A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Delphi

My pilgrimage to Delphi begins early in chilled Bristol, southwest England, with a cab to the airport as the first pale blue light touches the edges of the sky. Seven and a half hours later, I’m under another sky, blue, warmed with afternoon sun. And another cab waits, this one bound for our hotel in central Athens.

This cab is not much different from the morning one. But it’s not early, sleepy, quiet: the radio plays and I can hear (but not understand) half of a conversation the driver has with someone on the other end of his earbuds. The only word I catch is yassas, spoken to a toll collector.

Yassas, hello. One of a few Greek words I remember from my last visit, fifteen years ago. I like to think I’m older, wiser now. At least the first half is true.

What else can I remember? Churches, so many churches. Just like where I grew up in Georgia. Olive groves, too. And I see both now on the road to Athens, grounding me again. I can recall the food, if I try. But I was never a foodie. And the weather— I remember that hot summer, which reminds me of…

The light. Golden yellow. Fifteen years ago, it felt like home, like summer in the South. Not so different from the blazing yellow of a Georgia sun, I remember thinking. But that was Greece in summer. This is March, barely out of winter. And yet, the light is still yellow. Tenacious gold. A Mediterranean sun-soaked sky promising warmth soon. A promise my soft blue northern light back in England rarely makes.

Yellow. The color of hope, of home, of promise.

The promise of good days to come.

And now, a commercial break-
For those seeking divine signs,
Or augurs needing an omen or two,
(Apollo, hello, are you listening?)
A funny thing happened on the way to Delphi:
            A pigeon landed on Austin’s head
            And I thought:
                                     This is how we die.
            But no!
                          We ate a sandwich
                          And cookie (excellent)
                          In the shade.
                          Laughing.
             An omen?
                              Nah.
            Just life. (I hope).
            Take that death—
            And pigeons.

Two days later, we are in Delphi.

I’m in our rental car while Austin refills waters. The rental is squeezed against the edge of the only road winding through this part of the mountains. To my left: a steady drop into the valley, nothing much to stop me if I venture too far. To my right: the rising mountain, dark green, and the ruins of ancient Delphi.

The drive from Athens was less than three hours, with the comforts of A/C, rest stops, bathrooms aplenty. Far easier, I imagine, than the ancients could have dreamed of, though I can’t say I understand their pilgrimages. But like them, I’m considering what question I’d ask the Oracle.

Even in the off-season, visitors flow in steadily. We hunt for a parking spot at 1:15 pm, two hours before entry closes. But Apollo must be on our side. We park, walk in, bypass the ticket line. I’m thanking Apollo for online booking.

We cruise past Roman ruins (not what we came for), and I must conserve what energy I have after 17,000 steps in Athens the day before (including the elevation gain for the Acropolis, oof).

The climb up The Sacred Way is already draining me. My lower back stiffens, my heels rub raw, the afternoon sun beats my neck. That tenacious yellow light follows every step. The Temple of Apollo is up, up, up and as I climb, I realize: ugh, they did this on purpose. Whether ancient design or divine will, we’re meant to arrive tired. Humbled.

A long pilgrimage with a long climb at the end. Arriving at the oracle is not something done casually on a Sunday.

At the top, I turn a corner and face the Temple. The sun is in front of me, throwing long shadows past front pillars. Thousands of years after their first shadows, they still cut sharp against Apollo’s light.

I pause. I rehydrate. I think about my question for the Oracle. In my mind, I ask it: Will I ever feel like I belong? If I stay in England, if I return home? If I belong somewhere I haven’t found yet?

But there’s no one left to answer.

I picture the ancients who came here with questions and left with answers. Kings, philosophers, the many whose names have faded, as mine will. United in making the pilgrimage. In longing for answers.

How many left with an answer they understood? Who left with hope? Who left with fear?

The shadows do not reach me, so they offer no shade, no respite, nothing. All I feel is the heat, the warmth. Yellow gold, relentless. The sun of Apollo hangs overhead, revealing… what?

It’s been eleven years since I called the South ‘home.’ Yet here I stand, a decade and 5,700 miles between me and that place, and I’m thinking of it still. A haze of heat hovers over these ancient stones, and it reminds me of the sun shimmering the same way over Georgia asphalt.

Yellow. The color of home.

Hope.

The promise of good days to come.

I’m thanking Apollo.