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The cicadas are already in full swing by the time I step out of my building in Koukaki, and the air has that thick, honey-like quality that August in Athens gets by mid-morning. I'm not heading to the Acropolis today, no, I've got a different kind of Athenian adventure on my mind. I'm going flat hunting, and the first stop is a neighbourhood I've only read about: Exarchia.

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The metro is the easiest way to get there, so I walk down to the Syngrou-Fix station, tapping my contactless card on the reader. A 90-minute ticket is about €1.20, and the day cap is around €4.10, which is nothing, really, less than a coffee. The train is surprisingly quiet for a Tuesday, and I get a seat, watching the stations tick by: Neos Kosmos, Agios Ioannis, then I change at Syntagma for the red line up to Victoria. From there, it's a short walk into the heart of Exarchia.

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The first thing you notice is the noise, not in a bad way, but a kind of low, constant hum of life. Motorbikes zipping through the narrow streets, the clatter of coffee cups from the kafeneia that spill onto the pavements, and the ever-present buzz of conversation. There's a raw energy here that feels completely different from the polished, tourist-ready streets of Plaka. The street art is everywhere, huge, sprawling murals covering entire building facades, political slogans, and intricate stencils. This is a district with a pulse, and it's not trying to be pretty for anyone.

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I'm here to see a flat, a one-bedroom in a 1930s building on a side street off Kallidromiou. The landlady, a woman named Eleni who chain-smokes and talks at a hundred miles an hour, shows me around. The apartment is small, with high ceilings and a tiny balcony that overlooks a courtyard, and the walls are that classic Greek pastel blue. It's charming, in a worn-in sort of way, but the rent is €750 a month, which feels steep for the size. Eleni tells me the price is because of the location, the 'character', though I suspect the 'character' is what makes it drafty in winter and a sauna in summer. I tell her I'll think about it, and she gives me a look that says she knows I won't, and honestly, she's probably right. It's nice, but it's not home.

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I wander further into the neighbourhood, past the National Archaeological Museum, which I make a mental note to actually visit before I leave Athens. The queue is already long this early, which is a good sign, but I'm on a mission. I need to find a more permanent place for September, and I've got a list of viewings and a head full of questions. My next stop is a café for a freddo espresso to cool down and think. I find a spot at a place called Coffee Joint, tucked away on a corner street. A freddo costs about €3.50, maybe €4 for a double, and I sit on the curb because the few tables outside are all taken by a group of students arguing loudly about politics. It feels very Exarchia.

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I get out my phone, checking the map, and see that a real estate agent I emailed earlier has replied. There's a flat in Pangrati he wants to show me, another one of the central neighbourhoods that's supposed to be good for the intelligentsia set. It's a bit of a walk, or I can take the trolley, so I decide to walk. It takes about 20 minutes, crossing through the edgy streets around Omonia, where the vibe shifts from university students to a more transient crowd. I keep my wits about me, phone in my pocket, and it's fine, but it's a reminder that Athens is a city of juxtapositions.

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Pangrati is different again. It's leafier, more residential, with grand, old apartment blocks and a slower pace. Plateia Varnava is the heart of it, a beautiful square shaded by trees, surrounded by upscale but not pretentious cafés and wine bars. The agent, a young guy named Dimitris in an ill-fitting suit, is already waiting. He shows me a place on the second floor of a building that's just been renovated. The flat is bigger than Eleni's, with a proper kitchen and new fixtures. The problem is the price. He's asking €900 a month, and he claims he has three other people ready to take it. It's a good flat, genuinely, but I'm not sure I want to pay that much for the privilege of living above a bakery that starts its ovens at 4 a.m., which I can smell from the open window. I tell him I'll be in touch, and he hands me his card with a meaningful nod.

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By now the heat is really starting to press down, and I feel that familiar midday lethargy that makes the whole city seem to pause. This is when the streets empty, not just of tourists, but of the Athenians themselves, who are all inside, behind closed shutters, waiting for the sun to pass. It's the perfect time to retreat to one of the city's open-air cinemas, not for a show, but just to sit in the shade. I walk back towards the Acropolis, past the massive gates of the Panathenaic Stadium, the all-marble one they finished for the first modern Olympics back in 1896. It's an impressive sight, even if I only glimpse it through the railings, all that white stone baking in the sun.

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Instead of a cinema, I find a bench in the National Garden, just behind the Parliament building, and it's like stepping into a different country. There's a symphony of birdsong, the rustle of palm trees, and the sound of a small fountain. A cold bottle of water costs about €0.50 from a kiosk, and it's the best half-euro I've spent all day. I sit there, watching the turtles in the pond and the stray cats sunning themselves on the paths, and I think about this whole process of making a life here.

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I moved here with the idea that everything would be simpler, that the sun and the sea would smooth over the bureaucracy and the everyday struggles. And in some ways it does. The light here is different, softer, more golden, and it genuinely does something to your soul. But the rent is a problem. €900 for a modest one-bedroom, when the average salary is around €26,000 a year, it highlights a real squeeze. It's not the Athens of the cheap holiday, that much is clear.

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Later in the afternoon, I take the metro down to Piraeus, not to catch a ferry, but to do a bit of practical planning at the port. I need to check the schedules for the ferries north to Igoumenitsa, which would be the gateway to the Pindos mountains, and my escape from this heat in a few days. The port is a world of its own, all ferries and trucks and seagulls crying overhead. I stand at the edge of the quay, watching a huge ferry dock, the ramps clanking down, and I feel that familiar pull of the sea, the urge to just get on one and go. I pop into a ticket office and ask about prices to fight the mainland. A deck seat, which is all I need, is around €40 to €50. It's a bit of a steal, honestly.

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With that sorted, I reward myself with something simple and essential: a gyros. I find a little place near the metro station, nothing fancy, just a counter and a few stools, where the man behind the counter is spinning a massive cone of meat. A pork gyros wrap is around €3.50, and it hits the spot in a way that no fancy dinner could. The meat is juicy, the tzatziki is garlicky, and the pita is warm and fluffy. This is the real Athens, the everyday food that sustains you through the heat.

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As evening falls, I make my way back to Koukaki. The streets are coming alive again as people emerge from their afternoon retreat. The small bakeries are putting out fresh trays of bread and kalitsounia, and the tavernas are setting up their outdoor tables. I stop for a glass of ouzo at a tiny bar near my flat, and the barkeep, an old man with weather-beaten skin, points to a glass and raises an eyebrow. I nod, and he pours me a generous measure. It goes down smoothly with a bit of ice and water, the anise flavor cooling me from the inside out. The cost, a couple of euros, seems too small for the moment of peace it buys.

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That night, I look at a few more listings online, but I keep coming back to the one in Pangrati. It's a good flat, and the price, while high, is unfortunately the new normal in this city. Rents have gone up about 10% in the last year, and a one-bedroom now eats up a huge chunk of an average salary. It's a sobering thought to end the day on, this juxtaposition of the ancient, beautiful, and chaotic city with the very modern problem of making rent.

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I check my calendar. The 15th of August is fast approaching, a national holiday when everyone heads to the islands, and the city will be even emptier. I've got a few more days in Athens, a few more flats to see, and a ferry to catch north to the Pindos. As I get into bed, I can still hear the distant sounds of the city through the open window - a motorbike backfiring, someone laughing in the street, the faint clatter of dishes from a taverna below. It's a good sound. It feels like coming home, even if I still don't know where that home will be in September. For now, this city is loud, and hot, and full of life, and that's enough.

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This is Nikos, from Athens. Yassou, and I'll catch you on the next one.