Athens, early May. Somewhere between sunset and supper
- A dog is barking three streets away, another is answering, there is a chain of barks that moves through the neighborhood, like a wave
- A moped engine buzzes with a churn, which is followed by the sharper hum of another chasing it, I hear tires against pavement, followed by a soft, satisfying skid
- Keys are being dropped in a dish, in the apartment one floor below, it’s the same time, every night
- A man whistles something that sounds like an old love song, slightly off-key, but he sounds confident
- Pigeons clatter against a gutter, and then, there is silence
- Footsteps are going fast, then slow and then fast again
- A clothesline pulley creaks, I hear the wet slap of a shirt against cotton rope
- Silverware clinks against ceramic, a conversation in Greek that I don’t understand, but know by heart“Where did you go today?““Did you find the good tomatoes? ““Sit, Eat.”
- Children’s voices echo off the stone, high and full of urgency like their game contains the meaning of life
- A metal shutter is being pulled halfway down, and then left that way
- Someone saying “Έλα, έλα” (“Come on, come on”), with more warmth than impatience
- Dishes are being rinsed, water hits the porcelain and then, there’s a pause
- A cat meows with purpose, and then goes silent, with equal purpose
- I hear laughter from a terrace above mine, you know…the kind that comes after wine
- A radio turns on: static first, then music, Bouzouki; a voice that sounds like honey poured over gravel
- Someone lights a cigarette; I don’t hear the flame, but I can hear the click
- And underneath it all: the city breathes steady. The gasps hide in old walls, warm tiles, steep steps, and the sea nearby; it is the kind of breath that holds both stillness and memory.
I didn’t say anything, I chose to just listen. It was the most beautiful evening I’ve had in a long time.