3:02 a.m. Time for some live Greek music at Romeo. This is a skyladiko (literally, "doghouse") in the truest sense-pitbull doormen, bleached-blonde poodles shaking their tails on the tables, slavering bulldogs lapping up the action and flinging carnations at a kennel of mongrel singers. Woof. And opa. 3:26 a.m. Before braving the rave scene at Amfitheatro, we fortify ourselves with some dubious souvlakia from the Cantina, a landmark on the map of every Athenian xenychtis (nocturnal reveller). Bug-eyed techno babes stammer incoherent orders at the impassive cook ("Two with everything and put everything in, okay man? I want EVERYTHING!").

3:53 a.m. The parking attendants wear space-age straitjackets and the bouncers have serious attitude. In the huge, throbbing interior of Amfitheatro, reality dissolves into a juddering bassline and a flickering laser beam. Teeny-boppers and beautiful people get down in their wispy tank tops and towering platforms. This is Athens MTV style.

4:48 a.m. Stuck in traffic on Vouliagmenis Avenue. Our surly taxi driver mutters obscenities at the cartoon-strip clubbers hanging out of their convertible, screaming: "Hey dolls, want to watch the sunrise with us?" We are unimpressed.

5:17 a.m. We wrap hot sesame koulourakia and sugar-dusted donuts fresh from the Koulourakia bakery in Psirri around our wrists, juggling them between bites. Koulouri sellers fill their baskets here and set up shop on street corners at first light.

5:41 a.m. The hacking of meat cleavers beats a tattoo below the snatches of song and shouting. The light is nicotine-stained, and the air is heavy with blood. I am inside the meatmarket in central Athens, floating in a curious stew of jaded revellers and bleary-eyed butchers chainsawing carcasses. I feel an affinity with the pig-trotter swimming in an oily bowl of broth that the waiter in the not-so-white shirt is serving in one of the all-night restaurants. He looks rough at the end of a 12-hour shift, but treats us cretinous drunks with saintly patience. His Athens is a harsh, neon world of eccentrics and non-conformists, of workers, beggars, and poets. The bubbling vats of patsas (thick tripe soup) and congealed casseroles look strangely appetising at this early hour. We recklessly gobble lamb fricassee, yiouvetsi, and lots of wine at Taverna tou Yiannopoulou. A lottery-card seller struts in like a rooster, crowing: "Welcome, my brothers! Jackpot! Welcome! Jackpot!" I try my luck, but he fails to make me a millionaire.

6:36 a.m. We step out into the gray light of Athinas Street. A bus almost knocks me down. The city has suddenly woken up; to beat the heat, public-sector and bank employees start work at 7 a.m. in summer. The fruit and vegetable market is rubbing the sleep from its shuttered eyes and hosing itself into life. The rainbow of colours and smells-shiny black and green olives, a blast of paprika and oregano, pungent cheeses-sends me into sensory overload.

I stumble along to Ommonia Square, where the last dregs of the night before and the first workers of the morning scarf tyropites (cheese pies) at Everest, Athens' modern-day temple of fast food. Albanians hover hopefully on the sidewalk. I stock up with newspapers, Panadol, chewing gum, and other unnecessary trifles from one of the all-night periptera (kiosks). The peripterades are always present in an Athenian's hour of need. I should race up to Lycabettus to see the sunrise, but all I can think of right now is the king-size bed I tested out earlier. "Taxi!"

Saturday noon: A painfully cheery voice chirps: "Good morning! This is your wake-up call." I contemplate rolling over and going back to sleep. The sunlight is blinding. I stagger upstairs and dive into the swimming pool. After a massive injection of Colombian coffee, I am ready to wrestle with the city again.

12:25 p.m. My soiled conscience is screaming for culture. There's no time for breakfast before the museums close-curators have to siesta too-so I race through Kolonaki Square (decidedly deja-vu) to the Cycladic Museum. It is soothingly still and discreet compared to the flashy fashion parade outside: four silent floors bathed in the earthy aura of Greece's glorious past. Chryssa has taken ancient minimalism to extremes for her "Cycladic Books" exhibition-the white marble pages stare blankly at me. The smooth, sexy Cycladic figurines with their featureless faces are my favourites; I always wonder what they are thinking. In the Museum Shop, I almost buy a replica for Mom, but remember that I am an impostor, not a real tourist.

1:53 p.m. The city is baking and I still haven't had breakfast. I risk my life crossing Vassilisis Sofias Street and indulge my naughty habit of flirting with a statuesque Evzone-one of the beskirted members of the Presidential Guard-who sweats with delicious frustration.

I slink into the cool of the National Gardens and bask in the dappled shade of palm trees. Cats drowse in the midday heat while I satisfy my sinfulness with a decadent ice-cream sundae at the Kipos Cafe.

2:36 p.m. Through the park, past the Parliament, across Syntagma Square (mutilated by construction for the Athens metro, scheduled to open in 2000), and down to Plaka. Kydathinaion Square is packed, and the hecklers are in overdrive. "Please madam, please! Best-ever souvlaki, tzatziki, Greek salad! Best you ever tasted!" I bound up the steps to Anafiotika, the charmed neighbourhood nestled in the crook of the Acropolis' neck, which has miraculously withstood the commercialisation of central Plaka. The alluring scent of jasmine wafts through the whitewashed alleys. It still feels surprisingly homey-kids play hopscotch under the lemon trees outside the church, and local residents exchange gossip on their doorsteps.

3:17 p.m. Gingerly, I navigate the labyrinth of tourist traps and plot a course for Aeridon Square near the Tower of the Winds, where the old-fashioned Platanos restaurant and kafeneion are hidden under a vast plane tree. The fascinating Museum of Musical Instruments next door has already closed. Secretly relieved, I march into the kitchen at Platanos and peer into the pots and pans, sniffing the delicious ladera. I play Spot-the-Athenian-Intellectual as I dig into stuffed tomatoes, dolmadakia, and lemony roast potatoes. After lunch, I treat myself to a quick vari-glyko ("heavy sweet") with Barba Nikos, the gentle giant who runs the marvellous kafeneion next door. He greets me and all the other old-school devotees with the familiarity of an old friend.