Land
of the Sinking Sun
Shards of sunlight pierce the slats in the shutters like laser beams. I roll over and look at the clock. 7.30 p.m. A three-hour siesta is a miracle cure for last night's excesses and now I am ready for more. Athenians have an expression for this summer sickness: "My house can't hold me." Cold shower, sweet frappe, lipstick, and heels, and I'm all set to hit the town.
The sky is pink and purple like streaky bacon. Sunset calls for rooftops and cocktails, so I ride the Hilton elevator all the way up to the Galaxy Bar. I forsake the spoof 60s interior for a prime seat on the terrace. Armed with a dry martini, I survey the Athenian skyline and map out tonight's club crawl. With the city at my feet, anything seems possible.
The American tourists at the next table are headed for Plaka . Why not? For all its gimmickry, the area remains disarmingly charming, especially round sunset. The heady scent of aniseed lures me into Brettos, a nugget of nostalgia amid the souvlakia and souvenirs. This liquor store looks like an alchemist's apothecary: a glass rainbow of home-brand liqueurs and ouzo lines the walls. I lean on the marble bar beneath the barrels, and knock back a few shots with the amiable old proprietor.
A little dizzy, I slip away from the crush of Kydathinaion Street into the secret garden of Xinos taverna. I know of just one golden rule for a successful night out: food. In this star-spangled taverna it always tastes good, and the retsina slips down a treat. With my stomach safely lined, I wander through the brightly-lit lanes of Plaka to Psirri , the old artisans' quarter now colonised by an army of hip entrepreneurs. The music-and-mezze bars seem to have mushroomed overnight. Wandering minstrels, courting couples, gypsies touting withered gardenias, and rowdy revellers, jam the sidewalks and squares.
Midnight's ChildrenThe brainchild of a group of artists who have capitalised on their creativity and connections, Bee is buzzing with the self-consciously stylish. Even the toilets - a graduated palette of miniature tiles - are a work of art at this funky bar restaurant.
Across the street at Plateia Avyssinias , the antique
dealers have gone home and a swarm of bohemian hipsters buzz
around the square. All freestyle tunes and smoky candlelight,
Inoteka is fabulously atmospheric. There are two reasons why
I am a regular here: a choice list of Greek
wines and and ample opportunity to flirt with handsome
strangers in the shadows. But Psirri's hit of the season is
Astron. This little sea-blue bar is the next best thing to
being on a Greek island. Drinkers spill out onto pedestrian
Taki Street, urban pretensions dissolve, and anything goes.
I could perch on this pavement drinking vodka tonics all night, but I've got to go.
It's already half past one. Thisseion is a nyfopazaro - a monkey-parade of young blood eager to see and be seen. Even the cool courtyard of Stavlos, King Otto's former stables, is a stampede of Saturday night party animals. So I move on up to moneyed Kolonaki .
Pedestrian Haritos Street, Kolonaki's best bet for barhopping, is a poser's paradise. The well-heeled crowd eyeing each other up at City is more refined, but there's no chemistry between us. I head instead for Plateia Mavili , home to some of the cheapest and liveliest watering holes in Athens. Oblivious to the traffic roaring up and down Vassilisis Sofias Avenue, a mixed crowd cools off around the fountain in the square. Red-eyed fortysomethings prop up the bar at Loras, the classic hole-in-the-wall that launched the Mavili trend. Laid-back thirtysomethings are squeezed into friendly Flower, while Latino lovers prowl Briki in search of a salsa partner.
Better Late Than NeverI can feel a shimmy coming on, so I cruise up Kifissias Avenue to Cafe Folie, where the rare grooves soon have me burning up the dance floor.
The place is smoking. Orange lights flash and sway above my head. A waitress snakes past with a tray of fruity shots, crushed watermelon laced with vodka. I drink up and keep moving.
Eventually, I come up for air. In search of a sea breeze, I decide to hit Piraeus . At 2. 30 a.m., the seafood restaurants are still packed. There are teenagers and fast food joints everywhere. I don't really know this scene, so I ask a guy on a moped if he can recommend any good local bars. "Looking for a bar myself, but can't seem to find it," he slurs. Never mind. I'm in luck. There's a Cuban Festival on Freatida Beach. Colombians, Peruvians, and a few bold Greeks bump and grind to the live band, kicking up a storm in the sand. Corona beer bottles litter the beach. The air smells of sex and salt. Athens has suddenly come over all Caribbean.
Getting back into the Greek groove is no sweat. I just have to negotiate the bumper-to-bumper traffic inching towards Leoforos Posidonos. Better known as the Paraliaki (seaside street), this highway is one endless stretch of summer clubs, from skyladika to bouzoukia to techno. The traffic is entertaining in itself. Car stereos alternately blast me with Greek pop and hardcore trance. Blonde babes in shiny minis preen in open-top BMWs, while slick little rich kids hang out of daddy's Range Rover to chat them up.
Girls and boys babble into mobile phones, trying to liaise with friends stuck at the last traffic lights. These leggy divas and their clean-cut beaux queue to get into 'exclusive' clubs like Privilege, Kalua, and Tango.
