The Athens equivalent of ?Don?t judge a book by its cover? could well be ?Don?t judge the Olympics by your first day in town?.

After taking nearly four hours to get from the airport to my hotel in downtown Athens that?s clearly the only way for me to see the experience in a favourable light. I mean things must get better, right?

Having touched down on the tarmac at 3.20 p.m. on Wednesday after a smooth flight from London, England, one can understand why I was suitably horrified to be trudging into Hotel Astor at minutes to 7 p.m. ? and I do mean trudging as I was forced to walk through the streets of the Greek capital to reach my destination.

Having suffered that saga, I think you the readers should too, so let me recount it to you blow by blow.

Getting through the airport was the easy part, what with special immigration and customs services for the Olympic Family as anyone involved with the Games is fondly categorised.

?Hmm,? I thought, ?this is quite impressive and swift.?

Having been awake since 5 a.m., after just four hours? sleep, to ensure I caught my morning flight I really appreciated the speed with which the oft-tedious process was being expedited.

There was about a half-hour wait for the bus which arrived just as those expecting it were on the verge of becoming irritable. Again I gave the thumbs-up as we headed off to Olympic-dom, glancing at my watch to note the time: 4.17 p.m.

As we drove past the starkly arid and dusty terrain from the airport into town I sunk back in my seat and began to catch up on lost sleep. After some time I became aware that we had stopped moving and that the sun, in all its Mediterranean ferocity, was scorching the right side of my face.

I stirred in time to hear the translator inform us: ?I?m sorry but we will have to stop here for about half an hour.?

The reason: the streets of Athens were closed for a practice run for road-race cyclists.

Most of us just shrugged and figured 30 minutes wouldn?t be so bad. Some even disembarked and ventured down the busy city street to glimpse the passing riders. However, there were none to be seen as they had not got anywhere near that point yet.

Half-hour passed, an hour passed and then the drama really started as other journalists started asking if they could get off and if there were other routes to their various hotels. I was still being cool ? except for the sun which I usually love but was now getting annoyed at.

The poor translator, sweating moreso I think from the barrage of questions being fired at him than from solar rays, was at his wits? end. The driver, who fled to the sidewalk to light up a succession of cigarettes, must have been thanking the gods that he couldn?t speak English.

It was by now heading towards 6 p.m. and nobody was amused anymore. One American hopped off to chart his own course. Suddenly, the road was open again and we were moving. However, having gone about ten minutes down the street we met a police roadblock and were ordered to do a U-turn and retrace our path. We then made a second U-turn, passed the point where we had originally stopped and then turned right.

The famed Acropolis was now overlooking us as we drove to a major intersection. You guessed it ? another roadblock, preventing us from turning right to drop two passengers at their hotels. They decided that, given the nightmarish turn of events, this was close enough and off they got with their luggage.

We were allowed to turn left and proceeded to drop off a cluster of media at their respective accommodations. As they departed the bus they wished us good luck; some with the kind of gazes that conveyed the better-you-than-me sentiment.

It was just me and one guy remaining and after a circuitous trek, that afforded us closer scrutiny of Athens back alleys than we cared for, we again came to the intersection where we were not allowed to turn right earlier.

Guess what? This time police refused to let us turn right or left! The new explanation (we had seen the cyclists pass by now) was that the International Olympic Committee (IOC) President Jacques Rogge would be passing there and it would be closed for two hours!

?Two hours!? my mind echoed the mad reality. ?They really can?t be serious.?

Oh, but they were and, with guns on their hips, our poor translator was not about to argue with the law.

?I?m so sorry about this but I can take you,? he said, clearly embarrassed by our first impressions of his country?s handling of this mammoth undertaking.

The guy and I gave each other a what-the-heck-do-we-have-to-lose look, shrugged and, without a word, gathered our belongings.

Our translator, whose name was Panos, retrieved our luggage ? obviously thankful either of us only had one piece ? and started walking. We followed him across the road and up the hill. I felt badly for him because it wasn?t his fault but here he was struggling with our bags, trying to make amends.

?I don?t know why they do this,? he remarked apologetically, evidently as bewildered as we were.

We came to a dusty street corner and he turned to me.

?Wait here. His hotel is just down there. I?ll take him and then come back and take you. Yours is the other way.?

I?ve been to Athens twice before but, at this stage, I had no clue where I was so I waited. Push come to shove, I figured I would hail a taxi. Mercifully, I didn?t have to because, true to his word, a panting Panos returned quickly and we continued walking for about another ten minutes until I saw Hotel Astor looming before me.

?Thank God!? I declared as we entered the lobby and voiced my gratitude to Panos.

?Here you are,? he said, setting my carrier bag down. The clock on the wall behind the reception was a few minutes shy of 7 o?clock.

He smiled and quietly headed back out the door, his mission accomplished.

I watched him go, all the while thinking: ?Now that deserves a gold medal.?