Postcard from Athens
- Marie Boyé
- Mar 3
- 9 min read
Μηδὲν ἄγαν – Nothing in excess
By day, golden light spills over the ruins, and the city feels grand, expansive—a place where democracy was born, where philosophy was shaped, where myths and gods once walked among mortals. By night, Athens changes. The soft glow of streetlights flickers over crumbling neoclassical facades, graffiti-covered walls, and silent alleyways where stray cats watch you from the shadows. The contrast is striking. This is a city of beauty and decay, resilience and struggle, ambition and fatigue—all at once.
Next to the Acropolis, everything feels ridiculously small—especially yourself. Athens does not just stand; it looms. It reminds you that true greatness is not the work of a single moment or a single person, but the result of centuries of collective effort, endurance, and reinvention. The city carries this weight of history effortlessly, its past seamlessly blending into the present, as if time itself moves differently here.
Compared to Istanbul, where I was just a few weeks ago, Athens feels more relaxed, unhurried. People are out shopping, dining, enjoying the city—despite the winter chill that makes some reconsider their terrace seats. There is a quiet confidence in the way Athens moves, an acceptance of its contradictions. It is neither fully thriving nor fading away—it simply exists, on its own terms, in its own rhythm.
