Strollering Through Athens, Greece

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“On Akadamias, we discover that the sidewalks are too narrow for our stroller and on-coming pedestrian traffic to share, but people are more than willing to squeeze against the buildings and allow us to walk by. Athenians are generally good-natured when it comes to children and are more willing to let us pass than they would be if I were pushing a shopping cart full of groceries. They smile at Amarandi and step aside. I tell myself that I need to get a realistic child-sized mannequin to use for downtown trips when Amarandi grows up.”—Matt Barrett

Nothing At All to Write Home About 

By Matt Barrett

The author and baby Amarandi.
The author and baby Amarandi.

Author’s Note: The following is excerpted from Spearfishing in Skatahori, originally published in 1995. Don’t worry. Athens is much better now.


CARRBORO North Carolina & KEA Greece—(Hubris)—1 June 2023—A friend with a baby asked me if Athens was “stroller-friendly,” a term now obsolete in America, where the stores, sidewalks, and buildings of its towns and cities are totally accessible to baby carriages and the physically impaired. 

It didn’t take long for me to answer that saying Athens was not stroller-friendly would be giving a false impression, as if Athens were merely unconscious or unaware that people have children and that a popular way to transport them is by stroller. 

Because to anyone who has tried to get around the city pushing a small child it would seem that Athens is not indifferent or unaware but is actually in a state of war with them. Perhaps Athens is merely the innocent bystander and the war is between the automobile and the pedestrian, in which conflict the woman pushing a stroller is at a serious disadvantage due to its lack of agility and flexibility. But a war it is, and I, being the type who loves a challenge, set out for battle. I believe that a battle can be won in this war, with enough intestinal fortitude, a trustworthy co-pilot (my wife Andrea), a child willing to take the risk (my daughter Amarandi, heavily sedated with ice-cream), and superior machinery, in this case our MacLaren B-63 stroller, a standard lightweight design that I would put up against any of the heavier, slicker European models. 

It is a rugged route that will take us from the shadow of the Acropolis to the flatlands of Kypseli and back.

Amarandi, traffic-proofed in her stroller.
Amarandi, traffic-proofed in her stroller.

After a hearty breakfast of double Greek coffees, we set out from the Hotel Adams in the heart of The Plaka. We don’t foresee much difficulty in the first leg of our journey since most of it will be on pedestrian streets, but on Kydatheneon we are nearly run over by a speeding motorcycle. Luckily, there is a cop at a nearby café who absentmindedly blows his whistle at the offender, then continues with his conversation and coffee.

I guess we won’t have to worry about him again,” I tell my co-pilot, but she seems unconvinced.

We continue up Kydatheneon, easily sidestepping several delivery trucks, a BMW, and a Mercedes. Apparently, these pedestrian streets are off limits to only certain cars, perhaps those costing under ten million drachmas. We easily cross Nikis and head towards Amalias, where we find one of the dreaded confused pedestrian crossings which even those without strollers fear. 

These are unsynchronized lights that only let you get as far as the median before stranding you there for five minutes between eight lanes of cars racing by in both directions at 80 kilometers per hour. Adding to the difficulty is the width of the median, which can accommodate the stroller or myself, though not both. I must decide whether I will stand in the street and risk certain death or have the front wheels of the stroller in the street, which would merely endanger my daughter from the knees down. I compromise and stand next to the stroller, though should any of the vehicles veer into the median I am in a poor position of response and we will both be killed leaving only Andrea to react quickly enough to save herself and tell our tale, upon finishing the journey of course. 

But after what seems like an eternity, we are rewarded by seeing the little walking man in the traffic signal turn green, and a minute later traffic actually stops and we can proceed.

The National Gardens are as safe a place to push a stroller as any in the world though our progress is frequently stalled by packs of ducks who cross the pathways wherever they please. It’s the one setback we had not counted on and we are forced to change our plans and exit the park on Vassilissis Sophias rather than Irodou Attikou to make up for the time these creatures have caused us to lose.

As we walk down Vasilissis Sophias, we marvel at the brand-new metal barriers that have been erected to keep automobiles from parking or driving on the sidewalk. We are impressed at this giant step in Greek traffic control until we realize that the spaces between each barricade are large enough for a car to get through, though they may still impede large trucks.

Andrea Jerome with daughter Amarandi.
Andrea Jerome with daughter Amarandi.

On Panepistimiou Street, the traffic lights are working to perfection but there is a policeman directing and nobody is sure what to do, most of all the pedestrians who are all trying to get his attention. He finally notices the large crowd and lets us pass. I urge my crew to stay in the middle of this crowd since stragglers and old people are frequently separated from the pack and run over.

Across from the University there is a small traffic jam on one of the side streets. No problem for the 20 or so motorcycles who deftly avoid it by driving down the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians and leaving us shaken in their wake.

“This is insane,” screams Andrea through the din, and I can see that she is starting to crack. It could be time for a break, though all the café tables are dangerously close to the street. “We’ve got to push on,” I tell her.

We decide to take Akadamias Street towards Omonia Square and possibly increase our chances of survival. We begin to notice that, at every traffic signal, the first to race through the changing lights are 20 or 30 motorcycles that have squeezed their way through the automobiles and buses to the front. We see them at every light, and we are curious. Are they the same motorcycles or is this the accepted style of driving?

On Akadimias, we discover that the sidewalks are too narrow for our stroller and on-coming pedestrian traffic to share, but people are more than willing to squeeze against the buildings and allow us to walk by. Athenians are generally good-natured when it comes to children and are more willing to let us pass than they would be if I were pushing a shopping cart full of groceries. They smile at Amarandi and step aside. I tell myself that I need to get a realistic child-sized mannequin to use for downtown trips when Amarandi grows up.

We cut through Green Park after spending 20 minutes trying to cross Alexandras Street, with another woman who had somehow gotten her stroller wedged between a car parked on the sidewalk and a traffic signal pole. As we look back from the safety of the park, she is still trying to disengage herself while trying to dodge the cars that are cutting the corner closely to save time. There are very few vehicles on the paths through the gardens and we feel a sense of security. We stop for frappés while Amarandi plays on a coin-operated car ride, pretending she is running down people with strollers.

Greek street food for two.
Greek street food for two.

As we enter Kypseli, we discover that we cannot cross the street because cars are bumper to bumper as far as the eye can see. When we find an opening on one side there’s none on the other. We decide to walk in the street where our chances of being run over are only slightly worse than on the sidewalk.

On Odos Kypseli, we are almost run down by three motorcycles who have made an illegal U-turn into the bus-only lane. We are frustrated by the terrain which is rough and un-even. A four-wheel-drive stroller might be more suited for the broken pavement and shifting geological strata.

At this point, we take a break and have lunch with Andrea’s two aunts, who remember Athens the way it used to be with dirt streets and sand piled high on the sidewalks for the construction of apartment buildings. We long for the good old days and cannot focus on our meal knowing that the hardest part of our journey is yet to come.

We begin walking back down 28th of October Street towards Omonia Square. We notice that many of the cars illegally parked have tickets on them, given out by uniformed meter-maids, a giant step for Athens. We finally catch up with one and marvel at her style of ticketing. Three copies are made: one for the offending auto; one for her and the record keepers at the newly formed Ministry of Illegal Parking; and one copy to crumble up in a ball and leave on the sidewalk by every car. More work for the Dept of Sidewalk Litter at the Ministry of Government Waste.

Amarandi is taking a nap, but as we walk over a small section of tiled sidewalk, she is rattled awake just as we pass a pile of rubbish waiting to be picked up. There is barely room to pass and in the pile is a stroller that looks like it has been run over and mangled by a tank. My daughter looks worried, and Andrea begins petitioning that we give up this journey and take the bus back. I stand fast. There will be no surrendering as long as I am in command.

As we are crossing Panepistimiou Street, we are hit head on by a tidal wave of pedestrians coming from the opposite direction. We momentarily lose sight of one another, and I know from experience that we have about 20 seconds before the lights change and traffic will be roaring over the very spot where we now stand in confusion. 

I still have control of the stroller, but Andrea has been swept away with the crowd back to the other side of the street. I have a decision to make. I can turn back and wait with Andrea for the light to change again, a proposition that does not sit well with me because this particular light is notorious for favoring vehicle traffic. I see Andrea motioning me to continue on. She will try to catch up with us. 

The author with post-stroller-age Amarandi.
The author with post-stroller-age Amarandi.

“Don’t worry about me,” she shouts above the din of autos revving their engines waiting for the light to change. Her last words are lost as the motorcycles and cars take off sending the last remaining pedestrian street crossers leaping for their lives. I lose visual contact with her. Though it worries me that we may not see each other again for a while, I know that I have a mission and must push on. It’s what Andrea would have wanted.

But without her navigational skills, the going is much rougher. Pieces of missing and uneven pavement take me by surprise. I fasten Amarandi’s safety belt just to be sure that she is not bounced out of the stroller. We are approaching the Athens Central Market. Should she fall out here, she might be lost forever among the thousands of feet of those wandering past the stalls and buying meat, fish, and vegetables.

It’s worse then we expected. Not only do we have to deal with the cars and trucks as we are jostled off the pavement onto Athinas Street, but the crowds in the market are oblivious to the stroller, their eyes fastened on the produce, looking for bargains. 

All Amarandi can see is a sea of legs. She’s packed in like a pepper in a can of spicy Portuguese sardines. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on to the handles. One of my wrists is badly strained, lying useless by my side. I am pushing one-handed but mostly we are being swept along by the current of humanity. The Mclaren B-63 is groaning from the pressure and it’s only a matter of time before the rivets begin popping like metal projectiles from a pellet-gun, perhaps seriously injuring innocent bystanders. We have got to get out of this crowd. 

But the melted ice from the fish stalls has coated the street and I’m having trouble getting traction, the stroller’s wheels are spinning madly, and the tread of my Airwalks is rendered useless by the scaly fish water. I know that if we don’t get out of here and up to the pedestrian street of Aeolou, there is no way we will make it back to The Plaka by ouzo hour. 

Suddenly, I see an opening in the crowd and, like a fullback breaking through the defensive lines to daylight, I am free. I stand on Evripidou Street and catch my breath among the canned and dried goods stores. I check Amarandi’s pulse. She’s OK. Just a slight case of traumatic shock. Nothing a little more ice-cream won’t cure.

As I am planning the remainder of our course, Andrea bursts from the crowd like an olive pit, spit from the lips of a Cyclops. She picks herself up off the pavement. She’s shaken and bruised but not permanently damaged, as far as I can see. We take a break on a bench on Aeolou Street, watching the Athenian housewives walk in and out of stores, some of them with children in strollers. We realize that, apart from the wrecked one in the rubbish, and the woman stuck between the pole and the car on Alexandras Avenue, these are the first strollers we have seen.

Apparently, there are places in Athens in which strollers are an acceptable mode of transport and places where they aren’t. These pedestrian areas are perfect and because they lead right into Monastiraki and The Plaka we know that the rest of our journey will be easy. 

Amarandi survived to adulthood.
Amarandi survived to adulthood.

The trip in toto was much like white-water rafting on the Colorado. We had just passed through the last major rapids and all we needed to do was lazily paddle our way back to The Plaka to our favorite place for ouzo and meze.

As we cross the pointlessly bumpy stones in the square in front of the main cathedral, we are all smiling to ourselves, thinking about our journey. Not many families have tried to do what we have done and fewer have succeeded. Though we know there will be no medals and no parades, we realize there is no way to underestimate the importance of our accomplishment. We have proven that it can be done. Others will come later with corporate sponsors and special equipment and they will be the ones to reap the financial rewards and the fame. But it will be us whom they acknowledge as having been the pioneers on the dangerous land route to Kypseli and back by stroller.

And they can keep the riches and fame because I think I can speak for myself and the whole crew of the McLaren B-63 when I say it’s not the money. We did it so others might follow. So that, one day, all of Athens will be safe for stroller-pushing pedestrians. To know that we have brought that day a little closer is reward enough for us.

Editor’s Note: Matt Barrett is the definitive guide and virtual-guide-book-writer to Greece. If and when you visit Greece, visit Matt Barrett’s Greek Travel Guides first.

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After an unspectacular career as a gifted songwriter (and a less than gifted guitar player), Matt Barrett began his Greece Travel Guide website in 1996, one of the first travel sites on the internet and a blog before the word was invented. In the years since, he has written hundreds of articles about Greece and his websites have helped millions of people visit (and even move there). Matt’s works have been published in . . . well, actually, this is the first time any of his stories and articles has been published anywhere except on his website (not including the many articles that have somehow found their way onto Chinese travel websites.) His E-book Spearfishing In Skatohori has sold dozens of copies on Amazon. Matt has never won any awards or, if he has, nobody has told him about them. He divides his time among his home in Carrboro, North Carolina, his house on the Greek Island of Kea, his daughter’s apartment in Kypseli, Athens, his sister-in-law’s house on Lesvos, Greece, and a few other places best left unmentioned. Matt has two more unpublished books: In Search Of Sardeles Pastes and I Married a Lesbian. He lives with his wife and four cats, none of whom particularly likes him. (The wife does, sometimes). The best place to find Matt is on his website at (or at Yannis Kalofagadon Taverna on Kea).