The Liverpool of Greece. Way more Greek than multicultural Athens; and don’t you even dare mix the two up: “Pireote, not Athenian!” Who cares that the two cities share public transport, who cares that it only takes thirty minutes from downtown Athens to Piraeus. Just like The Pool, Piraeus has its own football deity, its own music and art scenes (the latter was a letdown, though), its own industrial past, which, technically speaking, spans almost three millennia. And just like Scousers, Pireotes are freakishly proud of being from this very corner of the world.

Yet we, football heretics, did not set out for Piraeus to provoke the local zealots. Nor were we seeking the cradle of Greek blues, Rebetiko, said to have been born here (which I am listening to, at least, as I write this). It was the sea. The sea. A vast, hypnotic, undulating expanse. That light salty scent you sense long before you even lay eyes on the water’s surface. Sea and sun, to be specific. The finest combination. For in Greece, you can swim even in January, should Apollo and Poseidon smile upon you. And fortunately for us, the Olympians were in our favor.

The gods smiled upon us to such an extent that, even on the short walk from the metro to the beach, we found ourselves craving refreshment, a genuine Greek frappé. A summer drink, you might say? True! Hence, it accompanied us to a beach that must be teeming with people in peak summer. Yet, at the very end of January, we had it all to ourselves. And the sea practically beckoned us for a swim. Yes, it was cold. But not enough to deter us. My love fancies taking a swim on her birthday, and I am hardened enough to endure a chilly dip.

And then? Then all that awaited us was the classic Greek “vólta.” Wandering just to wander, among the orange trees and a few lemon trees. First along the coast, where the remains of the old Athenian port fortifications could be seen. But who would pay them any mind when Greece is brimming with ruins and excavations? Besides, the strip of green coastline is ruled by stray cats, who were enjoying the sunny day almost as much as we were. Though no one could ever lure them into the sea. Not even that tomcat with a typical Hitler mustache, who watched us warily, distrustfully.

“Enough of the sea,” we told ourselves suddenly. Or at least, if memory serves me correctly. It strikes me as strange now, sitting here landlocked, reminiscing about our Athenian trip. But so it happened. We began to meander through typical Greek alleys until our gaze was caught by the towers of the Rodon Amaranton church. It isn’t the oldest, nor the largest, nor the most famous. In fact, among churches, it is still something of a newborn, built just 40 years ago. But from the inside, you could easily say that the saints on the walls have been contemplating there for centuries.

Unlike the saints, we didn't have centuries, and hunger began to set in. On the way back to the center of Piraeus, we luckily stumbled upon a marketplace, sampled plenty of olives, and bought even more. So many, in fact, that we had some left over for the journey home. And then we were headed past yet more ruins, Roman for a change (would you be able to tell the difference?), all the way to the Municipal Theatre. And from there, in pursuit of culture, to the galleries in the old warehouses on the outskirts of the city, which disappointed us, as I already hinted earlier. But that is another story.

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