When I was young, for a while, my father came to pick me up once a week from school, on Thursdays. This was a great day for me for several reasons. My father had a car for one, so I got to ride in it on that day. It was a beige coloured Volkswagen Beetle. I loved it and I really liked that all my friends saw me getting into such a lovely car and driving away in it. Secondly, at that time in Greece it was common for farmers to put up mobile stores along motorways to sell their fruit, mostly watermelons and melons, bananas and oranges. My father without fail, always stopped and bought a bunch of bananas for me. I think he meant for me to take them home, but as I often felt a bit nervous I used to eat most of them at the back seat of the car before we even finished our drive. And thirdly, we got to ride all the way to the very top of the mountain, through the forest, from where we could see the whole of Athens spreading out below our feet. The light and the heat made everything metallic shine and flicker and the light bounced around the walls and roofs, so that such a huge and heavy city felt like it was always moving, quivering. It looked like a large thin sheet, gently shaken by someone, forming an everlasting soft wave, to throw all the tiny breadcrumb-like houses into the sea.
It is still the same after all these years from above. But a walk through, the loving to me, neighbourhoods of Pangrati reveal a different image. So many of the small shops I grew up with and which have been there for decades and run by generations of the same families, are now closed down. They are dark, hollow, gasping holes, one next to the other, sucking all the energy of the streets away, a menacing sight, like a silent but yet screaming funeral parade. People avoid to go near them any more, as do I, struck by a painful blow of cold fear, similar to when I first caught sight of a shipwreck in the bottom of the sea. I look the other way, on the opposite side of the street, hoping not to see any more shut down shops I recognise.
Back in our flat, I look down upon Athens and the familiar shining and quivering reflections meet me like always, in the dazzling light. I am cut out from the reality of Greece now. I saw people looking in rubbish bins, begging on the streets where I played as a kid. But I have no real understanding of the depth of the situation. For me it is still the same Athens from up here, and this saddens me. Living abroad in such times is the biggest betrayal to a city that keeps on welcoming me back with the same everlasting light. I felt like that during the great fires of Athens years ago, which brought me back very quickly. But this is a different kind of crisis and I have a powerless, limp feeling about me, unable to feel that I even have the right to be angry. The little lights reflecting on countless bits of metal remind me of a summer, many many years ago, on the remote island of Tilos. At the time only one boat stopped there per week and sometimes the strong winds even prevented that from stopping. But on the day the boat was due to arrive, all the kids and many adults sat on the rocks, on the beach and on their balconies around the port holding small pieces of mirror. As the boat appeared on the horizon everyone sent their reflections from the mirrors on to the ship. And as the boat approached hundreds of shining reflections were sent back from the boat to the islanders. For at least half an hour before the boat anchored and half an hour after it left, this ritual took place, greeting the boat and its passengers and sending them on their way. It was a loud, beautiful and dazzling game of light, bringing hope, people and food to a tiny, forgotten and remote part of Greece.
In my mind I am making a connection between the two flickering and shining lights, that of Athens and that of the tiny island and boat, hoping against hope that they will also bring a positive change. But I am immediately struck with guilt, feeling sick to be indulging in such inappropriate and romantic thoughts; cut out from the reality of Greece more than ever. Athens will always have this light and that is irrespective of its situation; this realisation is a great shock to me. Underneath all that, in its streets, in its guts, Athens and Greece are in dark times and parts of them are rotting, emptying. And yet I am still looking from above, from the mountain, from the balcony, from abroad, thinking it is all still the same and also wanting to jump right in it all, live in it the way it really is. People are now leaving Greece looking for a better future, a better present. And I am still hovering above it all, like it is a Thursday, dazzled by the flickering lights, unable to decide what to do.
Below are some photographs from the view of our balcony. Then some shapes based on the outlines of the cityscape, folded so that they are free standing. On them are images from the city tops again, where the light and dark and hues have been altered. I wanted to see how much I can manipulate this familiar cityscape before it starts becoming alien and unrecognisable to me. I think this is just a step before this happens. I can still just recognise my view of Athens.
For a while I will be posting on sparemomentsofasleeplessmind once a week, on Thursdays.
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