Today we enjoyed breakfast on the Roof Garden once again with a perfect view of the Parthenon, and then squeezed into a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the Museum of the Acropolis. As we headed toward our destination, the driver asked whether we had advanced tickets, and when we said no, he laughed wholeheartedly and told us that, “ I woz juz theh and the people eeth waiting 2 to 3 hours to geh in. Iz 100 metres long the line.” He circled back to our hotel and suggested that I ask the concierge for advanced tickets while he waited in the car with my mom and the kids.
The Concierge desk was swarming with tourists, but luckily I spied the Starwood Preferred Guest sign and cozied up to it and the gentleman with the name badge, and asked if this is where I pick up advance tickets to the Museum. He looked at me a bit perplexed and asked me to wait a moment. He then walked over to the Concierge past the swarm of awaiting tourists and asked the Concierge a question, stopping to point at me; I waved and smiled trying to look both impatient and endearing at the same time. Immediately the Concierge made his way over to me and asked whether I had made a reservation. I did my best to look utterly perplexed, “Oh dear, I didn’t know we had to book a reservation, I was simply told that the Concierge had advanced tickets for collection.” This was in fact true, although I was told by the taxi driver and not some official Starwood source. “I’ve got the children in the taxi outside, might there be some way you could perhaps provide us with tickets? I am so sorry not to have gone about this the right way. Do you have the power to help me out?” Greek men clearly enjoy being as powerful as Zeus, and that last question seemed to have subtly threatened his masculinity. The Concierge asked me to wait just a moment and walked back to his booth. He then returned with 5 tickets in hand and explained that he would give these to me even though they were reserved for another group (his power being awesome) that were coming in the afternoon, and that he would send a driver to pick up new tickets for them so that I could go now. Well you can imagine my delight, I took the tickets, thanked the Concierge profusely and shook his hand which contained a neatly folded 10 Euro note in it for him. I once again left the hotel and hopped into the taxi where my mother and the kids cheered at my small but important victory. The driver deposited us at the Museum, and on top of the taxi fare I gave him an extra 10 Euros as well. He looked down at the generous tip and said, “I wait for you fiftzeen minute, iz noh mutch teep but iz okay. Endzoy!” I had been insulted in a most jocular fashion for being cheap by our taxi driver, hmmphh. And with that we exited the taxi, sauntered leisurely past the 100 metre long tourist queue waiting to purchase tickets and entered the velvet rope enclosed Advanced Ticket line feeling like VIPs.
That afternoon as I was strolling through the chic shopping district behind the hotel, I found an adorable pair of orange Chloe moccasins and happened upon a contemporary professional hair salon. The stylists in the salon were all dressed in Armani-like black uniforms and had beautiful hair in every shade imaginable, and very natural-looking, although clearly not. I pushed the glass doors open and was met by a rush of floral scented hair products and air conditioning. The floors were crisp white tiles that shone under the artificial lighting like flat square pearls, there was not a hair to be seen on the floor. It had been over a month since my experience in Tel Aviv with Reuven the Hassidic hairdresser and I was in need of a touch up. The Armani clad women approached me all smiling and welcoming. I explained my need with the use of much gesturing for emphasis, as there was limited understanding of English, and then one of the stylist’s stepped forward to translate. Yes they could take me now, yes they could do a touch up and it would only cost 25-35 Euros. Delighted I said yes, and was led upstairs to the head colorist. Unlike Reuven, she had no religious garb on but only the black Armani-esque uniform. She had me sit in one of the reclining chairs near the wash basin and then reclined the chair hydraulically so that I was tilted backward. Then a footrest jutted out from the chair upon which I could rest my legs, then the chair began to massage my back. I had to suppress a squeal of joy. We weren’t at the Beauty Place any more toto. We were in hair heaven. (see pics)
After the colorist had applied the blondifying mixture to my head and I had been offered a variety of beverages, my translator appeared looking a bit sullen. She explained to me that when I had said touch-up they had misunderstood and quoted me a price for a different kind of treatment. Now that the colorist had applied her mixture they realized that the service I was enjoying was in fact a different one and would cost 56 Euros without a blow dry, and would that be okay with me? Not having been born that same day, I realized that I had been swindled. Yet, with my neck and shoulders being chair massaged sipping on my cappucino, and a quick calculation of the new price still being significantly cheaper than the same treatment at home, I agreed without contempt. Of course after my hair had been washed by the shampoo girl (who I might add gives a most excellent scalp massage), I absolutely refused the blow dry and left with damp but lovely hair.
As I exited I came upon a beautiful sweet shop that sells homemade French Macarron cookies. The sales associate had a thyroid condition which renders her able to eat all she wants and never gain an ounce, while her poor sister, the pastry chef, has the opposite thyroid condition and cannot eat her treats without becoming obese. Life is not fair. The cookies were marvelous though and as we chatted about the effects of sugar on ones figure and the wonders of Angelina’s in Paris, I helped myself to several of the free samples and ultimately bought a boxful for everyone to enjoy after dinner. I bid adieu to my hyperthyroid hostess, vowing to return with my children later in the evening.
We dined on the roof terrace for the last time, for tomorrow Chloe heads back home, Justin and my Mom head to Canada for a week, and Livvy and I head to the Culinary Institute of America for a mother-daughter cooking course. We reminisced about the amazing trip we’ve been on over the past 2 months from Chloe’s Frenchies in Bodrum to Avi and his micro fiber capris in Israel, and enjoyed the wonderful sunset over the Acropolis.
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