Upon landing in Athens and summarily being liberated of an erroneous €30 by a thoughtful taxi driver, I somewhat hastily took into my head that my stay here would prove to be full of apprehension, astute personal security measures, and dubious financial transactions.

Meanderings towards the Acropolis the following morning did little to assuage my concerns that the primary interest of the Athenians was to liberate me from not only any cash I may have had, my personal belongings, and perhaps my ability to trust any other human. Initial impressions of the city drew comparison to an untimely visit to Mos Eisley; haphazardly and randomly parked cars seemed to litter not only the streets, but congest a vast amount of footpath also. Rogue street traders with hastily-gathered blankets of wares were chased down the street by several overweight policemen - one with a hand on his pistol, while the other repeatedly raised the ubiquitous Athenian cigarette to his panting lips.

Before long, I decided that gruff and abrupt exchanges with locals were vastly favourable, as it seemed that anyone willing to engage in conversation or discussion was merely finding a way to liberate me of any other amounts of funds I might have had in my now heavily guarded pockets.

Defences up, I actually managed to begin to enjoy the theatre and pageantry of what really amounted to insignificant daily exchanges. Feeling suddenly naked as only a privately-educated honky* can be when suddenly amongst a vast metropolis of impassioned and sometimes destitute Mediterraneans, I thought further about the history of the city I found myself in.

Could it be possible that the city that created modern civilization, that brought about the very idea of democracy have chosen to end it’s worthwhile exploits there? Did Athens really have little more to offer the world than it’s crowning glories of many, many centuries past. Surely, this couldn’t be.

I wanted to find the cosy taverna, with Ouzo and small plates of great things. I wanted to hear a local take a sense of pride in a cured meat, a plate of prawns, something… anything.

I walked for hours. I climbed to the Acropolis. I sought out the Central Market (closed on Sundays, of course… Always read the travel guide properly). Every corner I turned brought me face to face with one of two things. A deserted street, or a cacophony of American and British accents, crying “I don’t know, Roger… Nachos, pizza… Just something like we have at home!”

It was all becoming a little too much to bare.

I reluctantly purchased a pirated copy of Capote on DVD, a couple of Heinekens, and slunk back to the hotel to shower away the grime of constructing a six-day-only bar at the old East Athens Airport - scene this week of Europe’s largest International Shipping Exhibition, and readied myself for a night of isolation. Hey, I’m getting paid to be here, it’s not such a loss, really…

While lying on the bed, flicking between CNN and every other station, I chided myself for taking such a defeatist attitude to the situation. I’m in Greece; home to lamb souvlakis, tzatziki, halva, hummus, and many, many other things (some not related to food) that I adore. Obviously, I can’t think of any non-food related items now, but surely there has to be a few. I convinced myself; there had to be good things outside my grimy hotel windows, it would simply take me getting off my arse and actually finding them.

From my hotel I walked down the only street I knew, in the only direction I was familiar with - Athinas, towards the Acropolis. I had one goal in mind, and that was to find a small, independent, tourist-free restaurant, serving real Greek food. Without ruining the rest of this piece, I can safely say now that I found that restaurant, but also managed to find much more along the way.

I navigated exactly the same path I had followed earlier in the day, as it had taken me to the city’s Sunday flea market, and thus far had proven to bring the most delight to my cynical and skeptical traveling mind. The market, while not the vast food market I had been hoping to find held the most amazing array of what can only be described as ‘curiosities’. Nestled amongst stores selling knock-off Ed Hardy sweaters, DKNY perfumes, and a staggering array of pirated hardcore pornography, were tiny shops filled, and I literally mean filled with antiques, furniture, watches, military regalia, and even surgical implements that must have made the flagstones underfoot groan with the strain each morning as the objects were unloaded.

Deviating somewhat momentarily, it is worth noting that my girlfriend and I differ in some ways, and quite notably would be the fact that she hates to shop, and I am rarely happier than when exchanging money for goods. This market I happened upon has somehow managed to elevate even my need to consume. This market left me aware of a need to buy things I didn’t even know existed. I still don’t know what some of them are or do, I just realize now, I’ve been made aware that I wish to own them. Not one square centimeter of advertising was present at the market, yet had I not been so totally spoiled for choice, my wallet would have been empty almost instantly. It was as if I was glimpsing commerce unchanged in several hundred years. Nothing had a price on it, and everything was negotiable. What joy bartering is! I couldn’t get enough of it. It amazed me how quickly “Sir, I cannot possibly sell it at that price…” became “Ok, my friend, €7… But only for you.” Had time not been against me, the next decade’s worth of Christmas, anniversary, birthday, and random gifts for partner, family, friends and sundry would have be scrounged for, argued over, and then stuffed into a bulging suitcase for a satisfied flight back to London.

Returning to the quest for a meal, I followed the wide path along Athinas only to be bogged down and held up by such a gaggle of bumbag-wearing, map-clutching, coach-riding, TGI Friday’s-searching tourists that I darted sharply left down a side street, and was confronted with a vast sea of Bangladeshi and Indian men watching cricket on clapped-out projectors.

T.B.C…

* My Father’s somewhat curious turn-of-phrase used to describe our family strolling the streets of Detroit one Sunday morning in 1997.