In the other room I hear a young man’s voice ask my roommate, Dina if she’d like to grab a coffee or something. But I guess she had plans for day.
First of all, since our (Emily, Dina, and I’s) arrival to Athens and moving into our new apartment we knew we had a fourth housemate, but after nearly 4 days hadn’t seen or heard from them. Dina met him briefly one night, but the morning after couldn’t remember his name or what he’d looked like.
After hearing the young man’s voice, I was bubbling with curiosity over who our fourth housemate would be. The word “coffee” was enough to make me jump out of bed and throw the first reasonable, decent looking thing on, prepared to chip away at this little mystery.
I strategically made my way to the bathroom, where I knew he was, introducing myself, finally putting a face to the mysterious voice I overheard. I busied myself with putting my face on. I turned to him, “coffee?”
We walked from our apartment building to the kiosk on the main street to the right of our lane. We bought bus tickets and then waited at the terminal. While waiting for the bus, Mackenzie showed me some of his art, meanwhile I took a drag of his cigarette. He takes images, messes around with them on photoshop, then prints and cuts them up to put them back together. They were lovely pieces. Very abstract. Surreal. Dark. Yet lovely.
We stepped onto the bus. He asked me what kind of music I liked and from the time we got on to the bus, on the train, and into Monastiraki, I didn’t stop talking. I like just about every genre. Almost all the greats (except for the Stones. I hate the Stones).
I followed him through the many small side streets, cluttered with small merchants shops selling various items. He pointed to a cobbler who wrote poetry. And then a blind watch maker. We eventually made our way to a cafe called, TAF / the Art Foundation, sat at a table in the very center, and both ordered a double espresso.
It was nearly 2 by the time we sat to have our espressos, meaning I’d been up for three hours before having my first sip of coffee which is basically torture. I have no idea how I’d managed to be so polite and patient till then. I took a drag of my cigarette. It, along with my espresso and the small cookie that came with it, I can only describe as heavenly, as if I were floating on a cloud of bliss.
This cafe was special. I’d never seen anything like it in the States. It was outside, covered in what seemed like a thin sheet, in what once might have been the court yard of someone’s home. Plants were crawling from every crook– similar to a fairy’s refuge. From every angle there was a door or window and in each room was an exhibit of someone’s work.
The installations ranged in mediums. One room had a sculpture of an elephant, another of a floating paper table with floating paper cups and utensils. One room had a film playing. It made me feel very sad. The opening scene culminated in a man, who had been asked to be on a popular television show, dropped off on the side of a highway off the coast. There were two chairs, clearly intended for he and the host, but the host wasn’t there. He was alone. Anyway, no one ends up meeting him and all you hear is this booming voice and fake applause from a fake audience. And this guy just looks like he’s been tortured, having his mind fucked with and all.
Anyway we eventually left, headed toward another cafe/bar to grab a beer. Again, we crept through winding side streets and allys. We sat down at the six d.o.g.s. he ordered a Heinekein, I ordered a Fix. There was a rad table with a chair for a swing and we babbled at one another about the most arbitrary, but important, things. Sometimes the conversation seemed to end. I’d prepare myself for the disappointment that normally betrays me when I like a person– not like like, but like– but then something seemed to come up. He told me about his mother and her theory about the people we feel most connected with. You know, the people you feel the click with? Anyway, she thought these people were our soul mates from past lives.
We talked about all my favorite things: music, family, philosophy, and philosophy. He kept repeating the words, “…open heart…”
I would never say I have an open heart. To open your heart is to let it be vulnerable, unprotected, open to hurt. But i suppose we wouldn’t know happiness unless we understand suffering.
After the beers we left and made our way once again through Athens to a district called Karemeikos. Stray cats and dogs are ubiquitous throughout Athens. When we arrived at the “bar” (I forget the name) there was a pup that sat at our feet while we listened to nice music and sipped our beers. We talked about our dads. Not necessarily our relationship with them just them, by themselves.
We went to a restaurant in Karemeikos, serving traditional Cretan food. We had zucchini cakes, flava, greek salad, barbecued mushrooms, and this unbelievable creamy tomato and egg dish, which was unexpectedly my favorite. As turns out Mackenzie is also a vegetarian– it’s nice. He eats appetizers like mains too. I guess I don’t feel weird about that so much anymore.
Anyway, we went to two other places, both very nice. One, the first, was in an old run down looking building in which the ceiling looked like it might cave in. I tried Metaxa for the fist time here. It’s a sweet brandy with hints of rose and licorice. It’s nice. It comes with chocolate. The second was a gay bar, far more modern, fashionable if you will, and had a DJ who played Madonna while we sipped red wine and ate chocolate mouse.
He’s has taken me several adventures since my first day with Mackenzie. Last night we went to this district of Athens that’s become a popular venue for political demonstrations, run over by the youth. The hand painted flags protesting fascism and Golden Dawn inescapable, hung from every lamppost in the square. We played on the swings and teeter-totter carelessly, hopeful in our escape from reality. We ate dinner of appetizers (yet again) at a very nice restaurant just across from the part that played nice jazz music and was cheerfully painted in blues, yellows, and pinks with a rustic staircase that creaked, announcing to all your journey to the toilet. I’m heavy footed. But they played nice jazz and gave us free shots of something sweet so my utter dismay at the announcement of my venture to the facilities seemed to be righted.
I fell off the teeter-totter while trying to touch a leaf just out of my reach. We bailed and laughed the entire way home.
I was… concerned about whether or not I’d be able to make friends while I was here. But I think I’m doing alright.
Nomads Land 