Athens 2.0

A teenage boy walks along the aisle of the car of the train that carries her to the airport. He plays a toylike accordion. A younger kid precedes him, a plastic cup in his hand, begging for pocket change from passengers much too familiar with the ongoing scene to prompt a response. It's a tango, that inevitable, familar tune. She sighs and as she takes her eyes off the child's she finds herself thinking that by some funny twist of fate Piazzolla's finest work has ended up in a privileged spot of every accordion-playing beggar's repertoire. The city is Athens but it could well be anywhere. Minutes later Piazzolla is substituted by light jazz instrumentals that endlessly fill the air of the whole terminal building, down to its toilet's remotest corners. She gives another long, weary sigh, while she takes a leak. Guitar phrases echo all through the hall, overused, worn out, unnecessary, persistently elbowing silence off the place. She prays for her flight to be on time.