Athens, Brussels

Kitchen tiles, sawdust, and memories of the present

He who has two women loses his soul, he who has two houses loses his reason—French proverb

By the time I turned 18, I had moved seven times, living in six different apartments, each holding a puzzle piece of my childhood and adolescence. The first three carry hazy, dreamlike impressions of my earliest encounters with the world—fragmented, non-linear memories that surface unexpectedly. Sometimes, I can’t even tell if they’re real or just dreams I once had. Two of those apartments were in the same polykatoikia as my grandparents, and the other two were just five minutes away. My childhood was split between the petite bourgeois and working-class neighborhood of Ilisia in downtown Athens, and the apartment we owned in Kifisia, a more bourgeois suburb of the city.

Until I was about 13, we hadn’t moved into the Kifisia apartment, living instead in a small place in Ilisia with my parents, my older brother, and my grandfather. Both my brother and I have a strong emotional connection to Ilisia—it was the neighborhood that truly felt like home. It was a place where everyone knew everyone: Babena, the owner of the mini-market next door; Saeed and Litsa, the tailors; Thanos from the photocopy store; Flora and Victoras, the Albanian concierge couple at my grandparents’ apartment building; and Platanarchis, the owner of the ouzeri o Platanos. It was the neighborhood of our grandparents, where familiarity was stitched into every street corner. Ilisia was our urban sanctuary within the sprawling, chaotic fabric of meta-modern Athens. As kids, we’d embark on mischievous adventures while running errands for our family, always finding refuge in our loving grandparents’ apartment.

The moment we turned the key and stepped into their home, we were greeted by the familiar scent of my grandmother’s cooking, which made us affectionately call their place “The Tavern.” On weekends, my grandfather sat in his usual armchair, reading the newspaper, lost in his own world. My grandmother would rush to us with overwhelming attention and affection, showering us with food and stories. She often shared fascinating tales rooted in her passion for history and religion. She had been a philologue, a high-school teacher of Ancient Greek, Latin, history, and literature.

My grandfather, one of the most charming personas I’ve ever known, was aloof and always in his own world, whispering phrases to himself in different languages that I couldn’t decode. When he read his newspaper, I would tease him, trying to catch his attention, and he’d ask me the etymology of words he encountered. If I didn’t know, he’d send me to fetch the thick, dusty dictionary from their endless library to find the answer.

Other times, we’d spend hours poring over the big plastic world map they had, tracing distant places with our fingers. Occasionally, my grandfather would take me to his favorite open-air cinema in Kolonaki. Their apartment was a place where neither my brother nor I could ever get bored. It was filled with an endless collection of objects, each adding to the sense of mystery, making the apartment feel far larger than it was. It felt like the small Sadovaya apartment in The Master and Margarita—once occupied by the devil and his entourage, it seemed capable of fitting entire worlds, surprising anyone who entered it. There was always the feeling that something was waiting to be discovered, like hidden treasures in plain sight.

My mom always seemed to dislike the very things that fascinated my brother and me at my grandparents’ place. Even the disputes between my grandparents—like when my grandfather would take ballroom dancing lessons with his friends or try to impress my young and attractive piano teacher—held a strange appeal for us. We were drawn to the tension created by my grandmother’s jealousy whenever my grandfather’s charm stole the spotlight from her.

The apartment we lived in in Ilisia, though warm and cozy, wasn’t designed to accommodate all of us. Throughout elementary school, I shared a bedroom with my mom and brother, while my parental grandfather had a room of his own, and my dad slept on the couch. This arrangement, though lacking in privacy and at times uncomfortable, forged a strong bond between the three of us. As the youngest, I slept in the middle of two single beds pushed together, and I remember marking my growth by the way my weight would gradually cause the beds to separate overnight, leaving me in a makeshift hammock by morning. After my grandfather passed away, I moved into his room, and my brother, now in high school, moved into my grandparents’ apartment.

If the sensory memory of my downtown paradise is like the warmth of a pleasantly full stomach, my childhood memories of Kifisia leave me feeling cold, like stepping outside the bathroom to a heatless room after a warm shower. The comforting scent of freshly cooked food in my grandmother’s apartment sharply contrasts with the smell of sawdust and takeout food that defined our time in the Kifisia apartment. The warm-hearted neighbors in Ilisia juxtaposed the cold, ill-spirited ones in Kifisia, who, after we discovered that they had been overcharging the building’s utility bills, decided to sue us for enlarging our backyard-facing windows. My dad had decided to renovate the Kifisia apartment himself when my mom was pregnant with me, but the process dragged on, becoming an Odyssey with no end. He insisted that the three of us—my brother, my mom (when she wasn’t working), and I—stay there to keep him company.

Unlike my grandfather, who was solitary but charming, my father wasn’t particularly pleasant and hated being alone. Whenever my mom, brother, and I snuck out to the shopping center or for a meal, we could never fully enjoy it, knowing that any moment, my dad would call, angrily demanding we return. Though the apartment was spacious, with a large garden and perfect orientation that bathed it in light from both sides, it wasn’t attractive—especially to kids. Constantly under renovation, it was cold, lacking any comfortable places to relax, the floors covered in cartons, and cluttered with machines and sawdust that made it feel cramped and dreary. Unlike my grandparents’ home, where I was always entertained, here I often felt bored and sad.

The educational tasks my dad assigned me, like reading English books and practicing calligraphy, felt more like a burden than a joy. Keeping him company was an endless chore, like sweeping the sawdust from the floor, only to see it cover the living room again minutes later. He often demanded one of us accompany him on long car rides to buy materials, always with the excuse that someone needed to stay in the car to avoid a parking ticket. Sometimes we’d all go together, but more often than not, we’d argue about who would make the sacrifice, knowing whoever went would be trapped listening to my dad’s endless talk for hours inside the car.

At 13, when the apartment was somewhat habitable, we officially moved in, leaving behind the much-cherished neighborhood of Ilisia—or so I thought. Eventually, I moved back to Ilisia with my mom to take care of my grandparents, who had grown old and needed help. As an adolescent, I came to appreciate the comforts of living downtown once again. With my newfound freedom, I embarked on urban explorations by myself or with friends, day or night. Living without my overbearing father, I could even go on a date to Zappeion with my first school crush, who lived nearby.

When I returned to Kifisia for good, I no longer had a pied-à-terre in downtown Athens. My grandparents passed, and their apartment now belonged to my aunt, who, living in the US, intended to sell it—taking with it a good chunk of my childhood memories. The apartment we used to live in had turned into yet another Airbnb in the now gentrified Ilisia. Whenever it’s empty, we sometimes gather there with friends or with my mom and brother, reminiscing and enjoying the warm vibes—despite the mosaic in the hall having turned into cement mortar, the marble sink replaced with a steel one, and the old kitchen tiles, once rich with distinct Athenian character, replaced by large, fake marble tiles.

Polykatoikies as far as the eye goes, moment captured at Filopappou Hill

The apartment in Kifisia was finally completed the year I moved to Brussels. Up until that point, for several years, the living room—spanning the entire space of the old living room and office—had been covered in cartons, dexions, and tools. While my mom was embarrassed by the state of things, my brother and I had grown accustomed to it. We’d invite our friends over to sit in the old armchairs perched on the cartons, surrounded by dexions, to watch movies on the brand-new projector and eat steak and french fries my dad would cook for us at the wooden table he had built. Feeling shame over my dad’s personality and the surreal lifestyle he imposed on us is something that took me years to detach from, and until high school, I hadn’t figured out how to deal with.

Alas, my father’s vision of crafting his own uniquely luxurious apartment—filled with wooden tables, bookshelves, kitchen fixtures, and even walls—had finally come to life. The once sawdust-filled kitchen, with the DIY wooden-framed whiteboard where my dad would lecture me math and computer science and explain his PhD work, dreaming I’d follow in his footsteps as an engineer, has now transformed into a magazine-worthy space—arguably the most pleasant room in the house. My brother and I, both now in architecture, often joke that he had it coming all along. Over the years, my mom, brother, and I grew to love the apartment, filling it with our own energy, gradually softening the rigid atmosphere my father had once imposed. Now, after a turbulent and eventful year, the apartment is finally finished, but both my brother and I live abroad, each in a different country. With my parents now separated, the apartment has been magically overtaken by my mom and her furry companions—much like Woland, Behemoth, and the rest of the gang taking over Berlioz’s apartment in Sadovaya.

In Brussels, I finally have a double bed all to myself and a sense of privacy I often lacked growing up, even though I live in a big Belgian house with the owner, her two kids, and two roommates. My room is essentially an attic, and I share the bathroom and kitchen area with my two roommates—a Polish guy named Miko and a new Algerian girl, Tema. Since we don’t have access to a living room, our kitchen has become our main hangout space. The old tiles, with their cozy warmth and faded charm, remind me of our apartment in Ilisia. We spend hours there—it’s where the heart of the house beats.

Miko has taken on the role of my brother in this new city. We cook together, buy each other birthday gifts, give relationship advice, and gossip about the landlord over beers or coffee. We laugh and exchange dry, sarcastic remarks, just like I would with my brother back home. Tema’s energy has naturally merged with the rhythm Miko and I have already set. Though we don’t talk as much, Tema and I have created our own quiet ritual: each evening, we eat together in silence, drink tea, and wash the dishes while listening to music. Apart from her medicine studies, she’s also a violinist, and she often plays Algerian tango—music I’m sure my grandfather would have loved. As I sit here writing, the aroma of lamb with potatoes and rosemary wafts through the air—the same meal I would often enjoy at my grandmother’s home.

I don’t get homesick often, but I do find myself listening to Greek new-wave songs that my grandfather loved whenever the sun is out. On rainy days, while working, I play Vrehei Stin Ftohogeitonia from the film Synoikia to Oneiro. And sometimes at night, when I feel nostalgic, I turn to rebetika—the same music my brother and I listen to together at our favorite spots in Athens.

When I walk through the medieval streets of Brussels, surrounded by Flemish Renaissance architecture, I can’t help but think how thrilled my grandmother would’ve been to visit me here. Whenever I see a cat lounging in a window, I snap a photo and send it to my mom. And whenever I’m in the atelier, working with wood on my architectural models and eating takeout, the smell of sawdust and fast food transports me back to those endless renovations in the Kifisia apartment.

Rio-Antirrio bridge, view from airplane headed to Athens

As I think about the ways in which these elements—culture, memory, and love—continue to shape my present life, I’m reminded of a project I created back in high school. My high school teacher had asked me to design the cover for the school magazine, and it was the first time I seriously reflected on the ideas of home, roots, and uprooting. That year’s theme was dedicated to the Greek diaspora. I remember thinking it was a predictable, if somewhat uninspired, choice for my conservative school. I didn’t want to create something that would once again evoke the naive nationalism of a loser-nation, leaning on the over-glorified classical past—references detached from the complex history that followed. Instead, I wanted to avoid heavy-handed symbolism and capture the essence of what it truly feels like to live in the diaspora. I wanted to honor that familiar sense of loserness—a shared but intangible vibe that all Greeks recognize, whether they embrace it or not, the one that often comforts me when I scroll the posts of Greek Visions, a favorite Instagram page dedicated to documenting Greek culture.

I realized that longing for and belonging to a culture is about the ordinary elements that shape our daily lives—the small rituals that, in their simplicity and banality, evoke vivid and distinct memories. These memories are personal, yet deeply rooted in a shared cultural experience. In this way, the everyday routines and aspects of low culture become symbols in themselves, redefining what it means to belong. It’s not about grand victories or losses, or sweeping narratives of conquest or survival—it’s about the deep connection to place, the small, intimate markers of life that bind us to a sense of home.

Abroad, my sense of Greekness and my personal memories are intertwined, constantly shaping one another. My Greekness, like my childhood, isn’t a sealed chapter confined to the past, nor is it something that weakens with time spent abroad. Rather, both continue to inform my present, alive and evolving. The cultural practices I bring with me—those I honor in this new environment—become enriched by their interaction with other cultures. Past and present do not stand in opposition; they exist as a continuum. Culture, memories, and love become the threads connecting the past, the present, and the future.

As I now glance at the collage I designed for the magazine, I realize how much it encapsulates my experience of living in the diaspora. The ordinary comforts of home, set against the unfamiliar and the new, bridging distances both physical and emotional, allow me to remain open and receptive to the future. It’s a reminder of that naive, yet deeply ingrained dream shared by a tired “loser nation”—to somehow, against all odds, conquer the moon.

The collage was never accepted (too avant-garde, ig), and I forgot about it. When I found it again, I realized I had to write an entire post just to give it the spotlight it deserved 😈