Leather Jacket Love

In 2007, my involvement with Greenpeace took me to Amsterdam, where its international headquarters are located.  I had a “free day” on that trip, with no plans, no meetings, no office tours, so I hopped a train to Leiden.

I had no idea why I went to Leiden.  I knew nothing about Leiden, except that my university in St. Louis had a sister campus there, and I had just enough spare Euro for the ticket.  I asked a darling old woman sitting next to me on the train where I should go, and her knobby snakeskin hands directed me to the botanical gardens on a map.  So, off I went to the Leiden Botanical Garden.

I wandered down paths, I sniffed the flowers that seemed worthy of sniffing, I watched as artists created their renditions of yet another floral still life.  Somewhat bored, I began to wish I was in Amsterdam getting stoned with my friends and trying to stay alive on the death-streets of bicycle doom. On my way out, I popped my head into a tiny aviary.  While I was looking for the descriptive label of the tiny bird I was studying, a voice surprised me over my shoulder, “what is this bird?”

“Um… I don’t know… I was actually wondering the same thing”
“It is a wonder?”
“No, I was wondering…nevermind, do you speak English?”
“Yes!  English I a-speak! And you? You are from America, Yes!”
I grinned.  He was adorable. “Yes, I am.  Are you Italian?”
“Nonono, I am a-Greek!  My mother is from Italy, so many say I appear to be Italy, no?”

He was much too charming to ignore!   His name was Spiros, from Athens.  Spiros donned a meticulously- styled Fonzie hair-do (complete with aviator shades on top), that complemented his worn-in leather jacket (complete with popped collar) . After a few polite exchanges, he invited me for a coffee, and we walked to a canal, discussing the differences between Italians and Greeks–something he was apparently passionate about.

Spiros and I enjoyed the lingering remainder of the afternoon together.  I skipped the train back to Amsterdam and hopped on the back of his motorbike instead.   For a couple hours, I grabbed on tight, as we sped past street markets and historic bridges and windmills.  There is no sensation comparable to the plethora of smells that flood one’s nose on a motorcycle.  And I don’t normally enjoy cigarette smoke, but the scent of Spiros’ leather jacket saturated with smoke wrapped my face in its comfort as we sped through fruit orchards and alongside canals. I felt outright giddy, life was so good.

Once we arrived back in Amsterdam, we said goodbye, exchanged numbers and e-mails, and departed our separate ways.  I promised I’d call him if I were ever in Greece.

—-Flash forward 18 months later!—-

I’m in Greece.   I’ve just decided to officially retire from the world of professional costume designing, and have glorious plans to spend my savings account (and then some) on a 3-week retreat in the land of theatre’s origin;  if anything was going to cosmically force me to return to costume design, I figured Greece would be it.   Ever since that day in Leiden, Spiros and I have remained adamant pen-pals, and we have arrangements for him to pick me up at the airport.

And there he was.  Pack on my back, giddy grin slapped on my face, and Spiros’ leather jacket wrapping my face in musky cigarette smoke all over again. We toured Athens a bit, caught up, and consistently emphasized the fact that I was actually on his motorbike in his hometown.   I met his friends atop the Parthenon, smoked the only two cigarettes I’ve ever smoked in my entire life, and had my first introduction to ouzo.  Greece was so good.

I stayed with Spiros in Athens for three days, until I moved on to other parts of the country.  The first couple days, I took comfort in his friendship.  His excitement to finally show me his coveted record collection was delightful.  He bought me a beautiful necklace of fossilized shells and beads.  His mother insisted on cooking an enormous meal for us every night, and so I lethargically climbed  into bed drunk on heavy food.

But when three days had quickly come and gone, Spiros got upset with me.  He insisted on showing me Kythnos and Crete over the next three weeks.   He insisted with the tone of a deliberate foot stomp that I should let him show me everything and that I shouldn’t follow crowds of tourists.  He told me that I didn’t know anything about Greece and that it was stupid to try and “explore”.  He adamantly ordered me to stay in Athens! I was shocked.  Spiros?   Really?  My good friend, reunited overseas? Maybe we didn’t know each other so well, after all.

It was getting late.  Instead of taking the train out of Athens to my next destination, I canceled my hostel reservation and agreed to stay until the next morning.  We went to a club, but didn’t really speak to each other.  For whatever reason, we were holding a grudge, and I didn’t even really know why.  Bored by the incessant techno thump of dancing drunk women in miniskirts, my sober self took a bus to Spiros’ house and promptly fell asleep on his couch.  When I woke up to my alarm at 7am, his cigarette-drenched leather jacket was acting as my blanket, carefully tucked around me. He was nowhere to be seen.  I left a drawing for him on the couch.  I must have tried calling him 15 times before leaving on my train, but no answer.   I was left dumbfounded for two more days, until I received a text from him, “Dear Chelsea, I am sorry we fighted.  I do not want to leave you bad feelings.  My best friend moved to Rome the day before your arrival, I feel all my friends are leave me.   I hope you have a wonderful stay in Greece.”

And that’s it.  No more Spiros.  Never another word from him, nor to him.  I left it at that.  Maybe I should have texted back, or perhaps called or written, but for an unexplainable reason, I felt it was best to remember Spiros in a positive light of motorbikes and homemade food than a negative one of trying to counsel his personal life. Maybe that makes me a bad friend.  Or maybe it proves that relationships manifested within the realms of travel are held to superior standards of perfection and fantasy, as opposed to relationships formed in “the real world”. I wish I understood.

Perhaps I’ll meet up with Spiros again someday.  I know I would like to return to Greece; Is it so crazy to believe that we will run into each other again, without any planning?  Is it so crazy to believe that the universe isn’t done with us yet?  I like to think so. Faith is a funny thing.   
I like to think that my Athenian experience with Spiros is a perfect metaphor for all relationships; sometimes it is better to walk away and trust your instinct’s decision to move your feet, than to try and make amends to something that obviously won’t last. The end result of those three days with Spiros was, for me,  a lesson in grace. Sometimes Fate takes us as far away from home as possible to teach us lessons applicable to our daily life.  Sometimes there is no better perspective than from thousands of miles away.