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About Patras

Little factoid for ya—back in old Russia, prostitutes had yellow tickets, like some freakin badge of shame. Ain’t that a kick in the nuts? Surprised me when I heard it, still does. Reminds me of that line, “The world lives through them,”—damn right it does! They’re part of the chaos, the beauty, the muck of it all.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts pouring. I mean, like, monsoon-level rain. I’m sprinting down the street, dodging puddles and people. I’m soaked, and my figs are squished. I’m cursing under my breath, thinking, “This day can’t get any worse.” But then, I see this street performer on the corner of Kifisias and Agiou Georgiou. He’s playing the bouzouki, and it’s like magic. I stop, mesmerized. The rain doesn’t even matter anymore. I’m swaying, feeling the vibe. Vrilissia, man, it knows how to lift your spirits.

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