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[ Intro
] [ Overview ] [ Savoir Faire ] [ Tour
the clubs ]
Don't
Stop Till You Get Enough
 The
crowds milling outside bouzoukia (live Greek music venues) and skyladika
(a kind of down-market bouzoukia) like Vareladiko, Romeo, and Asteria
are a different breed. The ladies totter along in a cloud of lace and
hair spray, their beefy escorts squashed into shiny suits and open-neck
shirts. Although I haven't booked a table, I manage to sweet-talk the
inflatable doorman at the curiously named Neraida, Gorgones kai Manges
(A Fairy, Mermaids and Dudes) into letting me in. The stage is a sea of
gyrating bodies. The crooner weaves between his appreciative fans, whipping
them into a lovesick frenzy. Flower girls in tight white suits wiggle
between the tables. There isn't a spare seat in the house. A pair of buxom
women in deep decollates clamber onto a table full of whisky glasses and
sculpted fruit to shake their stuff. Everyone is having a grand old time.
 After
about an hour of enthusiastic carnation flinging and clapping, my arms
are tired and my ears are ringing. It's 4.30 a.m. - still time for one
last stop on the night-train before I keel over. I cannot miss out on
+ Soda, the hottest house club in town, conveniently located beside a
funfair. The bouncers are ultra cool and ultra condescending. Inside,
bedraggled fashion victims are sprawled across the white vinyl sofas,
but dozens of ecstatic ravers are still carving strange shapes in the
air on the cavernous dance floor. Two bony girls in leopard-print bikinis
flail their limbs atop a pair of podiums. The DJ looks like the captain
of the Starship Enterprise as he works the wheels of steel behind a metallic
control panel framed by giant space bubbles.
One more vodka tonic
and I'm back on track, dancing for all I am worth. At 6.30 a.m., I'm having
so much fun the bouncers practically have to beg me to leave.
Morning Has Broken
Outside, in the pinkish
dawn, the sea shimmers invitingly. I contemplate a sobering skinny dip,
but thankfully come to my senses. The traffic has eased up, but it's busy
even now. I pull over at the first cantina, an all-night hot-dog stand
especially designed for jaded clubbers like me. But as soon as I smell
the sausages, I come over queasy. A bowl of patsas (tripe soup!) at the
bloodshot Athens Meat Market is an even less appealing breakfast option.
Instead, I stop at one of the 24-hour kiosks in Ommonia Square, pick up
three litres of water, a couple of sesame koulouria, the Sunday papers,
and call it another Athenian night.
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