ah, dimi

The silver-haired bus driver, Dimitri, became legend. The sharply-tongued guide, Loula, became the subject of either rolling laughs or raging vitriol. For example, as was overheard on the bus one afternoon:
"So, Loula, you never say 'the grecian people'?"
"No, is Greeks."
"Never grecian?"
"No. Never."

Our feet trod as Paul's on the cracked marble of Corinth, Phillipi, and Athens. Our eyes gazed at the jail cell, the Bema, Mars Hill, and ancient basilicas. These places are OLD, people.

For the most part we walked unperturbed, wearing the most modern of footwear, among fallen columns and walls, sitting down for reflection on a 2000 year old foundation or using the latest digital technology to capture an image of ancient carvings on a broken floor. As much as we tried to immerse into the old, the new continued to surface. At least that's what I thought when 6-year-old Max laid out his Pokemon cards on the ruins of the entrance wall to Phillipi's altar area. Pokemon is not native to Greece, nor is blond hair, nor even hummus, as it turns out.

The national pride will astound. The shunning of modernization by the older generations will amaze. But the glorious sight of those mountains by the turquoise sea will never leave your mind.

Until, of course, you spot Dimitri.