Tripoli is a city 7km away from my father’s village. My first memories of this considered “unremarkable” city in Greece was begging my parents to take me to the plateia to rent a bike with my cousins. But tonight, my memories will hold Tripoli’s inky black nights, the darkest hours, into some paradise.
I’ve made a habit of walking alone at night here, even though I hear the reprimands of my grandmother and mother on my shoulders to not be out so late at night. But this rebellion is quite intoxicating. I feel like some liberated misfit, all I really need to feel the part is a cigarette and skateboard.
Maybe given my misfit role and late night roams, I love graffiti, especially in Greece. Because essentially graffiti is the art of the night souls, the ones that hide in the daylight and can only be true when the eyes of society have gone to sleep.
A game I like to play consists of imagining the artists behind the spray can. I imagine the 19 year old boy stuck between his parents’ expectations of becoming a computer engineer and pursuing his dream of becoming a Greek rapper. A girl utterly infatuated with an Albanian boy.
I guess I am a bit of a romantic, dreaming of all the artists and hoping that one day, the truths of the night find space in the daylight.