“Dad?” I can hear the click of the connection that’s been made, a throat being cleared on the other side of the line. “Dad, I wish you could see this right now. I am standing on top of the Acropolis.” I listen to my father while he ruffles some papers and all of a sudden home doesn’t feel that far away any more. “Imagine those who stood there before you,” he answered, skipping the ‘hi kid, how are you’ bit of the conversation. “I just did dad, that’s why I rang you. Remember the stories you used to tell me about Socrates and Plato?” “You were very little.” “Yeah, but still. Listen, I got to go dad. I love you.” I hang up the phone and get my arse kicked by sadness. For a minute I see my father very clearly, behind his cluttered desk, his red reading glasses on the tip of his nose. I do what I always do when I feel sad, I take a picture. If my father can’t come to the mountain, the mountain will come to my father.