We have spent the last few days in the southern-most town in Cinque Terre, called Riomaggiore. I shall recount for you my memories of the Parthenon in Athens.
The climb up the hill is not very exhausting. Only the last few steps from the Areopagus into the monument is an effort, producing sweat of exertion to claw at out already sweat-soaked shirts from the hot day. The site is grand indeed and powerful still despite it only being half there. Restoration work is constant among the hundreds of tourists and parts of the ghost of the building shine in white marble like new among the weakened and sunburnt stones. The most glorious part of all was sighting the massive mountain that had formed on the back of my calf, blistered red and half-spotted white mound. Here was the cause of the tightness of skin that had not yet been consciously recognised and the thorn-like stab I felt periodically throughout that morning whenever I crossed my legs.
With the white dust sweeping all around us, Renee urged me not to, however the small amount of pressure erupted, wetting both thumbs and forefinger. Like Mt. Vesuvius of old, I laid destruction to my legs creating a crater of epic proportions suitable to our surroundings amongst ancient gods.
I would have liked to evacuate the crater with one foul squeeze, but to Renée’s consternation, it took three. Out of the depths of my calf sprung gelatinous founts of pink and gold slush. Oh! What glorious relief. Oh! What pain it was to experience the sting of hand sanitising alcohol was on that wound from Renée’s ministrations. Still, it was worth it! I shall always remember the Parthenon.