A Village Called Anafiotika
Athens is a city that’s been photographed more times than anyone could count. From a distance, everything’s instantly familiar, the hill, the buildings, all that history everyone already knows by heart. I stood there a long while before I even raised the camera, not because I didn’t know what to shoot, but because it all felt so used to being looked at.
That day I was walking with a local photographer I’d happened to meet at a café. I asked him if there were still corners of Athens that hadn’t already been captured a thousand times over. He didn’t say much, just motioned for me to walk a bit further from the crowds.
On the northern slope of the Acropolis, I found a small area called Anafiotika. Simple white houses lined narrow streets, and the whole place felt like a little village tucked away inside the city, something close and familiar among the people who lived there.
The story goes that in the 19th century, after Greece won independence, Athens started rebuilding itself as the new capital. Workers came from all over, including a small island called Anafi. They were stonemasons, there to build the city, but they ended up building homes for themselves too. No grand plan, no formal architecture, just what they knew from home: white houses, narrow streets, buildings that followed the shape of the land. Slowly, a small village took form right in the middle of Athens. That’s what’s now called Anafiotika.
What struck me was how little this place felt like part of a big city. It felt more like a leftover memory, of home, of where people came from, of a simpler way of living. Tucked in the shadow of the grand Acropolis, and maybe because of that, it’s easy to walk right past. I’m always drawn to the things that are easy to miss anyway, a line of light on a wall, a shadow falling down some steps, a small space that already feels complete without needing to be filled with anything.
I stopped longer than I usually would, not waiting for something to happen, just giving myself time to really see. Waited until the footsteps around me faded out. Waited for the light to soften. Waited until the whole place felt still. There were moments when nothing was really happening, and that was exactly when I felt most present.
I stopped rushing for the shot. It felt like the photograph didn’t need chasing at all. It would come on its own, once everything had settled into its own time.
And maybe, in a city that’s already been seen this many times, what actually gets missed isn’t some hidden corner. It’s the chance to stop for a moment and really look.
A City That Holds Time
"Some cities do not merely hold history.They hold time itself.”
Even the city’s name comes from a very old story. The ancient Greeks told of two gods who once competed to become the city’s protector, Poseidon and Athena. Poseidon struck the ground with his trident and brought forth water. Athena offered something simpler: an olive tree. The tree gave food, oil, wood, and life. The people chose Athena’s gift. Walking among olive trees today, that legend does not feel so distant, as if the old story still breathes quietly among leaves stirred by the wind.
In Athens, the line between eras often feels thin. Gates, walls, and ruins stand within the modern city without feeling out of place. They have not been moved or hidden away. They remain exactly where they are, part of the city’s life today.
At several metro stations, ruins uncovered during construction have been left visible behind glass walls. People walk past them every day, heading to work or heading home, while beneath them lie traces of life that unfolded thousands of years before. Seeing that made me stop for a moment.
Time in Athens does not feel like a straight line. It feels like layers stacked upon each other, era after era, life after life. And perhaps that is exactly why Athens feels so alive. The past has not disappeared. It remains part of the present. And walking through this city, I felt as though I were walking among time that is still breathing.
Athens Taught Me to Pause Before Judging
Athens is often called a city of history. But walking through it, I felt something different. The city feels like a long, ongoing conversation. Among the ancient buildings still standing, I imagined the people who once gathered here, arriving with different thoughts, different beliefs, and ways of seeing the world that did not always align. Not every conversation reached agreement. But the conversation continued anyway.
Standing at the Theatre of Dionysus, I paused to look at the rows of stone seats facing the open stage. The place was silent when I arrived, but it was easy to imagine how thousands once sat there. They came to watch the plays of ancient Greece, works by writers like Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus. Those stories spoke about being human: about choice, error, hope, and fates we cannot fully understand.
Some say human life itself is not so different from a drama. Each of us arrives with a role to play, moves through events we did not always plan, and slowly tries to make sense of it all. Perhaps that is why Greek drama still feels close to life today. It was never only about the characters on stage, but about human experience repeating itself across ages.
Looking at those stone seats facing the open stage, I imagined how people once sat together there, watching stories about people much like themselves. They may not have gone home with the same answers. But they went home with a slightly broader understanding of life.
Athens Is Not a City to Be Understood in a Hurry
Athens is not a city that feels comfortable seen in a rush. There is something in its air and its stones that makes your steps slow down on their own, as if the city were not asking you to understand everything right away.
One evening I stopped at a small rooftop café called Cafe Zen, not far from the city center. From there I could see the Acropolis of Athens standing in the distance, atop its tall rocky hill. The structure looked ancient, yet also remarkably calm. From afar it did not feel like a ruin. It looked, instead, like something that had simply chosen to keep standing, patient, while the city changed around it.
Below the hill, life carried on as usual. People walked along the narrow streets, lights began to switch on, and the murmur of conversation drifted up from the restaurants below. Above, the old structure remained silent.
It is hard to look at the Acropolis without remembering that this city was once home to thinkers like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. They once walked these same streets, spoke with people in public spaces, and asked questions about the most fundamental matters of human life.
I did not come to Athens to study philosophy. But sitting in that café, watching the Acropolis from a distance, I felt something shift. It was as if this city had long been a place where people learned to speak, to listen, and to question what they believed.
As the sun began to set, the sky slowly changed color. The city grew quieter. Lights switched on, one after another, and the Acropolis remained exactly where it was.
When the Journey Doesn’t End
I’ve been taking photographs for a long time now. Photography has taken me to a lot of places. Every trip, I come home with more pictures than I know what to do with. Some I keep for myself, some go into competitions and photo salons, some get printed and shown, some end up in collaborative books, and from a few trips I’ve even put together my own travel books.
But lately I’ve noticed something simple: a journey doesn’t always end when we get home and put the camera down. Some experiences stick around longer than I expect, not just because of the photos, but because of the questions that come afterward. The way I see things shifts slowly, and sometimes I don’t even notice it happening. A journey doesn’t just move us from one place to another, it also, slowly, shifts the way we see the world.
I’ve loved writing since I was a kid, jotting down experiences, feelings, small things I came across. Out of that came a kind of conversation with myself, a quiet way of figuring out what I was going through. When I started photographing and visiting different places, that urge to write came back. I wanted a space that could hold not just photos, but the thoughts that come up along the way too, a place where photos and writing could exist side by side. Photos hold what I see. Writing helps me understand what I’m actually experiencing.
Sometimes a place doesn’t give up its meaning right away. It takes time. Often it’s only after coming home, once things have quieted down, that I start seeing a trip differently, and that’s usually when I realize there are things a photo alone can’t hold. That’s where writing finds its place.
Writing helps me keep hold of things that slip away easily: a small feeling that shows up somewhere, a question that suddenly comes to mind when I look at something, gratitude that arrives without warning. If I don’t write it down, the moment often just passes.
This journal isn’t an attempt to explain the world. The world’s too big for that. For me, it’s more like a space to sort out how I understand things. The writing here won’t always be complete, won’t always be polished. Sometimes it’s just a fragment of thought left over from a trip. But that’s where the honesty is, really.
I’m not writing to look like I know things. I’m writing so I don’t stop learning how to see.
And maybe, for me, that’s the most honest reason to start this journal.
