The orchestra of a rising sun

Six o'clock in the morning.

The cat is playing in the garden with a slightly dumbfounded cockroach. I can still hear the muffled sounds of bets in the secret Bengali casino from the neighbouring building. The air is standing still - under the influence of the heat it became dull and quiet. The street is slowly coming to life. Garbage collectors get up first, but they generally give Geraniou a wide berth. Maanan, who usually likes to sleep long, today is jumping all over his kiosk, singing something while receiving the goods. Mr. Lukas, Konstantinidis no one knows which, the owner of a fabric store, performs a ritual of weekly weathering off the ruined building. Old, wooden shutters groan painfully, awakening stray cats that slumber on the balconies. These are the first bars of the sleepy unrecognised orchestra of a rising sun.

Residents are slowly waking up. There is an echo of nocturnal joy in their dark eyes, a heavy melody from yesterday. The morning overture is complemented by the hawker's shouts that the onion costs 1 Euro, in addition to the clamour of police motorbikes patrolling the street (most of the time when nothing serious happens on it). When the "Curry Garden" opens, the whole street fills in the blink of an eye with the sounds of the Bengali telenovela. A passing group of Chinese tourists sounds like a string section, the existence of which the conductor forgot. A few more soloists: Ca, garama ca, Samosa, taja samosa, As-salamu alaykum, Geia sou, ti kaneis; Hi, hello, Kalimera and Boker tov.

The voice of the choir of foreign tourists comes from the Plaka with a quiet echo. Shutters of cameras that capture Acropolis tap a completely different rhythm.