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The key turns in the lock and the door swings open into a shaft of morning light that cuts across the tiled floor. The flat in Koukaki is small, but the balcony faces a quiet street lined with jacaranda trees, and the cicadas are already warming up for the day. I set down the box of papers from yesterday's errands, the AFM certificate, the bank card, the plastic SIM card still tucked in its packaging, and I think, okay, this is it. This is the sound of a first morning in a new place.

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I crack open the shutters and the heat hits me like a curtain being drawn. It's early August, and Athens at eight in the morning is already promising thirty-two degrees by the afternoon. The air smells of diesel from a passing scooter and rosemary from someone's pots on a balcony across the way. I decide to make the most of the cool hours, because by noon the streets will be shimmering with the meltemi having not yet arrived, just the heavy, still heat that sits over the city like a blanket.

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I head out with no particular plan, just the coffee. A few blocks down, on a corner that catches the morning breeze, I find a place called Taf Coffee. It's a proper specialty coffee shop, the kind that would fit right into a backstreet in Melbourne or Berlin. I order a freddo espresso, because when in Greece you drink freddo, and it comes in a tall glass with a thick, creamy foam on top. It costs about three and a half euros, which feels reasonable for something that takes fifteen minutes to sip while watching the neighbourhood wake up.

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The girl behind the counter, who has lived in Koukaki her whole life, tells me that most of the good tavernas in the area are closed for August. The whole city, she says, is on holiday. The bakeries shutters are half down, the maisons are empty, and the streets are quieter than they will be in September. It's a strange time to arrive, but I kind of love it. There's a sense of the city exhaling, letting the tourists have it while the locals pack up and head to the islands or the mountains.

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I take my coffee and walk up the slope towards Filopappou Hill. It's a steep, dusty climb, but the view from the top is worth every drop of sweat. The Acropolis sits across the way, lit gold in the morning sun, and the whole city spreads out below, white cubes stacked up the hillsides, the sea glinting in the distance. I remember reading that Athens was chosen as capital in 1834, but it feels older than that, like the stones themselves hum with memory. I find a bench under a pine tree and just sit there for a while, letting the coffee do its work.

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Later, I need to sort out something practical: the flat is only rented for a month, and I have no idea where I'll be in September. The plan is to head north into the Pindos mountains, to escape the worst of the heat, but I need a base for when I come back down. I've been told that rents in Athens have gone up a lot, maybe ten percent last year alone, and a one-bedroom in a decent area will set you back anywhere from about six hundred and fifty to nine hundred euros a month. That's a lot, especially when you consider it's roughly seventy percent of an average salary. I decide to look at a couple of places online, but nothing feels right yet. I'll keep my ears open.

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By midday the sun is brutal, so I duck into the cool of the Acropolis Museum. It's a modern glass and concrete building designed by Bernard Tschumi, and it costs thirty euros for a ticket, which is steep, but the air conditioning is worth it alone. The collection is stunning, the Parthenon frieze stretched out in a long, quiet hall, and the glass floor showing the excavation site below. There's a special exhibition on right now, apparently, about the Lamassu of Nineveh, a collaboration with an artist called Michael Rakowitz. I spend an hour there, just drifting, letting the cool marble and the hum of the galleries wash over me.

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In the afternoon, I walk down through Plaka, the oldest neighbourhood, with its neoclassical lanes and bougainvillea spilling over the walls. It's crowded, touristy, but beautiful in a way that makes you forgive it. I stop for a snack at a small place near the Monastiraki flea market, a souvlaki wrap for about four euros, pork with tzatziki and a cold beer. I sit on a plastic chair and watch the world go by, the hawkers selling bracelets, the stray cats sleeping in the shade, the old men sipping as they argue about politics.

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As the afternoon cools, I take the metro to Piraeus, the port. I need to get a feel for the ferries, since in the next few weeks I'll be hopping islands down the Ionian sea. The metro ride costs about one euro twenty for a ninety-minute ticket, which is cheap, but I'm careful to validate it, because the fine is seventy-two euros, and I can hear the stories of people who got caught. The port is huge, a maze of docks and departure boards, but I manage to find the Blue Star Ferries terminal. I buy a timetable for the Ionian routes, just to have a sense of the options.

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On the way back, I stop at a place called Karamanlidika, a deli and restaurant in the Psyrri district that a friend recommended. It's a small, atmospheric spot with cured meats hanging from the ceiling and barrels of olives by the door. I order a plate of mixed meze, some smoked pork, a spicy sausage, a bit of cheese, and a glass of ouzo. It costs about fifteen euros, and it's the best meal I've had in Athens so far. The owner comes out to chat, asks where I'm from, and when I say I'm staying for a while, he tells me about his village in the mountains and insists I visit.

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The evening is long and warm. I walk through the streets of Psyrri, past the street art and the music spilling out of bars. There's a rebetiko taverna playing traditional Greek blues, and I stop for a moment just to listen. The singer's voice is raw, full of longing, and the bouzouki twangs under the clatter of plates. I think about how a city can feel so ancient and so alive at the same time.

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Back in Koukaki, I find a spot on the rooftop of my building, overlooking the Acropolis lights. The Parthenon glows white against the dark sky, like a paper lantern. I'm thinking about the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the ancient theatre carved into the slopes of the Acropolis. I read somewhere that it's in its final season before closing for years of restoration, and the Athens Epidaurus Festival is running shows there through August. I'm tempted to catch something, even if it's a last-minute ticket. It feels like a once-in-a-lifetime thing to see a play in a two-thousand-year-old theatre under the stars.

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And then there's the full moon. The Ministry of Culture opens a hundred and twenty-six archaeological sites for free on the full moon in August, and this year they're saying Sounion is back after four years away. I'm told the Temple of Poseidon at Sounion is the most beautiful ruin for a sunset, all that white marble over a cliff and the sea crashing below. It's about an hour's drive down the coast, and the thought of it is enough to make me start planning the trip.

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As I sit here, the moon is already rising over Hymettus, big and orange through the city haze. The cicadas are still singing, a relentless, pulsing sound that's almost become the soundtrack to my days. I'm tired, hours and hours of walking, but it's a good tired, the kind that comes from a day of new places and old stones. Tomorrow I'll face the paperwork again, the notary, the landlord, the endless stamps and signatures. But tonight, with the ouzo still warm in my veins, I'm just grateful to be here.

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Yassou, Athens. I'll see you in the morning.

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The next day, I wake up to the sound of church bells from a nearby cathedral, a metallic clang that ricochets off the buildings. It's Sunday, and the streets are even quieter than usual. I decide to use the day to plan my escape north. The Pindos mountains are calling, with their pine forests and cool rivers, a world away from the Aegean heat. I find a travel agency in the centre, and the woman behind the desk, who is clearly used to August wanderers, shows me a map of mountain villages, places where the roads are rough and the internet is patchy, but the air is clean and the people are welcoming. I book a bus ticket for a town called Metsovo, known for its wine and its mountain cheese.

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But before I go, I have one thing left to do. I get my ticket for the Odeon of Herodes Atticus. It's not on the calendar yet, but the man at the box office tells me there will be a performance of ancient drama, maybe Sophocles, in a week and a half. He shrugs and says, you should see it now, before the restoration closes it for years. I tell him I'll be back from the mountains in time, and I walk away with a paper ticket in my pocket, the date marked in pencil.

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And that's the thing about Athens. It's not a city you conquer in a day. It's a city you settle into, slowly, like a chair that remembers you. The heat, the queues, the bureaucracy, the endless paperwork, it's all part of the rhythm. But so is the freddo on a corner, the view from the hill, the smell of jasmine in the evening. I'm learning to move with it, not against it. And in the meantime, I'm planning my next steps, one metro ticket, one plate of meze, one full moon at a time.

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This is Nikos Pappas, and you're listening to the Greece Travel Podcast. I'm in Athens, I'm in Koukaki, and I'm just getting started.

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That's it for today. I'm off to find a plate of kleftiko and a bottle of cold water. Until next time, yassou, and maybe I'll see you under the Parthenon.

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A note on the practicalities before I go: if you're thinking of moving here or staying longer than ninety days, the paperwork is real but doable. You need an AFM, the Greek tax number, and to get that you'll need to visit a branch of AADE, the tax authority. A bank account comes after that, and it helps if you have proof of address, like a utility bill or a rental contract. For a SIM card, you'll need your passport, and the prepaid options are cheap and easy. The whole process took me two days, and it's a good way to start feeling like a resident rather than a tourist.

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And one last thing: the weather forecast says it'll be around twenty-two to thirty-two degrees for the next few days, so pack light clothes and a hat, but bring a jacket for the evenings, because the mountains will be cooler. This is Nikos, and I'll be back with another episode from the road.

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Alright, that's a wrap. I'm hitting the town for a late-night stroll, and I'll catch you on the next one. Yassou.