It was an odyssey right from the start.
The morning Trisha and I were supposed to leave for Greece, I woke up with intense dizziness. It was so bad there was no way I could get on a plane. After a trip to urgent care and a follow-up visit to an emergency room, I was diagnosed with vertigo, which I have dealt with before. 
When the crystals in my inner ear get dislodged, the room spins until the crystals go back to where they once belonged. I think the vertigo might have happened because I lifted my head off the pillow too quickly the morning of our departure. I am a nervous traveler. 
The ER doctor tilted my head, gave me meclizine pills and sent me on my way. The next day I felt better and we flew out of Boston headed for Athens, having lost a day and a bunch of money. 
We had planned a great two week vacation, or I should say, Trisha had planned a great two week vacation. She had been talking about going to Greece ever since we started dating five years ago. The idea was to stay with her friends Tonia and Marty in Athens and then travel with them to an island in the Aegean for five nights. After that Trisha and I would take off on our own to see more islands.
When we flew into Athens, Marty picked us up at the airport. A tall, friendly guy, Marty was a music teacher originally from Cleveland, who had been living in Greece for 25 years with Tonia. He made me feel welcome right away. While I was sitting in the back of the car, trying to get my seat belt buckle to click into its slot, Marty reached back to give me five about a musical connection we had.
I had never been to Greece before. The dry landscape looked like Southern California. Motorcycles zoomed in and out of traffic making their own lanes. We arrived in Kifissia, a neighborhood with big trees and nice homes in the north of Athens, where it was five degrees cooler than it was at the airport. Tonia grew up in Kifissia and we were staying in the high-ceilinged house she inherited from her mother.
That night Tonia served us a sumptuous meal which included cabbage rolls and a Greek salad. A therapist with loving eyes and a direct manner, Tonia spoke English with a Greek accent and got right to the point. She was warm and gracious but she did not mince words. 
After the meal we went to a concert at Technopolis, a repurposed gas works in central Athens that was transformed into a cultural center with a steam-punk vibe. We saw a concert by a pair of twin sisters called Skiadareses in the outdoor arena. A young crowd packed the place, drinking beer, smoking tobacco and singing along to the catchy Greek pop. 
The next morning Trisha and I almost missed our guided tour of the Acropolis. Our designated group was lined up on the sidewalk outside the Royal Olympic Hotel when we arrived 20 minutes late. The Parthenon had been sitting on that hill since 432 BCE but that gave us just barely enough time to get there.
My excuse for our lateness is that we were delayed by our inexperience with the train line. Attempting to board at the Kifissia station, we repeatedly tried to go in through the out turnstile which caused considerable consternation with commuters who were trying to exit. By the time we figured out our mistake, that train had left the station and we had to wait for another.
Fortunately, the gods were smiling on us and we got to the walking tour in the nick of time. We were quickly given ear buds that enabled us to hear our guide over the morning traffic and the group set off towards the Acropolis. Trisha and I were already looking to acquire extra drinking water. 
Water security would be a recurring theme. Every day, in the mid-summer of 2026, Greece was sunny and hot, low to mid-90s. It never rained. In fact, we never saw a single cloud. Luckily, we were spared the extreme heat that was melting Western Europe and the states, but it was still plenty hot. We bought many 2 liter bottles of water. The word hydrate comes from the Greek word “hydor.”
Western theater originated in the grove of trees we saw at the base of the Acropolis. Our guide told us that ancient Athenians would gather in a circle there to honor Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and fertility. People would dance and sing under the trees. One day a guy named Thespis stepped out of the circle and came up with his own lines. He became the first actor, the first “thespian.” His audacity reminds me of hip-hop. Maybe Thespis was also the first rapper.
Our tour guide was quite a rapper herself. In fact she was one of those people who did not know when to stop talking. She just kept coming with fun facts about Pericles and the Persians and the Peloponnesian War. By the time we got up to the Parthenon, Trisha couldn’t take it anymore. She had only reluctantly agreed to be part of a tour in the first place. Trisha ripped out her ear buds and went freelance. I followed suit. 
Up on top of the steep hill, the Acropolis was crazy crowded but magnificent. I was thrilled to be there, feeling puny in the presence of those massive, marble columns. In fact, the whole modern world felt puny by comparison. The symmetry of the Parthenon was dazzling, as was the view. You could see the city and the surrounding hills and the Aegean Sea in the distance. No wonder they built up here.
After we made our way down we stumbled upon a restaurant called Diogenes named after the philosopher who went around Athens looking for an honest man. The restaurant turned out to have exactly what we were looking for- an open table outdoors under some shady trees with excellent food and drink- Greek salad, fresh lemonade, strong coffee.
Since this was our day to see landmarks, we followed lunch with a walk through the old city and then took an Uber to the National Archeological Museum. In that huge edifice I saw a statue of Paris, the man who seduced Helen of Troy. Paris had his arm raised and his fingers curled like a claw. The museum label said that it was believed that his fingers were that way because in its original, complete state, the hand was holding an apple, the famous Apple of Discord that started the Trojan War.
That rang a bell. Once upon a time I taught ancient Greek history to seventh graders. I remembered that the Apple of Discord was part of a larger story known as the Judgement of Paris. This myth turned out to be a key idea for me on this trip. It helped unlock the discordant times we live in.
Here’s the myth. Maybe you know it. It’s a beauty. In fact it’s about beauty. 
The Greek gods are all invited to a wedding except for Eris, the goddess of discord. Eris shows up anyway and rolls a golden apple into the wedding celebration. On the apple is written the words “ti kallisti” meaning “to the fairest.” Three goddesses - Hera, wife of Zeus, Athena, goddess of wisdom and Aphrodite, goddess of beauty- all claim the apple is meant for them. They ask Zeus to decide but he wisely declines and gets Paris, the young prince of Troy, to make the judgement. 
Paris chooses Aphrodite because she bribes him with the love of Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world who also happens to be married, which complicates things. Paris goes to Sparta, abducts Helen and then brings her back to Troy. The Greeks launch “a thousand ships” to bring her back. That’s what started a ten year war that didn’t end until Odysseus got the idea for the Trojan Horse. It all started with an apple.
These myths still reverberate. I think of Donald Trump as an agent of discord. More about that later.
After the museum Trisha and I took the train back to Kifissia where Marty and Tonia hosted a dinner party on the stone patio under a lemon tree in the back of their house. The other guests were mostly locals so the conversation was a mix of Greek and English. We drank a Greek lager called Mamos and potent homemade tsipouro, clear booze made from the fermented seeds, skins and stems of grapes.
When it was time for music making, one of the guests, Dimitry, had come prepared with a special karaoke microphone that he synched up with his phone. With this gizmo he could play background tracks and amplify his voice at the same time. Not a great singer, as he freely admitted, Dimitry was so in love with his new toy that it was fun to hear him sing sentimental favorites. 
Marty picked up his nylon string guitar and deftly fingerpicked Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright.” Marty is a master musician who gets flown to Brussels twice a year to sing cantorial music for the Jewish high holidays. At the party I borrowed his guitar to play a few songs including my “Wabi Sabi Baby,” which Tonia liked. As a therapist she appreciated the Japanese philosophy of embracing imperfection. After the party we stayed up late to make a slew of turkey sandwiches for the nine hour boat ride we were facing the next morning. 
That night we only got a few hours of sleep because we had to leave the house at 5:30 to catch the early ferry. Athens was just waking up as we made our way to the port of Piraeus where Marty drove the car onto the boat. Once we all got aboard we found a corner table outside in the shade and settled in for the long ride. 
Soon after we got out into the open Aegean we saw a Fata Morgana, the optical illusion that makes a boat in the distance look like it is floating on air. That was truly strange. No wonder it took Odysseus ten years to get home. 
After stopping at Serifos and Sifnos, the ferry deposited us on the island of Sikinos, in the southern Cyclades between Folegandros and Ios. The geography of Greece is confusing to explain because the islands are scattered like shrapnel. The best thing I ever did as a social studies teacher was to have the students make a giant map of the Mediterranean that covered an entire classroom wall. 
Marty and Tonia chose Sikinos as a destination because their beloved Anafi had gotten more developed. Looking around for an unspoiled island they hit on Sikinos where only 250 people lived and hotel rooms were cheap. Trisha and I had a sweet little room & bath overlooking the port for $75 a night. 
Every day we practiced saying good morning at the little cafe down the hill where we ordered omelettes and Americanos with milk. “Kalimera,” we would proclaim, proud that we knew how to say at least one thing in Greek. 
Every day a band of Roma drove through town in a pickup truck with big, red clay pots stacked in the back, announcing goods for sale over a loudspeaker.
Every day we swam in the blue, blue ocean at secluded beaches where the water was refreshing, not too cold, not too warm. When we swam off nearby rocks in the port the water felt especially invigorating like it was mineralized. 
Marty had brought along a travel guitar for me to play and one night we jammed on their balcony overlooking the ferry landing. I invited Pavlo, one of the owners of the airbnb, to join us. As we walked up to Marty and Tonia’s room carrying our guitars, Pavlo turned to me and asked me where I was from. When I said the United States, he said, “What’s the situation?” I wasn’t quite sure what he meant but, of course, he was referring to Trump. I told Pavlo it was bad. Trump was like a wrecking ball.
Pavlo was a fan of southern rock so when we started playing music he led us in a rendition of “Can’t You See” by the Marshall Tucker Band. Later, as we were singing Neil Young’s “Helpless” we could see the ferry coming into port. Part of Pavlo’s job was to greet new arrivals so he had to leave the jam. 
On our last night Trisha and I rewrote “Leaving on a Jet Plane” for Marty and Tonia. We had been having such a great time hanging out with them, we were feeling sad to break up the band. “The dawn is breaking, it’s early morn, the ferry’s waiting, it’s blowing its horn.”
After five nights in Sikinos, Trisha and I took a ferry to Santorini, a very different island. If Sikinos was rustic and low-key, Santorini was fancy and crowded. A glittering jewel with spectacular sunsets and a harbor full of cruise ships, Santorini’s official name is Thira. Early Phoenicians called it Kallisti, “the fairest one,” which is the same thing that was written on the golden apple of discord.
The main town of Fira is a honeycomb of dwellings built on top of a cliff. To get to our hotel room we had to go down one elevator to another elevator and then down a hallway to three flights of steep stone stairs til we arrived at our digs. It was like being in the opening credits of Get Smart. Our freezing cold, air-conditioned room had a balcony overlooking a pool one flight down that overlooked the harbor far below. You could see the ocean but you couldn’t touch it.
After a dinner of eggplant moussaka at a restaurant just off the walkway of shops, I reached into my travel pouch to get my Capital One card and it wasn’t there. This was extremely disturbing, especially since I had been trying to be extra-careful with my valuables. Last year traveling with Trisha, I lost my passport in a smash-and-grab incident involving a rental car outside a restaurant in Oakland. I had vowed to do better keeping track of my stuff.
I wracked my brain trying to think of what could have happened. When we got back to our hotel I informed the front desk clerk about the missing card and he said, “Oh, I think it might still be in the copy machine from when I checked you in.” 
There it was. 
Thank Zeus.
Losing my credit card on Santorini seemed almost too on the nose. Still, I was a spaceshot to be unaware that the clerk had not given it back to me. Sometimes I am in too much of a rush. I don’t pay attention. I just assume everything will be okay. It’s my Achilles heel.
Our next stop was Koufonisia, the island where Trisha wanted to go all along. She had heard tales about it from her friends that took theater workshops there. Trisha’s instincts were right. It was idyllic. Our hotel was situated 100 meters above Finikas beach which had an open air taverna just steps from turquoise water. You could take water taxis to other beaches and walk to town. 
One night on Koufonisia we went looking for some live music. I heard commotion down an alleyway and found a taverna called Stou Lolou packed with people. It was so crowded we were initially turned away by the maitre’d. We did not complain or fuss but we did not leave and eventually he found us two chairs in the back. 
Two guys were playing rembetika music on acoustic guitar and bouzouki. Called the Greek blues, rembetika has been around since the 1920s when the Greeks suffered a terrible defeat at the battle of Smyrna. A million Turkish Christians were forced to immigrate to Greece and they ended up around Athens and Piraeus.
The music that came out of those poor neighborhoods distilled the yearning of displaced people. It sounded like a fusion of the Balkans and the Middle East, with a pulse that could speed up or slow down, reeling you in. 
At Stou Lolou when the band launched into a rembetika classic, the audience sang along with familiar lines. Sitting next to the bandstand was a bridal shower party, drinking in the music and shots of booze. When the bride-to-be, in her white veil, got up to dance with her friends, one by one they all slipped into place, moving counterclockwise in a circle, joining hands at their shoulders, turning their arms back and forth the way they do.
The next morning we were leaving Koufonisia and the wind was blowing so hard we thought it might affect our ferry. Called the “meltemi,” the summer winds provided relief from the constant heat but on this day they were a steady 25 miles an hour with gusts to 50. I had to use one arm to hold my hat on my head as we waited in the blazing sun on the ferry pier. When the boat finally arrived, the scene below deck became a chaotic crush of passengers trying to navigate past a ticket taker in pitching seas.
Back with Marty and Tonia, we went to a local production of “The Trojan Women” by Euripides. Athens is proud to say that they have over 150 active theater venues, more than any city in the world. As part of her contract working for the city as a therapist, Tonia was ushering that night, which meant she was entitled to a day off at her job.
The play was entirely in Greek but we could basically understand what was happening. Considered the first anti-war play, it recounts the aftermath of the Trojan War through the eyes of the distraught women who survived those ten years of destruction. 
The production we saw connected that ancient situation to contemporary times with photos from war zones like Gaza. When a picture of Anne Frank was projected on the screen we heard shouting from the street outside the theater. A local woman passing by could see the projections. “That’s not Greek!” she kept yelling, appalled at the modernization. She sounded like she was in the play. 
Reading about “The Trojan Women” the next day I learned that at one point in the play Helen of Troy recounts how she was a prize in the events that led up to the war. 
“A day came, and this Paris judged beneath the trees
‍ ‍Three Crowns of Life, three diverse Goddesses.”
It felt like the story about the Apple of Discord was following me around. It was on my mind at breakfast the next morning at a pastry shop in Kifissia when Trisha and I struck up a conversation with a nice couple from Norway. The man was wearing a Norway t-shirt repping his country’s success in the World Cup. We started talking about how the United States soccer team had been doing well until President Trump got involved. It was awful how he ruined our chances and tarnished the World Cup with his interference.
Our best goal-scorer Folarin Balogun had received a red card and was disqualified to play in the round of 16 against Belgium. Trump called up his good friend Gianni Infantino, the head of FIFA, who overturned the ruling and said Balogun was eligible for the game. The world was outraged, the U.S. team distracted and Belgium won 4-1. 
You might remember that back in December Infantino had given Trump a bogus Peace Prize. He should have given him a red card. Trump has created so much discord the American people have permanent vertigo. 
His constant chaos and love of gold seemed to come right out of the Greek myths. Trump started a war with Iran to control the Strait of Hormuz in a hostile takeover reminiscent of Agamemnon’s main reason to start the Trojan War- grab the valuable chokepoint of Troy. Trump dishonored America’s 250th anniversary with the violent spectacle of an ultimate fighting match on the South Lawn that was like Achilles vs. Hector in The Iliad. When the Lincoln Memorial reflecting pool filled up with algae, it was as if the gods were incensed with Trump’s harebrained idea to turn the water blue. 
Since we were in Greece over the Fourth of July, I was thinking about our democracy. When that concept began in ancient Greece, not everyone could vote but it was a step in the right direction. That’s the way I feel about our country. Our democracy is a good idea but has always been flawed by structural defects like the electoral college and the senate. It is nonsense to have the same number of senators from states as different in population as Wyoming and California. 
Screwed up as it was, looking back now, it seems like we were living in a golden age of government before Trump stripped the gears and threw our country in reverse. I hope in the upcoming mid-terms the Democrats close ranks and get behind some reasonable candidates. Let’s not nitpick over progressive bonafides. It’s time for wabi sabi, baby. Good enough is brilliant compared to demented corruption. We can’t let MAGA keep the majority in Congress.
Arriving back in Boston, it was pouring rain and we got drenched just getting in the cab outside of Logan Airport. Despite the diametrically different weather I thought about the connections the city had to Greece. Our country's fight for democracy began in Boston and at one time the city was even called the “Athens of America.” 
As it turned out, 2026 was a timely summer to go to Greece. When we got back everyone was talking about going to see “The Odyssey,” the summer blockbuster about Odysseus trying to get home after the Trojan War. I felt like I had been in that movie.
My odyssey began with vertigo which threatened to shipwreck me in Boston. It was like when we first meet Odysseus and he can’t get his bearings while being held captive on Calypso’s island. When Trisha and I got to Athens we were welcomed by Tonia and Marty’s hospitality, a main theme of The Odyssey. Known in Greek as “xenia,” Zeus’s law said you must treat visitors with kindness or suffer the consequences.
After two weeks of traveling I was eager to get home. When we returned to Massachusetts there was good news in the battle against the agent of discord. After months of protest Citizens Bank announced they would end their funding of private prison companies. This was a blow against ICE, Trump’s secret police who terrorize immigrants. ICE is “xenophobia” writ large, a word derived from the Greek, meaning fear and hatred of strangers.