I’m writing this to you from the metro platform at Syntagma, waiting for the train to Athens airport.
It’s rush hour. The last week before the holidays. Most people are swaddled in jackets and coats despite the brilliant 18 degree sunshine today. They carry totes, a paper bag from the bakery, a bunch of flowers.
The tannoy reads descriptions of missing persons. Nobody smiles.
I’m on my way home from my third solo trip to Greece this year. When I think of 2023, I’ll think of scents of thyme and sunbeams on the wall; of the foaming sea and a plume of smoke set against the Acropolis; of the quiet joy of crooked pavements and a greasy fingerprint (or two) on a napkin. Privilege, to sit in peaceful contemplation on the steps of the ancient city.
You might say I’ve been running away. There’s a lot to run from, isn’t there? Not just the endless chokehold of decline, nor the looming inevitability of the end of everything. But, in my own life, the length of each day, spent squarely, solidly alone. Or in brief connection, severed by the tube station farewell.
Catherine Queen 