She Paints Her Pages

I’m sitting at the Buena Vista Social Bar, a rooftop café in Old Town Athens. The sound system is tuned to an easy-listening station—the same one played all over Athens. “What a Fool Believes” by The Doobie Brothers is trailing off, and after a brief moment of silence, a new song starts.

Hearing the first two chords, I close my eyes. It’s funny how a few notes can transport you into a memory from years ago. I was alone at the concert and James Taylor was center stage sitting on a stool. Slowly he leaned into the mic, plucked the strings of his guitar, and sang: “Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone...”

As James sings in the background, a waitress passes by and shoos loitering pigeons off a table. I follow the birds' flight into the sparkling blue Athens sky and think about what happened in this very spot a week ago. Why did I do it? Why did I open my arms wide and hug the woman beside me—a woman I hardly knew?

It all started when I decided to quell the loneliness of solo travel by going to a "Shut Up & Write!" event. I love writing. Whether in Richmond, Austin, Montreal, or Zadar, I always look for a group of writers to hang out with. It takes some sleuthing, but most cities have groups who congregate, write, and discuss their work. I’ve met people working on screenplays, horror novels, children’s books, and biographies; and there always seems to be someone racing to finish their dissertation. But no matter the work, we share a common passion: the alchemy of transforming dreams into pages.

At one meeting, someone asked about the inky scribbles covering my forearm. Well, the answer was simple. I keep a ballpoint pen in my pillowcase so I can find it even in the middle of the night. If I wake up with an idea, I simply roll over and write on my skin. It seems a strange habit, but not to other writers.

This Shut Up & Write! was in the Piraeus district. I had been to Piraeus a week ago and walked from the harbor where the ferries and cruise ships dock, through the shopping district, and to Votsalakia Beach on the shore of the Mediterranean.

I love how easy it is to get around in Athens. It’s such a walkable city with parks and plazas and affordable cabs. But by far my favorite way to get around is the Metro. From my Airbnb in the Pangrati quarter, the Parthenon, Temple of Olympian Zeus, Old Town, and the Metro station are all just a short walk away.

On my way to the meeting, I passed the ancient Kallimarmaro, took a shortcut through the National Garden, and made my way through Syntagma Square to the Metro station.

The Metro was crowded. I found a seat just as the doors closed, and at the next stop, even more people squeezed on. An older woman juggling a heavy purse and two bulging shopping bags stood next to me. I gave her my seat and grabbed a hand strap hanging over the aisle as the train started moving. As we traveled south, away from Old Town, she looked at me, placed her right hand over her heart, and bowed slightly. When the train coasted into Dimotiko Station, the woman and I passed through the coach doors together; she smiled at me and then disappeared into a crowd heading for the exit.

The meeting was at a restaurant near the Metro station. When I walked in, five people were seated at the writers' table. Four I recognized from last week, but the fifth was a woman I hadn’t seen before.

“Welcome, everyone,” our host said. “This is Shut Up & Write. As we go around the table, briefly introduce yourself and what you plan to do today. Then we’ll write for ninety minutes and check in at the end.”

This was my third meeting, and I’d heard everyone’s story, so I didn’t pay much attention until it was the new woman’s turn. “Hi,” she said, “mine is kind of a stealth project, so I won’t use my name. Not yet. Today I’m working on a page for my book.”

The ninety minutes of silent writing flew by, and then we took turns talking about our projects and progress. When it was the new woman’s turn, she took a sip of water and said, “I’m writing a book, and the pages are painted on buildings around the world. My newest page is here in Athens.”

There was silence for a moment. Then someone asked, “What other cities are your pages in?”

“Los Angeles, Lisbon, Ubud, Honolulu...twenty-four pages so far,” she said. “Most are on the sides of buildings; others are painted inside galleries or in public spaces. The Athens page is outside the Bookbar on Aiolou Street. Here’s my Instagram handle if anyone wants it.”

Almost everyone snapped a picture of her QR code. As the meeting broke up, I said to her, “What you’re doing is really cool. Can I do a blog post about it?”

“Sure, that would be great!” she said.

I gave her a link to my website so she could contact me. We left the restaurant together and walked across Korai Square toward the Metro station.

“I have shopping to do,” she said. “I’ll send you an update later.”

Tuesday, October 21

Hi Tom! Nice to meet you the other day at the writing meetup! I tried messaging through your email but got a failed delivery notice. I also couldn’t find your email on your website.

Wanted to let you know I’m painting my page on Thursday!

If you want to document the page in Athens, I’ll be at Bookbar by kaktos!

Also...would you be open to helping me out/spotting me for a couple hours, you wouldn’t have to paint or do anything other than make sure I don’t fall off a ladder 😅 no pressure if not, I’d still love for you to stop by!

Let me know! I’m responsive here or you can call me directly at NN-NNN-NNN-NNNN.

Hope to hear from you soon!!

I shook my head in disappointment, realizing the message was four days old. As the Metro rolled along, I tapped out a reply.

Saturday, October 25

Hi, I just saw your message. I’m sad I missed Thursday; I would have been glad to help out. If you are not at writers’ group today, I’ll call. If you still need help, I would be glad to pitch in.

She wasn’t at the writer’s group, and as I left the meeting, I checked for her reply. She hadn’t sent a message yet, so I called her while walking back to the station. Her phone rang and rang. Then, just as I was about to give up, she answered.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hi, this is Tom from the writers' group.”

“Hey, Tom. I was on the ladder.”

“Sorry, I missed your message. Do you still need help?”

“Yes! That would be great. Can you drop by today?”

“Sure. I can be there in about thirty minutes.”

After taking the Metro back to Old Town, I made my way to the Bookbar. She was painting on the side of the building and was working near the top of a spindly ladder. For an instant, I stood on the sidewalk and looked down at my feet. I cursed under my breath, straightened up, and crossed the street. Before saying anything, I positioned myself below her. Gripping the ladder with my left hand, I said in a soft voice, “It’s Tom, I’m here. Looks like you could use a spotter?”

“Oh, hi Tom! You're sure you don’t mind?”

“It’s my day off. No worries. I just wish I’d been here days ago. I had my alerts turned off.”

The street was full of tourists, cabs, and trucks. A teen whizzed past on an e-scooter, and I was grateful calamity hadn’t struck. After working a while, she took a break, and we walked across the street for a better view. Her page was really coming together.

“I should wrap up tomorrow,” she said as I took some photographs.

Her page stretched from just above the sidewalk to the top of the Bookbar’s masthead. The flowing white Greek letters were a perfect contrast to the dark background.

When late afternoon shadows started creeping down the street and gathering in litter-filled corners, she finally stopped. Handing me her paint and brushes, she asked, “Can you help me bring everything inside?”

We put lids on cans, placed brushes in plastic bags, and made several trips to the Bookbar’s basement.

“I really appreciate your help today,” she said. “I feel safer knowing you’re holding the ladder. I hate to ask, but can you come back tomorrow around ten?”

“Deal. See you in the morning,” I said, and then joined a crowd of people walking toward the Parthenon.

That evening, while scrolling through YouTube, a program about Carole King and James Taylor popped up. It made me wonder if Google was eavesdropping and picking up on the music I was listening to, like an attentive friend would. “Technology, who knows?” The program was great. It featured interviews with the singers, who talked about creating music together and their lifelong friendship. The show also highlighted the connection between James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” and Carole King’s “You’ve Got a Friend.”

I always liked both songs but never realized one was a call and the other a response. James’s song calls out, “I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,” and Carole’s song responds, “Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you have to do is call.... You've got a friend.”

I was a little early the next day, and she wasn’t at the Bookbar yet, so I ordered some hot chocolate and sat in a window seat. As I watched the world go by, Cat Stevens's “Moonshadow” played in the background. About halfway through the song, she walked in and sat down.

“I hope you’re not getting bored holding my ladder; I’m almost done,” she said.

I gave her my best Mr. Spock eyebrow, took a last sip, and headed to the basement with her to retrieve the ladder and paints.

Before today, she stood on the middle rungs, but this morning she sometimes climbed up beyond my comfort zone. She worked near the top rungs and stretched to paint near the top of her page.

With one hand against the building, she steadied herself while adding a thin line of red. While she painted, I thought back to high school gym class and spotting guys as they tried their hand at the rings and parallel bars. My best friend and I were the tallest guys in class, so Coach had us spot everyone. He taught us how to stand, where to place our hands, and how to absorb a person’s momentum while protecting their head and neck. I didn’t dare take my eyes off her. One slip meant a plunge to the hard, grimy concrete. I moved my hands farther up the ladder.

After a long stretch of work, she came down and said, “There. I’ll let it dry overnight and varnish it tomorrow. I just hope vandals don’t destroy it tonight.”

While she stretched her legs, I walked across the street and photographed the near-finished page.

I love how the world looks through a viewfinder. Everything is constrained, focused; distractions minimized. I photographed a moped with two riders passing by, and she walked over and stood next to me.

“It’s looking great,” I said. “And you painted it while perched on that wobbly ladder.” We high-fived each other. “Your page belongs there, like it’s always been there.”

I took out my iPhone and snapped a photo with Google Translate. “Is this a good translation?”

“Close enough,” she said.

“A woman took a selfie with your page a minute ago. A high compliment, I’d say.”

She smiled. “I’m really happy with it.”

We carted the tools into the basement, where she turned to me and said, “I have another favor to ask. I’m doing a second installation inside. Can you help me carry a piece of plexiglass? It’s not heavy, but it’s bigger than I can manage. It’s at a sign shop nearby.”

“Dodging crowds with a huge piece of transparent plastic? Sounds exciting. Lead on!”

The sign shop owner led us into a basement that smelled of damp corners and melted acrylic. The ceiling was low, and along an outside wall, an ancient marble column jutted out of the cement floor and disappeared through the ceiling. On an old workbench in the center of the room lay the plexiglass. It was huge—much bigger than I imagined. The basement’s fluorescent lights reflected off its surface, and it reminded me of a frozen slice of time. She picked up a tape measure and checked the mounting holes. Her movements were precise, thoughtful, craftsman-like. “Perfect,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.

Hoisting the Plexi up by its top edge, she led the way. It wasn’t heavy but bulky and unwieldy. We navigated the tight, U-shaped stairway by slightly bending the Plexi, and it responded with a rhythmic wub-wub-wub sound that tingled my fingertips. Then, we broke into the bright sunshine of Old Town.

She looked over her shoulder, gave me a nod, and off we went down a narrow cobblestone street. The Plexi was as long as a motorcycle and just as tall. It was crystal clear and had the temperament of a genie trapped in a bottle. The slightest movement or puff of air made it swing and tremble, sending vibrations through my hands. I shifted my weight, locking one hand along the back edge, and most of the tantrum stopped.

The people we passed looked different through the Plexi, like they were frozen in time. A teenager, head down and thumbs flying across his phone, charged straight toward the gap between us. Inches away, he saw the glass, yelped, and rolled off in the opposite direction. We weaved in and out of crowds and passed a sidewalk café where tourists were sipping Greek coffee from tiny white cups.

By the time we reached the cool lobby of the Bookbar, my forearms were burning—not so much from the weight but from being locked in one position for so long. We threaded our way through the afternoon crowd, most of whom were bent over their laptops, and lowered the Plexi onto a blanket of newspapers spread on the basement floor.

“Whew!” she said. “I never could have done that alone.” She held up a hand for another high five. “I’m all set if you want to take off. But first, I’d like to repay you with lunch tomorrow. Can you make it?”

“It would be a pleasure,” I said. “What’s the plan?”

She picked up her handbag and headed for the stairs. “Meet here tomorrow at 1:00. I’ve found a spot they say has an amazing view.”

I woke the next day to a blue Mediterranean sky with puffy white clouds. When I walked into the Bookbar, it was busy. She wasn’t in the café, but I found her in the basement, sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was working on the last few sentences of her plexiglass page.

Looking over her shoulder, I said, “Looks great, and it’s in English! Google Translate not required.”

She humored me with a tilted head and half-smile. “The lunch spot is a few blocks away,” she said. “Well, maybe more than a few. Up for a little walk?”

“Me? I love walking.”

She opened Google Maps on her phone, and before I knew it, we were once again winding our way through the crowded streets of Old Town. We zigzagged in and out of narrow alleys and evaded a couple juggling backpacks, a stroller, and water bottles by weaving through tables at a sidewalk café. Finally, she turned down an alley and checked her phone. There, hidden between a leather shop and a fast-food stall, was a wide doorway with “Buena Vista Social Bar” stenciled high above.

“Doesn’t look like a restaurant,” she said, scanning the empty room. As our eyes adjusted to the dim light, two stairways along the back wall came into view. One went up, and the other down. She looked at me, smiled, and said, “I guess it’s up!”

Round and round we went up a U-shaped stairway. One story, two, three. Finally, we stepped onto a large rooftop terrace with tall, narrow tables and long padded benches. The décor seemed Caribbean, decorated in vivid reds, yellows, and teal. I sat down across from her, and looking over my shoulder, she gasped.  “Look,” she said. The Parthenon.” I turned around to an amazing sight.

“You can sit over here if you’d like to enjoy the view,” she said. So, I moved next to her.

“Just amazing,” I said. “It can’t be more than two or three blocks away.”

The almost empty terrace was quiet. A few tables away, two women whispered and giggled while sipping coffee. The only other people, perhaps newlyweds, were lost in each other's eyes. Someone at the Buena Vista Social Bar must really love easy-listening music, because James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” was once again softly playing over the sound system.

The sky was the perfect backdrop for the Parthenon, and its marble columns glowed golden yellow in the afternoon light. For twenty-three hundred years, it has stood sentinel over its city, an ever-present companion.

“If you want something to last, build it of massive stone,” I said, smiling.

As we finished lunch, she opened her purse and pulled out a book. “I appreciate all your help. I normally do everything myself, but this was a big job. I hope you enjoy this,” and she handed me a copy of Zorba the Greek.

As I thumbed through the pages, I said, “I’ve heard of this but never read it.” I set the book down on the table, and the front cover lifted a bit. She had personalized the book with a message on the inside cover. I read the note and, without thinking, opened my arms wide, and she accepted my heartfelt hug.

“Thank you,” I said, turning away to hide my moist eyes. “I collect books, especially personalized ones. A poet laureate wrote me a message, and so did my favorite illustrator. In another book are sweet words from a girlfriend I loved very much, and my favorite book holds a message from my mother, who passed a few years ago. This is the nicest gift I’ve received in a very, very, long time.”

And that is how last week ended.

November arrived yesterday. Most of the tourists have gone, and the skies over Athens again are brilliant blue. I’ve returned to the Buena Vista Social Bar, and I’m sitting at the same table where we enjoyed lunch last week.

A jet contrail etches a white arc above the Parthenon and reminds me she left for Barcelona a few days ago. And in the background, over the sound system, Carole King softly sings:

Winter, spring, summer, or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there, yeah

You've got a friend...