Vignettes from Athens

Connections with strangers, a goodbye ritual, relief and gratitude

Last week I returned from Athens after almost a month of intense practical and mental activity, and quite a bit of emotional stress. I won’t even attempt to go into details, but two vignettes now stand out from the month I spent in Athens.

One day, I was walking down Ermou Street towards Monastiraki, in the shopping area of central Athens. As I approached the corner of Fokionos Street, a robust, clearly trained voice soared in a folk song from Smyrna, the old Greek-speaking city in Asia Minor.

I stopped at the opposite corner of the side street. The singer was a middle-aged man, dressed in a brown coat and cream hat, holding a stick umbrella on one arm and an empty paper cup on the other hand. He was rather unkempt, with a stubble, but looked respectable - certainly not a beggar. He sung a cappella in certain, sure-footed notes.

Σ’ αγαπώ γιατί ’σαι ωραία, σ΄ αγαπώ γιατί είσαι εσύ

Αγαπώ κι όλον τον κόσμο γιατί ζείς κι εσύ μαζί

I love you because you are beautiful, I love you because you are you

I also love the whole world because you live in it

His voice rose out of his soul to meet another soul - dead, alive, our of reach? - in a tremolo of longing. In the busiest shopping street in Athens, he was transported to another space. Ladies who lunch and shop passed him by, some glanced at him, some dropped a few coins in the paper cup.

(As I recall the experience, I am trying words for size, but none fits - I’ll have to make do with what I can muster.) He was tuned into a frequency beyond this world, out of reach of the people around him and their thoughts about him and his song. At that moment, there was only he, his voice and the unknown object of the song. I got goosebumps. I stood there, riveted.

I emptied my cash purse into my hand and timidly took a few steps towards him. The coins clinked in the paper cup - it felt inadequate, insulting even. I glanced towards the space where his eyes roamed, and joined my voice to his, in an impromptu duet of two total strangers united in a fleeting moment.

Το παράθυρο κλεισμένο, το παράθυρο κλειστό

Ανοιξε το ένα φύλλο την εικόνα σου να ιδώ

The window’s shut, the window’s closed

Open up the one shutter so that I can see your image

(If you want to listen to the melody, this performance includes a vocalisation from 00:30 followed by the first verse from about 00:58)

At the end of the song, he turned to me and said “Μπράβο, αρχόντισσα! Ευχαριστώ πολύ.” (“Well done, noble lady! Thank you very much.”) I made to continue on my way, but stood behind the column, tears streaming down my face as he went on to another melody. A kindly by-passer asked me if I was all right; I could only manage, yes, I am moved by the song. Words as inadequate as coins.

This haunting melody whirled around of my mind over the next few days, the last in the Athens flat, as I arranged for a moving company, our temporary accommodation until the purchase of the new flat, and the last bureaucratic hurdles before the sale.

On the last Sunday in the flat, a dear friend visited. We had lived very close for a few years in London, and she had heard many of my stories about this flat and Mama, and our difficult relationship. She walked around the almost empty flat, tuned into its vibes. She sat down again. “I have an oppressive, heavy feeling here - the weight of unsaid words.”

Finally the day of the move arrived, 23 January 2024. The movers went up and down the third floor, and took away carton boxes, dining table and chairs, a linen cabinet, the Chinese carved coffee table, Mama’s antique sewing machine. I was taking only a few things to the new flat, but the fate of the three-piece green velveteen suite still remained undecided. There simply was no space for it.

Mama had been proud and protective of the three-seater and the two armchairs: they had lived in our reception room for fifty years, protected under their bespoke mustard dust covers, which only came off once a year, on St. Antony’s Feast, Baba’s nameday. The dust covers were worn out at the arm edges but the velveteen was still pristine. I had asked around relatives and friends, put it on Facebook Marketplace (“free to collector”), but no luck: I had simply been unable even to give it away.

The flat gradually emptied - that was it: the following day I was scheduled to sign over the title deeds and hand both sets of keys to the buyer, delivering the flat vacant. What was I to do? I had no option but to offer an extra tip to the three movers to take Mama’s three-piece suite to the corner of the street, just by the dustbins. I stood in the balcony and followed them with my eyes while they took them down and deposited them there. It did not sit well. I reasoned with myself: “Mama has been dead for ten years - why does the three-piece suite matter so much?” And yet…

The Kypseli area is the most densely populated area in Athens, and home to many low-income households. At that moment, it was also home time for my old primary school round the corner. By the time the two armchairs were down, a woman claimed a stake on them, and rang her husband to come over and stand guard over them until she arranged for some help to move them.

My husband, The Tall Dark Stranger, went down to take the mustard covers in case they were needed (they weren’t), at the same time as the three-seater came down. “It’s almost new!” she exclaimed to him. Even from the third-floor balcony I could see her smiling, gesticulating excitedly; she obviously couldn’t believe her luck.

The oppressive feeling lifted immediately. The three-piece suite that we had not used near enough was about to become part of another family’s life: I pictured the couple sitting on it drinking coffee and chatting, their children sitting on it to draw, watch TV, play, fight and make friends again, maybe even spill their drinks on it. They would live on it.

I stood on the balcony, sharing the joy of the unknown woman, the Attic sunshine warming my face. Down the road, the small, private chapel of Saint Demetrius tolled a funeral knell. “Dong…dong dong…dong…dong dong.” A small congregation was gathered on the church steps. In all the years I’d lived in this house, I had only heard the funeral knell on Good Fridays, never for a funeral.

After some time, the flat was completely empty, and our stuff was off to storage. The Tall Dark Stranger and my daughter, The Olive Tree, went off to check in our temporary accommodation close by. Just over ten years to the day after Mama’s funeral, I was left alone to say goodbye. I walked around the rooms, empty for the first and last time, so closely connected with Mama; where lots of idle talk but no intimate conversation ever took place - bickering, yelling, stonewalling, oppressive silences, longings that went unsatisfied, unexpressed love, untold regrets. The same song surfaced and blossomed out spontaneously, and this time I didn’t care whether my voice would disturb the neighbours: I was leaving soon. I missed out the second verse, ran out of breath at the end of phrases, but the voice resonated through the sitting room, the dining room, wafted through the corridor to the bedrooms, imperfect and haphazard, like an incense banishing all the hard feelings, the difficult memories, conjuring the compassion that had not come to either of us, and the love that neither of us was able to express while Mama lived.

A couple of days later my sister Eleni had a dream of Mama. In the dream, Eleni had gone to look for Mama, but she wasn’t in her usual place in the small sitting room. She saw her leaning on the far door of the kitchen by the small hall, and asked her “Why are you standing there?” Mama didn’t speak, but crossed herself over and over, as if in gratitude to God. Eleni felt that she had been standing there praying for some time, and that she was not upset, but rather relieved.

For once, we met each other in relief and gratitude. Thank you, Mama, for everything.

****

Have you ever experienced a chance encounter with a stranger that later proved meaningful? Have you ever carried out your own intimate, personal ritual to work through feelings and to get through a difficult time? Do share your experience in the comments if you want.

The rest of the strands…

Stoic practice

When I first considered the prospect of selling the Athens flat, I thought I wouldn’t be able to do it. I pictured closing the front door for the last time, and what a wrench it would be, and how I would feel, and… Then I recalled the Stoic practice ‘Premeditation of Evils’ (Premeditatio malorum), which isn’t as bad as it sounds. Rather than catastrophising, this premeditation involves visualising what can go wrong, not in order to stress and feel hopeless and depressed, but in order to familiarise yourself with the emotions and sensations, and to plan how to deal with it rather than be caught by surprise. I had visualised the scene of saying goodbye to the house and to closing the front door for the last time. I knew I would find it difficult and probably be moved to tears, so I prepared by telling my husband and daughter that I would need to take my time with it. I hadn’t planned the song, but the mental and emotional preparation may have led to this healing ritual.

Memoir and Life Writing

I’d been away for some time from the Memoir and Life Writing group at The London Writers Salon, but I was really glad to catch up with everyone las Thursday. The group continues to meet up on the 1st and 3rd Thursday of each month, to get to know each other, talk about our work, share experiences and resources, and have challenging and inspiring conversations about the practice of our craft. I always feel honoured to have set up and led the group until the end of 2022, which, I understand is one of the most populous and active groups in our community. It is now ably led and hosted by Nick Barlow - thank you for taking over and for keeping it dynamic and vibrant! We always love to see more writing friends join us.

The heart meets the (left) hand in an embrace of imperfection