The Part C version is the recollection of the incident, from my memory and occasional retelling of the story from then to now 30 years later. This version fills in the gaps omitted by my 22 yr old journal version written on the train or ferry while travelling from Greece to Italy.

The Photo
Giorgos and Virginia
Male and female
Big and small
The church: protects, overshadows, stone cold
The camera: hook and bait
The VISA card: money for life
Dirt cave under the Acropolis. 
In that moment – 
Two humans battling, I survived. 
He got my gold cross. And my anger.

In 1990 my sister and I were traveling through Europe doing the backpacking thing that so many of my peer group did then. We had been partying and playing in the Greek islands and arrived by ferry to Athens very early on a Sunday morning. My sister was sick so we checked into a hostel so she could sleep. I remember making the decision that, being the independent woman I was, emboldened by a couple of months of travel, that I would visit the Acropolis by myself that morning rather than sitting around waiting for my little sister to once again be my caretaker as she had done so often in our history. After all, it was a Sunday morning and I was going to a busy place – I felt quite safe.

It was still early when I arrived at the Acropolis and the building was not yet open. I scrambled up a big rock to wait and to watch the sunrise. A few other tourists were milling around. A young man joined me. As I had lots of guy friends back in my hometown in British Columbia I thought nothing of it other than it was pretty cool to hang out with a local for a bit. We chatted and then he asked if I wanted to get a coffee as the Acropolis would be closed for a while yet. That was my weakness; I love coffee and hadn’t had one yet. He said he knew of a place down in the town and led me through the narrow passageways past houses toward the town square. 

As we walked and talked, he mentioned that he was a professional fighter. It wasn’t that he was a fighter per se (he was male and bigger and stronger than me regardless of being a fighter) – maybe it was his tone or a shift in his stance -and suddenly I felt a chill and wanted out of the situation but couldn’t think of how to do so. We arrived at the café and sat at one of the many empty outside tables – there were no other customers. The waiter seemed to know Giorgos and they spoke in Greek. I was reserved, aloof, and polite. I didn’t want to reveal that I now felt vulnerable and trapped. I drank my coffee, then said we should head back as the Acropolis would soon be opening.

As we were heading back, a different route than the one we took down, he offered to take a picture of me in front of a church. I couldn’t say no without raising suspicion that I was now wary, so agreed. He took the picture and handed back my camera. Perhaps he was buying a bit of trust. We continued walking up the winding and narrow passageways through the town toward the main route back to the Acropolis. He said he knew of a shortcut. How could I say, “No, I’d rather go the long way”? especially as I had already indicated that the site would be opening soon. “Okay”, I said. He veered off the main pathway onto a smaller one – it was similar to the paths I had been on earlier when speaking with the French couple so still thought maybe I’d be okay – still on high alert though. As we walked up the pathway, he said he knew of water caves, and would I like to see them? Up ahead I could see the Acropolis-I was almost there. And nothing had happened yet, despite my foreboding. And water caves sounded interesting. So, we veered left and scrambled up a dirt path. 

It was a bit steep and slippery; he offered his hand. I took it tentatively; he pulled me up, and then released my hand. More trust? Or more setting me up? Then he grabbed me and pushed me into a dirt cave, under the shadow of the Acropolis, steps from the path. He ripped my camera bag away from me and tossed it into the dark back corner then pushed me facedown onto the dirt, facing the front of the cave. His hand was over my mouth. He was on top of me. There were rocks within hand’s reach. I pictured him grabbing a rock and smashing my head. My thought was “my poor mom, she’ll have to live with the image of her daughter dying violently in a cave”. 

I had little room to maneuver and felt locked in his grip but with adrenalin of anger I managed to get part of his hand off my mouth enough to scream as loud as I could. It was enough to startle him into loosening his grip for a moment, and in that moment I said, “take my VISA” – later I realized he probably thought I meant my travel visa; however, I meant my VISA credit card that was still on me in my money belt. I guess I was trying to barter with whatever I had left, although in hindsight of course realize he could have taken everything. 

I was wearing a one-piece jumpsuit that I think saved me from being sexually assaulted: he fumbled with my clothing but couldn’t pull down my pants. He had now lost control of the situation. In a last effort of, of, I don’t know what, perhaps in an effort to take something of mine or to appease his own need to win or overpower, he ripped off my gold cross and chain then jumped up and off of me. I too immediately scrambled to my feet. For a moment, before he took off, we both stood. We stared at each other. I was angry.  Everything stopped, for a second, and I surveyed the few feet between us and knew that I was still vulnerable as was still in the cave with him blocking the exit. Then he turned back to the dirt path and was gone. I noticed I was covered in dust and dirt. I turned back into the cave to grab my camera bag before fleeing back down the path knowing that as I did so I was once again making myself vulnerable as I didn’t know where he’d gone.  

Jumping back onto the path I stopped, surprised, to see two police officers standing there. It seems strange, in retrospect. How much time had passed? Where did the police come from? How long had they been there? I said the man that just run past them had attacked me. They said that they hadn’t seen anyone. They took me in their car to the police station. I made a statement. Then they hauled some poor man up from, somewhere, I don’t know, from a cell, from the street? And asked me if this was the man. No, I said incredulously. It was a bizarre scene. Then they said I could leave. I said what, just walk out, and go where? I didn’t know where the subway was. I was indignant.  One of them then drove me to the subway, maybe just to get rid of me. I rode the train feeling hard inside, like concrete. Walking up the street back towards the hostel I passed an older man. He did the typical whistle/catcall/obscene comment that had become so commonplace. But this time I stopped on the sidewalk and yelled at him with so much fury that I almost felt sorry for him as he was getting all my rage. 

I made it back to the hostel and to my sister: and then I cried. I took off the pantsuit and threw it out. It was old anyway and I’d intentionally packed old clothes that I could discard on my journey. This piece of clothing however was being discarded for being dirty and sullied – however, it had saved me perhaps from what could have been a different outcome. When I returned from my trip late that summer I didn’t tell my mom about the incident as thought it would only make her sad and remained thankful that I hadn’t died or been injured which would have subjected her to the incident. Soon after she was diagnosed with cancer and died in spring of 1991.

Reflecting upon the photo recently made me angry again. My anger got me out of the situation, but what got me into it in the first place? This chapter is my recollection three decades later – a middle-aged woman’s memory of one of the many youthful escapades that I look back on now and shake my head at, at what, at my innocence, my folly, my luck, my lack of caution? Or has the #metoo conversation allowed a shift to happen in me and a reframing of how I understand human behaviour? And that it is not okay for a male to help himself to a woman. And in our gender fluid era, for any human to help themselves to what they want from any other human. And as a woman, as a human being, I must still protect others and myself from those that don’t know this yet.