The next night in London is less windy, but covered in rain. I make my way through the damp air of The Borough to Foteini and Fabio at Mercato Metropolitano². We know each other from our memorable Barcelona ERASMUS days – and haven't seen each other in 10 unbelievably short years. The food is good, the beer too and soon we delight in the exuberance and joy of our common memories.

Seeing them, I feel nearly unrestrained pride. They both look more or less the same, they are honest, nice people – just as they were all those years ago. Means, I've made very good friends at that time – with every ERASMUS reunion something that's emphasized.

I pass on the story from the night before: "Escorts. They must've been," Foteini makes a point. "Because she didn't react when she got touched… that meant she was being paid." It’s not uncommon in these circles, I’m being told. Foteini’s female friend was working for JPMorgan for a while – and ended in the following situation during a regular office celebration: "You know, at one point they bring out the escorts. – And this guy from the office asked my friend whether she wanted to come with him. You see, there are still so few women that none of the men knew she was working with them." Foteini could make her peace with the fact that the escorts are doing her job and being paid. But, personally, I feel somewhat disgusted either way.

The following morning (my last day in London), I'm standing in front of the British Museum³ to see what they now call the "Elgin marbles" – after twenty years a very personal circle closes for me.

When I saw the heritage of Ancient Greece for the first time I was on the verge of being a teenager – there couldn't have been a worse time. My father had taken the whole family hostage in order to tour the nation, hopping from historical site to site. I wasn't impressed – tried my best not to be impressed. Something that worked well at the nearly undiscernible oracle of Delphi, but was impossible on the Athens acropolis in front of the withered Parthenon columns. The ruin, the view, the area is nothing but impressive – it stayed with me long past those days. I kept hammering my father on the temple' long-gone splendor, the attributed decorations, the supposed statues, the marble façade. Where is it all? Why are there only rocks to be seen? "It's all in England," my father told me. "Some English guy brought them to London hundreds of years ago."

On the first floor, I am greeted with Egyptian statues and the famous "Rosetta stone." Although I dutifully make the rounds, I find myself hungry to advance to Pantheon gallery. Straight away, though, this "museum" is an absurdity. British raiders claiming to be archaeologists, excavators, keepers of ancient history – in fact, the theft of innumerable cultural artefacts is at display.

Seeing the marble gallery, then, is eerie. I'm getting chills, I'm feeling goosebumps – I cannot hide the anger from myself. I'm smitten by the beauty, the articulate craft of the remains. And I cannot comprehend how anybody would be, could be so daft as to carry it all the way to this rain-soaked, dark island up in the North Sea. It's unfair. This is Greek skill and finesse, Greek mastery and sophistication, Greek history. This is their gift to share, to be remembered for.

If I were Egyptian the anger would soon fall into deep, melancholy despair. As I make the rounds through the 3rd floor I'm passing hundreds of square meters of Egyptian history. The gutted entrails of nearly 5.000 years of recorded history. Mummies, sarcophagi, richly embroidered coffins – all in rows, on blatant display.

It doesn't take long for me to be utterly tired. Fog rises in over the windings of my head. The body starts feeling numb. I sit down. Leaning my back against a wall in the Great Court for a longish while – staring at nothing and nowhere, listening to school children trying to move in rows. Their voices reverberating along the high walls.