Two People Meeting for the First Time

Stadiou Street was packed with people, traffic, and honking, and the thermometer outside the pharmacy read 38 degrees. Not an ideal day for public services. My t-shirt stuck to me, and my water bottle was almost empty.

I get so irritated in these situations! I hate hassle, heat, bureaucracy—especially when I'm not running errands for myself but for others; it makes it even worse. I promised myself I'd get a Freddo espresso after leaving the Municipality of Athens, as a reward for making it this far. Maybe I'd grab a bougatsa too; I'd been craving one. Let it be 40 degrees, I don't care—I deserve it!

I arrived at City Hall, and the line stretched all the way outside. It was packed, mostly foreigners wanting to register their marriages or get birth certificates. Women with children, elderly people... Everyone was waiting quietly under the scorching Athenian sun. I felt a bit guilty for complaining earlier, but I also found some courage. If they could do it, so could I.

I took a number—138. What number were they at now? How fast was the line moving? I counted 17 people in front of me and glanced at my watch. I figured I'd track when the next person went in, then the one after, and do the math.

As I was watching the line, tracking its rhythm, I noticed a young woman wearing a headscarf, visibly pregnant. She was sitting on a low wall with her papers in hand. Next to her was a little girl, also sitting patiently and quietly. For some reason, I felt a strong urge to speak to her.

Was it because she had to endure even more than the rest of us and wasn't complaining? Was it because she looked so young to be a mother? Or maybe it was because she'd managed to make her child just as patient as she was? Or perhaps I was simply incredibly bored and wanted something to fill the 119 minutes I'd calculated I'd need to wait to get inside.

I approached her and asked if I could sit on the wall too. "Yes," she replied, shifting over. Then I went to my second question, "How old is your little girl? She's adorable." I put all my small-talk tricks into play; if I have one talent, it's striking up conversations with strangers. First, you start with general questions, then something that, no matter what will get you an answer, and then a compliment. The compliment always works—who doesn't like a kind word? And, of course, it worked!

Her name was Hiba, from Syria. She came to Greece in 2015 with her parents, and she's been here for 10 years now. Her daughter's name is Amina, and her husband is Mansour. Their families were close back in Syria. They left together when the Arab Spring uprising began. They crossed the Syrian border to Turkey and then took a boat to Lesvos. In Lesvos, they walked 160 km from the point the smugglers left them to the port where the NGOs were. They stayed for three days and then took a ferry to Piraeus. They didn't plan to stay in Greece; they wanted to go to Germany, but her younger brother Aziz got a high fever and couldn't travel. They found a house in Kypseli, 30 square meters, and two families lived together, 14 people.

As she told me all this, I couldn't believe my ears. I couldn't hold back; I asked her:

"My dear, how did you endure it? Sick and exhausted, all of you, with fear and anxiety?"

"We had each other," she said, looking me straight in the eye. "We had family and people who cared for each other. It was hard with the cold and the food, but I never felt lonely. Here, half of you are depressed. Who is more unfortunate?"

Her words were gentle but so piercing they went straight to my soul. And just as I was about to look at her, it was her turn to enter the registry office.

"It was a pleasure meeting you," she said. "Take care." She spoke politely, though somewhat indifferently. I hadn't made the impression on her that she had on me.

And why would I? What's so special about my life? I don't have any meaningful story to tell; maybe because I haven't faced many hardships. I always had everything ready. A home, food, clothes, vacations. What would I have missed to make me push forward and inspire someone with my story?

One thing I didn't have was siblings to have as companions. Truth be told, my parents worked a lot. I had love, but it was always measured by time.

"Christina, I have 30 minutes until the next meeting," I remember my father saying. Just like I now had three minutes until it was my turn.