The days are different from the nights.

Daytimes, you will spend exploring the antiquities. You will experience both awe and disappointment, fulfillment and confusion. This is fitting. The necklace you wear always, with the Celtic triskele? You will see that design on a Mycenaean jar and you will understand that all is, truly, one. You will stand in the house of Atreus -- you will stand in the house of Atreus -- and you will consider your professor's exhortation to know that just because a thing is fiction that does not mean it isn't true.

For your first two nights, your jet lag and ignorance will hold you to lackluster neighborhoods and both epicurean and existential failures.

On your third night, ask the tour guide to drop you off a ways from your hotel. You intend to find a particular restaurant recommended by your book.

You will fail at this, too. But you will do better.

Stumble across a street vendor. He is roasting corn and chestnuts. Buy both. Four euro: a bargain. Sit in the square and eat them, looking at the crowds of people out for a good Saturday night and the floodlit Acropolis. Pet some street dogs. Public dogs: this is a fine idea that Athens has.

Try to find your restaurant. Fail. But near where you think it ought to be, you will find another place. On an alley populated by stray cats there is a taverna. Its tables occupy both sides of the alley, and both pedestrians and vehicles meander between. This place has an awning and inside is red paint, artwork of cats, Greek fiddle playing on the stereo, a man blatantly disregarding smoking regulations. There are Greek speakers who are plainly regulars: the staff are smoking with them. Examine the menu. It is in English but the worst English you have seen in Greece. Sit down.

Order the thing on the menu you least understand. The waiter will raise an eyebrow. The drinks list includes the local firewater, and ouzo, and wine listed only by color -- no type or name. It is cheap. Order the rosé. The waiter will offer a quarter litre, because you are a lady and probably American. Ask for the half. Receive a surprised smile, and respect.

Pull out your journal and write. The waiter will bring your half litre and smile at you again as he sets it down. It comes in a metal pitcher, with a small glass tumbler. It's good. He will smile yet again as he gives you the food. It smells strange and it is looking at you. Control yourself. Do not flinch. Do not flinch.

They are only shrimp. You have lived in New Orleans. You can handle this.

They are delicious.

The waiter will come to ask if you like it. Give him two thumbs up and receive another smile.

Congratulations. You win at Athens. Finally.

In celebration, stop in to the first gelato shop you see and point to a flavor whose label you do not recognize. Pop into the subway station. Buy a ticket. Then realize you have misunderstood the subway line and find yourself back on the street.

Laugh. What else can you do?