On February 7th, at day’s close, P and I emerged from Cine Verdi, carrying a film that would echo through our conversations for months

"I miss Japan." "Yes yes, I miss it too. We have to go back." "What a lovely movie, no?" "Yeah, it was. But... don't you think Hirayama is lonely? Possibly, deeply sad?"

On February 7th, the sound of a vending machine dispensing coffee at 6 AM Tokyo time became part of our memory. We were watching Hirayama then as his days unfolded in their quiet persistence. Every morning, the tender greeting of his plants, their leaves catching light in that small Tokyo apartment. The drive to work punctuated by his music - mechanical, reliable, somehow pure. A bento carried to high ground, where he sits among trees that dance around casting shadows on his solitude.

We watched Hirayama repeat the same ritualistic day for a week. We observed the few random encounters he had with others, a small glimpse into his family life. Small glares of his narrative.

My friend saw beauty in Hirayama's existence - his reverence for all things living and still, his embrace of simplicity, his gratitude. In Wenders' hands, Hirayama's life unfolds as precise artistry, a work of art executed as it is, simply and meticulously.

I saw only the sadness beneath. Here was a man who had retreated to life's passive offerings, shying from the labor of human connection. In his wounds, I recognized a deliberate withdrawal.

Hirayama is heartwarming with strangers; he greets the owners of his regular places with a smile and tries to be of help for those who need it. He has no close friends, no partner, no relationship with family except a niece who looks up to him in ways he can't always deliver. His sole companions are music, books, and the beauty of Tokyo.

On February 7th and months ahead, P and I agreed to disagree.

On the morning of April 4th, I met Sammy at a small plaza. I had avoided this encounter in every way possible - consciously, subconsciously, and all the logical and psychological spaces between. I was unprepared to hear anything hurtful. On April 4th, I pulled up the courage to attend the final communion of our romantic connection. Amongst the exchange of latest news, we finally got to the dreadful part. 'I am now dating this other person, she's the ex I told you about, I am still in love with her,' he said while an 'I'm happy for you' came out with forced enthusiasm. Suddenly Hirayama's life became a door swinging open, inviting me in.

Later that day, I signed the lease to a new place, and a few weeks later I was making boxes and collecting items. I said goodbye to an idea of a life with one of my best friends, with whom I had lived for something little over three years. There were times we really thought we'd grow old together, like siblings who can't move away from the family house. We still call ourselves the climbing-cafe-literary society.

On April 4th, I carried my body around, had lunch with colleagues, stood weirdly spaced out, excusing myself: 'Sorry, yeah, you know, this house thing, not sure if it's the right one, I need to think...'.

At day's end, I walked myself to the bus and got off at the wrong stop, which thankfully led me to Periplo, a tiny Greek restaurant closing down after ten years in business. The owner of the place had become greedy and was kicking them out. Pausing right outside, I worked up the courage to smile and say a proper farewell.

Distressed with their situation but still proper hosts until the end, they offered me a beer and served it before I had time to decide whether I could afford a few more minutes of forced politeness. I sat with them amongst trash and glasses and cutlery, boxes and cooking utensils. We caught up on our news, the current state of a rapidly changing Madrid, our thoughts on the return to the homeland. By the third beer, I was already developing a second brain, one where the morning's events never happened.

Amidst speedy exchanges of Greek mixed with Spanish words, a neighbor showed up. We turned around looking at him with a mix of cheeriness and annoyance. How dare you interrupt our flow of thought, Spaniard?

His name was Guillermo, a soft-spoken man who had eaten at the restaurant with his family for as long as he remembered it in the neighborhood. 'My boys grew up with your food, what a pity...' he would repeat a few times before they offered him a beer as well and pulled out another chair for him to join our little group.

Another hour, amongst the company of strangers with a couple more rounds of beer on the house, I declared April 4th a perfect day.

I surely admire Hirayama's ability to find contentment in his chronic solitude. When we feel we don't belong anywhere or with anyone, we must turn our gaze wider. We belong to this earth and this cosmos first and foremost. Mother nature, or force, or spirit has placed us here alongside all other species - animals, flora and fauna - and the stars on a dark night can be our fellow travelers. Yet in my head, that thought alone doesn't soothe any of our loneliness. It complements us, yes; without it the horizon grows darker, but still that is not all there is.

What is life if we cannot connect with others? If relationships of any kind lead us into lengths of reclusion. When connection costs us so much. Do I look at Hirayama with admiration or with pity?

Around April 14th, R marked our memory with a curious exchange of gifts. I now hold dear a little book of his making - sketched and hand-bound, The Lost in Translation draft script. I've placed this scene in a small drawer in the library of my mind; when I pull it out, it illuminates entire rooms. The love for a person and a craft, the love for love itself. It materializes and transcends, living on and giving, giving, giving.

I now know that his love, once offered to me, had found its way to another - proof that true love doesn't dissipate but flows onward like a river finding its path.

On August 6th, the Day of the Savior in Greece, we introduced P to a local festivity in the port of Avlaimonas in Kythera. Before the wine could overwhelm us, we played matchmakers - there, a girl we decided with Tasos was perfect for our Spanish friend. Long hair, blue eyes, skin kissed by the Mediterranean sun. But the fun took over - the swirling crowd, the capable dancers - and we dismissed Eros from our minds. Tasos made P promise to visit again next year, this time to Ikaria. They shook hands, and I reminded P that in Greece, such a gesture probably carries more weight than marriage vows.

In the early hours of August 7th, we dragged our wine-heavy bodies to a local kiosk overlooking the rocky beach. 'Look,' Tasos whispered, and there in the downward spiral of rocks we saw her - the girl with the blue eyes.

She walked ahead, while entranced, the boy followed toward his doom. At the sea-stairs' summit, she calmly shed her clothes and entered the deep.His hesitation lasted one breath before the tide called them both. From above, we watched them embrace, their bodies turning silver in the dark water, floating as one, toward a place we all wished to be that night.

We looked at each other, smiling wide, silent witnesses to Eros' quiet work— no matchmaker needed.

On October 6th, I entered a driverless car in downtown San Francisco. It asked me if I liked the music and if the temperature was appropriate. My companion pointed out that the price of our ride would be equal to an Uber or a Lyft. I found myself wondering what I would prefer if I lived here, coming back from a night out: someone to ask me how my night was and go on about the perils of the economy, or a vehicle that would let me drift off in peace. There are days and days, I suppose.

I’m happy to report that visiting the bookshop that Alen Ginsberg’s Howl and other poems was first published beat the ghost car experience.

A month later, on November 7th, I visited the forest of the Kotai temple at Ise. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the place and convinced myself that the monastic life, for certain periods of time, is not such a bad idea. One thing I give to Wenders' Hirayama is that he spends enough time just listening.

Earlier that month I wrote to my new pen-pal friend about my lack of words this past year: 'This lack of something to say doesn't come from a depressive state or feelings of inferiority. It's as if I'm trying to pause and listen—or perhaps to not listen for a while, until I can truly, deeply listen. I've spent most of my life trying to understand existence and humanity through the lens of established systems of thought. I've often sought reassurance in my thinking, and even when I outgrew one system for another, I was left with a persistent sense of dissatisfaction. Every "system of thought" seems right—until it doesn't.'

I'm getting better at just listening, paying attention. To the noise of this earth and the noise within me, my dreams, which I've now become a beggar for. In turbulent times, when I can't pinpoint what's wrong, I close my eyes at night and hope they'll show me what matters.

This year was both painful and beautiful, aligning perfectly with what life ought to be in my system of thought. Every cup of wine raised with friends birthed both gratitude and conscience: thankfulness for my own freedom, and a burning wish for those trapped in warzones and unfair political games.

Those of us living in relatively democratic societies - a notion itself constantly in flux - carry an obligation: to resist the slide into authoritarianism not just in our politics, but in our daily lives - to recognize how we sometimes become our own tyrants, imposing small dictatorships in our relationships, our habits, our ways of loving. And while Hirayama's life holds its own beauty and peace, I cannot yet retreat into such sanctuary.

As I set the table for 2025, I wish for health and love, for eros and friendship, for memories that won't make sense just yet but will spark the need to dance them away at some Greek summer festival, under stars that have seen it all before. Above all, I wish for gratitude, and when days grow dark, for gentle reminders that this - this unjust but beautiful life - is all we get.

all my love dear friends

G.

"How was 'Poor Days'?" my friend asked. Although I immediately knew she was asking about Wim Wenders’s 'Perfect Days,' I laughed out of happiness, considering the abundance of good movies we've received this year in a very short period. So much so, titles seem to not matter so much. 'Poor Things' was the movie I couldn't stop talking about throughout December, until one day I woke up feeling my obsession fade.

These past two months I have found myself going to the cinema with unprecedented frequency. It started with Miyazaki's 'The Boy and the Heron,' followed by 'Poor Things,' 'The Holdovers,' 'Killers of the Flower Moon,' 'Perfect Days,' 'Priscilla,' and finally 'Anatomy of a Fall,' which left me wanting to abandon my group of friends and wonder aimlessly trying to understand the feelings this movie stirred in me. The only issue with all this cinema-going frenzy is the impossibility of being in a mental state suitable for all these experiences equally. I’m waiting for the time I’ll re-watch some of them probably understanding better why any of those films meant so much or so little to different people. Another pitfall was my extensive exposure to the Internet, making it hard to enter the cinema free from public opinion. Letterboxd is my latest vice, and it’s starting to consume my experience with films. Halfway during a movie and I’ll already start thinking about my little short essay on why this movie made sense to me or not. I believe I'll soon need a Letterboxd detox.

The renewed public interest in cinema should be a positive thing, right? Yorgos Lanthimos getting a wide audience should be another good thing no? Oh wait… I'm not sure how I've come to write about this director. I never imagined Lanthimos would be so popular. Who would have thought? Yet, here he is, trending because he's either criticized or praised, for all the wrong reasons.

Lanthimos holds a special place in my heart, not because I'm fond of his fisheye lenses or understand whether his directorial style is good. When I say "I like Lanthimos," I mean I appreciate Efthymis Filippou, the screenwriter he often collaborates with. I enjoy the abnormal language presented in a realistic yet comedic chaos, the weirdness he forces upon you, the exploration of the edges of human nature. Metaphorical societal oppression and so on. I appreciated his emergence during a time when nothing in Greece made sense. His eccentricity has a very culturally specific madness. Yet, I always thought he would remain an eccentric figure, watched by maybe a hundred people at most in Greece, given that more than fifty percent of Greeks still despise him. Unfortunately for some, he’s now receiving bigger opportunities and a wider audience. This has led to eye-rolling comments from those who think he is undeserving of such attention.

"I don't know, I think he needs therapy," a friend remarked. All I could think of was that he probably heard that on TikTok or read it in a review by some obnoxious cinema critic at El País. What I wanted to say that night was that Lanthimos has likely undergone therapy and emerged realizing that very little in this world makes sense. However, I didn't sweat it. Some insights must be arrived at independently, and if they aren't, perhaps they're not meant for you, which is okay. I'm not concerned about a world where everyone agrees, nor do I need my friends or lovers to conform to such opinions. At the same time, do I think that the world need more Lanthimoses though? Not really.

'Poor Things' made a splash upon its release, and its distribution company's extensive advertising ensured that everyone and their mother went to see it. The script, based on a novel of the same name published in 1992, unfolds in Victorian England and is clearly fictional. It begins with a pregnant woman committing suicide, a mad scientist deciding to transplant the fetus's brain into her head, resurrecting her as a creature that is neither a fully grown woman nor a baby. From the start, the premise is ridiculous. Both the book and film adaptation introduce themes of patriarchal control: the protective father/creator, the naive assistant who falls in love with the creature under the pretense of protection, and a lascivious lawyer whose sole purpose is to boost his ego and self-validation by conquering what everyone else is so fiercely guarding.

In this narrative, the creature, Bella Baxter, strives to grow, explore the world, understand, and build a sense of self. She is courageous, with immense trust in the goodness and future. Despite of a lot of bad things happening to her, she perseveres. An important subplot involving her sexuality provokes outrage among puritans and politically correct audiences. She discovers self-pleasure and sexual pleasure. The men in her life exploit this, yet the public assumes the director and producer—Emma Stone herself, a woman—endorse such behavior.

"It's a film made by a white man, thus catering to the male gaze," "It promotes pedophilia," and other absurd comments have flooded the Internet and media in recent months. "Women who liked the movie are experiencing internalized misogyny," "Barbie was far more feminist."

Listen, it's a movie, a piece of fiction set in a fantastical world. None of it is meant to be taken literally - I hope. However, as a woman who was once a late teenager and young adult, having experienced older men trying to claim me, what I saw in 'Poor Things' was a reality that exists in this world and in my eyes, there was nothing accepting about the behavior. On the contrary, the way the story is presented makes it clear to mature audiences that the situation is twisted by all means. Alas, there is a potential path one could take, where despite people, particularly men, try to take advantage of you, you can still possess agency in your experience. You recognize some folks might be detrimental to you, yet you explore a reality with them because it somehow makes sense for you at the moment, until it no longer does, and hopefully then you move on, a grown self.

I adored the character of Bella Baxter - with her autism and obvious chaotic character and all. I feel quite sad for those who couldn’t enjoy the film because someone on Tik Tok or Twitter told them it was bad and misogynistic. I loved Mark Ruffalo's character, the lover who believes everyone desires him, yet he's too noble to commit. "You'd be wise not to fall in love with me," he warns Bella Baxter, only to go mad months later when she not only fails to fall in love with him but also outgrows him. He was just a vessel for experience and his ego didn’t let him fathom that possibility. I felt seen and understood by this supposedly "white male gaze" film. Countless times, when lovers advise us not to fall too deeply for them, we wish we could respond, “My guy, you are not that important. I’m unfortunately horny and heterosexual and you happen to be somehow interesting for now. Most of the things I like about you I’ve probably projected on you anyway. Chill.” but we don’t dare say that because we still need their cooperation in this love game. All we probably manage to say is “Yes, this is casual, don’t you worry babe”.

I’m also critical to those who defend the film as a feminist take, empowering. I’m not even sure where the narrative of female empowerment started. Was it the production company trying to create some noise? Excited fans? It's not the one folks. If you're looking to grasp patriarchal concepts and "save" women, a film won't suffice, my sincere apologies. It might prompt some thought, encourage you to see things differently, but you must want that for yourself. If you're keen on educating yourself about how society has been shaped by gender structures, there's a wealth of literature to explore, and even that alone isn't enough. You'll need to question everything you've ever thought about your existence and the world, and keep questioning, until maybe, just maybe, you understand a bit more. It's a process. Again, one film won't achieve this, especially this one.

Lanthimos's 'The Favourite' is his genuine attempt to place women at the forefront of one of his films. It's a darkly humorous comedy. No one debated whether he was "doing feminism right" back then because the film wasn't marketed as such, and perhaps that's the issue haunting 'Poor Things.'

The controversy surrounding 'Poor Things' reminds me of the public's reaction to Nabokov's 'Lolita.' Many of its critics have never read the book. I hate to say it, but those who have read the book and still believe Nabokov endorses pedophilia are likely not the sharpest tools in the shed. Humbert Humbert's downfall in 'Lolita' is masterfully depicted. Nabokov, a genius of the written word, tackled a very real issue with such finesse and respect for his readers. He didn't assume his readers too unintelligent to grasp the narrative nor did he feel the need to add a disclaimer stating, "I am depicting a knowingly perverse situation here; I do not agree with or endorse Humbert Humbert's actions." Today, a modern reader of 'Lolita' might feel compelled to nod their head in disagreement, lest someone misinterpret their interest in Nabokov's literature as support for pedophilia. It's comedic really.

The 'Poor Things' drama has left me somewhat frustrated and weary, but I remind myself that public opinion should never dictate one's personal views. This world is diverse, and perhaps those things that endure are precisely those that nobody can unanimously agree on. Time will tell whether this movie or this story was worthwhile. I'll check back in twenty years. In the meantime, I can’t wait for Lanthimos to go back to his roots and stop making Hollywood movies - aka Poor Things - so I can frown and feel disturbed in peace, away from the TikTok critics.

The disparity in film perception was even more pronounced when watching Perfect Days by Wim Wenders, for entirely different reasons though. My friend and I exited the theater with completely divergent interpretations of what the film was about. P left feeling content, with a smile on his face, whereas I was left profoundly sad.

The Perfect Days experience deserves its own essay, so I'll save that for another time. Right now, I need to get ready to watch Dune II, and this time, the Internet concurs that it's fantastic. Not that it matters, because I'm excited anyway. As Nicole Kidman said about cinema in her ACM ad, "We come to this place for magic..." and I am confident Dune will fulfill that promise. I can't wait.

[Update 21st of May 2024]

The ‘Perfect Days’ essay is still in draft, and I had hoped not to discuss Lanthimos, feminism, and related topics for a while. However, a recent event has further diminished my faith in the state of pop culture discourse and the prevalence of illiteracy.

A few days ago, at the press conference for Kinds of Kindness, Emma Stone had the opportunity to provide a clear response to the narrative about whether Poor Things and Lanthimos's work are misogynistic. Unfortunately, she missed this chance badly.

She seemed tired of the specific conversation—a sentiment I understand and empathize with completely—but also came across as very self-absorbed and defensive in her answer. In her attempt to dismiss the basis of the reporter's hypothesis, she gave the most banal explanation, something along the lines of, "I focus on the technical and artistic aspects of my profession and am not the kind of actress who wants to convey a specific message." I don’t think that’s entirely true, but alas, that’s what we got.

Likewise, the journalist, who has apparently been in this business for decades, asked the question in the most clickbait way. She first declared, “Congratulations on this magnificent movie”—a statement she clearly didn’t believe. Then she described Lanthimos's work as a Trojan horse on social conventions—whatever that means—and proceeded to ask Emma Stone how she feels she’s contributing to feminism by working with him. To my ears, the question implied a disconnect between being a feminist and working with Lanthimos. Perhaps the reporter—given that English is not her first language—intended to ask something different or sincerely wanted a clear answer from Emma Stone to the allegations of the past year. Emma Stone responded with irony, and the reporter attempted to rephrase her question to make it seem less polemical. It was a disaster from both sides. The journalist should have prepared better, and Emma Stone should have known better.

Then came the internet comments, applauding one side or the other. It was a catastrophe, people. A professional lost their integrity for the sake of sparking pop talk, and an Oscar-winning actress proved much less intelligent than we might have thought. This whole ordeal reminds me that most famous people are not as sharp as we might believe, although in the case of Emma Stone, I think she’s just become overly defensive at this point.

In any case, it feels we need to go back to our desks and sit down to think like little kids in primary school because ignorance is gushing out dangerously.

Dear M,

I think of you almost every day. I think of what happened to you this past summer and how cruel it must have been. You’re in the cusp of changes and in the middle of it your body gave up. I hope your back is giving you less pain and there is some resolution in sight. I dread the day when I’ll be back to Madrid and you’ll tell me that you are moving away. There is nothing to say to change your mind because your thinking has been right all along. There’s not much left in this city to look forward to. Trying to brush away sadness and what this means for my own life I’m already planning my visits to Milan and our future trips together. I really hope we don’t give up on our word. Anyway, there’ll be time to talk about this soon. I tell you already though, I don’t like it.

We arrived to Hiroshima with P last night. Our usual last minute fashion didn’t prove so bad this time, we got ourselves a pretty good deal, staying at this beautiful hotel overlooking the city, which by the way is quite cute. I’m writing you now from this coffee shop that resembles an art gallery. It’s exterior is the image of autumn nature and a beautiful garden made probably by the divine or a human being very patient with time and tools at hand. The barrista looks like he opens the door for you at the Ritz and the woman that took our order is closer to a cyborg than a human in my eyes, just perfect. The tables are meticulously positioned next to each other except one long table next to the big window overlooking the garden which is set a tight bit diagonal. There are flowers in the middle of the space and a beautiful glass carafe that I’d like to have in my house but also wouldn’t know what to do with it.

There is this thing that I’m not so happy about my travel this time. It’s as if I’ve come somewhere different but also haven’t left anything behind at all. My world is in my phone and besides that which I understand is my choice to look at or not, everything else looks the same. What differentiates modern coffee shops or wine bars or record shops here in Japan from the same places in Europe is perhaps the extreme in which they take this modern sterile curation. Other than that, you can tell that there are global standards for everything now. The flower shops look exactly the same as the one in Fernando XI, the specialty coffee shops have equally uncomfortable chairs, maybe at least the prices here are more reasonable. You wouldn’t shout “Denunciable!” like you do in Madrid.

You know my need to find nice coffee and drinkable wine is always present but because of this repetitiveness in surroundings we find ourselves escaping to Japanese style coffee shops which copy from an American jazzy aesthetic that frankly right now feels better, at least different! The coffee sucks but we can melt ourselves in their sofas, get in a bit of a trance with their dim lights and jazz records playing and actually have a good conversation for hours. No one bothers you and you don’t need to look a certain way. Those places are also sometimes quite hidden so that adds up to the coziness. How we miss you here!

Would you be up to doing this trip with me? I bet I’ll be here again sometime soon. What if I tell you that they are mad about Snoopy here, like you? You’d probably need one whole suitcase for all the Snoopy things!

Today it’s only me and P in this curated coffee shop trying to settle down from this mornings heavy visit. I knew going to the A-bomb memorial museum would be a charged experience and we left it precisely for that reason for the end of our trip. Yet, M, the sorrow that wraps around my soul is not solely born from witnessing the grim capabilities of mankind. This, we have always known, right? Since the earliest chapters of human history, men have crafted horrors, leaving us in perpetual anticipation of the next dreadful act. The heaviness I feel comes from something quite encouraging but still bittersweet. People move on regardless and I’ve mostly felt so little, so uncourageous seeing their stories. There is the first room in the museum describing the city before the bomb dropped, the normality. Then the room which exhibits the results of the event, melted clothes and objects, horrific images of bodies… and then the room which caused all of us well up with tears. The room showing us the days of survival.

In an experience first of its time, with people experiencing rare sickness, dying in numbers with every day passing, people kept on. Nurses and doctors volunteering to what was probably their death bed. People who were superficially intact pushing through to help others who were cut in pieces. The days kept going with no one knowing what the hell was that. Why are people still dying, why are people getting sick. You would read the letters of survivors. Years after the bomb dropped. People writing that they feel weirdly tired, that they can’t focus, or study or do anything but how they need to keep going because no one knew to tell them that it’s normal to feel like that and that you should probably take a long vacation for the rest of your life. They kept on. Day after day. Less than a hundred years later, this city didn’t fall into nothingness. It’s now flourished, with little trace of the past and that trace is only for remembrance.

This is what we’ve been talking about M. We are here all of us because humanity goes on. The most beautiful thing is that none of those people thought about that far ahead. I’m certain that no one said “Well how about I make through the day so Hiroshima can have a specialty coffee shop sixty years later?”. I’m certain that they kept going because their kid, or their spouse or their parent or their friend needed them. They held on for the life just around them and that added up in ways beyond their understanding. In a way, this was a sacrifice they made.

There’s a lot I can tell you more about the history I learned from this. The world politics, the international relations, what the future holds but that quite impersonal for me at this point. When I’m crafting principles about how I’m living this life of mine this is one I’ve added after seeing the courage of those people. Keep moving forward. Take whatever role you’re playing at this point of history and play it well. As a friend, a neighbor, a partner, whatever that is. Don’t drown yourself in analysis or get yourself caught up in intellectual wars. Do the thing and then see where life takes you. We are just a small part of all this M.

These days, I’ve also been thinking about people who follow a similar principle that has led them to an unconventional route M. Take P’s friend for example. The one that dropped a fairly comfortable life in Germany to pursue a life of service in war zones. Having met him a couple of times I’m certain that this is where he is more comfortable though and I admire him for that. There’s a book we shared once, Montesquieu’s Persian Letters. I still think of him and the life he lives and there’s a smile on my face knowing that he’s probably serving as a modern Usbek critiquing today’s society, not from the sidelines but fully immersed. I miss those types of people M, they make me frown but also make me think.

Anyway, that’s all for today. We return to Osaka this afternoon, in a couple of days back to Tokyo, then back to Madrid. We can talk more about our current Hiroshimas at an overpriced wine bar in Europe. Some things are ridiculously better in this lifetime of ours but some things are going to get worse M and that’s not a pessimistic or an exaggerated view. It is what it is. Alas, life goes on and we’ll figure it out.

All my love,

G.

ps. This is one of the of the many artifacts that brought me to tears. A death certificate of Kanji Toma age 33 who suffered severe injuries by the bombing. He was carried to a relief station. His relatives found Kanji on around August 18 and brought him home in Tsuyama City, Okayama perfecture where his wife and daughters were.
On August 24, Kanji called his wife to his bedside and said, “I’m not the only one who suffered from this war. Don’t be sad. Be strong.” Then he passed away

.

Dearest C,

We're nearly at the end of this trip, and it's only now that I've found some semblance of calm to write to you. I'm not tied up or anything, just, I guess, a bit swamped by everything. We're taking it easy, our little group, not hustling around to see every last thing, just ambling about and taking things as they come. But even so, there's something about how and where we are that keeps snagging my attention. It's been ages since I took a trip this long, and even longer since I've been away from it all like this. It's a strange feeling, almost unsettling, like I've forgotten how to just be in this kind of rhythm. But, in a way, it's nice, this change.

But, C, the everyday beauty here is something else. It's almost too much – everything so picturesque, so neat, so orderly. We wander around feeling like aliens, spending nights in onsens and belting out Bob Dylan’s “the times they are a-changing” in these karaokes that are somehow better than any I've seen before. And I've got to tell you, I think I've stumbled onto something about myself – a gambling problem, maybe, or just this thing about winning. I've lost track of how many yens I've dumped into these machines that you can't possibly beat, all for some plastic trinket that I'll likely toss away before we even leave.

I'm caught up in all this, you know – their books, their magazines, the way they've got everything just so. Their clothes, the way they fix their hair. It's all so, I don't know, studied. Then there are these bars, C, with their mixologist concoctions and old records spinning on turntables. It's like they've picked up pieces of what we do and turned it into something else, something almost mocking. My eyes can’t get enough of the neon autumn colours of the nature here. Neon bright yellow and red. You would love it but also probably understand me when I say… I feel very uncool in this country. Surprisingly, I’m looking for the dirt, the trash, the imperfection, like a European junkie. I didn’t find it in Tokyo and its surroundings, neither in Kyoto and the holy villages, I thankfully found it in Osaka and my heart went back to its place because the feeling that I’m in a simulation was starting to make me really really nervous C.

I don't know how long it'll take to make sense of all this. There's a lot to sift through, mentally, before I can even think about looking at the photos trying to understand what exactly is it that we lived. And this hyper-awareness, it's strange. Not sure if I should blame it on Japan, but I’ve not been this alert for some time now. It's like I'm suddenly tuned in to everything – every step, every breath. Looking at my friends and shouting “Guys, I am thirty-four years old! On March, I’ll be thirty-five! I’m closer to forty! Time flies! I need to do stuff!”, as if declaring it might somehow anchor me in time. Like a lunatic, I’ll write it down to a diary with a reminder to tell you about it, afraid that when my feet touch home, when my body feels tired or my brain wants to sleep, I’ll forget. I’ll also continue next to it “What happens if I forget?” in case my sudden awareness of life and time passing comes from a place of uneasiness. “Why do you suddenly need to run?”

I don’t know…it just feels like I’ve been more afraid than I should, I guess. Yet, its almost comical.

I'm trying, really trying, not to fight this feeling too much. I'm hoping I'll unravel it all once I'm back home. For some time now, I've actually managed to slow down, to really listen. It's kind of a relief, not feeling guilty for taking my time, for not always knowing what I feel, or not making snap decisions. And it's been good, really good for me but maybe I slowed down too much, you know?

Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s Night Colonies caught in the Mori art museum

Do you remember that walk we had in Greece, during N and S's wedding? You were talking about how it's a shame we can't live full lives in multiple places simultaneously. To have enough years to live completely different lives than the one we're building. I thought that feeling would hit me hard here, but it hasn't. Thank God, because I think I'd go nuts trying to fit into this society. It's like an ant colony, C. Sure, there's beauty in it, but it's like it traps your soul until it just evaporates. Maybe I'm overthinking it, maybe I need to learn the language, drop the ego, and try to see what they see in this type of existence. Tokyo's this cyberpunk behemoth, a real wonderland, but even there, there's this feeling of stagnation I can't shake. Maybe I’m just projecting. Will be back here many times though, I just need a bit more of it, like an escape from the real world, a bit of fun.

And then, C, there's this anger bubbling up in me. It's not about this country; in fact, being here has kind of helped me process it. I find myself at these little shrines, asking whatever gods are listening to help me let go of this anger. But there's been this buildup of things, cementing a certain stance in me. It's about love – romantic love, what else. I've always kept that as a personal issue, steering clear of generalisations about something so dreamy. But the times, the stories around me, the state of our relationships, they all remind me of the sterile streets here. Layers of rules about how to love, how to avoid pain, how to keep doors open. Today's love scene, with its orchestrated savoir-faire, is just so dull and suffocating.

And about the men – I know some might bristle if I make this a gender thing, and maybe it's not. But from my point of view, all I see is women around me juggling everything, and their only problem is some mediocre guy who's drowning in a teaspoon of water. These guys, they can be whatever, but why do we lose ourselves trying to catch their eye? I wish women would focus on what they love with the same passion men do their hobbies – be it vinyls, coffee, climbing, whatever. Maybe we should multitask less and to start hyper focusing at crafts that take us ages to master or enough time to not lose ourselves anywhere else.

But they're charming, I get it. They say the most absurd things, and we just nod and hope they'll kiss us before we snap out of our trance.

I hear you, not all men. There are some good ones. Like Sammy, the guy I was seeing before this trip. We had a couple of great dates. He talked a lot, but I loved that it was not me talking endlessly for once. He's tall, but he'd take smaller steps so I could keep up – cute, right? We could have been great friends, but he's too handsome for just that. Wouldn’t it be great if the story ended here? It would have been easier if it just fizzled out with the distance and time, but no. He had to tell me not to think about him when I’m in Japan, about how he has some type of limited capacity with love and more rules for his self-preservation that have nothing to do with me. Kill me, please. Do you feel my eye roll all the way from the other side of the world?

I was told that youth is for having fun, yet, we mostly only do fun in little sterile doses. We are dealing with people the same way with deal with our online orders, too lazy to go to the supermarket, too lazy to feel anything.

I’ve battled with the though of Sammy quite a lot because I also understand him and can’t be mad at him, you see. I couldn’t stop myself from telling him that we got to visit Park Hyatt, cosplayed as Bob Harris and Charlotte and how we saw Lost in Translation in a special screening in a cinema in Tokyo, I mean, how cool is that? I'm starting to forget what he looks like though, he's becoming a distant dream, but his words, “you're not intense, you're intelligent,” still echo. Would it have been better if we stayed friends? To keep talking about everything without the weight of responsibility? We're doomed, I tell you.

That’s why I needed the shrines, I walked right up to them and prayed, “Please strange spirits, release me from the though of this boy, I promise, if you release me once, you won’t have to do it twice”, then I put my palms together, clapped two times, bowed and clapped once more to seem as if I know what I’m doing.

I've probably worn you out with all this, but it's just the start. I'm going to try practicing what I preach – less talk about lovers, more about the real, the beautiful and the ugly. How I’m making peace with the fact that maybe some things - like movies, and maybe even people, ourselves - are meant to be revisited, re-understood, seen in a new light. Our trip to Hiroshima, the tears I shed, the bullet train, the news from our friends. We're all changing, C, just like the times.

I miss you and love you.

G

p.s.: You know, I had this notion that I'd be done with 'Lost In Translation' after catching it in a cinema in Shinjuku. All three of us walked out of there needing a drink. It felt like the movie had hit its high point for us . But, now I think I could go for another round, especially with you. Maybe we'll just watch the karaoke scene or that moment in bed, just to hear that line, "You're not hopeless."

There are quite a few important things I was puzzled with as a little person growing up. Did Jesus Christ talk with the twelve gods of Olympus and take over as the one God? Does that mean the twelve gods have retired? Where in the sky does he live? How can I make sure I never cross the Bermuda Triangle nor find myself in quicksand?

Equally intriguing was the behaviour of adults around me. I found some of them alluring while others seemed like a fraud. My father, though, a mystery: a complicated man.

A friend asked me to write about growing up in the nineties, but looking back, I feel there’s not much significance to it. For the majority of my lifetime, I experienced what we'd call a stereotypical family. Adults going to work, coming back, having dinner, meeting with friends, spending weekend nights at the bouzoukia, parking the kids with the grandparents during the summer holidays, buying a couple of cars, and owning at least one proper family house. The plethora of money during that era made this lifestyle very much the norm. People had both the time and the mindset to focus on the mundane

I feel both lucky and guilty for having had a good life due to a financial bubble. The days before doomsday were quite beautiful. During the summer of 2004, I was bedridden with mono while watching the Olympics; apparently, I had kissed someone I shouldn’t have. For my fifteen-year-old self, making out with a boy and watching Greece win the Eurocup felt like flying too close to the sun. The 2008 crisis brought about the 'money-police' rhetoric and media messages drumming in the notion that 'we all ate the money together.' “I was young; I didn’t know,” I'll tell my cousin in Australia when she insists that all Greeks are to blame for their demise. The kids didn’t know, truly. However, looking back, most of it began to make sense.

The man who reached Athens in the Spring of 1972 was my father. The need to make ends meet prevented him from getting involved in the resistance against the junta. Instead, he operated with a free-spirited, 'home-is-everywhere' mindset. At the age of sixteen, he left Greece for Australia, alone, with scarcely any farewells or concerns from his parents. In rural Greece, children were seen as labor hands; the more you had, the better your chances of survival. However, during his teenage years, he was quite the rebel. The village was too confining for his character, and his family thought it best to send him away. He often says that this never bothered him; it was simply how people behaved at the time. He felt he had no choice but to look forward.

Like his older siblings, Australia could have been his opportunity to build a good life. Alas, accepting a stable life requires a certain mental state, and he struggled to find peace with what most considered 'normal'. Instead, he delved into gambling and the underworld that came with it. He made money, though not through conventional means, and ended up getting a beautiful Polish girl pregnant. He didn’t want to be a father, and while no one pressured him to take an active role, he still distanced himself from the whole situation. That his son is now a part of our lives feels nothing short of a miracle, deserving its own story.

After escaping from the land down under, he spent his days selling jewellery and goods on Pandrosou Street. It's that quaint street filled with shops next to Monastiraki, sitting in the shadow of the Acropolis. It was the most popular tourist marketplace in the 70s and 80s, though its allure faded in the following years. My father and his fellow sellers could earn up to seven thousand drachmas a day, a tidy sum back then. Working six months out of the year, they'd spend their free time travelling to South America, hitchhiking across Europe, or wintering in a Northern European home with a foreign woman they'd met under the Greek sun. Some would return for the following season, while others settled in distant lands, having discovered better opportunities. My dad returned for several more summers, meeting others like himself. Men who grew up with similar hardships, determined never to experience them again. These were men who never pledged allegiance to any system, politician, or ideology; they simply looked ahead, doing what was best for themselves and their loved ones.

In the time between, he spent his days in London, at a girl's house. He said he loved her a lot, but left for a reason he can't recall. There's a photo of him with long hair, sitting at a podium, addressing a young crowd in Hyde Park. I've asked him several times about the subject of that speech. “I don’t know… some hippie nonsense! Freedom, democracy, all that,” he'd say. He often followed up with stories, likely a blend of fiction and reality. He spoke of how easy it was to find fellow travelers. He reminisced about days in the south of France, dining at restaurants and dashing out before the bill came due, and about his time in Munich with a German girl who observed his comings and goings for almost four years

After the fall of the junta, he returned to Pandrossou, now in a revitalised Greece teeming with tourists. That summer, he and his peers encountered more renowned foreign visitors, rick folks, and beautiful blonde women seeking a Greek fling. They enjoyed showing foreigners a good time while they sold gold in US dollars, profited from foreign currency exchange, evaded taxes, and bribed policemen to look the other way. The money they earned was reinvested in various, likely illicit, ventures to guarantee even greater profits.

Whenever I press my father about these stories, I always inquire about the politicians' roles. To my surprise, he often says that, initially, they were largely in the dark, mostly “begging” for votes and campaign funds. Only in the late 1980s and 1990s did politicians begin to exploit the hand that fed them. In the early 1980s, many of these men posed as self-made, respectable figures in society. They wore fine clothes, lived in elegant homes, and often married attractive young women. By making solid investments in real estate, funds, and improvement projects, they ensured a relatively stable future for their families.

You’d reckon this happened with us as well. To some extent, it did, but our journey was marked with ups and downs closely tied to my father's emotional state. There is this story circulating in the extended family circles that my grandmother cursed her son ‘to never be able to hold onto money in his life’ and while there might be nothing supernatural about it, the subconscious is quite powerful and one could easily tell that he didn’t do well with abundance. The first year he made his first million, he grappled with depression and irrational behaviour. He visited a shrink and after a few sessions, convinced himself that the therapist was crazier than him. That alone was enough to make him feel better. He considers this a pivotal moment. I want to believe it also explains why he decided to always spend what he was making the years that followed.

By the time I was born, it seemed he had left his old ways behind. I witnessed his highs, his lows, and the lukewarm moments in between. He was filled with nostalgia for the simpler days, the leaner years, and the time he spent in the village. He rejected the pretentious savoir-vivre of the nouveau riche, a stance that often embarrassed us and made those around him uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he could light up dinners and parties, only to become gloomy shortly afterward.

You might assume that abandoning their former habits meant that the men of his generation had shifted to legitimate endeavours. While some did transition, many merely became entangled with more influential players. 'The Crisis', as we Greeks refer to the 2009 government debt debacle, came as a shock to the nation. The average citizen, oblivious to the extent of the underlying corruption, clamoured for justice. The question on everyone's lips was, 'Where did the money go?' Subsequent investigations unearthed various major corruption schemes involving both Greeks and foreigners. Some of the individuals named in the now-public court testimonies were people with whom I had shared meals as a child. I would overhear my father in hushed conversations with friends: 'Have you heard about X? Were you aware of that?

When I asked how he felt about having worked with and been close to those individuals, he sighed, 'They didn't know when to stop, Georgie. No one can save them now.' By the time everything crumbled, he had already divorced, retired, and moved back to the village as he'd always wished. He had transferred his inheritance to his children, ensuring it was beyond the reach of banks. Once again, he found himself with nothing, free to wander, having sidestepped the dangers that ensnared some of his peers who had flown too close to the sun.

His retired life is equally chaotic. Some days, he steps into the shoes of a traditional grandfather: farming the lands, tending to animals, cultivating a garden, and distancing himself from modern life while keeping only a handful of friends near. When months pass and he realises that he’s not dead yet he’ll yearn for company, conversations about politics, a good shave and the buzz of Athens.

I might have tricked you that I was always able to experience my father as a character from a book. However, this perspective only emerged recently, after years of grappling to understand him, our relationship, and its finite possibilities. His deep-seated fears and anxieties demanded much from his children. I spent my teenage years trying to be close to him and when he was up for it it was a lot of fun, we would talk about boys and politics and laugh at everyone around us. Yet, for the most part, our shared memories are ones I've only ever discussed with my therapist and close friends. We jest amongst ourselves that our tight-knit bond stems from our parallel tales of dysfunctional families. We've dissected our fathers' manipulative tactics, their pettiness, and the gamut of emotional to physical violence. Such narratives aren't meant for those with 'standard' parental backgrounds; their gazes would cloud with fear, and understanding would remain elusive. It took me years to connect with those who had relatively joyous childhoods. Only after accepting that such upbringings exist was I able to bond. But make no mistake, every family has its shadows; the distinction lies in how they maneuver through them, and to what extent they become ensnared.

Throughout this tumultuous journey, my circle of friends, predominantly women, remained my anchor. We would call each other crying at times, ‘will things ever change’ we’d ask. There's a certain pride, not arrogant but fiercely resilient, that I hold for our journey. We had decided early on that we’d make sure to overcome, to tame the beasts. For all of us it included the following steps: going no contact, falling back to acceptance and pain then putting a foot down, building our own life, speaking back at them and hanging up the phone when necessary, with no remorse or guilt. When we realised nothing will change for us until we do. For those of us who kept those paternal ties, it’s been anything but straightforward. But for most of us the storm has passed, and we stand, rooted, undaunted by what may come.

“You only still talk to him because you didn’t go through what we did” my step-brother whispered one balmy summer evening in 2017, a summer that had been filled already with its own share of difficulties. His words, though carrying the weight of our shared history, were tinged with bitterness, the kind that only stems from a place of deep-seated hurt. The temptation to measure pain, to claim the heaviest burden, it’s a peculiar side effect of fractured homes. After all, what was he truly trying to convey? That I was spared? Perhaps. But more than that, it echoed a more profound pain, a need to be acknowledged. I explained to him what I keep saying to everyone who asks. In the grand tapestry of existence, there’s a moment, a poignant frame, where you see the ones you once held dear cross the river of eternity. Coins in hand, their silhouettes fading, and the realisation that life's grievances remain tethered to the shore. It’s a reckoning of sorts. And I aim to stand at that juncture, not with unhealed wounds or unresolved bitterness, but with understanding. To see him, not just as fragments - the adventurer, the wanderer, the melancholic spirit, the father figure, but as an entirety. Neither saint nor sinner, but an intricate interweaving of complexities. The thought comforted me, that when that boat sails, I'd have my peace, acknowledging that he journeyed through life with the best he knew, and perhaps, the best his courage allowed him.

Looking back, I've come to understand my father in layers, each one revealing more of his complexities. I’ve recognized that he offered what he could, and what he couldn’t, I've already mourned. This understanding has been instrumental in shaping me for the world beyond. I’m eternally grateful, because scared people try to scare you all the time in adult life - insecure bosses, immature boyfriends, older people who think age is a legitimate factor of intimidation. I remind myself that I was able to stand up to my fathers angry frown a child filled with guilt and the internal agony that he might burst at any minute and If I was able to do that I believe I’ll do more than fine in this life. They can turn their threats elsewhere and they better do it quick.

This summer, I see him as much as I can, in doses that my psyche can tolerate. Now at seventy-six, he's grown introspective, looking back at earlier years, questioning his past decisions. "Did I make mistakes when you were younger?" he'll often ponder. "That's water under the bridge," I'd assure him, knowing that revisiting the past won’t change much for us now. In an attempt to redirect, I might say, "I’m thinking of switching jobs, but it won't be remote. What do you think?" He'll muse, "It's a reputable company, that's good. We can come visit you." But then he’d pause, adding, “You've always been one to crave freedom. Don’t cage yourself.” In those moments, it feels like he's reflecting on his own life more than mine.

He watched a film on Patagonia. "I should go," he said, "before I die." He eyed me, a twinkle of mischief surfacing. "You should come. You know, if I don’t return, someone would need to bring back my body." I laughed, “Oh yes, of course!” We delved into the morbid and the whimsical by asking if he’s ever thought about his funeral plans. “Only a wooden cross, no marble please... cremate me perhaps, funerals are costly and I don’t want the church making any money out of me”. I nodded, expressing the hope that we might dance around this conversation for years to come, the end always a distant horizon.

p.s. Some more pics of simpler times

“What are you having?” asks the bartender.

“A beer! A local one if you have” says the Madrileño.

“A wine! Fruity but on the acid side please, if the grapes grew in volcanic soil I’d appreciate” says the Canario.

“What’s your name?” asks the Greek.

Dani, Pablo and myself wake up in the city of Kalamata on an early September morning of 2022. We exchange the usual morning glances, fight for bathroom time, complain about who snored, who slept or didn’t sleep well, ramble on which of our Bumble matches replied and whether we’ll have enough time for breakfast before we need to set sail for a trip to the past.

We are not setting sail per se but setting sail has the right emotional weight here so I’ll stick with it. To the past I’ll add, because I was 33 years old then and the last time I had made that trip was when I was probably no older than 12. To the past, because we are going to the side of Greece that birthed and fostered Leonidas, Byzantine jewels and the relationship of Kazantzakis and Zorbas.

The boys were happy because it’s an extremely rocky land, boulders to climb or dream of climbing. “You guys are sick” I repeat multiple times per day in every sight of a rock and the excited claim “Look at that! Climbable!”

First stop is the small beach of Kytries. The water here provides a certain level of enhanced buoyancy and we wanted to see how it feels to be the woman who floated for six hours near the Barcelona coast, found in perfect condition in the middle of the night. We concluded that it was probably the boobs that helped her stay afloat for that long and no man would ever have a good fortune like that.

After getting a good sun roast and two freddo espressos each in our bellies - Greece’s modern gift to civilisation, we decide that the best course of action is visiting yet another beach near Kardamyli where the home of Patrick Leigh Fermor was for many years. The beach is called Foneas, meaning “the killer” and is hidden in one of the steep turns right outside the village. It’s almost six in the afternoon so the sun is gentler. The same way it’s gentler in September, with fewer people bathing under it. The boys climb the beach rocks while locals stare, puzzled. I pretend I don’t know them… “these foreigners…crazy people” I mumble.

We reach Aeropoli at night, starving. I get excited at the sight of the almost unwelcoming stone houses. Aeropoli is one of those towns where time paused at its peak time of beauty. I remember that if we walk a little and follow the buzz we’ll end up to a plaza with more stone houses and bougainvilleas, jasmines and all sorts of greenery appropriate to a Mediterranean little town. It seems to thrive without any intervention, putting our efforts to re-create such scenery in our city balconies to absolute shame.

Finding a place to eat was tricky given it was dinner time for everyone but I was certain there is always space. There was no way we wouldn’t find it. Greek taverna owners and waiters feel extremely bad when they don’t have a corner to offer you. They’ll ask their bosses, they’ll put you in the kitchen, get one more table outside illegally, winking at you, agreeing that if anyone asks anything we will figure it out. It’s very few times they’ll give up. Closing hours, peak tourist seasons, when despair from overwork has overtaken them, maybe. They feel it’s their task for you to be fed and eat “their” food because who knows in what situation you might find yourself or at what sketchy less tasty place you walk in.

We find our table. Water, bread and olive oil is placed in front of us as a mandatory start before any questions are asked. A sweaty waiter comes, letting a big sigh, leaning in, putting his best face and starting with a “Hello! How are we doing tonight?”. I reply with “Kalispera” so he knows I’m Greek in case he’d like to speak it and although pleased, he declares that he will continue in English so our guests understand - I had little doubt. He starts listing every food item on the menu like a radio announcement, an overwhelming list.

“Patates!” shouts D and the waiter smiles listening to a foreigner speaking Greek.

“Mia?” he asks, gesturing his finger to make sure they know that “mia” means one.

We nod happily, order some more classics and find that the waiter already knows what “vegan” means and he enthusiastically offers lent dishes to P. The waiter leaves and I take the opportunity to stress how in Greece we don’t have to tag options as vegan because we don’t put meat in everything and lent is still very much important and part of the food culture and the boys roll eyes. “Yes yes, we know…”.

My lecture on Greek culinary history stretches to history about the place, the architecture, why is this town important and all sorts of legends that might not be very accurate but add to the flare and make for a great story. I realise that I sound like a snob, trying way too hard to make my friends feel how I want them to feel, knowing that although charisma and great storytelling helps, most times your context needs to align with the listeners preferences and the preferences of my friends at the time have nothing to do with war, independence, sacrifice for land and culture and that’s fine. Their disinterest helps me relax a bit as I get disproportionally passionate about such matters. What’s more noteworthy is how I’m considered a proud, history obsessed Greek by my foreign friends and at the same time a foreign-lover, globalist by my compatriot ones.

“You sound Spanish!” my greek family in Australia will tell me on our annual calls in case I already don’t have enough guilt for abandoning our country.

I understand now that this disconnect is only a result of my way of communicating which often demands from the other to see the different way as if believing in something very strongly might end up strangulating their thoughts and perceptions of the world.

“Everyone speaks Greek right?” my kid nephew asked once and I had to explain about the Babel state humanity lives and how it make things a bit difficult but also so much more beautiful. “What are you saying to the little one?? The greek language is the best” his grandma shouts from the kitchen. I sigh and pretend I didn’t hear that except when I have enough energy or piled up anger, I’ll start a debate until the end with anyone mouthing such ridiculous claims.

Some call this being a contrarian and although I would love to be one I don’t have the courage to insist on contrarian beliefs with such aggressiveness. I’ll start with “I understand where you’re coming from but what would you say if….” whereas I wish I was more trusting on people to tap into their own capacity for self-questioning. Even better, I hope I’ll have less of a need to crack open ones head and force them into different ways of thinking. It’s alienating and none of my friends should go through doubting their own thinking so much as I do with mine. In any case, this part of myself is still fermenting. I doubt I’ll ever be zero combative in conversation but highly considering being mindful about what I’m so passionate about in the first place. I always ask, what am I really angry about here?

In case you forgot, we are still in our first night at Aeropoli. While enjoying the feeling of a day well spent, our eyes fall into a group of people in their early twenties. It’s a table of six, four boys and two girls, all extremely beautiful, radiating. We comment on the odds of finding so much beauty stemming from youth in one place. Their beauty is filling us with a sense of admiration and sadness. Yes, we are still young but what we’re seeing is the exact definition of the beauty of youth. What Greeks and Romans had in mind when drawing nymphs and sculpting statues. We know that our lamenting for lost youth is a universal experience and we remind ourselves that probably a bunch of middle aged folks in another table are watching us, thinking, “If only I were thirty again, I don’t need to be less than thirty - too innocent, just thirty would do. ”

The next day we get caught up in heavy rain which felt alleviative. We buy cheap masks from the local kiosk, bathe alone at the port of Oitylo. We see many of the modern Mediterranean invaders, the silvery pufferfish. We talk about the migrating fish species sneaking their way to the Suez Canal, global warming, the enemies of humanity. What are we going to do? Watching the sunset over the Messenian gulf for starters, swimming until it’s too dark and we can’t see the poisonous pufferfish any more.

As much as I’m enjoying this, even more when I see my friends happy, what I’m hankering for is seeing the town of Monemvasia, located on a tied island off the east coast of the Peloponnese.

I asked chatGPT to describe Monemvasia the way different writers I admire would, it kind of failed. I prompted it “yeah, can you do it more poetically”. It failed again. I wanted something more mystical, something more soul wrecking, something dark to align with the idea we have about the Byzantine times. Finally, I type, “what if Edgar Allan Poe visited Monemvasia. What would he write about the city?”

Amidst the craggy cliffs and tempestuous waves, there stands a city forgotten by time, a ghostly apparition of a bygone era, Monemvasia. Its ancient walls, cloaked in mist, loom like the shadow of death over the desolate streets below, where the only sound is the mournful cry of the seagull. Here, in this city of the dead, one can feel the chill of despair that clings to every stone, the melancholy that lingers in the air like a haunting melody. The memories of the past, so vivid and alive, seem to have seeped into the very fabric of the city, leaving behind a pallor of sorrow and loss that permeates everything. And yet, amidst the ruins and the decay, there is a strange and terrible beauty, a sense of awe-inspiring grandeur that can only be found in the darkest of places. Monemvasia, the city of the dead, may be a place of sorrow, but it is also a place of wonder, a place where the soul can find refuge from the sorrows of the world and be at one with the shadows.

Dear reader, the description is quite accurate, emotionally wise at least. The machine of “if” and “elses” vomited a spirited passage for Monemvasia, that old city on top of what people know as Monemvasia today. The lower part of the city, the one next to the sea, is very much alive. The past is ricking up in its’ walls but the tourist shops, the lively bars and the taverns keep it somehow less ghostly during the extended summer months. The old city however, the one found at the top of a rock, requiring a steep walk round and round not for the faint of heart, nor the ones afraid of heights, is very close to what Edgar Allan Poe would have written for Monemvasia if he had visited.

One must see that place both day and night. If you have to choose go during the night, right during the sunset, grab a sleeping bag and sleep amongst the ruins. Under a full moon if you prefer a lot of light, under a new moon if star gazing is your thing.

Before I deduce Monemvasia to a poetic, mystical place, I tried writing something more historic like. Since I’m quite emotional about the place I struggle to glue sentences together without sounding like Wikipedia or bore you to death so I simplified things in my mind with the following keywords:

Midieval-fortress, old church of the 12th century, Malvasia wine, Hagia Sophia of Monemvasia, public baths, the view of the Myrtoan sea, ships coming in, the light of the moon, the feeling that you are between two worlds, venetian ships going to the west, pirates trying but not daring, the jewel of the Byzantine empire, old olive tree, Romans, Franks and Arabs.

During our nights there we spent our time in that place and all I could think of, is what would a local woman of the 12th century say, seeing me taking photographs playing with the shadows of the ruins at their house, making baroque hands with my reflection. How amazing it is to have a testament of the past, the feeling that you are looking at the same view as them, touching the same stones that had their original Malvasia wine spilled on them during a feast. That if a ghost appears before you, you will tell them to run away because the Franks are about to sack the city and by the way, we call you “Byzantines” now.

What I strive for while being at this place is to lather up my insides with the idea that there is a repeating cycle we all abide to. Our preoccupation with the now in the grand scheme of things is what should keep us going. I enter the 12th century church knowing that people did the same gesture a thousand years ago and they have no idea how long any of this will last, no idea that this will be a museum piece for fools like me. This thought transforms to immense respect for those people of the past, who lived their lives day in and out, committed mandatory daily acts of trying to live an honest and beautiful life, not knowing that the future will always look back at them and be grateful.

I always look at old portraits and art and I remind myself that whatever worry that person had at the time doesn’t matter, they are dead now, everyone around them is dead now. What’s left is a testament, art, fiction, music, science, a legacy, everything for the collective to admire. I’d like for us belonging to the current collective to understand that simply and clearly. Not because we need to make art and we need to leave a legacy - but please do that if you want, but because it’s exactly through life lived that legacy is made. The way you talk to your family, your friends, the people around you, the art you make at your room alone, the way you live your life as courageously as possible is what adds up to all the little things and makes a single piece of the world exist, until the world explodes and there’s no one to remember. One more reason to do it anyway. When people say “I want to write or sing or try for this or that but I’m afraid” “What are you afraid of?” I ask with a rhetoric tone.

Our last night at the old city of Monemvasia, I had brought my mind back to the present. We were sitting on top of ruins with my friends, discussing our plans to bring our next love of our lives here one day. How they should see what we are seeing and how great it would be to share it with them. Despite our future yearnings, we know that what we have here now is a blessing on its own and that when we do bring our future partners up here most probably our minds will wander at the time that once it was us. We will be reminded on how P kept “Not Dark yet” on repeat and the moon was reflecting at the vast sea in front of us. How we felt immensely content but also worried about what comes next, how much there’s more to see in this world, how much more the world will change during our lifetime.

The day that followed found us taking a last dip at the water, teaching P how to dive head first and struggle with the idea that there are people in this world who don’t know how to swim. We hurried to get on our way to Sparta for a photo-op with the statue of Leonidas, followed by another rocky uphill and downhill hike to see the castle and village of Mystras. At the top of Mystras, we find sitting amongst the ruined town, the Pantanassa Monastery. Still very much alive, with nuns dressed in black, sweeping the floor, watering their plants and feeding a myriam of cats, we enter it humbly with our touristy outlook, trying not to disturb on our way to the main church. One of the nuns is greeting every passerby, gesturing with her hands “Don’t be afraid!” and come in closer. She asks where we’re from. I explain that I’m Greek but those with me are Spaniards. She smiles and excitingly explain that the monastery holds very close relationships with their sisters in a monastery in Salamanca and Malaga and how they have visited one another in the past. She’s thrilled to show us around.

As much as we want to stay some more, staring at the view to the green valley in front of us, the sun has only a few hours to live for the day and we need to cross the mountain of Taygetos to get back to the city of Kalamata. Crossing it during daylight is a must and although its roads used to make me extremely sick when I was a kid, it’s a sight one can’t miss, especially nature lovers and religious climbers. Taygetos doesn’t disappoint and I’m glad to find out that curves don’t make me so sick anymore, better cars I guess, smoother driving, feeling somehow safer.

With this last mountain path, our trip is ending and each of us goes back to whatever business they had at the time. Retrospectively, I’m grateful for most of our decisions. Travelling in September, renting our own car, not having a schedule, only organising in advance the places we would sleep and above all, not hurrying to see absolutely everything. The type of trips you don’t return tired from but rather well rested, well fed, content, inspired.

Later that year, we found ourselves in a bodega on the island of Lanzarote. The sommelier assigned to guide us is an Italian woman who fell in love with the island and its wines and decided to stay. While we were trying out the Malvasia Volcanica variety I wanted to tell the story of the name of this grape and how some months ago we were at the town that birthed its trade. Fearing that I will sound like a snob once more, I kept quiet. I was content with the fact that this grape, like others, has found itself in all parts of the world and although I didn’t get to drink the Malvasia that was being sold at the port of Monemvasia, here I am, on another ocean, a 21st century Greek looking happily at what the Malvasia variety has become and feeling lucky existing amongst people making great things with it. Perhaps, I was already quite drunk.

P.S.: In this story, I’ve left out lots of beautiful sights and experiences, circumstances and lucky encounters. It was the general feeling I wanted to outline so I don’t forget. An exercise to remember why old things have such a chokehold on me and why this was important to me at the time. I haven’t done neither the place nor our trip justice but if you ever wish to take a similar route dear reader, let me know.

“If you kiss me, it’d be like kissing a dead body” he said to my flushed face in a crowded Madrid bar. My stomach twitched, my eye held a tear with all its might, my face motionless as to not show the startle of hearing anyone daring to speak like that. Some mumbling that explained his brokenness followed and I remember excusing myself to the bathroom.

I was really tired. The night before, in a spontaneous act of courage and a dropped guard, the dead body had come alive. He had looked at me with eyes of admiration, mapped all my face features with his hand and spoke of words that ringed to my ears as confirmation that my feelings were reciprocal. There was love, terror, guilt and happiness all at the same time in his eyes looking straight at me. When we parted, I had gone up to my room at four in the morning feeling blurred, confused, spellbound. My sense of fear that this might mean something that I’m not prepared to offer was repressed by a touch of my hand in my face and my mind repeating “Don’t think too much, tomorrow will tell”.

Tomorrow was a Friday and Women’s day on some year long before the modern plague. After collecting myself in the bathroom, I went back up at the bar with a sense that maybe I had imagined this. I remember going back to him and asking whether he is serious or perhaps words never left my mouth and I just looked at him with enquiring eyes. Then came the next phrase to haunt me that year “Why are you insisting so much on me, especially on women’s day?”. I remember shouting an “As If!” in my head, ready to explode with words, what a terrible thing to say that was. If nothing else, especially on women’s day, I’m asking for what I want and what I wanted was him.

I didn’t say any of this. I was dazed and this conversation felt too surrealistic. I just wanted to go home, wash away the resentment, cry gallons of tears and sleep.

The months that followed wreaked havoc in my emotional state. Refusing to follow suit on this melodramatic self repent of his and not being able to comprehend that a person that looked at me like that does’t want to see me again, I embarked on self torment of intellectualising, counting every word and thought. Self-directed commands “just move on” were interchanged with hopes of “but maybe he needs time”.

It rained a lot that spring, so much that Madrid flora sprouted like never before, the following autumn saw the streets with tons of heavy leaves hiding the pavements beneath them as a testament. I used to tell myself that the weather matching my inner world was a gift. You can always indulge in sadness when rain is heavy. You can better soothe yourself when the wind is loud enough to stop you from hearing your thoughts and light enough to caress your hair and skin. Sad feelings under a hot sun feel excruciating in a sense.

As a way to pacify my need to speak with him and the fear that this is the end of our very short story, I would keep his thought as a ghost and a promise. I would collect things from my travels that I thought he should see, books that I though he would like. Vintage wrapped chocolates from Lisbon. Oregano from the mountain near my home city. The outstanding 2016 Assyrtiko de Mylos of Haritimos Hatzidakis, one of Greece’s best winemaker who took his own life right at the beginning of the next year’s harvest. Thyme and pine honey. Beach rocks from the Aegean packed with its water in a small jar. Music books from old bookshops in London.

I used to say to myself that I would give them to him if he decided to see me. I knew that was very unlikely but it was a way to keep the wheel of eros going.

Knowing what “a Greek bearing gifts” might mean he kept avoiding contact even when it was clear that an attempt for his attention would not be made. Please just take all of this and listen to how I feel and let me have my peace was all I wanted at this point. The gifts kept piling up like ghosts in an abandoned room. I would look at them months later trying to remember what was I thinking. I gave the oregano to friends, I stored the wine to age, I gifted the books to folks who actually wanted them. The rocks are yet to be returned back at the Aegean sea, hiding somewhere in a drawer.

By the time I had started accepting defeat and entered a prolonged villain arc, rumours from common friends reached my ears. The dead body is risen, seen partnering with someone else. I was genuinely happy for him, if he’s in love again at least he’s ok, at least he’s doing better. Nonetheless, the news just sunk me deeper into self torment and the terrible and very unnecessary compare and contrast battle had started. I was not just defeated, I was defeated by someone else. Were they better, more intelligent, more beautiful? You know the drill ladies and gents. Unhelpful game. In the end, it is only our self love that is put to the test. The thought that people can be measured up to each other and thus our self values defined is only a reality constructed by our inability to paint our own picture of ourselves. One needs to trust its own frame. To let torment bent it but not break it. Once you’ve come home to yourself you know that other’s peoples choices have very little to do with you. Alas, at that time it felt quite heavy.

I learned tons when exploring the depth of eros. My capacity to feel and love was actually huge - it was just directed at the wrong person, misplaced ambition. I read more and better. I practiced deep listening. I spent hours with headphones, frequenting ambience, Handel and Gregorian hymns, My bloody valentine guitars overflowing a room, sinking and sinking to notes, spending all the time I need to really listen. I went from looking someone in the mirror to looking at myself. I measured and appreciated all the good things I have. This stronger sense of self. The idea that you can have everything but without love for yourself or others you are lost. Moreover, the greatest gift of all, the biggest return of investment, was the ability to connect and empathise with more people, especially the ones dear to me.

We joke with my friends that my experience was a nemesis resulting from the hubris committed throughout my life. I never quite understood infatuation. There were so many more important issues and troublesome feelings. There was only cause and effect in my world, self control, effort resulting in achievable goals. I was very close to all my friends going through similar feelings in the past. However, I had not fully understood why P would spend a whole summer in his basement playing the guitar and watching Lost in Translation because a Greek Erasmus student had loved him but not fully. I didn’t get why A felt that falling from the sixth floor would result in the emotional pain caused by a beautiful Turkish girl, to fall silent.I didn’t get the exaggeration. The music and poetry written. It was all just too dramatic for me. Saved for the word of fiction.

I also empathised more with the people who had loved me in my past lukewarm state. I understood why they went to extra lengths and why this felt bothersome to me. I didn’t like being a mere token, a projection. I felt they didn’t really see me but instead picked all the potentialities and possibilities of me and them. A selfish way to love. I realised I had done the same to him. I tried not to feel too guilty about it though, in the end, both roles - the enamoured and their object of desire - require honesty, courage, responsibility and perhaps his lack of those made my path just a bit harder.

Ironically, I knew all along that I had consciously chosen this. For years I was lamenting that I hadn’t really fallen in love, with the verb fall emphasised here. The moment I realised the encounter with this man felt weirdly mystical I remember being wide awake deciding to engage with his idea, unaware of course of the level of engagement but still being certain of the possibility of transformation.

Two years later, early December, I find myself in Toronto at the burial of my uncle who had died suddenly, leaving my mother in deep sadness. The events of those days had put my mind in an alertness, with the sharp understanding of what matters, with a strong sense that time is slow but also very fast. After snow had covered his grave and we had gone through all the tedious bureaucratic things one has to go through, the inspection of his belongings, handwritten notes, diaries, clothes and personal items, I saw my mother allowing pain visit her with all the dreaded unanswered questions and calculated stages of grief. I felt the incapacity of doing anything of real value to her choke me up and tried to fight my urge to fix this as if it’s small wound from a cut. I knew that there is only so much one can do for the other. Be there for them while the enter the mouth of the dragon alone, wait for them cheering on the exit. Being patient during the time in between.

A death of a person is quite a tragic event for the ones around them. In no way a heartbreak is compared to the actual death of someone. It does however feel like you need to bury that person under the snow for some time, otherwise, you end up believing that maybe they are lost at sea as my friend C says, alive, with the possibility of coming back to you.

My catharsis arrived late but clear. Until then, I learned to put one foot in front of the other, let the days take its course, going against effort. One day, I was happy again, free from the chuckles of infatuation, with a better sense of the world. To this day, when asked, I advise people around me to find themselves seeking rejection more often. Romantic, professional or otherwise. Find it, then use it to understand yourself better, to put the correct meaning to the terms that play an important part to our lives. Love shouldn’t torment, work should at some degree feel good, relationships with others should feel somehow reciprocal. Let the dark night of the soul happen, trust in your ability to cross to the other side. I’m sure there are easier ways to build one’s life but that is what has worked for me. I might say all this though from the safety of the crossed dangerous highway. I assure you though, no one died from heartbreak or rejection except I guess the teenagers living at the age when The Sorrows of Young Werther by Goethe dropped - terrible trend. I know my life is still young and probably I’ll meet once more with different types of pain, ache and rejection in the future. I hope they find me more self aware, I hope I have the ability to sit through the important ones and brush through the others. I hope to always be able to recognise which is which.

p.s: Immense gratitude for all my friends who sat through this story many times, nodding through waiting for me to wake up. We’re all walking each other home.

The responses to my last post made me realise once more the limitation of language, especially for the inexperienced writer.

Last Sunday, I published a feverish writing inspired by reading three pages of the Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. I read this one some years ago but this new edition caught my eye and reminded me how great he writes.

The next day I woke up to:

• a worried message with a link TO THE BIBLE and several bullet points around how to navigate love

• words of encouragement

• laughs - oh no! not another newsletter

• some getting the dramatisation, some not.

Ludwig Wittgenstein was kind of right, maybe.

Sometimes I’ll speak a language only people in a constructed context will understand. Others will fit it the best they can in their own understanding of the world. Either way, it doesn’t really matter for the purposes of this substack. Take what you need dear reader.

I am interested in writing more about how words make us feel though. What we choose to hear when someone tells us something. How we read the tone, how we get triggered or not.

I’m also intrigued by how we have a hard time expressing what we really feel and how we end up messing up our conversations because of it.

After my first years living abroad I would often get into heated discussions with my siblings. “Why are you away?” “Are you never coming back?” “What happens if we need you and you are not here?”.

For years I would get asked these ridiculous questions and answer in the same ridiculous way, answering them literally, trying to be understood in the intellectual way. Eventually, when I acknowledged that people don’t really know what they feel at times and no longer felt guilty, I would listen to the underlying words:

“We miss you, we worry about you, we are afraid that something happens to you and we are not there”

Some days, I even had the energy to say “Ok, what do you really want to tell me?”. It helped us a lot and although we have tons of work to do it’s always interesting to see how previously unresolved things are now untangled. All because we were finally more capable of bearing the weight of the underlying feeling. Not being afraid of it.

Lastly, I’d like to write about the way we create languages within the systems we belong. How much it hurts when we can’t use the same words or a way of speaking we used with someone we loved and is no longer part of our lives. Inside jokes, inside meaning of words.

Taking family systems for example - won’t talk about romantic love this time.

The way each member speaks to each other can tell you a lot about their dynamic.

“My second son is the smart one but my oldest son is the one that keeps everyone together” will repeat the parent, unaware (or aware/subconsciously aware) of establishing the roles of the family system. The careers and path of each son are now being shaped. One or both sons will eventually start experiencing some sort of mental disorder (light or severe) which will probably be their only hope to get in touch with their true selves. Some manage to embark on this process, some go midway, some eventually get out on the other side. The effort it takes could probably power up Earth for a hundred years.

Adler however says that we choose to use this as an excuse to not be our true selves, avoid real life, avoid truth. Either way, in my experience, a system’s force is just too powerful. Healing oneself can be difficult without recognising that one is interconnected with a larger system, understanding one's fundamental role in it and acknowledging how that role keeps showing up in all aspects of one's life.

Anyway, enough with the wobbly stuff.

Came Monday night and I was so ready to put the inside torment I’ve unleashed with my decision to make my writing visible. Succession’s Season 4 was on. It’s time to see if the Roy siblings are going to get some help after all and that’s why we won’t need more seasons. What would Succession look like if the Roy’s family system wasn’t toxic AF anymore?

If you haven’t seen Succession here’s my lazy attempt to a summary:

A tragedy/comedy/parody of a narcissistic media mogul who deals with the power game attempts of his kids to gain his love and approval while they all get driven around by chauffeurs, board jets and do ridiculously expensive people things. All dressed in über classy, to the point, wardrobe. They exchange insanely good and ultra fast speed dialogue that is both entertaining and deceiving - you don’t have time to think about what’s really going on.

Logan Roy, grew up poor, developed into a filthy rich person, becoming kind of a sociopath along the way. His children, Connor, Kendall, Shiv and Roman run in circles, constantly vie for his approval, exchanging roles: the golden child, the scapegoat, the lost child.

There are no boundaries but there are a lot of secrets, rampant manipulation, emotional strangulation and abuse. Nothing is felt and nothing is said as it is. Decisions are made based on instinct, all in an effort to maintain the existing power dynamics within the family.

Ridiculous amounts of money make this even harder for the Roys, they have a billion - no pun intended - ways to soothe their anxiety. They are never pushed to really deal with their misfortune, not even when their relationships outside the family system fall apart. The family's wealth has given them the ability to live in a bubble, insulated from the consequences of their actions and avoid facing the uncomfortable truths about their lives.

A mega clear example of retaining the family system at all costs came with that first episode of Season 4. Spoilers ahead.

After three of the siblings decide to tell Logan to fuck off, there is a period where they are trying in their own silly ways to differentiate. They decide to build their own company - The Hundred - and I guess although still trying to prove something to daddy they are at least separated from him.

Well, not so fast. There’s an opportunity to jump back to the never ending fight by buying another media company that their father would love to get his hands on, just to piss him off or get back into his life actually. They tell some excuses to themselves and the youngest one, Roman, kind of tries and fails to resist.

They get a momentary win and satisfaction that they now *really* pissed their dad. Maybe he’ll now take them seriously.

Ha! It won’t last. Well, I guess we’ll see in the next episodes.

In the long run though, the kids won’t abandon their roles. When Logan dies, their family system will take another shape but will probably be very similar. Some of the four will become the new Logan or a milder version of them. The system will prevail. Unless they decide it’s not serving them any longer. That wouldn’t make a great show though.

There’s a lot of layers and depth to the different relationships of Succession but the core system is basically very familiar already to quite a lot of people.

With my friend DLo we jokingly say, “this or that family is like the Roys but without the cash.” Family systems theory helped me understand that most stories are not so unique. We are all just experiencing textbook material.

When we look at such a family system, the role of the other parent is also quite interesting. They might not be a clear narcissist themselves but their emotional immaturity is matching the other’s emotional immaturity. You’d hope that the kids have at least one of the parents to rely on. That’s sadly not usually the case. They will probably take on a victim role, pretend that they are better than the narcissistic parent but most probably fail to provide any support to their kids. They don’t know how. They are exceptions of course and different types of dynamics for these cases.

One of the most striking scenes for me in Succession is when Kendall after fucking up real big this time, tries in some way to talk to his mother Caroline. Trying to get some emotional support, trying to share a burden.

It’s so painful to see how hard it is for her to be there for him. How awkwardly she avoids him. She promises to keep talking over an egg the next morning. That never happens. Poor Kendall, really.

I urge you to find out the roles you play within your systems, see if they are serving your true self or the relationships around you. Your family system might not be as fucked as the Roys but it’s worth a shot for a chance in living a relatively honest, happy life.

Ok, now that I converted LunchPoems into a self help substack here comes the recommendations.

Series I loved as much as Succession for their ways they make you want to embark on explaining more psychological interpersonal stuff are the Industry (millennial edition drama), Mad Men and The Sopranos. Anything as good as those (or better) that I should see?

Finally, some readings if you need the real deal about the topics mentioned and not the lazy version of mine.

1. Thinking in systems by Donella H. Meadows & Diana Wright

2. The Courage to be disliked by Ichiro Kishimi & Fumitake Koga

3. The Art of loving by Erich Fromm.

4. Adult Children of emotional immature parents by Lindsay C. Gibson.

5. Bowen Theory's Secrets: Revealing the Hidden Life of Families by Michael E. Kerr.

6. Strangers to Ourselves: Discovering the Adaptive Unconscious by

   Timothy D. Wilson (highly recommend!)

7. Eros and Pathos: Shades of Love and Suffering by

   Aldo Carotenuto (also highly recommend!!)

8. Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion.

L came by the house with a birthday gift for a wine night at our place. A book1 she was already reading and wanted me to check. An act which is a gift itself. I want you to consider what I’m currently considering. This feels good for me and i feel it will be good for you. An act of love.

It made me happy, it’s a book I would never read. The books of this author talk about modern love and I told L and D that I don’t want to read things that are so relatable. They make me sad in a sense.

Reading is about enjoying good writing at this point of my life, escaping too. I’m currently going over Giovanni’s room by James Baldwin. It takes place in an era I’ll never live, it’s a story about a type of love I’ll never feel. Good and bad things happen to people that I’ll never be. It’s great writing that I can enjoy while being detached.

In any case, as much as I can’t read about modern love at this point, I will absolutely talk about it and have LOTS to say. It’s all we end up talking about with my single friends. We circle our arguments around the following questions. Is it the apps? Are people afraid, too comfortable? Are we just too ugly? Not lovable? Why are people not having sex anymore? Or are they having and we are not invited?

I don’t fucking know. I wish this generation thought much less. Weighted things less. Too many Greeks, not enough Romans.

I tell L that maybe we just don’t want to mess up love like our parents, how many of us experienced our parents separating in some ugly way and we swore to our god that we would not repeat this. We would choose better, we wouldn’t get married without really knowing the person, we wouldn’t have kids without reading all the parenting books, without being sure that we can raise them.

A fallacy. I’m glad I was born even if I do have to pay for therapy now. I guess my kids can do the same. There is no perfect parent anyway. You can be a bad parent and your kid might get to become a better person, you are a great parent and your kid just can’t imagine life without you.

Something will probably go south anyway.

Another one is rejection. Feeling ugly, feeling unworthy of attention from a possible mate. Feeling someone is out of your reach. Better than you. I have a good friend who is afraid to talk to women so to not be perceived like a creep. So yeah girls and boys, someone for sure wanted to come up and talk to you, romanticised you, imagined they had babies with you. Something just made them too afraid to go for it. You’ve done the same with someone too.

At some moment, when stars align, both will talk to each other, playlists will be created, hands will be held. I refuse to believe that it’s all doom and gloom.

But anyway, why is it important? Let’s get the whole retaining the species argument aside. Why is everyone craving love? If you are still asking this question, I feel bad for you.

People want to be loved. They want to belong. They want to have sex. They want to be validated. All proper things.

People also need mirrors. You can have a myriad of good friends, a big family and still the only thing that shakes your core will be that person with the flaky black hair, miniature statue and emo personality that for some reason you have convinced they are the only person that can give you what you want in life.

You have projected everything on to them and now they need to play by your script and if they don’t but still try to tease you with their presence, they will challenge your person in unimaginable ways. You will not be the same man or woman. Priceless god damn it. Scary too.

That scary that we can’t seem to get on with it? Maybe.

A psychiatrist we had at uni told me three things in our one and only session.

◦ You are lucky your family is fucked. That way you can move on with your life.

◦ Leave for another country where you don’t speak the language. That way you won’t care what people are talking about, you’ll take insults less seriously. You’ll take everything less seriously.

◦ Guilt will be your biggest enemy. Kill it in every corner.

I was shocked at her direct approach. Where is the analysis? why don’t we talk about all the ways my mother didn’t breastfeed me, why are you asking me to live without thinking so much?

We end the conversation with a couple of outstanding Canarian wines2 , we still have no answers and neither hope that the night will bring us closer to a possible mate. We look for food and end up to another wine place with a hummus option on the menu (ha! who would have thought). I point to D how most men here have moustaches so he shouldn’t feel bad about his recent attempt to one. We drink some more and there comes the point where I start feeling like I love the world and things are so simple and we just have to come closer to each other and everything will be fine.

I might have also tried to convince them to drive to the airport and go spent the rest of the night flying to Japan. The cray idea is followed by a five minute conversation about all the things we would do if we were there.

Japan is too far fetched so my second hope is for D and L to look at each other with different eyes after all the wine. They are both single, quite similar, both looking for love. There’s something missing though that neither can pin point.

I remind myself that I’m not aunty Sima from Indian Matchmaking and maybe my focus on others is an escape from resolving my own lack in love. Perhaps, I’d like to see others making it look easy.

If you reached until here you are probably thinking what the fuck am I talking about.

I don’t know. Not yet. Sometimes I have so many thoughts I feel the spoken word is not enough, I need the written word. I’d like to also express them in a meaningful way for the ones close to me to understand me.

I’ll be adding nothing of value to the the shit show of internet writing. That feels great. No one’s really looking anyway.

If you do decide to keep looking, there are some topics I hope to write about soon:

1. how I view honesty

2. the fact that no one really knows what they are doing

3. the sect of climbing

4. love stories

5. friendship

ps: When looking for pictures to bless this post I searched for “love” in my google photos library. Some suggestions from the AI machine:

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