Getting There

For some bizarre, wonderful reason, I landed in Athens with almost no jet lag. Seriously...almost none. I should have been an absolute wreck. I usually am. But considering the length of the journey and how little I slept, I held it together surprisingly well.

From the moment I left Banff to the moment I arrived in Athens, it was over 28 hours of travel.

Twenty-eight.

HOURS.

But ya… nothing. Or at least, nothing catastrophic. I think the trick... intentional or not... was that I barely slept. I dozed a bit at the Calgary airport, but on the long-haul to Paris and the short hop to Athens, sleep just wasn’t happening for me. I tried. I really did. Every time I started to drift off, I’d wake up with a crick in my neck. You know how that goes.

I think going home is going to be a bitch.

I never really appreciated how hard it is to stay in one cramped position for hours on end. It hits harder the older you get. Normally, I would always book an aisle seat so I can get up, stretch, wander a bit. But this time? Nope. I got stuck with a window seat. And to top it off... it was a window seat at the very back of the plane. Last row. Once I sat down, that was it... I didn’t move once. I was trapped.

I kept bracing myself for the usual wave of aviation nausea. A couple of times I caught myself doing that subtle back-and-forth rocking, focusing on my breathing... breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out... just trying to keep it together. But surprisingly, it never fully hit. Even my restless legs stayed quiet, probably thanks to the overdose of meds I took before boarding.

All things considered, I got away with a lot more than I expected.

I even had an eight-hour layover in Paris. At first, I had these enormous plans to leave the airport and wander into Roissy for the day. Sit in a garden, enjoy a lovely café au lait... take it the beauty of France for a wee bit. Ambitious? Of course... but my ambition didn't really go as planned. In reality, I was far to mentally and physically drained to attempt to walk out the front doors of Charles de Gaulle. Honestly, all I wanted too do was to curl up on the airport's creepy carpet floor and call it a day.

I didn’t... sadly enough... but I thought about it.

Many times.

And Paris airport? Absolute chaos.

Confusing, poorly signed, and just… silly. I couldn’t find my gate anywhere. And the only reason I started looking for this mysterious, missing gate was because my flight was not showing up on the departures screen. I had absolutely no idea why... until I figured out that I might be in the wrong spot.

I was right.

I needed Terminal 2F... and despite already being in Terminal 2 (specifically 2A), it felt like 2F existed in another dimension. No matter where I walked... nothing. Terminal 2F was nowhere to be found. There were no signs, no clear direction... nothing.

No 2F.

Even one guy I asked told me there was no 2F.

Really???

Cue instant panic.

I did ask for help... though there were no information desks. Of course not. My luck. Obviously I asked more people than just the guy who didn't know about Terminal 2F. I aksed more than one person and I aksed them more than one time. Somehow, I kept ending up in the wrong place... never finding 2F. It was like bloody Brigadoon. Eventually, one very helpful and knowledgable person presented me what can only be described as a terminal scavenger hunt (or a wild goose chase): "go through duty-free, head to the back wall, turn left, go down the stairs, turn right, follow a long hallway, catch a bus, and get off at the third stop."

Ok.

Simple, right?

A sign would have been nice.

Thank gawd I realized the error of my surroundings and had time to figure everything out instead of scrambling at the last minute. I would have missed my fligth. That would have killed me. As it was, this fiasco demolished what little rest I thought I might have had... AND it gave my travel/airport anxiety a good shake.

But I made it.

I made it OUT of Paris Terminal 2F, onto the plane... and into Athens.

I landed in Athens International right at 11 pm... late, exhausted, and fading fading fading fast. I already knew I wouldn't be in the mood to deal with public buses or haggle pricing with taxi drivers, so I’d pre-booked a shuttle to take me straight to my accommodation.

A very good decision. Very.

I don't often make brilliant decisions, but every once in awhile, I hit it out of the park. This was one of those times. I was running on fumes.

I found my airport transfer without too much trouble. Some trouble... but not much. I did walk by the guy twice. Odd, considering my name was in HUGE BOLD on his buggy luggage trolley. In my defence, I was looking for a guy with a sign. It took about 40 minutes to get from Athens International to my accommodation in the city. I'd chosen to stay in Thiseio, near where Tom & Merel were staying.

I couldn't wait for my bed.

But then I started thinking... do I tip? I'd certainly paid a lot for the transfer, considering I was a solo passenger... but it hadn't even occured to me to tip prior to arrival. And I had ZERO euro. I hadn't even stopped at an ATM when I disembarked.

Shit.

Oh well... I gave Canadian dollars. Not ideal, but it was all I had. Better than nothing... right?

He seemed grateful.

He did accidentally drop me at number 21 instead of 27... but honestly, we can forgive that little mix-up. It was dark, and I knew right away something wasn’t adding up when I couldn’t find the lockbox. He did tell me that I said "number 21"... though I have no idea how I would have done that considering I didnt' tell him anything... AND I don't speak Greek.

Odd...

But lockboxes… let's quickly have a chat about lockboxes. Ugh! I swear, they are the bane of my existence. Truly. Absolutely. They should be simple, they are presented as simply... but somehow they never are. They are NOT. Especially when it’s dark, you’re exhausted, you're jetlagged, youre carrying something heavy... and your eyesight isn’t exactly cooperating. I can never see the numbers properly... even when I have my glasses on... let alone line them up properly. And even when I do manage that, there’s this awkward, impossible coordination of holding the panel open while pushing the lever down at the same time. It feels like a dexterity test I didn’t study for.

When it finally opens, it’s less a victory and more a shock... like, wait… that actually worked? What the actual f**k???

n those moments, I’m already spiraling. I fully convince myself that I’m going to be stranded outside, desperately trying to figure out how to contact the owner and explain that I’ve been defeated by a small metal box.

But... miraculously... I got it open.

I got inside.

And then came the next challenge...

The owners forgot to tell me the apartment number. So there I was, key in hand, 100% ready to try it in every single door on the first floor (which was technically the second floor)... which, in hindsight, could have gone very, very badly.

Somehow, by pure luck, it was the first door I tried.

Lucky me.