The Long And Whining Road

"It's hot," my daughter says for maybe the twentieth time, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.

As if I hadn't noticed.

"It's even hotter if you're carrying a backpack," I hint, but she's too sweaty and miserable to pick it up.

A line of eucalyptus trees offer us a short, thin strip of shade and then we are out in the sun again. We fully intended to leave earlier when it was cooler, but the morning was frittered away on girls' grooming rituals. Gritting my teeth, I only just manage to keep this to myself.

My daughter kicks at a stone. "I don't get why we couldn't just take a taxi anyway!"

We really should have taken a taxi -- even I can see this now. But when we were planning the day's events, it was still cool. Our family has walked a lot farther than four kilometers, even uphill. Yes, we should have known it would get hot. And that it would take two teenage girls so long to get ready in the morning even with almost non-stop nagging.

A motorcycle whizzes past us and we watch it disappear around a corner.

"This is totally ridiculous!" my daughter groans. "Walking four miles straight uphill just to see that pile of rocks!"

"It isn't a pile of rocks and it's four kilometers, not miles."

"Whatever." She kicks at another stone. "It feels like miles."

I shrug my shoulders to shift the weight of my backpack and rattle it meaningfully. Its full of water, money, Kleenex, and sunscreen and other day trip essentials of use to the whole family, but my daughter still ignores the hint. She's smarter than I am.

There is a rush behind us and a whole bus goes by, one of those luxury two-tier tourist buses packed to the gills. We just know it's bound to have air conditioning. From behind the dark frosted windows, we can see tourists staring down at us.

"In Cyprus, they'd have stopped for us!" my daughter whines. "When we were hiking up to Karmi in December, they stopped for us and we didn't even need a lift!"

"Maybe they're afraid of offending us. Two lone females as we are."

My daughter snorts. "They probably think we're crazy! What kind of total losers walk four miles uphill when it's this hot?"

My husband and younger daughter are waiting for us just around the bend. As we join them, another loaded tour bus zooms past. We all turn to watch it. Through the tinted glass, we can see the people sitting in air-conditioned comfort inside as they gape down at us. Our thoughts may be warm, but they're definitely not fuzzy.

Eldest daughter says something unprintable. "Can't we call a taxi?"

"We've made it this far," my husband reasons. "We might as well keep going." Another car whizzes past us; there are no passengers. Eldest daughter says something else unprintable.

She and I sit down in a tiny patch of shade to catch our breath and my husband and younger daughter, much more heat-tolerant than we are, carry on up the hill. Two youths chug by on a moped, slowing down as they pass us to have a look. Eldest daughter suddenly perks up. "If we had a stick or something, I'll bet we could knock them off." She stares after them reflectively. "They were cute, weren't they?" I smile. If we weren't so miserable, she'd have noticed that right away.

Another tour bus rushes past us, sparkling white in the blazing sun. My daughter glares at it. "Stupid driver! What would it cost him to stop and give us a lift?"

I shrug. "Come on. The driver isn't going to risk the lives of 40 people on a hairpin turn just to pick up a couple of sweaty females."

"All this just to see a pile of rocks!"

"It's not a pile of rocks, it's an acropolis. If it were a pile of rocks, would all those people come all this way to see it?"

My daughter frowns. She's an Olympic frowner; she could win gold medals. Fortunately, she's got a gold medal smile too, but I haven't seen it for at least three kilometers. "Stupid tourists," she mutters. "They'll get to the top, take a look around, then pile back into the bus and think they've seen everything."

"Our journey is purer than theirs," I say in my most unctuous tones. "The gods will look on us with favor because we've put more effort into ours. Nothing worthwhile should be easily achieved."

My daughter snorts, but as we round the bend, we see a lake sparkling in the distance, fringed by a crescent of bright green trees. And now we can both see the columns, huge and dazzlingly white in the sun. My daughter is silent for a moment; even she is awed. And they look so close -- surely we are almost there now?

"Looks like it's going to be worthwhile after all, doesn't it?" I prod.

My daughter shrugs. Like many other teenagers, she is also an Olympic shrugger. Unfortunately, as we round another bend, it is obvious that we have at least another kilometer to go. Just as this sinks in, another tour bus soars past us. I am amazed at the feelings of rage this stirs in me. It doesn't make sense, but there it is: it's like waiting to be served in a popular restaurant. All the diners who are lucky enough to have seats look so pompous and greedy even though they are doing exactly what you want to be doing yourself: sitting and eating.

"But those columns are beautiful, aren't they?" I say lamely.

My daughter narrows her eyes and gives me a long, hard look. Those columns could be gold-plated and tipped in crystal; they could surround a lake of nectar and honey and there could be free banana splits and chilled mango juice and she still wouldn't think an uphill march in the sun was worth it.

The acropolis, it turns out, was wonderful to behold and well worth a visit. But if you ever visit it with a teenager, I strongly recommend you go by taxi.