What happened right after I had my coffee at the harbor?

I left the cafe to do some errands in town, but my thoughts were still tangled in the morning’s laden hush as I took my usual zig-zagged shortcuts across the side streets to reach the center of town. And at the first turn, I ran into Myrsini. And as soon as I saw her, I knew right away: this wasn’t a random run-in.

She wore the smile coupled with that not-so-innocent twinkle in her eye, and it was clear she orchestrated this ‘chance’ meeting. We all know each other’s schedules and habits. Knowing her, she decided today was the day to stage a casual ambush.

Myrsini, with her conspiratorial glint, still moves through life with the same bohemian zest she had when we met decades ago—gray curls pulled back, beads jangling, and a scarf tied loose, like she’s forever just returned from a protest, or a poetry reading, or both – still carrying the energy.

But then again, look who’s talking, with my fringy hairband and one dangling silver and turquoise earring. And the embroidered biker boots…seriously. 

We breathe the look without trying. It just comes out no matter what we wear or do. But the protests and the poetry readings? They were very real parts of us, back in the day, when we basked in alternating clouds of clarifying burning sage or dizzifying kush, marauding through our youth, devouring everything from street food to endless books.

Okay. Myrsini and I have the most ‘unique’ and unusual relationship. We are best friends and both weird – understanding one another perfectly.

Naturally, we ended up at “the nook”.

Another coffee. And a quick chat.

Okay, it wasn’t quick;

It was a long chat – yes, we lost track of time.

Neither Myri nor I are ever in any hurry to be anywhere else—age shows up in our laugh lines and silver hair, but we’re still those wild souls who refuse to let time herd us.

Or anything else herd us for that matter.

The nook? We go there for coffee. We refer to it as ‘the nook’. It is the tiny nook in a small alley – an old alley, with one end to the street, the other end at a brick wall – the ground still paved with old bricks – it’s always shady and a bit drafty even in the summer… always looks sooty or grimy, even though it is swept clean.

The nook is so small, one can easily miss it…It is actually a cave-like hollow with a low, domed ceiling along the alley wall – it must have been a storage space many decades ago, built in the back side of the run-down building that once housed a long-gone setup on its ‘front side’ that faces the street…

It is barely roomy enough to fit Ari, another old friend, the owner…his briki and moka pot, the handful of fresh croissants on the tray on his tiny counter (Siv is an amazing baker) – and there is a shelf on the stone wall with the cups next to the sink.

Outside, he has three bistro-style tables set against the worn brick and stone walls, which are plastered with graffiti. For a ‘grimy’ alley, the tables and the coffee paraphernalia are sparkling clean. But the nook isn’t there to serve as a cafe. It is simply an extension of Ari and Siv’s home. It is our street salon.

Myri (yes, that’s what we all called Myrsini for as long as I can remember) and I slipped into the middle table – sitting on two of the three quaint old bistro/cafe wooden mismatched chairs that were carefully hand-painted by Siv, Ari’s other half. The third chair was already taken. By Loulou – the sleepy shih tzu.

Siv and Ari have quite a story to tell. They met in England while at university.

Siv is from Copenhagen. And they ended up here. Ari’s family owned this building for generations – now it’s Ari’s. And the nook? It is their own little nook – open only to a tiny handful of friends stopping by.

They always have coffee and something from the kitchen ready for any of us – just as we do in our kitchens. We all consider the nook as our kitchen in town. It’s just for ‘us’.

We are a group of friends who are like family. For Ari and Siv, we are family, and the nook is an extension of their home.

We all randomly pop into each other’s places; it’s a Greek thing, family is family. Just like Myri, Siv and Ari always come over to my place. We all loiter in each other’s spaces. It’s therapy, it’s companionship, it’s family.

The building used to house Ari’s great-grandfather’s and then his grandfather’s business, – shipping. So that is why they are there every day, renovating the building themselves.

Ari and Siv collect rent from the two stores that occupy the front. Upstairs is a loft-style open floor that they eventually want to move into, but it requires tons of work and renovation to make it livable.

Usually, whenever Myri or I go there, we swap stories and ideas – endlessly – and the hours slip past unnoticed. Our conversations are always sprawling when we all sit down together.

But the nook is also where Myri and I go to have coffee in a place we call ‘our own’ – where we visit Ari and Siv, who are always in and out, happily leaving us often there, on our own with our coffee and our thoughts as they tend to their work.

It’s just our natural rhythm and ways. It’s a Greek thing – we are expected, we are a part of the scene, we are ‘included’ – no need to be asked, invited or called.

Myri and I both love to just sit at a table at the nook, with Ari, Siv or just Loulou…just sit…and just ‘be’ for a bit – with one of the best Greek coffees in town.

Weirdness Rules. We always give in to that urge to just sit there and ‘be’…even if we had made other plans.

You see, we are all good at losing track of time and feeling or sensing time lines.

Yes! Like what happened to me earlier with the ‘birds’ by the harbor. Myri gets those moments, too…So do Ari and Siv, believe it or not! Maybe because they are artists?

Being from the same ‘planet’ or ‘tribe’ of weird creatives, Myri, Ari, and Siv also understand what it means to lose oneself in our own labyrinth of thoughts.

I am not alone on that either. And we all know what it’s like to be still to savor the mystery of a moment.

Ah, but the weirdness doesn’t stop there…

Myri and I also both bear symptoms of the same writer’s syndrome – ‘literary empathy’.

Like me, she writes books and feels as if she very much becomes part of the book’s world. Or, perhaps it’s better explained in the opposite sense:

The book’s fictional world feels part of ours…it seems to resonate.

We both feel this at times and are convinced it’s ‘a thing’. Coining this literary empathy and defining it as a symptom of greater, stranger writer’s syndrome was only natural.

Because, take it from me, literary empathy is not necessarily an easy ‘thing’ for a writer to carry around. It’s baggage, you know?

The world spun around us yesterday. Siv made some coffee and brought them to the table – she asked us to watch Loulou and hang around until she comes back so we can chat. And so she ran off to the market to get some things. Ari was upstairs working on a window, so Myri and I had some time to chill and chat.

Myri and I, a cup of coffee, and some time? That’s always Trouble.

We always feel as if we were nineteen again and plotting to change the world (and probably still thinking we could). We talk about everything — and usually do – from religion to politics, family issues to local gossip, literature and art to binge-watching series and new recipes.

But yesterday? She wanted to talk about the name. You know, I told her about my new Substack.

She said to me, “Why name your journal la raconteuse? It’s French….Why not a name in Greek or in English? “

She really was asking me this question to convince me to name my journal, Muse – after the ancient Greek muses.

(It’s Greece. As a culture, we get directly involved in everyone’s life and decisions – another form of sharing without needing to be asked.

It’s Greece. We all have an opinion about everything. Way too many chiefs.)

And she had a point, being that I am Greek and write in English – why give my site a French name?

But ‘Muse’? No.

Muse doesn’t carry that airy, quirky, ‘I am being me‘ free-style of storytelling, culture blinging, or writing…It rings more of a classical tradition, to me.

I explained to her that Raconteuse has a certain nuance that ‘our’ go-to words for ‘storyteller’ in Greek or English don’t carry.

Some words carry a layered meaning—so rich and multi-faceted that you’d need whole phrases to get close in any other language. For example: wabi-sabi, panache, meraki. And, of course, raconteuse.

Raconteuse implies that the storyteller is a female and gifted at storytelling. The word raconteuse elevates the definition of ‘a storyteller’ a notch with the extra nuance in the meaning.

.And I’m going for the notch. The nuance of female and ‘gifted’? That is beautiful. I am going for it.

Speaking of words and stories…I’m off to do some more editing. Honestly, I keep feeling the need to edit the edited — constantly.

And I plan to experiment with bread dough…
Obviously, I must be having writing issues — I want to experiment with bread.- I want to make small rolls, like ciabatta, but softer and a little fluffier than traditional ciabatta rolls.
I always go to the dough when I hit a creative wall. Does this mean I am having writing issues now, though? I mean, yes, there are a few glitches – but I didn’t realize that they are getting to me. But wanting to tweak the ciabattas? Is that a sign?

I shouldn’t read too much into the fact that I head for the kitchen and work with dough when dealing with writing issues. It must be a coincidence that I want to do mini ciabattas right now. Right? Can’t be writer’s angst making me knead that dough?

Nah…I am a breadie…The Carb Queen.

I’m always baking bread.

So it’s no wonder I find myself kneading when I have a writing issue…Because I am always making bread.

But of all the breads to make, there is nothing more satisfying than making focaccia, eh? Jiggily, wiggily***, and bubbly dough? And focaccia can be such a bingey eat, right?

Coincidence (?) aside, it is therapeutic, though…You know, working with dough…

Making dough, the feel of the dough, the way it rises, and then baking it. – the scent of homemade bread.

Ah… that scent is magic.

It ranks up there on the magical scents chart. Right next to the scent given off by tomato plant leaves. Especially after the tomato plants are watered, the aroma is amazing.

I am not raving about the smell of tomatoes, as in simmering tomato sauce. I like that scent, sure…it is very ‘warm’, ‘kitcheny’ and hearty.

But I am referring to the smell of the leaves on the tomato plant, the scent emitted from the vine…and the very ‘green’ scent of the freshly cut tomato as it is picked, just off the vine.

It’s very different from the aroma of tomatoes while cooking.

I remember sniffing a perfume in a shop in NYC years ago. I remember also that it was called Tomato, by Demeter. Did you ever check out their scents? The. most. outrageous. scents.

Believe me. Check them out. Seriously. Unbelievable. Those fragrances? Now, they are a creative bunch over there. I would have added a link to them, but I didn’t – because they are a business, and I am not an affiliate. Don’t want to be misconstrued as being an affiliate without disclosing* it.

(“Disclosing”*…don’t you love that word? It reminds me of all things UFO and secret files. You know, THE DISCLOSURE.)

Note** – A question. Just popped into my head: Is baking bread ‘therapy’ because I am making comfort food, or because bread symbolizes nurturing, closeness, bonds, spirituality? You know, is it the process or the symbol that triggers comfort? Or both? And what does that have to do with writer’s angst? Why dough to work through wordsmithery issues?

And with those questions in mind…I am signing off…

Peace. 🙏🏻 – Sosanni