The air hits you the moment you step out of the terminal at Athens International. It's not just the heat, though it's that too — about 31 degrees, clear sky, the sun still high at six in the evening. It's a physical presence, a warm hand on your shoulder. The light is different too, sharper, and the hills around the runway are dry and golden. I stood there for a minute with my two bags, just letting it sink in. Yassou, Attica. I'm not a tourist this time.
Getting from the airport to the city is my first test. The metro is easy — one line, about forty minutes, no traffic to fight. The ticket costs nine euros, which felt steep until I remembered the taxi flat rate is about forty. So I bought my ticket, swiped through, and settled in. The train surfaces near the coast and you get these flashes of the sea between apartment blocks, then it dives back underground. I got off at Syntagma, dragged my bags up to the street, and stood in the middle of the city for the first time.
This isn't my first time in Greece, but it's the first time I'm here to stay. The plan, if you want to call it that, is to spend the autumn crossing the country — up into the Pindos mountains where the air gets cool, then down the Ionian islands while the sea stays warm into October. But you can't just arrive and start wandering. There's the machinery of a new life to sort out first. So Athens is my administrative landing pad, and I've got a list as long as a ferry receipt.
I'm staying in Koukaki, the neighbourhood right below the Acropolis Museum. I found a small furnished flat online before I left — a one-bedroom, about 400 euros for this first month because the rental market here is genuinely tough. I'm told prices for a modest place in central areas like this or Pangrati or Exarchia now run about 650 to 900 euros a month, and that's a big chunk of a local salary. My street is quiet, jacaranda trees overhanging the pavement, a corner baker already shuttered for its August holiday. Inside, the flat is fine. Bare floors, a balcony with a view of someone else's bougainvillea. It'll do for a base.
The first task is the AFM — the tax number. Without it, nothing else moves. No bank account, no SIM card, no contract for the flat beyond a handshake. You need to sort it via the AADE portal, the tax authority's website, and honestly the process was less painful than I feared. A passport, a statement of purpose, an address in Greece. Within a few hours I had a number. It's a bureaucratic key that unlocks everything else. The digital nomad visa route and the standard Schengen rules — 90 days in any 180 for most visitors — those are worth checking before you arrive, because the paperwork is easier if you know your path.
With the tax number in hand, I tackled the bank. I walked into a branch of Alpha Bank near my flat — they're known for being fairly straightforward with expats. Passport, tax number, proof of address, which was just my rental contract. It took about an hour and a bit of form-filling. The woman at the desk was patient with my Greek, which is still mostly nouns and gestures. No fee for the basic account. By lunchtime I had a card and the app set up. Money is now a Greek affair.
The SIM card was quicker. I went to a Cosmote shop — they have the best coverage of the three networks. Greek law requires them to register the SIM to your passport, so bring it with you. Ten minutes later I had data on my phone. That was the moment I felt properly connected. The rest of the afternoon I wandered, letting the city introduce itself.
From Koukaki you can walk up towards Filopappou Hill, which is the long green shoulder across from the Acropolis. The path winds through pine trees and cicadas — a proper soundscape. The view across to the Parthenon from up there is a kind of vertigo, not from height but from age. That building has been standing, in some form, for over two thousand years. I sat on a bench and just looked for a while. There's a terrace café on the hill, and I paid about 3.50 euros for a freddo espresso, which is the standard price here. Cold, strong, served in a paper cup with a straw.
Coming down the hill you pass the Theatre of Herodes Atticus, this Roman amphitheatre carved into the south slope of the Acropolis rock. I noticed they're running the Athens Epidaurus Festival there this summer. I've been told it's the last season before a long restoration, so catching a show there in August is apparently a bit of a collector's item. The full-price ticket at the Acropolis itself to walk up and see the Parthenon up close is 30 euros now, which is worth it once, but I would not say it's a cheap day out. I saved that for another day.
I crossed into Plaka, the oldest quarter, with its tight neoclassical lanes and the little Cycladic-style enclave of Anafiotika tucked under the rock. It's the most touristy part of Athens, but it gets the light right at dusk. I didn't linger. The body of the city was pulling me towards Varvakios, the central market near Omonia. That's where a city shows you what it actually eats, and I was hungry.
Varvakios is a nineteenth-century arcade of butchers and fishmongers, with spice shops and olive stalls on the edges. The floor is wet underfoot, the air is cold from the open chillers, and there's a rhythm to it — butchers calling out, the slap of fish on ice. I walked the length of it and ended up at a small counter place that serves souvlaki right there. A pork wrap and a soft drink set me back about eight euros. The meat is hot off the grill, the pita is soft and oily, and you eat it standing up, elbows out. That's the fuel of this city — roughly three to four and a half euros for a street souvlaki if you catch the right spot, which is a bargain compared to the restaurants. A proper sit-down meal with wine in a mid-range taverna will run you more like 15 to 25 a person, and that's the version you want for a long evening, not a lunch on your feet.
I walked through the market district, past shops selling everything from kitchen knives to leather belts, and emerged near Monastiraki. The flea market around Ifestou street was ramping down for the evening, but the energy was there. I didn't buy anything. I'm at the point where I have to carry everything I own, so the rule is if I don't need it, I don't touch it. I need a frying pan, but I'll find that closer to home.
Back in Koukaki, I needed dinner. I had passed Laluk Cafe-Bar on my walk and it looked like a neighbourhood spot, the kind of place where the staff know the regulars' orders. I sat at a table on the pavement. It's warm, around 24 degrees at nine o'clock, and the street has that Mediterranean hum. I ordered a Greek salad and a grilled fish, had a glass of ouzo to start, because when in Athens. The bill came to about 22 euros. The owner was friendly in that Greek way — genuine filoxenia, real hospitality, not just service with a smile. He asked where I'm from, what I'm doing here. When I told him I'd just moved, he refilled my ouzo without asking. It's a small gesture, but it says a lot about what this culture considers basic manners.
I walked it off through the side streets, past the Acropolis Museum glowing at the end of the pedestrian street. The city is in its August lull — lots of shops run by families have signs saying they'll reopen after the 15th, for the Assumption. That's a big holiday here, the whole country seems to pause. The daytime is for naps or the beach, and the evenings stretch late because nobody wants to sleep through the one cool part of the day.
I took the metro down to Piraeus the next morning just to look at the ferry terminal. It's an easy ride — about 20 minutes from the city centre, a single metro line. That's my highway for the next few months. I walked along the waterfront, watching the big blue and white ferries load trucks and cars for the islands. The boat horns echo off the concrete. It's a sound I associate with leaving. I stood there with my coffee and thought about the Pindos mountains, where I'm headed in a couple of weeks when my paperwork is truly done. The mountains will be cooler, the air thinner. But for now, Athens is doing its job — it's a city of arrival, of sorting things out, of laying the rails for the journey ahead.
The pilot episode ends where it started: one apartment, one set of keys. I had the paperwork, the bank card, the Greek SIM in my phone. I stood on my little balcony looking at the Acropolis, lit up gold against the black sky. The cicadas were loud. A neighbour was playing music somewhere down the street. It felt less like a stopover now and more like a place. I'm settling in, one piece of paperwork at a time. That's episode one. I'm recording this from a quiet room in Koukaki, ready for whatever comes next.
Next time, we head north. I'll tell you what it costs to get out of Athens and into the mountains, and what the driving is like. Until then, yassou.