Touring Athens
April 13, 2009
Athens. Pericles, a golden age. The sun shining, a little too warm for the jeans and long sleeve tee I chose for today. Amy sits beside me in the Roman Agora, she is drawing and I quickly scribble down words, as my stomach sits full. We had lunch on a rooftop with white wine and bread. The wine has made our bodies loose and long for naps. Instead, we sit next to a granite slab from at least 300 BC. It is almost shocking that tourists are even allowed to rest here, soaking in the sun. It is interesting to contemplate history, ideas, philosophy, architecture, HERE. Just pondering the passage of time, the permanent to the impermanence of it all.
The honey suckle and its sweet flavor coloring the air. The morning dove with its rhythmic hooing seems to hang on to the day. The breeze moving our hair as Amy’s sun burnt shoulders sit and her hand draws columns. The columns I look at are uncanopied and stand as people draw their cameras to their eyes. The Grecian flag flaps and I hear Amy’s pen scribble the shading marks that make her artwork hers.
How wise these men were. I could fall asleep wondering, for the thought of it, seems too much. But I am again reminded of the food in my stomach.
Our Olympic Poses...Annie insisted!
Athens. Pericles, a golden age. The sun shining, a little too warm for the jeans and long sleeve tee I chose for today. Amy sits beside me in the Roman Agora, she is drawing and I quickly scribble down words, as my stomach sits full. We had lunch on a rooftop with white wine and bread. The wine has made our bodies loose and long for naps. Instead, we sit next to a granite slab from at least 300 BC. It is almost shocking that tourists are even allowed to rest here, soaking in the sun. It is interesting to contemplate history, ideas, philosophy, architecture, HERE. Just pondering the passage of time, the permanent to the impermanence of it all.
The honey suckle and its sweet flavor coloring the air. The morning dove with its rhythmic hooing seems to hang on to the day. The breeze moving our hair as Amy’s sun burnt shoulders sit and her hand draws columns. The columns I look at are uncanopied and stand as people draw their cameras to their eyes. The Grecian flag flaps and I hear Amy’s pen scribble the shading marks that make her artwork hers.
How wise these men were. I could fall asleep wondering, for the thought of it, seems too much. But I am again reminded of the food in my stomach.
Our Olympic Poses...Annie insisted!
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