Yeah right. What he really means is she doesn’t approve of this any more than I do. Only he couldn’t make her come to the airport like Mom had made me move to Greece. Score one for Stella. Maybe I should take lessons.

“Oh,” Mom says quietly. “I guess we’ll just meet her when we get . . . home.”

It’s very hard not to puke on my shoes. Home? Like his house will ever be home. Like any house except the burgundy and cream bungalow we’d lived in since I was born will ever be home. Mom must be seriously twisted by love hormones.

“Here we go.” Damian leads us down an escalator and onto a train waiting at the platform.

We file onto the train, Mom and I sitting while he stands in front of us. I watch out the opposite window as the train starts out of the station.

This is not my first time on a train—we rode the subway in New York once on vacation—but it takes me a few stops to get used to the stop-and-go motion. Then, as we pull into the third—or fourth or fifth, I kinda lost track—station I actually notice something besides the rolling in my stomach.

The station has a display, like a museum exhibit, on the wall behind the platform. There is some old stuff, like pots and plates and scraps of fabric, and a bunch of plaques with bits of history and timelines and stuff. A sign above it all reads, “Domestic Life in Ancient Greece” in really big English letters, with the Greek ones right below.

Hmm. Pretty cool, I guess.

If you’re into Greek history and all.

The train pulls out and I manage to both keep my balance and control the motion sickness. When we pull into the next station I’m looking for the display.

This time, the sign says, “The Cradle of Democracy.” A huge mosaic fills up most of the wall, showing a huge crowd of men staring at one guy standing on a platform. The one guy looks like he might be making a speech or something. There are no women in the crowd. Or, for that matter, anything but old white guys. Typical.

As the doors glide shut, I flop back against the bench and cross my arms over my chest. I hope this country has evolved from the stone age. I’m not a feminist or anything, but I like my rights and I’d like to keep them. The ancient world was not very equal opportunity.

We slide into the next station and I’m almost dreading what this display will be about. Gladiators getting mauled to death? The horrific slave trade? Thousands being slaughtered at some huge, Troy-like siege? I glance out the window panel, prepared for the worst, and my eyes zero in on one word: “Marathon.” Before I even think about it, I’m off the train and running to the exhibit. It’s all about the marathon, as in the ancient one run by Pheidippides in 490 BC. The original cross-country race. There are pictures of Marathon, the site of the battle victory that Pheidippides ran to Athens to announce, and of the spot in Athens where he supposedly dropped dead after making the announcement. There are actual spearheads from that time like the ones that might have been used in the battle. There are ancient sandals like the ones he may have worn for his famous run.

Thank goodness for Nike. I could never run in sandals.

“Here she is,” I hear Damian say.

I turn just as Mom rushes up and throws her arms around me. “Never run off like that again,” she shouts.

Practically the whole station turns to stare at us.

“Sorry,” I say. But looking back over my shoulder at the marathon display, I’m not at all sorry. I’ve just come within inches of the ancient origins of distance running. What do I have to be sorry about?

“The city of Athens installed archaeological displays such as this in many of our metro stations for the 2004 Olympics,” Damian says. He’s lugging all four suitcases and the ninety-kilo briefcase behind him, but doesn’t even look unhappy.

“Oh wow,” Mom says softly and with a touch of awe in her voice, stepping up to the display for a closer look, analyzing every detail like she always does. “This says the modern Athens marathon follows the same path that Pheidippides ran in 490 BC. Phoebe, this is amazing.”

Like I want to share my visit to the shrine of distance running with them? Hardly. “Whatever,” I say as I turn away and head back to wait for the approaching train. “It’s not that great.”

When the next train pulls up we climb back on—Mom has taken her two suitcases from Damian and he is stuck pulling mine, which makes me smile. I’m torn between not wanting them to know how much seeing that exhibit means to me and wanting to see as much of the exhibit as I can before the train chugs away.

In the end, I twist in my seat and watch out the window as the shoes of Pheidippides race out of sight.

Someday I’ll come to this station again and take my time memorizing every little detail of the exhibit. Maybe when I’m breezing through Athens on my way to college back in civilization.

After the fourteen hours in a cramped plane seat and an hour on a packed metro train, I’m actually looking forward to the three-hour ferry ride to Serifos, an island near Serfopoula. Of course there are no direct ferry routes to Serfopoula.

Still, I can imagine myself gazing out over the turquoise Aegean— the salty sea breeze drowning out Mom and Damian’s repulsive lovey-dovey talk and blowing my stick-straight hair into beach-hewn waves. At least we aren’t moving somewhere with no major body of water. Heck, there probably isn’t anywhere on Serfopoula that isn’t within running distance of the beach. Beach runs are my favorite. Salty sea air rushing in and out of my lungs. Sand shifting under my feet, making my calves burn with extra effort. Collapsing in exhaustion and watching the waves crash the shore while restoring my energy. Pure bliss.