Skip to main content

An Ode to the Small Town

Image
By
It was while I was extolling, rather formulaically, the virtues of Athens that I learned to appreciate life in a small town. O Nonós, the Godfather, rhapsodized (swift, tight flicks of the wrist, palms always open, furrowed brow) over life in Agriá, from which I interpreted the following:


 I, Iphigenia’s godfather, the free spirit of Agriá, am fulfilled.
Insouciant, I jump on my creaky moped and speed off.
With both legs hanging over the same side of the scooter, I wave and smile at each passer-by. 

A large cup of coffee and a chat at the same café every morning — this routine is not to be broken! 
I know everyone, and everyone knows of me.

I am practically toothless now, a testimony to my love of sweets, but also to my je m’en foutisme.
My shirt is dangerously unbuttoned, the top four or five ever undone regardless of the clouds or sun.
Tufts of grey hair emerge with confidence, virility and enthusiasm.
I am old now, but don’t you go telling that to anyone!

I love Agriá because it is where the sun watched my birth and is where the moon will stand guard during my final breath.

What would I do in Athens. . . in Thessaloniki. . . or even in Volos?

Wither away and die in anonymity, I suppose, the light from my eyes slowly but surely petering out.


   *  *  *
Select Enlightenment:
J. Lucas, 92 Acharnon Street (London: Eland, 2007).
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Character

By
I first met the Bear on an unseasonably warm November afternoon. We sat on his balcony and were supposed to be discussing a job. But I squinted against the warm sun, and the Bear puffed a thin cigarette as we drank coffee from exquisite tea cups. A lively little jazz number reached us from inside his den. The Bear’s paws drummed the tune in time. This large omnivorous epicure smoked only hand-rolled cigarettes, which smelled like rain-kissed earth. He sipped only the darkest Turkish coffee, laced with just a touch of sugar. Naturally, he also listened to only the smoothest jazz, the transitions of which, he said, were made as flawlessly as can be done on any instrument in this world. He got quiet, closed his eyes and lifted his paw as if to command me to wait in silence for the next one. . . . Later the conversation turned to a mix of language and politics. Growing up in Belgium with one parent from the UK and one from Austria left him speaking three languages, and he’s a...
Post a Comment
Read more

Beijing The Behemoth

By
Beijing the behemoth. At the airport I’m beat from being up some thirty-odd hours, but too sentient to think of sleep, the hotel be damned. Throw me instead into this sea of concrete, bemused smiles and unabashed stares. In the taxi with Chris, the school’s recruiter, Iphigenia and I watch the towers of concrete repeat themselves for miles. I command myself to take in every detail, no matter how small. But I’m fading fast and when the city center at last comes into view, she’s too late. The fatigue has unfortunately set in and I can’t make out much but the obvious: taxis, bicycles, rickshaws. . . . And so the hotel it is for us, because anyway I’m just too damn worked up. I don’t have a map, I don’t speak Mandarin, I haven’t changed any money yet. I promise myself a good random stroll the next morning, one which will enlighten me as to the way of the street, the dao of the hú tòng.  But the morrow brings nothing so edifying. Only a short walk with killjoy Chris, who cl...
Post a Comment
Read more

HE AIN’T HEAVY — THE GRAND FINALE

By
( Cont’d from parts I and II .) After a year in town the sounds of the street which I once thought sensuous became nothing more than endless streams of noise. Once again I couldn’t manage to fall asleep. Rhappy, V. E. and Co. were at it right outside my bedroom window. I considered getting up and roaring from the balcony, fist pumping like Il Duce, but finally could not bring myself to do it. It will only make things worse, I decided, because then they will start to take pleasure in annoying me in subsequent 3:30 am sessions, talking even louder to mock my fury. Better to let them remain oblivious to my suffering, to do it in silence. At length I became so tired that their voices seemed sufficiently muffled to act as a white-noise machine . When I got up later that morning I took a closer look at the pine tree whose branches shaded my window. It reminded me of a tree I had seen near a chapel at Kodjori, a town in the foothills above Tbilisi with a ruined fortress t...
Post a Comment
Read more