Chaos and the City
It’s September. Half the planet is saying goodbye to summer, while the other half welcomes spring. The Olympics wrapped up a few weeks ago, with the wins and drama slowly fading away. Welcome to Athens, 2004.
I moved to Athens to study Political Science and History. Every single word in that sentence was a rebellion against what was expected from a typical teenager like me. To put things into context, conservative societies like Cyprus, where religion, family, and country are intertwined, tend to create certain standards that one is supposed to follow to be considered "successful." Back in the day, the UK was preferred for studies over Greece, and law or accounting were far more respected fields than something as vague as political science.
I don’t want to spoil the ending for you, but those “standards” are just an illusion—they don’t exist, nor do they hold any real importance. It took me a fair amount of money and time in therapy to realize that.
So here I am, a barely 18-year-old student, living in Athens. And just as chaotic as I was feeling at the time, so was the city. Nothing ever stops. Some things calm down after dusk, but there’s always something going on.
Get up early and walk the streets under the Acropolis. The smell of baked dough, cheese, coffee, and custard feels like a giant hug in those quiet moments, just before the loud Greeks rush to work, grumpy and sleepy.
As a student, money was tight, which meant lunch was at the canteen. Two euros was the price for a meal, which felt like a win-win situation: decent food paid for with coins? Ummm… YES PLEASE! My 37-year-old self does wonder, though, if poor students and prisoners eat the same food. Oh well, it’s all part of the journey everyone seems to be talking about.
And if lunch was thrown in a steam oven—whether that was steak or soup—dinner in a koutouki was the highlight. Friday and/or Saturday nights would find us sitting in a tiny restaurant with live music and platters full of meat: fluffy kefta, juicy lamb cutlets, smoky pork pancetta, chicken skewers, and toasted bread drizzled with olive oil and salt, all cooked over coals at the back of the tiny place. Chips were always hand-cut and fried in-house, served with wild oregano and, of course, crumbled feta. Dips, Greek salad, zucchini fritters, big plates, small plates, laughing, singing, but also crying over broken relationships, and arguing for the sake of arguing—these all created the same chaos you feel when walking the streets of the city. But somehow, within that chaos, you feel safe, because that’s how it should be. Any other way just wouldn’t make sense.
I could go on for pages about Athens, but this is a blog post, not a book. So, I’ll end this the same way we would end a night of clubbing: eating vromiko. The exact translation is “dirty”… I know, right? Vromiko is a sandwich from a food truck that you eat after a long night out, just before bed. Usually, it’s a hot dog with carrots, chips, cabbage, mayonnaise, and mustard. Vromiko is a lifestyle. Whether it’s the ending to a big night out, a break from studying, or a midnight snack because you woke up hungry, whatever need it fulfills, vromiko is an accurate representation of the freedom Athens offers.
A 3 a.m. sandwich on the street, with a tiny glimpse of sunrise in the background—why not?
Until next time,
Alex