The Greek Way

In ancient Greek myth, the Gods always punish the human crime of hubris with all manner of grisly fates: getting turned into a spider or a weeping stone; suffering for eternity with an unquenchable thirst; being chained to a rock while an eagle devours your liver; and, although there's no specific mention of heart disease in any myth I'm aware of, it's surely possible that Nemesis also clogged the arteries of arrogant Athenians with divinely vengeful cholesterol and plaque. Imagine, if you will, a shepherd from about three thousand years ago, perhaps someone not entirely unlike me, wandering happily on the sun-kissed plains of Attica telling everyone that he feels as fit as Zeus, only to be suddenly struck down with stabbing chest pains and rushed to the nearest Asclepieion. Such were my thoughts, anyway, as we boarded the British Airways flight to Eleftherios Venizelos Airport.
We had booked the Greek trip many months before I had felt even the slightest twinge of a chest pain, back when the idea of undergoing heart bypass surgery seemed as unlikely as me diving into a large vat of Tzatziki sauce; and so at certain low moments during my hospitalization I doubted whether I'd actually ever make it there; not because I thought I might die or anything quite as grim as that, but because I knew that the extensive physical recovery required might put island hopping with luggage well beyond my puny, convalescent reach. And to be sure, there was a period when I would have encountered almost insurmountable difficulty crawling to the Greek restaurant at the end of the road, never mind jetting off to Athens and points Aegean. Fortunately, the human body brushes aside its traumas much faster than you might expect, and I was able to pack my guidebooks and collect my boarding pass after all.
Having said that, the conclusions of Socratic method, Aristotelian logic, and even a brief appeal to simple common sense would all advocate against climbing the Acropolis - 500 feet above sea level - in my delicate condition; yet I staggered up to the top anyway. Call it Byronic whim (Robert Byron), but making an ascent had seemed like the thing to do when staring at the Parthenon from our hotel window. And also I feel a great affinity for this ancient temple, since its creaky columns are currently held together with iron scaffolding, much like my breastbone is held together with tiny sternal wires.
After all, if the Parthenon is still standing after three thousand years, despite the attentions of Turks, tourists and Lord Elgin, then I suppose I can survive to a venerable age also, providing the Greek gods and their Furies don't read this blog, obviously.