This is the challenge posed by my editors: Me, in Athens, for 24 hours, in early summer-pretend I'm a stranger in a hot and hectic city. What to do? Where to go? How to survive? An Athenian for two-thirds of my life, these are questions I have never had to ask. I take the daily pleasures and frustrations of Athens for granted. But, ever your diligent reporter, I pack my overnight bag and set out to get a grip on the wonderful and exasperating city I call home.

Friday 6:00 p.m. I arrive at the Saint George Lycabettus Hotel in Kolonaki, the ever-trendy, fadingly aristocratic neighbourhood just north of Constitution Square. I feel faintly fraudulent-like an illegal immigrant at customs with a forged passport. Mayhem at reception. Eventually, I check in to a cool, unassuming room. The balcony is bliss: The Parthenon is at eye level, the leafy square of Dexameni at my feet, alive with the sounds of children playing soccer and early weekenders enjoying their first karafaki of ouzo. Weary Athenians honk in a futile attempt to speed up the rush-hour traffic. It feels strangely liberating being a tourist in my own city-all the familiar sights, sounds, and smells heightened with a surreal hue.

 6:19 p.m. Leaning over the railings of the elegant roof-terrace restaurant, I size up my opponent: a sprawling jumble of concrete and marble, of ancient and modern, of the implausible and the miraculous. A giant contradiction. How little of this city I will ever really know, I muse, feeling small and squashed. I have just 24 hours to penetrate its heart. Where to begin? I scan the horizon, hoping one of the ships sailing off to an unknown island will provide me with a clue. Instead I seek inspiration from on high-from the Church of Aghios Yiorgios, crowning Lycabettus Hill, that's just an arm's length away.

 6:31 p.m. I need to conserve my energy, so I opt for the funicular rather than the taxing, if picturesque, hike up the hill. The ride is more Claustrophobia than Cliffhanger, but the view from the summit is breathtaking. Pink clouds are frothing up the sky. Tonight there is no concert at my favourite summer venue, the outdoor Lycabettus Theatre, so I amble back downhill through the pine trees, murmuring kalispera ("good evening") to the dog-walkers and joggers. The birds are out in force. 7:28 p.m. I am in Kolonaki, so inevitably I do what well-heeled Athenians do best: shop and drink coffee. One frantic hour before the stores close. I trawl the designer boutiques-from foreign houses like Armani, DKNY, Versace, and Zara, to home-grown wonders like Artisti Italiani, Prince Oliver, Parthenis, and Carouzos-but my Odyssey expense account does not allow me to indulge my fantasies, unlike the sleek women who totter past, flapping their shopping-bag wings. The cafes along the square and the pedestrian streets of Tsakalof and Milioni swarm with posers and pretenders, sipping iced cappuccino and cutting their wit on passers-by. Does anyone work in this city, besides waiters?

 8:33 p.m. Craving a shot of caffeine myself, I gravitate toward a classic sanctuary in the city centre: the Brazilian on Voukourestiou Street. Espresso that puts hair on your chest (whether you like it or not), pastries to swoon for, and a prime window seat from which to chew on a slice of Athenian life; along with Zonar's up the street, Brazilian is one of the few throwbacks to old Athens.

 9:02 p.m. No matter where you are, Athens is always magical at dusk. I head back up the hill to dump my shopping bags at the hotel, but am sidetracked by Trainspotting, about to begin at the open-air cinema in Dexameni. The gritty content seems pleasingly incompatible with the romantic setting. Outdoor cinemas are the saving grace of summer nights in Athens, and the converted reservoir of Dexameni is one of the loveliest, with island-blue chairs and tables beneath brilliant bougainvillaea. "Outdoor cinemas are more than entertainment: the cool night breeze, the jasmine, the gravel underfoot...it's a whole...feeling," sighs Mr. Iliopoulos, the manager. I grab a beer and a bag of passatempo (pumpkin seeds, generally eaten to pass the proverbial tempo) and get comfortable. The twinkling stars provide a welcome distraction during the syringe sequences.

11:14 p.m. "All alone tonight?" Yannis teases. "Sit down and have an ouzo with us." Sure, I might as well have a little aperitif at the ouzeri in Dexameni. The spirit of Greece's great literati lingers under the elms. It is peaceful, and the smell of frying saganaki and sausage pricks my appetite. I order a bekri meze ("drunkard's stew") hoping it is not an inauspicious omen for the long night ahead. In Athens, service is often so bad it's funny, but here cheerful waiters Yannis and Vassilis keep me entertained with an endless repertoire of bad jokes: "A horse goes to the bakery and says to the baker: 'A loaf of bread, please, but put it in a bag because I'm on my bicycle.'" I ask for the check after about three more knee-slappers.

Midnight Time to prowl with the creatures of the night. Zoo is the perfect place to start. No self-respecting Athenian would consider the night complete without a stop at this friendly bar in Ilissia, just north of the city centre. An attractive crowd of hip, happy people lounge around the tables outside, spilling over onto the paved street. I sway to the summery sounds of drum and bass inside while Pavlos, the most stylish barman in the business, helps me get in the mood with a round of sfinakia-fruit-laced shots.

 1:44 a.m. I pry myself away from the speaker and venture out into the night. We hail a cab and head downtown to Alarm, a narrow, snaking bar sandwiched between the traffic and the trees below Kallimarmaron-the marble stadium that hosted the first modern Olympic Games in 1896. It's great mid-week, but loud and crowded on this Saturday morning. The scene at Banana Moon-a hip, new bar across the street, at the edge of the National Gardens-is only slightly less raucous.