I’ll never forget my first visit to the City of Wisdom. Decades ago, after living for several months in a rainy corner of northern France, I was ready for some sun. And so, like many other travelers to Greece, I was headed for the bright, happy Aegean islands in the Cyclades and Dodecanese, which included a couple of days in Athens en route to the ferry port at Piraeus.
I arrived in this ancient city at the perfect time. Athens was on the cusp of hosting the Summer Olympics, and, in addition to restoring ruins to their finest condition, had built several new facilities. Those included a subway line to and from the airport, which, mercifully, used Latin script for the station names. Carefully, syllable by syllable, I memorized the name of the one closest to my youth hostel—Metaxourgeio. (In my mind: “meet axe organ.”)
