“Are you sure you can fit through there…?” I muttered at the driver.

We hired a driver for the day who managed to nightbus that Peugeot through the skinniest spaces. It was an extravagance for what we usually do – I like public transit and going like a local, so we’re usually traipsing around on busses and the like as I giggle with glee at how much we’re saving.

However, given the heat and our lack of even being able to guess at what the signs mean, a driver/guide was fabulous. He took us to all the spots we wanted to see and a few we had no clue about.

We started at the Acropolis – that giant mesa/tor/flat topped hill on which stands all the monuments about which you’ve heard – the Parthenon, etc. Thank god we started early because that is crazy pants.

First, the number of people. We got there 20 minutes prior to opening and spent most of that time figuring out where to line up. Finally, after conversing with people in the queue, I realized both ends of the line thought they were at the head and, unsurprisingly, took exception to my attempting to stand next to the person on the end.

You know me. The shy, retiring type.

In my best operatic bellow, I hollered at the workers standing behind the gates.

Beloved slunk behind the crowd.

They ignored the rude American. Undeterred, I kept at it and someone came over to shut me up. One rapid fire explanation and a Greek eyeroll later, the guy removed the barricade from the Disney-style cattle gates to line up in. Turns out I was standing at the end of the line.

Which … didn’t please my nearby comrades any. Fortunately, they each had their own versions of Beloved, who clearly told them in a variety of languages to shut-the-pluck-up.

Despite the sole person scanning tickets for the 23,000 daily visitors, we managed to get in reasonably quickly, but the wait gets up to two hours long if you don’t arrive immediately.

Then you get to climb up and up and up. Holy cats. At 8am I felt like the Wicked Witch screaming I’m meeeeeeeelting….

Walking around up there was HOT but fascinating.

The shame of my forebears was brought home to me repeatedly – Lord Elgin, the bastard, pillaged the Acropolis in 1804 of everything he could put his sticky mitts on and, after sawing parts off (the friezes were 60cm wide, he hacksawed them down to 12cm – hey, it made them lighter), loaded it onto a ship to bring home.

It appears his actions pissed off Zeus and the gang, because his boat of souvenirs took a nose dive into the Aegean Sea shortly after setting off for home. Undeterred, he hoodwinked the officials into letting him bring the loot to the surface by saying they were of no value, then managed to get them back to London.

This bankrupted him. He then convinced the British Parliament to pay him £35,000 for the lot, and they happily displayed the bounty in the British Museum, where it remains to this day.

The Greeks have repeatedly requested HMTQ’s government return their national treasures. Met with stony silence, the Acropolis museum displays what they have, and for what they don’t, they have plaster casts.

Personally, I cannot imagine the audacity of deigning to allow the Greeks to take plaster impressions of their own antiquities. How awkward would that be… or how insanely entitled. We’ll see how Charles’ government reacts to returning the artifacts.

Of course, other countries also have Greek statues that, in the modern art world, would immediately be marked as theft and returned to the rightful owners, but the Brits took it to a whole other level. The French also attempted to help themselves to trophies, but were far less successful than the English.

Aaaaaand… the Brits and the French weren’t the only ones causing appalling damage. In 1687, the Turks decided to expand their holdings, and had control of the Acropolis, while the Venetians, holding other parts of the city, fought back. But where, oh, where, should the Turks store their powder magazine (gunpowder supplies)?

Well, heck, the Parthenon was big enough and well protected, seems like a logical choice…

The Venetian general in charge fired a single shot and managed to do as the Japanese did when they nailed our magazines on board the ships in Pearl Harbor.

His single bullet blew off the roof, toppled columns and collapsed large parts of the complex. He also offed 300 Turks in the process… and, I’m certain, appalled and infuriated the Athenians in the middle.

The statue of Poseidon, at the middle of the central frieze, took one for the team and swan dived off the roof. Elgin’s bunch found the torso in the debris, minus it’s chest/stomach and figured eh, throw it in.

God, that was a lotta history, sorry, didn’t mean to bore you.

Anyway, we mercifully climbed back into the air conditioned SUV after descending.

Part of our tour day included watching the changing of the guard at Parliament, which involves the two men standing guard for an hour doing an intricate dance and turning their stations over to two lucky buggers who pulled the next hour’s duty.

Seriously, it’s fascinating. At Arlington Cemetery, the US guards march smartly back and forth in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. At Buckingham Palace, bearskin-bedecked Beefeaters ceremoniously snap their weapons as they trade places.

Here, it’s like the Ministry of Silly Dances decided how they’d make the swap.

It’s meant to be highly symbolic – their shoes, weighing three pounds each, have nails on the soles so as they smack their feet on the marble tile, the noise is intended to wake the dead.

I think they woke John Cleese rather than the heroes of the revolution.

Our driver informed us those shoes are intended to keep their feet warm (um… what? It’s a humid 95F unreasonable degrees out here and they’re wanting to keep their feet warm??)

Also, the guards is a competitive assignment: they must be at least 6’1” to qualify, and it means they serve two years in the guard rather than the mandatory one year of service. They take two hours of duty per day, 24/7/365 where, for one hour at a time, the only thing they can move is their eyes.

God, I’d be praying for the 5am shift in the summer.

The other thing… they’re not kilts in the Scottish sense. This I know because they’re… at least 6’1” and they do high kicks in hip-high cotton tights and cheerleader skirts.

The feller on the right? He wears tighty whiteys. Don’t know about the others, didn’t have the right vantage point. You’d’a thought they’d do a knicker check before sending these gentlemen out to perform.

After lunch and visiting the Acropolis Museum (air conditioned) we mercifully returned to the apartment. Beloved klonked out for 12 or 14 hours – she said she felt like she’d played a softball tournament. My brain, however, having decided it’d give me grace and allowed me to sleep the night before, went HEY! DON’T FORGET THE JET LAG!

G’night, all.