Steven LaChance Blog

I sat back in the comfortable leather seat of the black sedan, taking in the sights outside the window and feeling the cool air from the AC on my torso.

“It is going to be a very hot day here. They say it could be as much as forty-one degrees Celsius,” our driver said with a thick Greek accent. “They say it could be one of the hottest days ever in Athens.”

He wasn’t wrong. We had, without question, picked a historically hot time to visit Athens Greece. The news had been filled with footage of fires spontaneously sparking from the extreme heat. We knew it was going to be hot, but we found some comfort in the fact that the humidity would be low. After living in the Mexican Caribbean for over three years, we had experienced brutal summers—not necessarily from the temperature itself, but from the suffocating humidity. We convinced ourselves that lower humidity would be our saving grace. At least, that’s what we told ourselves at first. But when it’s this hot, humidity becomes irrelevant. It was hot. Damn hot.

Thank God the car’s air conditioning was holding up because our hotel was about thirty kilometers from the airport.

We were staying in a charming boutique hotel at the foot of the Acropolis in Athens. The neighborhood, called the Plaka, was the oldest in the city, with a history spanning over 3,500 years. The narrow streets were lined with cafés, restaurants, and shops. Normally, I would be irritated by this kind of commercial sprawl in a historical area, but here, it made sense. Food is such an integral part of Greek culture that it felt natural, as if these kinds of places had always existed here. Which, of course, they had.

Our driver zipped in and out of increasingly narrow streets as motorcycles darted past us, seemingly unbothered by the real danger of the chaotic Athens traffic. I sank deeper into my seat and closed my eyes, relieved when the car finally rolled to a stop in front of our hotel. The driver jumped out immediately, eager to help with our bags.

Kyria Boutique House was located on Dionysiou Areopagitou Street, one of the most famous streets in Athens, just footsteps from the Acropolis Museum and the Temple of Olympian Zeus. Our room had a balcony overlooking the street and the Plaka below, and from the rooftop restaurant, there was a spectacular view of the Parthenon. It was the perfect location.

I love the history of the places we stay, and this hotel had its own love story. Built in 1863, it had once been the home of Aliki and Giovanni, a couple whose story had been passed down through the years. Giovanni had arrived in Athens around 1900, drawn by its history and archaeological sites. While there, he fell madly in love with Aliki, a woman said to be one of the most beautiful in the Plaka—maybe even in all of Athens.

But Aliki’s father wanted nothing to do with Giovanni. Despite her affections, he forbade them from being together, tearing them apart and dooming their love. Aliki was so heartbroken she cried for days, her grief so deep that even her father began to worry. Then, one day, she came downstairs and saw Giovanni standing there, waiting for her with open arms. Her father, seeing the pain he had caused, finally relented. The couple was married in the hotel’s courtyard, which still exists today.

The hotel had a quiet, unassuming charm. As we checked in, the kind woman at the front desk shared information about the hotel and the neighborhood, but I struggled to absorb any of it. After traveling from Cancún to Athens, I was beyond exhausted.

Climbing the stairs to our room felt like an ordeal, each step requiring more strength than I had left. When we finally reached the landing, I sighed in relief as my husband Rick slid the key into the door.

The room was beautiful—decorated with antiques that felt like they had been there forever, lace doilies, a crocheted bedspread. It was one of those places that seemed frozen in time.

We immediately closed the shades to block out the heat and light of the sun. Lying down, we switched on a fan at the foot of the bed. I stretched out, letting the cool air wash over my exposed leg. The mix of the fan and air conditioning was hypnotic, the perfect balance of refreshment and relaxation. The room was dark, peaceful, and quiet. I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep—the kind where you feel yourself slipping into the depths of your subconscious, floating in the sea of your own mind.

At some point, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and opened my eyes for a moment.

And that’s when I saw her.

Standing at the foot of the bed, near the window, was a woman. She wasn’t looking at me but staring outside—except the room was dark, and the window blinds were drawn. She was looking out into nothingness.

I could see her in astonishing detail, almost as if she glowed. She wore a delicate white Victorian-style dress, decorated with tiny pink roses and ribbons along the collar and hem. I could make out everything—the fabric, the way it fell, the way it shimmered.

I wasn’t afraid. If anything, I felt calm. Sedated, even. Like it was perfectly normal for an apparition to be standing in my room.

I told myself I had to be dreaming. But if this was a dream, it was unusually vivid—the colors sharp, the details crisp. The only sound in the room was the hum of the fan.

Slowly, the woman turned her head toward me.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, her hair swept up into a loose bun. Her face was streaked with tears. Her eyes, filled with sorrow, shimmered as they caught the dim light. She didn’t speak. She only raised a single finger to her lips.

Shhh.

Her gaze lingered for a moment before she turned back toward the window, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

I knew then that I was witnessing something residual, a recorded moment in time.

Was this Aliki, waiting for Giovanni? Trapped in the sorrow of their separation, longing for his return?

A warm hand touched my shoulder.

“Are you getting up for dinner?”

Rick’s voice pulled me back to the living. I blinked, focusing on his face, the blue of his eyes coming into view. The vision—dream, ghost, whatever it was—vanished in an instant. Only the sound of his voice remained. And my growling stomach.

“Yes, I’m starving,” I mumbled, still groggy.

I didn’t tell Rick about the dream or whatever it was I had seen—not at first. I wanted to hold onto it for a little while longer, to keep that strange, beautiful calm with me. We showered, got dressed, and stepped out into the warm evening air, ready to find a good Greek dinner. It was much later, over wine and saganaki, that I finally told him.

I know what you’re thinking—was it just a dream? I wish I could say, without a doubt, that it was nothing more than that. But if I told you that, I’d be lying. Even now, I still don’t know for sure. What I do know is that I can see her in my memory as vividly as the day I first saw her. Her sorrow, woven with her timeless beauty, will stay with me always. I’m a hopeless romantic, and though I can’t say for certain what I witnessed in the cool darkness of that room, one thing is undeniable—the love Aliki had for Giovanni will stay with me forever.

Copyright 2025, Steven LaChance. All rights reserved.