Here we are, day 40-something of a potentially 365-day travel extravaganza. I feel … conflicted.

It was awesome to stand on the grounds of the Acropolis and walk all around the Parthenon, taking in its history and decaying charm from every angle, from Mars Hill even.

But I cannot forget the image of a dismembered and disfigured person that someone sat in the middle of a sidewalk–so busy a walk that we almost ran into him. He seemed cold. I recall looking across the path at a young man, mid-20s, squatting and watching the poor man. I wish I’d gone back to the second man and unleashed all the fury I feel about the way he was using this, who, family member, to try and get some loose change from tourists? But briefly seeing the destroyed man while keeping up the pace of foot traffic all happened so quickly, and I did nothing.

This is an image of Athens I can’t shake. And a feeling I could have done … something?

Athenians trying to get a few coins from visitors–and their fellow citizens–come in all guises.

The cutest girl, about 7, skipped alongside me playing a triangle and singing “Jingle Bells.” I smiled at her because I love kids. She rattled off something in Greek, asking for money presumably, and all I could do was continue smiling, but shake my head and say “no” as nicely as possible.

A man played an accordion on the Metro while his small son held out a cup for coins. Instead of appreciating the “where else are you going to see a man on the subway playing an accordion” aspect, we moved away from the loud music and didn’t make eye contact so we wouldn’t be expected to pay.

My son is afraid someone is going to rob us, I’m a little afraid of that too. It was dark one night when we were walking back from the Acropolis area, and I held the only weapon I had on me, a ballpoint pen. I felt foolish. But it was dark, sparsely populated, and gripping that pen tightly made me feel a wee bit ready to defend myself. I don’t have a lot of cash, but if someone took my purse, there goes my passport, charge cards, apartment key, and cell phone. That would not be convenient, to say the least.

We had a very pleasant talk with a young Greek waitress, who defended the ugly graffiti marring every possible object: “The youth want to make a statement.” We didn’t debate with her, but what is the statement? “Look, here’s my nickname on an ancient wall, ‘Dufus was here.’” Or, “I have no respect for anyone, authority or even myself.” The private property owner in me wants to scream, “It is not your wall, public park, subway, or electrical box to be painting on. Go paint your bedroom. Better still, pick up all this trash.”

Mostly the people we have encountered in Greece have been very welcoming. The two young police officers, a man and woman, working the changing of the guard, gave us great directions to the National Library building several blocks away. That was the starting point of our walking tour of Athens.

Ava, the beautiful Polish-Greek tour guide, was very informative and she also warned us of pickpockets. “Here, put your backpack kangaroo-style in this area”, and as she demonstrated putting her backpack in front of her even the men followed suit. She was interrupted at a busy square near the market in mid-sentence by an aggressive old woman trying to encourage us to buy roses. I don’t speak Greek and she might have said, “Go away, I’m working”, or other choice words, but it worked.

Thanks, if you’ve made it this far, for reading about my roller coaster feelings of visiting Athens. Like most large cities, there are great things and despicable things. Is it worth the journey? Of course!