This is the story of the old lady who was sitting in front of Alfa-Vita at New Year.
My first place in Athens was an apartment on the top floor of a classical Athenian polikatikía. It had four storeys, balconies on both sides, located in the vibrant yet calm area right behind the Hilton hotel. I was warmly welcomed by the owner, who told me they loved the house very much, as it had been owned by the family for quite some time. The atmosphere was warm and peaceful. “I’m sure you’ll feel at home here,” he said. I had a feeling, he was going to be right.
As I was discovering my new neighbourhood early the next morning, I passed some espresso bars and got myself a kouloúri. There was a pâtisserie with Christmas biscuits, melomakárona and kourabiédes displayed in the window. The French bakery next door happened to sell my favourite rye bread. And around the corner was a small Alfa-Vita supermarket for my daily basics. Nice fruits and vegetables, celery by the stalk, meat in large family sized portions, yoghurt, more yoghurt, tahini in any flavour you want and a plethora of feta brands. It was easy indeed to feel at home.
They were the last days of the year. People were preparing celebrations for Protohroniá. At Syntagma square, the stage was being prepared for two famous singers. In the homes, people were baking Vasilópita, King Cake, for New Year’s Day. And supermarkets offered to wrap pomegranates in translucent plastic closed with colourful ribbons. When you smash a pomegranate to the floor for good luck, you don’t want its red juice splatting all over the living room.
On one of these days, I passed a homeless lady sitting in front of my local Alfa-Vita. She looked like one of the beggars, but she could have been a fortune-teller too, a heap of shawls with her head popping out on top, her face wrinkled, her glance warm and radiant. I braced myself to deny her any money and wish her a good day. But I was wrong. She was just sitting there, not asking for anything.
As I looked at her, and she looked back at me with her eyes full of light and motherly care, she started chanting: “Kalispéra agapoúla mou, kalí hroniá, na íste páda kalá me igía kai agápi. Na perásete tis méres… My dear, happy New Year, that you may always be well with good health and love. That you may pass the days…” They were standard New Year’s wishes, and yet, to hear them from this woman, whom I had never met, who owned nothing but her shawls, on a dark winter night under the stars in Athens. As far as I was concerned, she could have been an angel straight from heaven. Her wishes came to me like prayers, rhythmic, without thinking, almost absent and yet sincere, as if her body was just a vessel for passing on messages from above.
Every time I passed her, the lady would tell me her wishes. She had seemed so poor, cold and wanting to me, but she was radiating love. As if she had become pure spirit. Who was she? Where did she go at night? How did she eat? I had no explanation, only feeling. And I felt that there is a spirit of pure love in the world and that she had become a gateway for me to touch it a little, to get a taste of what it feels like: no pain, no hunger, no cold, no envy, only endless forgiveness and the fulfilment of all longing for love, safety and peace.
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