Where Gods Go Breathless

Thessaloniki, Greece’s second most populous city, takes your breath away.

I don’t say this because of its physical beauty, though it can be very beautiful.

On a clear day, golden sunlight cuts through the shaded maze of apartment buildings and warms your face. Walking down some dusty alleyway, you’re liable to see a questionably parked Fiat Punto, missing hubcaps and held together with duct tape, a ginger cat perched atop it, looking at you condescendingly. Then, rounding a random corner, the great, gorgeous bay of this port city reveals itself, glittering under far-off mountains, catching the light like silver silk.

It’s not even the history that takes your breath away, though that too is pretty impressive.

At the beginning of Homer’s Iliad, the formidable Achilles has a minor meltdown threatening his boss, Agamemnon, that he’ll quit his day job (laying siege to Troy) and head home early:

“But know, proud monarch, I’m thy slave no more;
My fleet shall waft me to Thessalia’s shore."

As someone who has been known to be a bit dramatic, occasionally quit jobs, and has suffered from minor ankle issues from low-grade domestic basketball, I relate to Achilles' situation.

But that offhand reference to Thessaly, a region just south of modern-day Thessaloniki, in this 2,700+ year-old yarn, is a reminder: this part of the world has been at the centre of the action (at least the written-down action) for a very long time.

A few centuries after Achilles’ tantrum, another famous warrior with a memorable career—Alexander the Great—would march from this region to conquer half the known world. Thessaloniki itself owes its name to his half-sister, a princess of Macedon, named in honour of a victory their father won in Thessaly.

Even today, you can stumble across history—or even sit on it.

At sunset, two dark-haired young women in leather jackets smoke cigarettes and recline against the wall of an ancient ruin. The Romans turned Thessaloniki into a crossroads of empire, linking Rome to Byzantium and the Balkans. Their roads and arches still cut through the city, though now they shelter café-goers and idling scooters. From subsequent millennia, Byzantine churches are tucked between apartment blocks and kebab shops, while the domes of Ottoman mosques are preserved and repurposed as museums.

But the real reason Thessaloniki takes my breath away is simple.

It’s fucking hilly.

Even the meanest, leanest legionnaire would be winded walking some of these streets. The city rises and falls in steep, uneven waves, and no matter where you’re headed, it always seems to be uphill. By the time you’ve climbed to Ano Poli (Upper Town), legs burning, you almost expect an oracle to greet you at the top with cryptic wisdom and a bottle of cold water.

But the views make it worth it.

Red-tiled roofs tumble toward the sea. The White Tower stands defiant in the haze. And far beyond it all, Mount Olympus looms on the horizon. A reminder that even gods prefer the high ground.

For more detours like this, you can sign up to my newsletter, Mind Maps.