city, so we make sure he’s got a good view from this new vantage point. And without considerable fanfare but with substantial fear of the park overlords, I open the Target prescription bottle and scatter his ashes among the stones. Little bits of pale bone blend in perfectly as they fall to the pebbles of rubble below. We aren’t arrested and no ashes blow back into our eyes or mouths, and I don’t break into a cascade of tears as I’m prone to doing, and we therefore consider the event an overwhelming success.

Time’s up. In a steady stream, we return to the bus on time and just as the storm cloud finally breaks. The group talks little of history on the ride back to the port. I neurotically scan through my dozens of pictures and listen to the guide discussing our upcoming election. She says their media coverage of the process is considerable and that most Greeks are tiring of it. She wonders if we are too, and I note that at least the first four rows of the bus answer in the affirmative. I resist the urge to tweet this development. I see only one Starbucks in the entire city before we return to the ship and estimate at least a 1:5 coffee megastore to historical site ratio in the city. This pleases me greatly.