What I learned this week

After work, I stopped for a quick drink at the bar where my friend was dj-ing. As I was walking towards the tram stop afterwards, a group of boys, probably in their teens weere catcalling girls as they went by, sexual innuendos and fat-shaming slurs depending on the appearance of each girl. That got me thinking. What a world! Fat-shaming, racism (I've been a victim of both), sexism(that one too) and terrorism. Last week Paris was attacked (so was Lebanon and Africa but who's counting when it's not the western civilization, right?). Social media blew up from all the people who came together to "pray for Paris", which honestly I found ridiculous- again who's praying for Lebanon and Africa- I had even prepared a post about it.
But then another thought entered my mind. A stranger on the street complimented my hair. Not my ass, or my tits. Hair might still be a part of my outside appearance but still, I doubt a passerby could have time to notice my wise spirit or my bright personality. And as stupid and superficial as it sounds, you know, I don't wake up like this dude, I take pride in my hair and, it was just a nice thing to say. It wasn't deep nor profound, but it was nice to hear. I realised how much we need more of that, more nice, more kind. Which brings me to last night. The night before I noticed my cat, Edgar, had not touched his food, I also thought he might have a fever. Yesterday, I had to go to work but I knew he wasn't well. It's true what they say, having pets is like having a child, it's a lot of responsibility and you worry. My stomach was in a knot the whole day. I knew I had to work till 21.00 which was a long time for him to wait and it would be hard to get a vet at that time. My friend who usually texts and then throws his phone cross-country, actually texted me right away with numbers to the best vets in the area. I called the first one from work and explained the situation. She told me that although she closes earlier she would wait for me until I got off work to take him. My boyfriend who was super supportive had a class, so he was trying to find someone else that was able to take me but it would be hard to manage time-wise. By this point my nerves were shot and I didn't know what to do. I called my manager and asked her if there was anything we could do. A while later she called me from her car and said she would be there in 10min. She had gone out of her way to come in to work two hours earlier, even though she wasn't supposed to be working(it's just the two of us) and after I had taken him to the vet she called to make sure everything was okay. My boyfriend also got one of his friends to pick me up and take me and the cat. The vet was super nice and did a thorough exam. He was running a temperature of 40.4 and just like in humans let's say that ain't good. She gave him antibiotics and by the time we were home he was already a little better. The kindness and support of the people around me probably saved my cat, who's only a baby.
Yesterday was stressful, honestly, it felt like I had to do so many grown-up things I had never had to do before. But then today something else happened. As I was closing the shop, my employer called and told me to take some money from the till. When I asked why, he said that we had done well today, that I had done a terrific job and to buy myself a drink on him tonight.
I don't know why people being nice, people being supportive or appreciative shocks us so much but the togetherness, the love, the humanity, that's what this world needs right now. So I won't write about how terrible those boys on the street were and I won't post that post about terrorism because I refuse to spread the ugliness and hate. I'd rather tell you about how much I love and appreciate the little and big things the people around me did for me this week and challenge you to think about any little kind thing someone did or said to you. You might be surprised.
That to me is humanity and that to me is what will save this world.

An imaginary scene at 4a.m titled: Detachment

My left side leaning lazily against the white porcelain sink, I had a chunk of her long auburn hair in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other. I observed, absentmindedly, as the ashes fell like snow flakes in slow motion into the drain. She was bend over, almost doubled over her stomach in front of me while she braced herself with both hands on each side against the bathtub. He stood, his back to me, gripping a red solo cup, half-full with Haig in one hand, his penis in the other as he attempted to aim in the toilet bowl. My thoughts were like dull blades trying to focus but otherwise pointless and disengaged. My ears were buzzing and begged for the music and loud banging on the door in the background to stop. "GO A-WAY"! I screamed as I turned around and went towards the closed but otherwise unlocked door with it's scratched surface and protruding banged up frame. Securing the door and returning slowly to my post I was looking at the square mint-colored tiles reminiscent of the 50s and my grandma's bathroom where I watched her bathe, roll her hair into a neat chignon and put on cobalt blue kohl which brought out her eyes and, which even though she reapplied everyday, never seemed to take off at the end of it. Meanwhile a thick lock of hair had fallen to the side of her oval face and was now dangling with a little bit of vomit and she began crying even louder than before.I went over and somewhat indifferently patted her back in an effort to calm her down. I tapped his shoulder, borrowing a sip of his drink and a piece of toilet paper which I used to sloppily clean the barfed-on lock of hair. My ears were still buzzing and I felt my head spinning but I could hear "Uptown Funk" was playing, something which prompted the girl previously slumped over a stranger's bathtub to jump up, tear-free and spin around grabbing his forearm, launching them both out the door and into the party. Left facing the bathtub, I grabbed the shower-head and started washing away the stomach contents of my friend. Satisfied with a crime well-concealed, I now stood facing the mirror over the sink, which was filthy with cigarette ashes and I remembered that in spite of his usual OCD-level cleanliness he hadn't washed his hands before dashing off. I was rubbing mascara stains off of my cried-on cardigan, when the host came in through the door left ajar, her heels clicking on the tile floor, her tulle and lace skirt dragging. "Go ahead" I said, noticing that the ball of wet tissue paper I was holding was rapidly falling apart and shedding white-ish fibers, giving her a nod through the mirror letting her know that if she wanted to pee she'd have to do it with me here. She didn't seem to mind and sat on the toilet, unclasping her high-heels and tossing them aside. I heard the fake camera chime from an i-phone go off, multiple times a second, the sound of another selfie behind me. I stared blankly at my phone on the mirror shelf.  "Fuck" she said. Unzipping my leopard print purse and reaching inside, I handed her a tampon without turning to face her. I moved so she could wash her hands and she flew out the door, which was now left completely open. Outside was the long hallway, people tittering to and fro and beyond that more people, drinks and loud music. The mood outside had shifted I felt, all sense of feeling drowning in the fluids of inebriation. In another mirror, facing the bathroom door, out in the hallway, this one body-length, I starred at my self in dismay. My oily complexion had my face shining like an August moon, my hair, tucked behind my ears on both sides of my middle part, had lost all volume whatsoever. My curve-hugging outfit seemed less of a good idea than it was when I first put it on exactly 7 hours ago. I looked down at my shoes and the flattened cigarette butt peeking from underneath my right sole, apparently stuck after I had disregarded and stepped on it. On the brand new white Miele washing machine in the corner was a silver tray with ornate carvings that looked antique and on it an array of red solo cups, some empty, some half-full with murky brown liquid which I determined by the smell, was whiskey-coke, and some with bits of tobacco floating like castaway sailors. The smell of alcohol and smoke and vomit made me feel queasy for a moment but eyeing a small, green, glass bottle with a red and green label I grabbed it, unscrewed the cap and took a mouthful of lukewarm lager. I lit another cigarette. I waited for the next guest in my domain. The door open, the music pouring in, the smoke creating a halo around my head, beer in hand, living the dream.

Island Life:Koufonisi

The city has never felt more glum and I feel so disconnected, as if I've been gone for ages. In truth I was only gone for a week which thankfully seemed a lot longer as it was going by but suddenly feels brief and tiresome now it's passed. I wish I had stayed on the island. Time seems to work differently there or wherever summer finds you. As if it stops and starts at its own pace, languidly and hastily all at the same time. An hour feels like ages on the beach and a night feels like a minute. I'm a city girl, I grew up in the city, I adore the city. The traffic, the noise, the impurity and the beauty in the grey and murky. I mean I live in Athens so it's not so murky, actually sunny and alight most days. The murkiness perhaps draws itself from routine, from characters and from the idea that a city should be something out of comic book, dark and brooding. At least in my head. But I adore it. Summers though are really when  Greece is at it's most astonishing. Ever since I was a little girl the islands were my escape. I lived in Santorini as a baby, and later while other kids would visit their grandparent's villages I would be swimming in a different sea, discovering a new island.The water was always essential to me. I was always in the water. I guess it's where I feel most comfortable and weightless, flowing but secure. I swam and held my breath under water until I was blue in the face( I still do) and over the years I've associated the sea, the blue, the island with good things. But I always came back to the city and it always seemed different in its sameness. This time I just didn't get enough. My mind wasn't ready to quit daydreaming and my body didn't want to leave the water. I almost wanted to quit my job, not for any particular reason other than to protest coming back. To live in anarchy, not to conform, not to be told when to come back to responsibility, not to be told when to get out of the water because I'm not a child anymore..and yet isn't it funny that we get told what to do more so now that we are adults than when we were children? Not in the literal sense like when our parents told us to brush our teeth and eat our vegetables. Alas as adults we still have to sleep at a certain time to go to work, work certain hours, look a certain way, eat a certain time and in a sense those things aren't dictated by us we just enforce them on ourselves because of circumstance and routine. Many times I think part of what made me want to be a writer was that I could make my own schedule, not to have an everyday-ness that someone set for me, do it from anywhere and because I hate working with other people. Maybe next year I'll have written a book and moved to an island. Maybe I'll go back to the island we've been going to for the past two years. Speaking of which, the reason I started writing this, my vacation. Koufonisi is paradise, in no way exaggerating it is heaven on earth.

The waters are crystal clear and tirquoise, the cuisine is amazing and the people are friendly but at safe distances. There is a lot of walking involved but it is so worth it. Even this city girl found herself enamored with the blue skies and brownish green shrubs and white flowers that grew in the sand. Walking along the coastline, navigating around rocky, sharp cliffs and white, sandy shores was even more adventurous and majestic done at night, in the pitch black, when the sea looks like oil and everything seems somehow bigger. In total we must have walked about 20-25km during the 5 days we were there. We snorkeled through deep caves that led to open sea and along the rocks where my boyfriend kept collecting live seashells and I kept making him put them back in their "home". We climbed down to the most spectacular hidden beach where the water is milky white and frothy. We didn't spare any expenses or calories when it came to delicious meals and I'm so glad we didn't. I crave luxury and richness and I found all of that in the nature's colors, the sea, the food, the essense of the island life. In the end I don't know that I could live there but it is certainly hard to leave it behind.

Greeks and Retail: A guideline

You know why this country is knee-deep in shit? Well, first of all, the Germans, but also because as a folk they can be and often are, and I think this is the official, scientific term for it, bastards. Otherwise lovely people, Greeks tend to have no respect whatsoever for one another, simply put, they don't give a tiny rats ass about anyone but themselves. I'm sure there are of course exceptions to this (including myself and six people I know and actually don't hate) but I'm addressing this as a national issue. There is even a saying in Greek which is roughly translated to "as long as I'm okay, let the neighbour's goat die". His goat! I mean what kind of monster would be okay with watching the goat next-door die?
Today based on my intimate knowledge on the subject I examine one simple example of how much people here don't give a shit about their fellow human-being. Case in hand: retail. Now, I know what you're going to say. The perils of working retail are pretty much the same wherever you are. Sure, which is why the following series of guidelines should be considered not only the documentation of my personal hell but also as international rules for a better shopping experience. I do live and work in Greece, a country in a recession so bad we had to have capital controls inforced, and people are still out shopping. So let me sing you the song of my people.
Customers. Now, I'm sure that in your everyday lives some of you are most likely half-decent people, it's just that as customers, and I'm sorry to have to break it to you, you suck.
Number one: You are not always right. Never have, never will.
Number two: I'm inclined to be polite but I will not be as efficient if I'm dealing with someone who is not. Take your attitude somewhere else.
Number three: This one makes my whole case. I am here all day long, you have all day long to "swing by". Closing time is definite and non-negotiable. As someone who I assume works for a living, don't you just hate it when someone makes you stay after hours? So do I. Apparently people quite blatantly don't give a shit about this. This is not acceptable.
Number four: Neither is the excuse "I just finished work". And you have to keep me longer at mine?Why?
Number five: Using the excuse "I just got back from vacation" instead of "I just finished work" only makes the situation worse for you. I am now legally allowed to bitch slap you.
Number six: When you see me near the door, holding my purse, at 9 p.m don't ask if I'm closing. Ask how YOU can help ME close faster. The answer to this will always be: by quietly fucking off.
Number seven: If, by some cruel fate you have beaten me at my own game and got me to stay past closing time... congrats you have won this time. However I am not obligated to stay after hours. Your cunning ways may have deceived me but I am not your servant, stop acting like it. Show some goddamn respect.
Number eight: It's August. Yes, I'm tired and hot and I'd rather be at the beach or literally anywhere else, alas I am here and so are you. Stop asking.
Number nine: If you have a child keep it under control. This is a jewellery store not some futuristic, glass peting-zoo. Stop touching my windows.
Number ten: There used to be another store here, which clearly isn't here anymore. Obviously I don't know where it's moved to or if it still exists because a. I'm not the yellow pages b. my job requirements don't include keeping track of previous owners. Stop being offended by this. It's weird.

Bonus: And this is true! I cannot believe I have to say this out loud or even reiterate in my head after I've heard it but... in case it isn't obvious by all the jewellery this is NOT a flower shop and I am most definitely NOT a florist. Our flowers you were admiring outside are purely decorative and most notably fake! As in plastic. As in if I were a florist I would not be selling fake flowers. It's unfathomable that you need an explanation for this.

And there you have it! Until next time, keep your crazy at bay. x

How I stopped being afraid

Written at work, Thursday, 9:30 am, slightly hangover.
For the past few months I've been living in fear. Not actual fear but a numbing, moat-y feeling which I guess can only be described as fear. Fear of writing and being in that vunerable, open place in my mind. The last time I wrote anything that wasn't work related, apart from my witty Facebook statuses (my mom thinks they're funny, so, so should you)? I think it was March, because it was still chilly and I was unemployed. At that point I took my dad's advice of going back to University and being miserable and did the exact opposite, as you do. I got a job which, funny story, I was afraid to get and afraid to start. I started supporting myself and paying my bills on time, queue, intense fear. My job at a jewellery store turned out better than expected and my bosses are actually decent people, when they aren't taking advantage of my kindness and mad skills. Shortly thereafter I signed up for e-learning writing classes which I was scared I wasn't going to be excepted to and when I did afraid to deal with it because I felt I'd fail. And somewhere in all of this, everything else stopped. I don't mean relationships, friends, nights out. I mean I started being a lot more afraid instead of less. I stopped being creative in the ways I was before. I was tired and felt spent. All I talked about was work. My boss is now on leave for the entire month of August and it's just me and the Internet here at work all day, everyday. Oh, and the crazy customers who show up at precisely 21:00 p.m, or as I like to call it the  time I should be on my way home but am not, because well, people. Yes, I'm exhausted, but more than that I've managed, by choice,to trap myself in a situation where work has devoured my life. I suppose  it's easier to whine about work related issues and stress than to have a crack at what is actually bothering me. Sure I could be doing other things as well but I'm too afraid to do them. Why? I'm not telling you, reader, I'm asking you. Why? Even at my most complacent, I still managed to create something. I was broke but I wasn't afraid. I was sad, but not scared. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but doing nothing at all wasn't an option. Last night I was afraid to open an email (gasp)! That's right. I was afraid to stay up late with friends because I had to wake up early. Right now I fear I'm becoming repetitive. My point is, my friend wasn't entirely wrong when he said I was becoming an old lady. My boyfriend, who convinced me to open that email, isn't wrong when he says I can do anything I set my mind to. He also says I'm pretty and an amazing lover and he makes me breakfast on Sundays, which has nothing to do with what I was saying but I just wanted to point out how wonderful my boyfriend is(and I don't want him to think I never write anything about him, so there). My other friend wasn't wrong when she told me to grow some balls( a mission harder than most, since I am in fact a woman). She said "you used to have balls", cause apparently this conversation is turning into some strange reverse Bruce Jenner situation, I don't know what she's talking about anymore. And I do kinda wish I had gone to bed earlier, or my head would be thanking me instead of throwing a tantrum like some spoiled teenager from the Valley, but nevertheless I'm glad I did. I felt a little less old lady and more like grown ass adult. This revelation of course came after half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc(the second half) while watching Bachelor in Paradise(it isn't shamefull if you don't do it alone) so I don't know if it counts as an epiphany.

"How I stopped being afraid" might seem a bit severe, it's more like "how I paused being afraid in order to write this and I'm pretty sure I'll keep being afraid
but at least now you all get to hear about it".

An open letter to my dying friend

I didn't know you well. I will not pretend to assume how you lived your life, your hopes and dreams. You were a boy in my school when I first met you and even as a boy you were tall and big and with a gentle heart, as much I could see. We took a trip together, us and two others and on that trip we laughed, played games, shared thoughts and in that I can say we shared a little of ourselves with each other. We talked sometimes after that and you were always friendly and kind, such things not going unnoticed in high school. We lost touch as it often happens. How small the world is as I discovered you were still a part of my life even if not in any immediate way or rather close to someone who is.
To me you were just a boy I knew, a boy who was now suddenly and tragically very very sick, a boy who was now dying. Nobody knows why this happened to you, as far as the world is concerned you were a perfectly healthy young man who unexpectedly fell ill and it seems like ever since, all of the odds have been against you. You lay in a coma in some unfriendly, white-lit room in the ICU, machines beeping and humming that you are still alive thanks to them. So many of your new unexpected neighbors are dead pale with their chests unnaturally inflating with a thud in their lifeless bodies. Unlike them, your body is muscular, manly, as ever holding the form of a gentle giant and you have kept your rosy color, your breathing steady almost as if you were sleeping, with everyone around you expecting you to wake up and rise, healthy as ever. If only you knew how you have effected the lives of everyone around you, if only you could see what difference you will have made in their lives even well after you are gone. Your devastating fate has lead me, me who only knew you so little, to think not of a life lost but of a life lived, however brief in might have been. Through my immense sadness, I imagine how special your existence was and what great things you would have achieved. Not because I knew you, not because you were only 23, the same age as me, but because people, all people, matter, because never mind how seemingly insignificant the ways in which you are wonderful and important, you are just that. No matter what path you chose in life, I trust you would have chosen to be true to yourself, kind to others and lived every moment and made each one count. You would have mattered as everyone does. In your untimely, inexplicable death, if it comes to that, I hope you will have inspired your family through their grief, to remember you as you were and for the amazing potential you never got to realize. I hope you will inspire your brother to live a full and happy life and to experience each fleeting moment, for life is so short. For your girlfriend, to feel blessed to have known and loved you and wishing she will love again and keep that love so close to her heart because it is the only thing that truly gives life its meaning. To everyone who knew you or anyone who will be reading this, never underestimate the importance of being healthy and loved and ultimately alive, because just like that, at any given moment it can all be taken away from you. Whether you are 10 or 23 or 60, know that while you are still breathing everything you do matters and everything is significant, so be happy, be kind, be extraordinary, don't let moments slip away from you, don't waste time on anything that doesn't add joy and wellness and delight to your being, value your relationships and learn from your mistakes as well as your achievements, take time to enjoy the beauty around you and add to it in any way you can. Finally, to my friend for I will always regard you as a friend, thank you. Thank you for teaching me how important life really is. I can only hope I will honor mine for the future as you surely would have yours.

My thoughts and prayers go out to you and your family

Life at 23

I am 23 years old. I am a writer, a thinker, a traveler, occasionally a retail-seller, a daughter, a friend, a girlfriend. Sometimes I'm sad and sometimes really-really sad but other times I'm over the moon ecstatic. I've written exactly 3 articles for a fashion magazine, conducted over 150 interviews, sold 1000 items of clothing, wrote one book for a chef, translated 50 bodies of various text, read numerous books, have studied countless hours. Approximately. I have cried, I have loved, I have laughed and I have written a million words about all of those emotions.
Thinking back at how I expected my life to be by the time I reached my 20s, well it was not this. I expected I would have graduated from an amazing university with honors and gotten a degree in something that I love, I would have written my first book and maybe even had it published, I would be financially independent and may have even gotten married to the love of my life. Being a teenager, 23 just seems so far away and so grown up. You expect that everything in life will have fallen into place by then and you will have everything figured out. Reality is far from that and for good reason. When at 18 I was planning my bright-looking future I picked a major that, though I stuck with for almost three years, I realized I hated. I love to educate myself (matter of fact I do educate myself every single day) but I refuse to study something that utterly bores me and that I have no intention of working with just to have a piece of paper to shove in someone's face. Furthermore, I knew in my heart that there was no school that could teach me what I already was sure I wanted to do, so I decided to drop out of University and proceed to actively follow my dream by getting writing jobs(which hasn't been easy) and by taking time to actually write. I never put school out of the question I was just only willing to study something that I really love and until I found that it would just have to wait.
I am now not so suddenly but definitely abruptly faced with the question, not so much posed to me as a question but rather as a threat, of what I want to do with my life. My options as posed by my father are these: go back to school or be cut off and left to fend for myself, in order to realize that I must go back to school. I think the phrase we are looking for is emotional blackmail. Because, while I completely agree with the fact that I have to think about my future and what I want to do with that future and with the fact that I should find the way to support myself, I feel that this is not the question my dad is posing. In his eyes I am meant to go back to school in either option whether that is by choice or by facing the hardships of the real-world and changing my mind about it and going back to school. I feel like I will not be supported in either situation but rather I am expected to fail for even trying to make it without a college degree. I am automatically put into a category of "the one without a college degree" when I am so much more than that. University degrees are for some people but not for all. Maybe they are for me too but not until and if I find what it is I would want to do with that said degree.
Forgetting the words of my father, I am posing the question of what I want to do with my life to myself, whilst having the knowledge that I have already accomplished many things and have a lot to be proud of. For I don't feel that the time I have spent has been a waste rather quite an experience that has helped me to know myself better and in that be a better writer. Because I always knew I wanted to be a writer and if I can put pen to paper and finger to keyboard and produce something worthwhile than damn it I am.
I have worked in jobs I loved and some I hated and I'd do it again, and if paying the bills means getting a job I hate then I'll do that too (maybe it'll even give me something more to write about). And if a degree is what I want to get then that's what I'll do. Though I've been dreading myself and my impossible thoughts and agony and stress methinks maybe this is not such a bad thing. I'm choosing to focus on the positive and to commit myself to committing, to really apply myself and to follow my dreams. Whatever I decide in the process of fulfilling those dreams, I won't do it out of fear or because someone said so, but because it helps me better myself, for myself and gets me one step closer to the end of my personal rainbow. 
Like my mum said "where there's a will, there's a way"

How to cook for your boyfriend...and ten other people

I hate being sick. I fucking hate it. Okay, who doesn't, but seriously it's like all the time I spend procrastinating means nothing cause now that I'm sick I start missing those things I all of a sudden have the urge to do but don't feel up for it. You ever get that? Anyone? Really?
Though I've been like this since Saturday, which is no excuse for not posting anything for almost two months (we will talk about this later), at first I thought I was just hungover from the night before, not uncommon since my buddy's band was playing Saturday night and going to their gigs hungover has become something of a tradition. The worst part is I'm not actually in a feverish delirium, inspiring Poe-worthy, morbid thoughts, bed-bound and semi-comatose. I say worst part because the way I'm feeling is like a never-ending hangover. Headache, nausea and a general mopy tiredness that seems to have to no intention of subsiding any time soon. With that said, I did manage the small feat of cooking for eleven people yesterday(an arugula and spinach salad with strawberries and bacon and a balsamic vinaigrette, meatballs on toasted brioche with a caramelized apple sauce and penne with shrimp,mushrooms and curry for the main course, impressive I know) and making eleven panna cotta set diagonally in individual glasses, a process that felt a lot like diffusing a bomb. In retrospect, my Speakeasy 20s-themed birthday-party which had me hosting twice than many people and required turning my entire living room into a bar seemed a lot easier.

 This whole time that I've been away from my blog, going out, taking weekend trips, hosting parties, taking on tasks for the sheer challenge of them, but mostly sulking at home, there's been this sense of hopelessness, for lack of a better word. Nothing is too terrible, or too exciting, meaning there's nothing really worth writing about and that, instead of making me restless or creating an urgency I so long for, is quite frankly putting me in a dreadful quick-sand of a rut. I've taken a step back for far too long and getting back on the saddle seems impossibly tedious at this point. In fact everything seems like tedious work. The tiresome reality of every fleeting day is dulling my senses and I don't feel in the least ready to face the fact that I must get into a head-on collision with this reality in order to change it. Ugh! Alas, it is up to me to acknowledge that I haven't been robbed of my talent nor have I lost myself in the mundanity of repetitiveness but rather have dimmed the switch of an otherwise brilliant light. A quarter-life crisis I think kids these days are calling it and I know I mustn't be the only one. And if getting sick is helping me realise that, well then there's definitely something wrong with me... which I am now strangely okay with. And at the end of the day if Sam Smith can win all the Grammy's, then so can I! Not win all the Grammy's that is, but at least make it through writing a post on a blog not more than five people read. Seriously, if you too are experiencing a similar situation than post a comment, share your feelings and become the lucky sixth+ person who reads my blog!