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It was the summer of 2009 and at the end of the semester I was heartbroken, unemployed and moving back in with my parents in rural Texas. My mom, enforcing her “no one stays for free after 18” policy, found me a job bussing tables at a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant next to her office. “Alex’s Shish Kabab” had 5 tables and the only other employee was the old man himself. Alex was a cranky Athenian transplant in pursuit of the American dream. His restaurant averaged maybe eight customers a day, two of which were my parents, but he still boasted he made the best Greek food this side of the Atlantic. In addition to a small stipend, I received one free meal a day under the pretences that Alex and I ate together. During our dinners, Alex would tell me all about his life in Greece and how maybe one day I’d travel to Athens to find myself a “good Greek husband”. Although Alex and I had lost contact over time, his love for Athens remained embedded in my brain. In the summer of 2017, I found myself at yet again another crossroads of my life and decided there was no better time to see if the city could live up to its legend. During our summer together, Alex had told me so many stories about the rich complexity of Athens, but I hadn’t fully appreciated it until I saw it with my own two eyes. Broken and beautiful- an embodiment of the past coinciding with the present, Athens was like nothing I could have ever imagined. There’s something transcendent about being in a place so archaic and full of history, it made my inner nerd squeal with excitement. The juxtaposition of the ancient ruins and crisp white architecture against the graffiti ridden streets overflowing with the leftovers of last week’s rubbish strike was almost post-apocalyptic. I couldn’t wait to explore all of her quaint corners and nooks like a true Athenian. However, by the end of my trip I still felt as if I was missing an understanding of Athens that felt so entwined with my memories of Alex’s love for his city. It was one of my final days in the city and while I had trekked the Parthenon early on, I had not made my way to the Acropolis Museum. Dedicated to the goddess Athena, the Parthenon held up to her patronage of wisdom, handicraft, and warfare as it stood the test of time. As I relished in the air conditioned halls of the museum, I spent the better part of the day reading and learning about the history of the Acropolis, in particular the outstanding fortitude of the Parthenon dating back to the Persian invasion of 480 BC when the original Parthenon was destroyed. At the conclusion of the tour, I made my way just below the city centre to Monastiraki for dinner. I sat at one of the tables perfectly poised beneath the Acropolis with a sunset view of the Parthenon. As I sipped my carafe of wine, I found myself reflecting on everything that ancient building had survived over the centuries. And in that moment, it all finally came together for me. Despite being conquered, converted and stripped of all its worth on several occasions, the Parthenon stood proudly on that hilltop, scarred AND beautiful. And just as I had felt so damaged and exhausted over the years, I finally realised that I too could carry my scars and still have worth. Looking back, I wouldn’t say that I “found myself” on that trip but I would say that I finally understood the bigger picture. While I didn’t meet that Greek husband Alex always promised me, I did learn that it wasn’t about trying to find where the journey was taking me but trusting that I will always find my way if I can just weather the storms.