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Athens is much as it was in the spring.
Aug. 2nd, 2012 09:45 amA little poorer, perhaps, and full four degrees Celsius hotter, but much the same. Albanian men sitting on the steps in the evening across from the off-license, a pair of Nigerian boys in Exarcheia square hawking pirate DVDs, skinny cats lurking in the shadows of the dustbins, mosquitos whirring around like tiny bitey devils. The orange trees along the streets that were trimmed back in the spring are now a riot of green, while the dust is thick and gritty on the pot-holed paths. Athens smells of diesel and dust; Exarcheia plateia of hash and grilled meat, chips and beer and dust and fly repellant. There is no river in Athens, and we're far enough from the sea that there's no water-scent to lend a greener tinge to the air.
I notice things here that I don't notice at home, because at home my senses aren't engaged by newness. I hope when I go back this time I'll be able to see the strangeness in the familiar, though.
I haven't been outside Exarcheia yet. The monthly visitation of the Red Menace laid me out flat yesterday, although I managed to get up to the plateia yesterday evening, to eat in the taverna where they remembered me from the spring (and in the spring, they remembered me from last autumn). I spoke bad Greek to them, and English to the polyglot bloke from Algeria. There was French documentary crew inside, making a documentary on food - I learned this, because I said to the cameraman when he was shooting the doorway, "Pardon, monsieur, qu'est-ce que vous faites?"
This had an interesting effect on N., the friendly polyglot waiter. "Vous parle le francais aussi!" he said, and ended up giving me dessert on the house. I'm embarrassed for anglophones, if my pathetic attempts to make myself understood in other languages end up impressing Greek and Algerian blokes like that. Honestly, who knew that a "Je'n le parle que mal," or "Den milo kala ellenika," goes so far?
In a couple of hours, I and my Red Menace and my sweaty armpit hair will go run our errands - batteries, food, picking up some of the Institute's photocopying. And then I should spend the rest of the afternoon working on study tour notes. I'd really rather nap. Perhaps I will nap first.
Last night I dreamed that America had a emperor in a shiny pointy hat. My brain goes weird in the heat.
I notice things here that I don't notice at home, because at home my senses aren't engaged by newness. I hope when I go back this time I'll be able to see the strangeness in the familiar, though.
I haven't been outside Exarcheia yet. The monthly visitation of the Red Menace laid me out flat yesterday, although I managed to get up to the plateia yesterday evening, to eat in the taverna where they remembered me from the spring (and in the spring, they remembered me from last autumn). I spoke bad Greek to them, and English to the polyglot bloke from Algeria. There was French documentary crew inside, making a documentary on food - I learned this, because I said to the cameraman when he was shooting the doorway, "Pardon, monsieur, qu'est-ce que vous faites?"
This had an interesting effect on N., the friendly polyglot waiter. "Vous parle le francais aussi!" he said, and ended up giving me dessert on the house. I'm embarrassed for anglophones, if my pathetic attempts to make myself understood in other languages end up impressing Greek and Algerian blokes like that. Honestly, who knew that a "Je'n le parle que mal," or "Den milo kala ellenika," goes so far?
In a couple of hours, I and my Red Menace and my sweaty armpit hair will go run our errands - batteries, food, picking up some of the Institute's photocopying. And then I should spend the rest of the afternoon working on study tour notes. I'd really rather nap. Perhaps I will nap first.
Last night I dreamed that America had a emperor in a shiny pointy hat. My brain goes weird in the heat.
