Leaving Athens. Feeling depressed. Jen left before me three days ago. She’s at a conference in Georgia, the country. I came out to Athens 4 days before she arrived to clean up the apartment. I always feel bummed or depressed when she leaves town. I cleaned our apartment in NYC after she left for Armenia for a conference. I was depressed then as well. This was my first time getting to Athens by myself. I’ve traveled alone a bunch of times so I didn’t have too much anxiety. Our apartment in Athens isn’t in a touristy area so it helps to know enough Greek to get around. I don’t know enough Greek. There seemed to be enough Greeks and others that knew enough English this visit that I didn’t have much trouble anywhere. Each time I travel to a country with a language I don’t know, or in other words, ANY country that doesn’t speak English, I try to learn some practical phrases and whatnot. What happens is much like a high school play, I totally forget my lines in a bout of stage fright. My improv is to say “hello” or “please” in their language. Essentially I’m a polite dummy that can barely say “hello” and chew gum at the same time. Maybe that’s my problem, I should stop chewing gum when trying to speak in another language.
It was my last night in Athens and I had spent the last 2 days cleaning the crap out of the apartment. The previous few friends who have stayed there had been pretty good although no one cleans with much enthusiasm. I didn’t clean as thoroughly as I should have when I arrived. I mopped the balcony a few times because the pigeons had found a hole in the netting and proceeded to decorate the only way they know how. There was a lot of other stuff I did but that’d be so boring to read if I rattled it all off. Suffice to say it consumed me. On one of several trips to the hardware store I met the wife of the older guy running the place. He was Greek but his wife was from Wyoming or something. They spoke English pretty well and his, I’m guessing, oldest son seemed to run the nuts and bolts of the business. They were all pretty funny and enjoyed speaking in English to me. The son gave me a deal on some enamel paints that were discontinued and even though it was 98 out, I couldn’t wait to get back and do some decorative painting. I didn’t do too much since I still had to do a bunch of little things before I left.
I had an early flight back to NYC so I reserved a taxi for 3:50am. I had wrapped everything up with 3 hours to spare so I finished shutting our place up, made myself presentable, and walked down our street to a cafe’ called Amora that was blasting Arabic pop music and ordered a beer and a hookah. I got the beer, Heineken, but no hookah. Apparently they call it Sheesha here. The girl behind the bar didn’t know what hookah was so I spent an hour with my beer before trying again. There was a new girl that also didn’t speak english but we managed to gesture and point our way to me getting a mint flavored hookah. I was very polite and dumb.
I sat outside, there was a nice breeze and the temp was finally down to 80, and my sheesha has arrived. (Aside #1) Thoughts drifted to hoping my taxi would show up on time and writing a Substack. If my next Substack is coming from Athens, I politely screwed up again. The awning I’m sitting under at this cafe’ has a special cut out for the tree behind my seat. There are so many stray cats in this area. I heard scratching sounds right behind my head and as I turned to investigate there was a cute black and white kitty crawling up the trunk and through the gap. I must have sat in the seat she usually uses to access the tree. This atmosphere is great for depression. The woman that took over for the first girl is pleasant and the other cats are ignoring me as are the rest of the other patrons. I’m by myself outside so the edgy drug addicted looking woman who came up to asking me something in Greek just continued walking when she heard me respond in English. I think I just said “please” in Greek. Finally, my ignorance paid off!
Drama at 3am. A woman came out for a smoke from inside Amora. A guy in the apartment upstairs started shouting at her about the noise from the pop music inside. There’s maybe 5 people in the bar singing along with the music at this point. The owner came out and a shouting match ensued for a few minutes, full volume, hand gestures, the full spectrum of expression. The woman came out afterwords and gave me new coals. The owner came back out obviously still frustrated and grumpily smoked. I said hello and thank you. He nodded and continued to smoke. 3am is the time of turbulence.
The cab arrived at 3:35. I wasn’t sure what I would do with all my time I would have to kill at the airport. I took my time going through customs. Very little was open. I didn’t drink alcohol because I wanted to be awake enough to get on the plane so I opted for espresso. I reasoned I’d be awake just long enough to board the plane but then I would crash when it wore off. It totally worked.
Of all my flights heading back to New York from various airports, this was the first one that felt like I met NYC in the waiting area. I think all the borrows were represented. A lot of the Hasidic community, two black families, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Polish, Russian, and a lot of others I didn’t recognize. I overheard one guy in an obvious Staten Island accent telling another guy he was from Stanin-eye-land (one word) On the plane a rabbi looking guy sat across the isle next to me. One at a time different young Jewish adolescents would stop and ask him a question and he would lay down what seemed to be wisdom in Yiddish.
I remember the take off but I think I was out before we were at cruising altitude. I shouldn’t sleep on planes, as usual I woke up after maybe 2 hours in horrible neck and back pain. There was a large Hasidic man in the middle seat next to me. He seemed to be trying to sleep as well. When I woke, he was gone. I didn’t see him the rest of the 11 hour flight. I know the seats were uncomfortable but jumping off the plane after only 2 hours??
Aside #1. There are so many names I’ve heard for Hookahs and every time I’m in a different place I have a knack to ask for the one they know. You’d think they would know all the different names for it. Like the automobile has a million names and you know what people are talking about no matter which one they use. I thought it might be the same for people who are in the business of charging money to make the hookahs.
See ya!