Athens Letter: Late at night is the best time to travel around the Olympic planet. When the last of the events finish up around midnight and the crowd melt into the Athenian evening, it is as though the light emanating from the quiet stadium is glowing in congratulations of another day down. The air has cooled and there is a sense of achievement.

The Greeks seem proud that their Games have come back home, but also a touch sceptical that their forefathers might have invented a tournament that involved so much frantic running around.

On first impressions, Athenian Greeks are masters at the conservation of energy. They are low-key about hosting these Olympics. In Sydney it was impossible to cross the road to buy a Coke without half a dozen Australians seeking reassurance that they were hosting the best party in the world. The Greeks are incredibly friendly and helpful, but aren't exactly bowled over with all this and are determined not to allow the mere presence of Olympians to interfere with their love affair with tobacco.

The Greeks smoke in spectacular numbers. They puff together in cafes, in hotel foyers, on the street, outside the metro. They hold smoking conferences. Volunteers smoke. The drivers actually take a Hamlet moment on the 10-minute spin out to the stadium. The armed guards smoke. The dogs on the street light up. They smoke as if Micheál Martin is coming to town.

Perhaps because Athens is a town that thrives on the ghosts of old gods, its citizens aren't all that bothered by the arrival of their modern day equivalents. They are attending the Games in smaller numbers than the previous hosts but are doing their best to stoke up an atmosphere around the city.

La Mirage, where The Irish Times is housed, is smack in the middle of town and, most evenings, loud and cheerful and truly terrible rock bands murder standard eighties classics until the early hours of the morning.

Word is spreading around the Olympic family that the old Mirage is a bit of a dump. But, no more than the Major in Fawlty Towers, I won't have that. There isn't really enough stuff inside the place for it to merit true consideration as a dump. Its general sparseness is actually kind of charming. In a way, the place is a refuge for unloved furniture. Late last night, in the Old World elevator, a man in the bright orange colours that announced him as Dutch began to laugh out loud.

"This place," he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "It is quite a joke."

Still, the level of concern being shown is nice. Jacques Rogge has called several times proffering bouquets and apologies.

And at the swimming pool on Sunday night, Michael Phelps, receiving questions from the world's media on the pool deck, broke away from the rather predictable theme of gold medals to offer: "Dude, I hear the Mirage sucks, man. Rough break."

At least that's what I think he said: wedged between a rotund Greek journalist, who appeared to have fallen asleep while standing up, and a glacial, leather-skinned Italian, it was hard to hear clearly.

Phelps is an extraordinary looking human specimen. All that time in the water has clearly had an affect, because back on dry land he sometimes seems at a loss as to how to accommodate those planed and powerful limbs of his.

Much has been made of the face, but the Baltimore swimmer was born with a body that seems scientifically designed to suit his sport. It allows him to glide as a conventional boat would do.

In the pool, he, like his contemporaries, is mesmerising. Parading through the fenced-off media zone, he is also an impressive sight - but all those hours in the water seemed to have killed the personality.

But the thing is - and there is no delicate way of putting this - the man has no arse. Ruminations on the Phelpian derriere may not be deemed suitable material for the IT, but the phenomenon was brought to our attention by an international delegation.

As Phelps walked away in his customary, knee-length swim-shorts, sipping a cool drink through a straw, a bunch of European people were commenting on him, switching excitedly from their own language to harshly accented English and back again. It was clear that standing in the shadow of the swimmer, who by today might well have been on his way to Olympic immortality, was quite a deal.

"But, mein Gott, he has not an ossssss," hissed one of their number in surprised outrage, as if this fact somehow made a nonsense of his bid for seven gold medals.

And it is true that Phelps' elongated back appears to have extended to his knees without much consideration for the conventional rump.

Which is strange, given that the traditional American mantra in the pool relies heavily on the notion of pummelling the posterior of other swim nations.

The marathon battle between Phelps and Australian Ian Thorpe, and then between Phelps and the greying legend of Mark Spitz, will dominate events for the next few days.

Around the swimming pool the talk is, funnily, not of the merits of Thorpe's freestyle stroke over Phelps but how easy it would be for a spectator or media member to pool-dive their way to infamy during the races. And it would, too. The guess was that interrupting yesterday's showdown by diving into the pool in your shorts and "I Love Athens" T-shirt would make you more famous than any of the Olympians.

The downside is that you would be in trouble. The Greeks don't have a sense of fun about that kind of thing. Once dragged from the pool, they would transfer you to prison. On a motorbike. It would mysteriously crash and you would be brought to a Greek hospital. The doctors would gather around you, smoking. Jacques Rogge would arrive bearing no flowers this time. He would pass sentence. Ten years in La Mirage, full breakfast mandatory.