The Post- Intermission

Early autumn, in Athens, I wandered the streets, of the city-center (The Exarchia), the last remnants of summer and tourists cling to the ancient pavements. The pavements covered by the facade of modernity, yet as old as Homer and older, and as young as Elytis but not younger.

The pervasive stench of antiquity could be detected rising from the asphalt and hitching a ride on the garments of would be philosopher’s of philosophy, who gather in the tavern’s attempting to distinguish, as those before them, between the meta’s and beta’s of epistemology and philosophical skepticism.

There’s a throbbing, an ebb and flow playing backgammon between my two eyes. Its contractions threatening to birth a full blown headache. The throbbing begins to pace itself to my lonely footfalls. Athena, threatening to hammer herself out of the side entrance of my head, fully armored — comes alive around me.

I torture my mind with thoughts of the parasite I have a rendezvous with tomorrow — my banker.

Tourists and locals, un-blendingly, blend together, you can easily pick out a visitor from a local, who in their right mind wears socks with their sandals, surely not the locals. Is that some sort of evening attire, donning a pair of socks to accessorize? They are all souls circling each the other, all lining up seeking entry to an opening night marquee and yet you can see the difference between the species (giggle’s and it isn’t subtle). They bustle into cafes for an early evening shot of caffeinated delight, just before a late night dinner, as is customary here, no ever dines here before 9pm. Its best to do what the locals do, they know all the little secretive nooks one should not miss out on experiencing.

I observe those carefully watching me passing on, Greeks are curious souls, even about their own, maybe more so. “Who is your father, your mothers line, which Tzaki (hearth, family) do you hail from”, these are the sort of questions they’d ask another Greek, everything else is of a secondary succession, your education, wealth, means nothing, one is measured by the nobility and character of your family. As you, toot, toot — hail the chief, they listen attentively, pondering where you fit in the grand scheme of things. We the Karpathians, are looked upon as the odd balls out, Athens still has its issue’s with matriarchal societies, is that a tendril of fear I detect on the air, ahhh patriarchy has shucked a few clams. As to the visitors, they really don’t care, they come and just as quickly they go.

I am an islander a villager as inquisitive as they are — I doubt they can tell I’m an islander unless I choose to converse with them, I speak a Doric dialect, that they’d strain to understand, which I use to my benefit — I speak Koine Greek, perfectly, I’m just not in any mood to converse for the sake of wasting fuel — to make use of the Lingua Franca, so to speak. So I speak to them in the refined tongue of the Romans and they reply in turn with wicked tongue of the Franks, pesky Greeks. Yet, we all speak a barbaric form of English, go figure.

My dialect is one of the last Ancient Greek dialects in existence, threatened to be lost by modernities rule to confiscate and destroy the lyrical eloquence of it, in the name of progress — progressing where?

I ponder a decision I must make — in the name of progress. One my banker warns me against. My heart tells me it is the correct decision but my logic warns me of the pitfalls.

I question myself as the philosopher’s had once, do I close the circle or will the circle wear me as a bull wears a nose ring. Is my decision to make this investment the right one, is there a lifeline to grasp onto if my decision backfires?

As I stand on the curb, waiting on the traffic — to learn the proper rules of engagement, I seek a sign that will guide me, alleviate the weight Atlas is bouncing on my shoulders.

Serendipitously, my eyes fall upon a mural tucked away in a cul-de-sac used to park the auto’s of those drivers who have found a moments respite from the discourteous roundabout, the congestion of traffic on the streets — and in my mind.

It reads ‘Mistake’ (Λάθως)— hmmm, a mistake!

Had it been written in my dialect I may have considered it a warning. The language I understood caused me a moment of brain dyslexia. I read the writing on the wall, and I began the process of going anti-clockwise against the circles clockwise motion, a tad of anarchy never hurt anyone, hmmm.

A ‘mistake’, I thought, but is fighting for something I believe in ever a mistake, even if I fail?

I made my decision right there on the street corner of progress and poverty. It may be a mistake but it would be mine and not the murals display of false bravado.

I step off the curb into the oncoming traffic, that rudely refuses to stop. They do not stop for the blinking red light, we don’t have any traffic lights at home, not a one — the horns blare, sigh. I toss my pride over my head, Homeric style, I speak their language, only I choose to place the accent on ‘chance’.

The following morning…

My bankers a prickling prick, on the one hand droning on about the austerity measures and on the other needling me to bank on one of his investments, gluttonous fool. I on the other hand place my bet on the right to make my own mistakes — if he wasn’t an expert at his job, I’d have kicked him into that oncoming traffic.

“Don’t speak to me about austerity measures, when you visit my island (yes mine) and see what my people are suffering, then we can talk about what it is you’re babbling about”, I exclaim cutting off his diatribe, “release the funds or I’ll go bank with the German’s (I was bluffing, of course)”

Poor boy, yes boy, his eyes almost bulged out of his arse upon hearing that, he nervously places a bank release before me, I sign on the dotted line, to his dismay.

We shake hands, I smile at him, an apology of sorts, well maybe not but I do have manners and I wear my mistakes with confidence, I sure put a lot of effort into branding them personally.

I walk out of the bank, blinded for a moment by the piercing white light of an Athenian autumn afternoon. Athena gifted me an olive tree, I’m taking it home with me, on the wings of hope grafted on MY DAMNED RIGHT — to disrupt the traffic. The progress to save a remnant of my ancient dialect, no one is aware of the sacrifice I’ve just made, they will with the first pressing of liquid gold.

Frig it, what the hell! Frig the banker too, he’s just another Disciple of Vault. I’m not taking a damned euro with me, well, just enough for passage, otherwise I’ll have to charm the oars of the ferryman.

I step into the oncoming traffic, a horn blares startling me out of my reverie, I stop in the middle of the road halting the traffic, the driver of one of those speeding bumble-bee’s, is speaking to me with his wings flapping behind his back.

I face the traffic, I smile at him, honey dripping from my eyes, frig the traffic too, Islander style, he smiles nodding his head in acquiesce, hmmm, he’s learned the rules of engagement. Curious Greeks, we build upon mistakes.

I ask myself, what would father have done?

Frig the mural, too— sideways, I’m leaving for home — yesterday.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. Sept 23, 2018. All Rights Reserved.