The lost American nods into his beer and says that the Greeks are different. He should know. He came here, he's not sure, maybe 20 years ago - he just dropped out and never went back. He's been here ever since, mostly writing poetry, and for all that time he's been illegal, no kind of papers at all. And the fact is that it's never caused him a moment's hassle.
He drinks his beer, and I drink my brandy, and both of us stare stupidly at the vast brown barrels full of home-brewed liquor that are piled up in the shadows of the taverna. Outside on the pavement, there's a stray cat stretched out in the sun, nosing at that sweet smell of old drains that you always get in a country that's not yet succumbed to the air-conditioned nightmare.
The lost American says the truth is that his home here is illegal, too. He has this room, it's not far from the Acropolis, and, for his money, it's in the finest house in all of Athens, but the house was built with out a permit 140 years ago. And, in all those years, there's never been a moment's hassle about that either.
So, what does that mean? That the Greeks don't respect the law? Hell, no - they invented the law. Of course, they respect the law. But they also respect people. That's what makes them different. Like Mr Walk-up-and-down, with the bushy grey beard and the coat of many odours, who stomps his way up and down Kidathineon Street, muttering under his breath. He gets food and water from the shopkeepers. They just give it to him, because he is a clown of God. Same with the alcoholics, they get treated well. And the stray cats. And the refugees.
There are 500,000 refugees in Greece - the whole population is only 10 million - and you don't see many of them begging because they get jobs and houses too. The lost American says the Greeks understand about refugees, because they've all got cousins in the United States and Australia. Sure, the Albanians get blamed for all the crime, and rightly so. The Albanians are mountain people and they're just as tough as they have to be. He says the Greeks understand that. He says he himself may be dirty, he may be gay, he may be lost, but the Greeks will respect him for the man he is.
Maybe he's right, this dusty guy in his dark corner. Or maybe he's just romanticising the place, trying to justify his oblivion. Out on the streets, the evidence is against him. There's Omonia Square with the kiosks selling porn and the jam of drivers pumping their horns; Syntagma Square with the litter on the pavement and the junk music on loud speakers and the junk food from the imperialist McDonald's and the same drivers squirting oily black fumes over everything. And then there's the Acropolis.
There must be few places in the known universe that can be visited by time-travellers from 2,000 years in the past and still be recognisable. The collection of temples and theatres on the Acropolis of Athens is one of them. At least, it is from a distance.
Before 8am each day, the coaches start to pile into the car park on the southern edge of the theatre of Dionysius. By 8am an avalanche starts to move up hill, hundreds of heaving, sweating, panting visitors: the Americans with buttocks like boulders, grunting like rutting rhino as they lumber upwards; the flocks of Japanese, so delicate by comparison; the French schoolchildren who should win Olympic gold medals for screaming; the dour Brits with their sensible shoes. By 8.30am, they have covered the place like headlice. There is no peace. There is no place to stand. And yet, there is magic here.
The best of it arguably is in the ancient Agora, which is bypassed by most of the tour groups and where real life signals from the past: in the 2,000-year-old remnants of Simon the cobbler, who lived on the edge of this old market and who left behind the hobnails and eyelets of his trade along with his favourite goblet, with his name still scratched into its base; in the 13 pot thimbles that were found in the remains of the state prison and that, the archaeologists believe, carried the hemlock with which the condemned kissed goodbye to their lives.
Even on the peak of the Acropolis, where the tide of tourists is as thick as lava and no sweeter to smell, you can still catch the sheer love of life that inspired these buildings. Look, in the museum there, at the statue of the youth with the calf around his shoulders, its hooves gathered on his chest, and see the peace and the pleasure in him; or the young women with their braided red hair; or Artemis leaning gently against the thigh of her brother, Apollo, while he chats to her, as gods must do when they feel at peace with the world.
It is the same in the streets. Behind the curtain of noise and smog, Athens remains a collection of villages. Just turn off any main street and follow any twisting alley, and you will find yourself among small houses with dopey dogs and grapevines on the walls - and tavernas.
The tavernas are the home of real Athenians, places of pleasure, and specifically of two particular pleasures for which the Greeks have found words: parea , a deep affection for friends often exhibited over vast quantities of food; and kefi , which might be misunderstood to mean drunkenness but which really describes the abandonment of self, possibly with the help of alcohol.
These are warm and often rowdy places, with every class and kind of Greek thrown in together. They stay open for ever: for those who start work with the sun, they serve lunch from the middle of the morning; for those who want to talk till late, they stay open till dawn. Their food draws on generations of refugees who have settled here: the Greeks who fled Smyrna in 1922 bringing their spiced meats and fish as well as their hashish; the more recent European Union migrants bringing French and Italian wines and ingredients. But their core is Greek.
You can see that Greek core even more clearly in the shops, particularly those that cluster around the sprawling markets on Athinas street: cheese shops, such as Zafolia, which sells 50 barrels of feta a day; the herb shops on Sofokleos Street; the olive shops on Sokratou Street; the hams and blackened sausages on Armadiou Street.
Despite all the threats of modernity, Athens is still a city where cats sleep on pavements and where lost human beings come to find respect.
Five of the best
Places to eat
1 Kafeneio 1 Epiharmou St. The waiter brings a tray of a dozen dishes so you can choose without speaking the language.
2 Dionysos Cafe western end of Rovertou Galli St. Great view of the Acropolis, good for breakfast.
3 Kalokerinos 10 Kekropos St. Bouzouki band whips customers in to a frenzy.
4 Platanos 4 Diogenous St. Looks like the kind of restaurant you might have found in 1930s Paris : clean and simple and delightful.
5 Fish restaurants in Tourkolimenos. Quiet harbour a short taxi ride away from Piraeus station.
Places to drink
1 Bakalarakia 41 Kidathineon St. Where the owner makes his own brandy and wines, some of them 45 years old.
2 Apotsos 10 El Venizelou. A plain and simple ouzo house.
3 Diogenes Lysikrates Square. For tranquillity beneath the olive trees.
4 Xynou Aggelou Geronta St. A classic Athenian taverna.
5 Centre of Hellenic Tradition café upstairs at 36 Pandrossou. A refuge from the heat and the noise of the flea market.
