Bar Brawl

Autumn Interrail 2024 — Story #5

Taken directly from my travel journal

Theme song while reading this entry: 🎵 Runaround Sue by Dion

I activated my Interrail ticket at dawn, the kind of dawn where the sky is still rubbing its eyes. Thessaloniki’s train station was waiting in that familiar Balkan stillness – cracked tiles, faded blue signs, old men with newspapers folded like weapons, pigeons marching around like they owned the place. Everything smelled faintly of diesel, cheap coffee, and warm dust.
It made me think of Sofia. Of what has been my home for the past couple of years, and yet the place I rarely spent time in. This familiarity was more or less comforting in a strange, slightly depressing way.

Our train – one of the only trains still running in Greece – pulled in like a tired animal. A few years ago it had survived a horrible accident, and somehow you could feel the whole country leaning on this one lifeline between north and south.

We left at 07:04, right as thin strips of light cut across the tracks. I had slept two and a half hours, which meant I felt both spiritual and stupid. Perfect train-travel mode. I journaled intensely, like a poet who thinks she invented windows. The fields, the mountains, the villages passing by – the whole morning looked like a watercolor left in the sun too long.

When we arrived in Athens, the heat hit like a welcome slap.
We checked into our tiny hotel in the sketchy neighbourhood of Omonia, in a box of a room with a soft bed and a fridge.

And then – tragedy:
my phone died.
No charging. No reviving. Gone.
I had suddenly become an ancient traveler, armed only with intuition and a Polaroid camera that I was lucky enough to pack.

Syntagma & Zeus: Athens Opens Like a Myth

We walked to Syntagma Square, where the guards were mid-ritual – synchronized leg lifts in slow motion, shoes with pom-poms bouncing gently. The sound of their steps echoed against the marble and the government buildings in a way that felt ceremonial, almost hypnotic.

Then we followed the wide avenues to the Temple of Zeus, huge stone columns rising like giant ribs against the sky. And behind them – the Acropolis, sitting on its hill like a marble crown.
We sat on a bench as the sun slowly melted into the city, talking about life and philosophy, because apparently Athens does that to people. Everything suddenly feels like a Socratic dialogue, except with plastic water bottles and sunscreen.

Job went for a walk; I took a nap.
At 22:45, a knock on the door: Job, glowing with nighttime Athens energy and holding a warm falafel like it was an offering. The perfect Greek goodnight.

Day Two: Camera Obscura

In the morning, sunlight slid into the room at a weird angle. Then I realized – the little light above the window was acting as a camera obscura, projecting the street behind us. Actual cars, actual movement.
Magic. Ancient optics in a cheap hotel room. Perfectly Athens.

We had brunch, attempted to enter the Acropolis Museum (wallet said “no”), then – because we are people of culture – reenacted De Mol scenes in the metro, which had apparently become the theme of the entire Interrail trip.

The metro in Athens has this strange blend of marble, echoes, wind, ancient artifacts in the corridors, and teenagers in Adidas. A modern cave system.

Later we climbed The Pnyx, birthplace of democracy. A warm breeze moved through the olive trees. The stones were smooth from centuries of people sitting and arguing about society. And there, among them, a tiny turtle wandered around like the unexpected cameo of a wise old sage.

Dinner happened “accidentally” at yet another De Mol location – great food, great irony. Of course, Job was orchestrating the whole thing.

Afterward I went out on a solo walk, but because I didn’t have my phone, I made sure to take the business card of the hostel and write Job’s phone number on the back of it. I left the hotel, and I realised I am untrackable. This felt oddly cool.

In the Monasteraki square I met my friend Niki, who pulled me through Athens like a local comet: narrow lantern-lit streets, ruins glowing behind fences, musicians playing bouzouki under balconies, the ancient theatre silently watching over the city.

All without a phone.
No pictures.
Just memory.

We met her choir-singer friends and a jazz singer. We talked movies, drank rakomelo, compared European cities, compared lives. Athens lifted us up.

Day Three: Acropolis Heat, Polaroids & Existential Flowers

Morning: pastries from a bakery filled with the smell of butter and sesame.
Then: the Acropolis.

The climb was brutal – the sun was basically sitting on our shoulders. Marble everywhere, reflecting heat like an oven. Tourists moving like slow, sweaty pilgrims. I kept thinking:
How did ancient people do this without Birkenstocks?

Because I’m under 25, my ticket was cheap – a reward for my youth, finally.

Up there, everything was white, ancient, and shimmering. The Theatre of Dionysus, the Odeon, the Parthenon – all of it glowing, all of it cracked, all of it divine.

With no phone, I took two dramatic Polaroids. One for me, and one for Job.
Analog proof of our survival.

This polaroid picture is the only proof that I took pictures of the Athens trip.

Then I sat alone on the rocks overlooking the Athenian sprawl – white buildings flowing all the way to the blue line of the sea. The Greek flag snapped sharply in the wind above me.

I felt… weird.
Rootless. A bit lonely.
A traveler for two years, always moving, never settling long enough to belong.

In front of me, on the stone, a single tiny yellow flower pushed out between the cracks.
Farther away, a whole cluster of yellow flowers.
But the little one couldn’t see them.

It felt like a metaphor written just for me.

Job played kalimba. We talked about anthropology, dreams, my self-doubt. He hugged me. He said not everything I tell myself is true.

The city hummed below.

Pictures courtesy of my travel buddy Job, because again – my phone died.

Karaoke, Drums & The Night Athens Lost Its Mind

In the evening, I walked across Athens without any maps – just vibes – to meet Niki again.
She took me to a Brazilian-African drumming workshop.
They strapped a funda drum on me – heavy, solid, warrior-like. I put on knee pads. Held two thick sticks.
The rhythm vibrated through my whole body.
For a moment I felt ancient, powerful, tribal.
Connected.

Then we went to a karaoke bar.

It was already loud, packed, and full of Chelsea fans, because apparently there was a match that day.

Our group:
two choir girls, a jazz singer, Niki who also sings, Job who also sings, and me.
Five professionals + one Bulgarian with enthusiasm.

We sang “Riptide”, “Money Money Money”, and then me & Job threw ourselves into We Didn’t Start the Fire by Billy Joel.
The bar went feral.
People dancing, clapping, cheering.

A guy with a royal-sounding French-Hungarian name sang Stevie Wonder so perfectly I’m convinced he was put on Earth for that sole purpose.

Then the Chelsea fans demanded to sing Runaround Sue.
Three times.
When the DJ refused the second time, they handed him 20 euros.
He sighed and played it.

But on attempt number three?
The DJ refused.

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

I was watching as the big one grabbed the DJ by the shirt.
Suddenly fists were flying, bartenders jumped over the bar like action movie heroes, glasses shattered, chairs flipped, tables slammed.
A full British-Greek pub brawl, exploding out of nowhere.

Instinctively, I stood in front of my friends – smallest in the group but somehow the shield.
Others stood behind me.
The fight surged toward us. I yelled,
“Run downstairs!”
They did.

We got to the bathrooms downstairs.

But Niki wasn’t there.
So I ran back up – past glass, spilled beer, chaos.

At our table, which was now full of shards, a British guy was choking a bartender.
I stepped next to them.
They paused.
Just stared.

And then… they let go.

Some weird Balkan mom energy must’ve emanated from my body.

I ran outside and found Niki. She had left just before the chaos started because the British guys made her uneasy. Wise.

As we gathered our stuff from the shattered-table battlefield, the “choking Brit” passed me on the door and said:
“Sorry.”
SORRY?
What do you mean sorry?
Oops, my bad, accidentally started World War III?

Inside, the DJ had a bloody nose.
He told us, “In fourteen years, this has never happened.”

We made sure our friends got home safely.
We ordered a cab.
We got back at 4 AM.

Our train was at 6.

Athens never sleeps – but we had to.

TRAVEL NOTES

Route: Thessaloniki → Athens
Train: One of the few still running; departure 07:04, sunrise views
Sleep: 2.5 hours (regrettable but aesthetic)

Accommodation: Small hotel in Omonia, Athens
Highlight: Accidental camera obscura effect from the window light

Main Sights Visited:

• Syntagma Square (Changing of the Guards ritual)
  
• Temple of Zeus
  
• Acropolis (Parthenon, Theatre of Dionysus, panoramic views)
  
• The Pnyx (turtle cameo)
  
• Monastiraki
  
• Athens alleyways, ancient ruins, street musicians
  

Special Activities:

• Brazilian–African drumming workshop (funda drum)
  
• Recreating De Mol scenes in Athens metro stations
  
• Polaroid photography (phone broken)
  

Memorable Moments:

• Philosophical sunset bench talk
  
• Existential crisis + yellow flower epiphany on the Acropolis
  
• Job playing kalimba on the rocks
  
• Bar karaoke turning into a full British–Greek fight (three rounds of “Runaround Sue”)
  
• Rescuing friends during the chaos
  
• Apology from the same Brit who caused the fight
  

Friends Met:

• Niki (local guide + nightlife guardian)
  
• Choir singer friends + jazz singer
  
• Petros
  

Food & Drink:

• Falafel at 22:45, delivered to bed
  
• Vegan restaurant dinner
  
• Rakomelo with friends
  
• Greek bakery pastries
  

Notes to Self:

• Athens is a labyrinth without a phone
  
• Polaroids > smartphones (in emergencies and for vibes)
  
• Heat on the Acropolis is no joke
  
• Not everything you tell yourself is true
  
• British football fans should come with warning labels

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