athens after istanbul
the first night I arrived in athens, I climbed filopappou hill to watch the sunset alone, and I found that my heart and soul were missing istanbul. why was I surprised? changing cities is like changing lovers, changing storylines, changing channels on the TV: starting from zero, again, with the fogginess of disorientation, and a faint longing for what came before. I came to athens only once — in february 2020, a week before the pandemic started, and I was taken by the city — a city of ancient energy, lit in full sun, its olive leaves shimmering and silken in the wind; its ruins roamed by cats, its streets heavy with the ripeness of inedible oranges. compared to berlin, athens felt sensuous and heavy; heady, with a Dionysian chaos, like dancing in the afterglow of wine.
but athens after istanbul felt almost… under-stimulating. it was as though I was hearing a familiar melody in a different (major) key - with the volume turned down. after istanbul, athens gave me a feeling of blankness; of dry shrubs and dusty hills; of ruins more ancient and worn by time — so that no wounds felt fresh. everything - even life itself, in the present moment - was already history.