Spring is a latecomer this year. It’s arriving slowly but there are only two weeks left until the end of school year. Sudden 80 degrees in the afternoon, out of nowhere thunderstorms, a little rain now and then, are but all the remnants of incoming spring. Cesme started to get crowded on weekends. The sea has begun to blow its summer winds. Everything tells us about the northwestern winds that would blow all summer long.
Smyrna is a tad more broken this spring. People are sick and tired of weekend escapes. They need something more solid like a long holiday. Now, everyday is an escape. Every day is another one stolen from the economic crisis, from empty pockets, from despair. The fiesta of the South doesn’t go well with despair. There are no short skirts this year, no shorts. Every new spring takes away a little more hope from Smyrna.
Kordelia is crowded, though pubs are deserted. If that stays the case, the spring would go away without any sign. Routinely Smyrna should go nuts in spring, go crazy with all her mind. That’s the Smyrna we know, that you know. On a corner you should suddenly meet a new couple. Suddenly you should feel life in your bones. Suddenly the streets should be filled with colors from out of this world. By Easter, Smyrna should be full of spring. And it should never leave.
Now the day’s gonna turn to summer. The sky’ll be full of a heating sun. Coffee houses will be silent. Villagers will be busy on their land. Citizens will seek refuge in Cesme, Focai, Aivali or elsewhere. We’ll be alone in Smyrna, hosted by stray dogs only. What the year 2010 will bring to this city?
The constant recession that’s been going on for thirty years will continue? Or will the city hit the bottom this spring and start its climb finally?
Smyrna needs new things. She needs a spell that’ll filter through her gutters, and start affecting her pavements, walls and trees. Maybe she’ll start a new journey knowing that she’ll always be marginalized. Smyrna needs a spell like Homeros. So that she could tell her story once more, so that she could return to her shining status in history.
A Sunday in Smyrna. A spring Sunday when silence fills all ears, when there are no church bells nor a muslim call for prayer. A Sunday in Smyrna. Awaiting the herald of joy.