Around The Cauldron: Guest post - Uncle by Virginia Carraway Stark

Today’s offering from Around The Cauldron is a raw, gory tale from the prolific pen of guest storyteller Virginia Carraway Stark. Prepare to have your gooses bumped!

He reached out towards her, his hands already soaked in the blood of her boyfriend and the other party goers. His face leered at her through the mask that hung loosely on his emaciated face. His teeth were yellow and his breath smelled like rotten meat. 

Moving slowly, as though it were a nightmare he reached out and stroked her chestnut hair. She moaned, it would have been a sob but she didn't dare, she didn't dare flinch from his touch, she didn't dare bat his hand away. Even his brief touch on her hair left gobs of flesh and blood on her hair. She stank like blood and death now. She stank like him. 

Her eyes drifted to his amputated hand that had been replaced with a three pronged gardening tool. He raised it up, he had been left handed before one of his last victims had chopped off his hand and it was this strange weapon that he now lifted against his cheek, prongs pointed out. He was getting ready to slice her.

She relented and let out a deep, sobbing moan of terror. Her eyes were roving, her hands looking for something, anything to use as a weapon. Behind his askance mask she saw his lips snarl into what was, for Matthew, a smile of joy. He had terrorized her mother and been locked up for it, it had been her mother who had taken his hand, her mother whose body she had found clawed to pieces behind the wheel of their Chevy. 

She found a wire coat hanger with her right hand, her left hand was held up in a pathetic warding off gesture. Using all the considerable adrenaline at her disposal she pulled out the hanger and jabbed it into the eye of the mask. It punctured deep, and to Mandy's visible surprise she felt a 'pop' as it entered his eye and he howled and reeled away from where he had her cornered. She was so surprised that it took her a moment to recover but then she kneed him hard in the balls and pushed him over. The hanger was still sticking out of his eye. Mandy pulled out the hanger, the idea that it had had one lucky hit made it a talisman of luck in her mind, his eye came trailing out of the socket and she screamed and popped it off the hanger. Time to run, it was only a few steps from where he had her trapped to the door and possible escape but each step was a lifetime.

Revenge raged in her mind along with the fear. She wasn't going to run. He wasn't going to get locked up again only to come back at her or even or own children one day. That sucker wasn't going to leave the house. 

He was going to die.

Canadian wordsmith Virginia Carraway Stark has a diverse portfolio and has many publications. Over the years she has developed this into a wide range of products from screenplays to novels to articles to blogging to travel journalism. She has been published by many presses from grassroots to Simon and Schuster for her contribution to 'Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Possible' as seen on ABC.  She has been an honorable mention at Cannes Film Festival for her screenplay, “Blind Eye” and was nominated for an Aurora Award. She also placed in the final top three screenplay shorts in the 'Reel to Reel' Film Festival.

She has written short stories in well over twenty anthologies as well as magazines, novels, poetry, poetry anthologies, blogs, journals and many other venues. She is Editor-in-Chief at StarkLight Press as well as for Outermost: Journal of the Paranormal. She formerly worked writing medical papers into language for the lay person and worked on scientific papers for numerous platforms.

https://virginiastark.wordpress.com/about/

https://www.facebook.com/Virginiacarrawaystark/?fref=ts

https://virginiastark.wordpress.com/contact-me/

If Virginia's story has whetted your appetite for more dark tales for Hallowe'en, go to Around The Cauldron 

Around The Cauldron: 2016 edition

In just over a week, it will be All Hallows’ Eve, a day when (according to Christian tradition which usurped the older Pagan festival of Samhain) ghoulies and ghosties and all manners of evil supernatural beings come out for a night of revelry before the holy All Saints’ Day. 

It's a great excuse to revel in the thrill of frightening ourselves, so I'm planning on posting one or two dark little tales for Hallowe'en under the heading "Around The Cauldron" (like telling scary stories around the camp bonfire, but with a witchy element added). 

Have any of you got some some creepy tales to tell? 

If you fancy having them added as a guest post, drop me a line with your short story, a brief bio, an author pic and something to illustrate your tale.

When is a boot, not a boot?

I’m honoured to count among my friends Halina, a fellow transplanted Brit who made Greece her home. She’s a constant fount of wit, wisdom, optimism, dirty jokes, humanity and compassion. Not one for empty words, she puts herself on the line to do something real when she sees a need. Here’s what she wrote recently after returning from a stint volunteering with a group of ladies on the island of Lesvos trying to help the waves of refugees fleeing desperate conditions back home. It’s straight from the heart and well worth reading all the way through.

“While I was in Lesvos, my first experience helping with an incoming boat of refugees at Skala Sikaminea was in torrential rain. Sixty men, women and children scrambled to shore soaked to the skin and shivering uncontrollably from the cold, but every one of them grateful to have made it across that short but sometimes treacherous piece of water that separated them from the life they were forced to leave behind and what they hope will be the beginnings of a better future.

There was an urgent need to get these people out of their drenched clothes and into something dry, particularly the children and babies who, cold and bewildered by what was happening, clung tightly to their parents.

There was chaos all around me. What to do first? Before I could answer that question I was confronted by a distressed young father holding a baby girl around 12-18 months old in his arms. The young mother was suffering from shock and had been taken to the medical tent for attention. I took the baby out of his arms and told him in sign language that I would take care of her pointing to the tent distributing dry clothes. He nodded and turned back to the medical tent to go to the baby's mother. The baby wasn't so sure though and started to cry as soon as she left her father's arms, but thankfully a local man with lollipops appeared and waved this magic treat which appeased the baby long enough for me to carry her the short distance to the clothes distribution tent where a couple of volunteers were scrambling among the shelves trying to find appropriate clothes and sizes for those waiting in the queue and rain.

The shivering baby had resumed her crying and was getting heavier and heavier in my arms as her clothes took in more and more water. Finally I managed to get the attention of one of the volunteers and held up the baby so she could see roughly the size of clothes I needed. After three attempts she managed to find a thin top, leggings and socks which were a couple of sizes too big but better than nothing. I took them telling myself I would go back later for something warmer to put on top, all the time talking as soothingly as I could to the baby who had lost all interest in the lollipop in her cold, shaking hand but was still clinging to it fiercely.

The father appeared and I pointed to a changing tent to let him know I would be there and pointed to his own clothes to let him know he should get dry clothes himself. Once in the dark tent I laid the baby down on a floor mat and proceeded to undress her. By this time my own fingers were wet and cold which didn't help in unzipping and peeling off the baby's jacket which had swelled with water. Renewed cries broke out when her stiff arms had to be maneuvered from tight sleeves and her drenched sweater refused to go over her head. I had to tug and pry it off her head as it clung to her hair and ears knowing that I had no choice but to ignore her screams of protest.

At this point I have to admit I was very close to tears myself. But then I noticed one of my teammates was also in the tent changing another baby (which turned out to be the sibling of mine) having an equally difficult time and I took courage in the fact that I was not the only one feeling totally inadequate. Finally, the top half of the baby's clothes were removed and the dry top put on (no towels to dry baby first). Now for the bottom half starting with her boots that had two buckles and a zip to be negotiated with freezing, wet fingers. Then trousers, tights, underwear were peeled off to reveal, horrors, a wringing wet diaper (how long since I last changed one of those?) and no clean one in sight. Covering the protesting baby with a blanket I rushed to the clothes tent, grabbed two diapers and an extra pair of socks.

Back to the tent and with the diaper successfully negotiated, I put on the rest of the clothes and thrust one of the boots to my teammate who had finished changing her baby asking her to find me a pair of shoes that size. The father was back changing into his dry clothes (together with several other men – had I gone into the men's changing tent in my haste to change the baby? Whatever, no-one cared). Leggings and socks on, I again covered the baby and went in search of a warm jacket. Back again with a jacket and rain poncho, the baby was finally dressed and warm enough to have stopped shivering and crying and to be handed back to the father.

I then went to help a young boy I had seen at the clothes tent who needed a warm top to put over the thin shirt he was wearing in the pouring rain. He was still shivering so I hugged him to me while we waited. After two attempts we finally managed to find a top and jacket in his size and topped it off with a rainproof poncho to keep him dry.

The chaos previously around me had subsided and I thought I could relax when felt a tug on my sleeve and turned to see a distressed woman mumbling 'baby, baby'. She had lost her child in the fray. Again with sign language, I managed to learn it was a 4-year old girl. We went around all the changing tents but no sign. The mother was getting more and more agitated so I found one of the more seasoned volunteers who said there were some unaccompanied children in the other receiving centre further along the beach and he kindly volunteered to take her there. (I saw her later and, thankfully, her child had been found).

Most of the refugees had by now changed into dry clothes and had started the walk to the transit camp outside the village where they could rest for an hour or two before boarding the buses to the registration camps in the south.

Thankfully the rain had finally stopped and after a welcome cup of hot tea, I helped clean up the beach and waited with my teammate who had volunteered to drive a mini-bus to transport a few of the more vulnerable refugees to the transit camp, including the young family we had helped. The young mother had come around a bit but was still in shock and would hopefully be allowed to stay in the transit camp overnight with her husband and children. As non-Syrians, their next stop would be the camp at Moria which is pitiful in spite of the good work being done there by the NGOs and volunteers. 

The next day when I was helping the Dirty Girls Of Lesvos Island to sort the wet clothes discarded by the refugees to be washed, dried and reused for clothes' distribution, I came across one of the boots I had taken off the baby. There was no sign of the other boot, so I couldn't resist taking it with me as a reminder of that baby and that day.
The young family were from Afghanistan and had walked carrying their bags and two nursing babies for four days without food to get to Turkey and onto a boat. They still have a tough journey ahead and I can only hope they find that better life for themselves and their children.”

Thank you, Halina, for letting me share your moving account and for putting your heart into everything you do. For more about efforts to help refugees arriving in Lesvos, check out https://www.facebook.com/lighthouserelief

Around the Cauldron - "Into the Woods" by guest storyteller Virginia Carraway Stark

This is how it happened, that I ended up in that strange place, that strange forest where nothing was as it seemed.

I was only sixteen when I got lost. I guess sixteen is old enough that you should know better, but it's different when you're actually in the situation and things get weird.

It's different too when you're angry at your mother and you kind of want to make a point. She had insisted I come along for the long weekend camping trip with her and her new boyfriend. He was trying so hard to be friendly when every ounce of my being was screaming in his face, 'you aren't my dad!'. He was older than my mom by quite a bit, and he always had ferrets with him and smelled like them. He had a face a little like one of the ferrets, not exactly unattractive but with a bit of the weasel to him. Even his name sounded a little like a name for a pet and not for a man, 'Howie'. It was  so easy for my mom to sound whiny and imploring when she said it. 'Can't you get along with Hoooowwie?', 'Howwwwie makes the best roast chicken.'. Ugh, every word of praise she heaped on him made him even more distasteful to me, but ultimately, it was the ferrets I couldn't get over, that musky smell that pervaded everything he owned and started to seep into my mother's clothing.

“Let's go out on the lake, I'll teach you how to fish.”

“I already know how to fish, my Dad taught me.” I said, emphasizing the word 'Dad' and then wincing. It sounded meaner than it had in my head. He looked at me with his sorrowful, basset hound eyes and I slumped and took the fishing rod from him.

We caught several rainbow trout and went back and fried them up in a pan. My mom was excited and Howie was showing my how to gut the fish... and yes, I already knew how to do that part too. I watched him 'showing' me how to eviscerate the fish and tried to keep my temper. This was absurd, I didn't want to be condescended to no matter how well meaning he was about it. I suffered through it and ate my fish but then I announced that I was going for a walk.

“Take your brother with you.” My mom suggested.

I shook my head, “He walks too slow.”

She looked at me and then to Howie for help. I felt sick at how quickly she had turned from needing my dad's approval to needing random ferret boyfriend's approval and turned and walked away. I knew my brother was winding himself up to get upset about me leaving but I didn't care.

'Let Mom and Howwwie deal with it.' I thought, after all, he's my brother, not my son. I walked quickly down a path and into the deepest trees that I could find. I walked quickly, trying to walk out of range of the voices I heard still behind me. Finally the scrub land around the lake turned into proper tall trees and I sighed with relief and the cool and the calm that came with a coniferous forest.

I thought conifers were quieter than deciduous trees. No rustling of leaves for conifers, just solemn tall creaking as they thought their dark thoughts in the increasing shade of the forest. The forest was cool and soft after the glare of the sun off of the lake. I sat down at the feet of one of the giants and closed my eyes, letting myself feel the bark against my back, scratching me lightly through my tee-shirt. I couldn't feel the wind that moved the trees, it was almost as though they were talking without any physical stimulation to make them do so. I listened to their voices and watched the little bits of dappled sun that had fought their way to the forest floor play on the veins on the back of my hand. I think it was then that I fell asleep.

I woke up hours later to see that it was nearly dark. I was bitten by black flies and mosquitoes when I slept and felt uncomfortable. I also had to pee. I walked unnecessarily to the far side of the tree I had been sleeping against to do my thing and wiped with leaves, (not poison ivy, I could tell that stuff even in the twilight's gloom). I knew which way to go back but I was a little worried about picking out the path in the gathering dark. I had never been here before and I didn't know this forest at all. I walked for awhile before growing uncertain.

It's much harder to tell distance in the dark, and when you are starting to get scared it's even more difficult. I debated changing directions and setting out on a new course but I knew that if I wasn't already walking in circles I would for sure be if I started second guessing myself.

Darkness was falling quickly. That's more of the nature of a conifer wood. It expels the sun quickly and shadows gather even at midday. I was fighting panic and my chest was tightening. I forced myself to walk more slowly, cautiously. If I rushed in the dark and hurt myself I could be in a bad situation very quickly. Running wasn't going to get me back to the campground. I was certain by now that the forest should have shrunk back down to scrub and I should be able to hear the other campers and see firelight reflected off the lake. It was hard to tell in the dark but I was sure that the trees were at least as large as they had been, but probably larger still. I had gotten turned around and lost.

I had to stay calm. It was quiet, I was safe, I just had to keep my head until morning and everything would be alright.

I stumbled in the dark and pinwheeled my arms to keep my balance. It mostly worked, but it hadn't stopped me from getting half soaked from the small pond that I had nearly stumbled right into in the dark.  Looking closely I could see that it was reflecting a blacker black than the surrounding forest floor around it. I sat down and rung out the calves of my jeans as best as I could. At least the water didn't smell stale or swampy. It smelled like fresh air and ozone. I decided that part of keeping my head was giving up trying to find my way in the darkness and to sit down until daybreak.

The great thing about being lost in a northern forest in the summer is that the sun rises very very early. I put my back to one of the trees a little bit away from the water and focused on trying to breathe slowly. I fell asleep again and this time when I woke up it was early dawn and my stomach growled at me. I was also thirsty. I walked over to the pond and looked in it. It was very dark and I could see that it got even darker the deeper it got. I knew that that likely meant that it was rich in tannins and the good thing about tannins is that they can make water a bit safer to drink. The pond had a very small stream that ran into it, now that I was sitting and not walking I could hear it talking quietly to itself as it poured itself into the forest pool. I went down to the water and took a cautious drink. It tasted cool and delicious and I was already parched from my walk and even more from my near panic. I cupped my hands and poured as much as my hands could hold into my mouth and then forced myself to sit and see if I felt okay after.

I knew that a lot of things that live in bad water don't effect you right away, but some of them make you throw up or queasy really quick. I sat and waited.

When I decided I had waited long enough and all I felt was a deep thirst for more of the delicious water I went back to the edge of it and lie down so I could sip it up right from the edge of the water. I had lost my hair tie while I slept so I held my hair out of the water and tucked it into the neck of my shirt and drank deeply. It tasted a little bitter, almost like black tea from the pine needles and other forest offal that fell into it regularly, it also tasted delicious.

I stopped and looked up, still lying on my belly when I felt eyes watching me. Yellow eyes stared at me in the face of a large black wolf. He was panting, his mouth held open and I saw that he was trembling. He took a few steps closer to me and collapsed about four feet from the edge of the water. I pulled myself up into a cautious crouch, moving slowly. I knew a little about sick animals, enough to know that they can be far more dangerous than a healthy one. Carefully and in a crouch I edged away from the pond. I got far enough away to feel comfortable enough to stand up straight and slowly edged away. The wolf made so sign of following but his ears moved alertly, and his eyes were on me. I turned to walk away and I heard him whine.

It was the same whine my own dog would make when she was sad or lonely or hurt and I turned back before I even was aware I was doing so. I took a couple of steps towards him, waiting to see if he would tense his shoulders or make the slightest sound of a growl.

He didn't, and I walked over to him. He was still panting and up close I could see that his brilliant yellow eyes had a glaze of fear and pain on them. Feeling like I was in a dream I walked right up to him, he didn't growl and I could see now that I was close to him why he was lying down. Two wounds that I recognized at gunshots were high up on his ribs. They were matted with blood but had caked over except for a bit of dark ooze at the sides of the rough circles.  I knew that he wanted something from me, but what it was I couldn't think of until I saw him look longingly at the pool.

He was thirsty. Maybe, most likely, he was dying and he wanted a drink of water.

I reached out a hand towards him. His skin flinched and he whimpered but he put his head down on the ground. I gently touched the area near the gunshots. It radiated heat. I guessed that whoever had shot him had left him to die and now the non-lethal wounds were infected with the bullets still inside. He panted harder and whined again.

I went down to the stream and cupped my hands and brought it back to him. I held them out, wondering if he would bite my hands off even as I saw my hands going out to them, water dripping out from between them. He lapped it up, my hands were fine. His tongue had been soft and his teeth were the healthy white of an animal with a long life ahead of him. I wondered if I could do anything about the bullets. I knew that if I could get him to a vet they might be able to remove the bullets and save his life but I had no tools and no way to do any sort of surgery. I had only seen a bullet removed once, in a dog and the dog had to be sedated to keep him from biting from the pain. This was a wolf.

He looked at me with mournful eyes. I went and got him another scoop of water. He was very thirsty and most of it was spilled by his lapping tongue or my leaking hands. It wasn't enough, he was sick and thirsty and what I was able to give him wasn't enough. I reached out a cautious hand and touched his dark ear. It twitched and then sat still. I stroked the shape of his skull, the sense of terror I had had was gone and I was mesmerized by the fact that I was sitting with a wolf and he was letting me. I felt a sense of understanding with him. We were different he and I, but we were both lost. He licked at my fingers that I had left to dangle beside him. What strange nihilism had seized me that I no longer feared him?

“Do you want more water?” I was a little startled by the sound of my voice after being in silence for so long. He looked at me, his gaze was level and direct and intelligent. I wished that I knew more humans that were as honest as his gaze. I nodded at him and got him more scoops of water.

I sat down beside him, “I should probably go soon. I'm lost, I don't have any food, any way to get food and I can't stay here forever.”

He looked at me.

“I could... maybe I could find help for you... I could bring back a vet, or someone with the park... a ranger, someone might be able to help you.”

He gazed at me still.

“Don't be like that. I could bring back help, someone would care. I mean look at you, you're awesome.”

He panted, smiling at me.

“I don't know who would want to hurt you... you weren't going after something you shouldn't have were you? After a sheep or a calf or something?”

He looked at me reproachfully.

“Well, I thought I should ask. If I got help and it turned out you were in trouble somewhere I wouldn't want to bring more trouble your way.”

High above us in the pine trees a squirrel chittered angrily and a scattering of pine needles fell down into the pond. The wolf sighed.

“Do you want me to have a look at your wounds? I'm not a doctor, or anything like a doctor, but maybe I can look at it and it's not as bad as it seems.”

I swear he understood me. He put his head down and his back was more accessible to me. I looked at the shots, it was bad but maybe not as bad as I thought. It looked like the gun had only been a .22 and I could see a glint of metal when I moved his skin around. I washed my hands in the pond.

“I'm going to see if I can get those out, even if I can get one out it might hurt a bit less. Is that what you want me to do? It could hurt a lot when I try to dig around and I don't have any soap.”

His tail thudded gently in a wag on the forest floor and he kept his head down. I put my fingers into the wounds without thinking about whether it was safe or clean or anything else. He whined but stayed still as I chased the bullet with my fingers. I pulled it out carefully and slowly and then went after the next one.

After closely examining him I decided that he didn't have more than three stuck in him. The other two wounds looked like glancing blows. When I had pulled out the third one he started to bleed quite a bit. I pulled off my t-shirt and pushed it against the wound hard and the bleeding stopped after a few minutes. The wolf didn't say a word to me, but this is what I knew to be true.

He had come here from a far away place. This forest was not his home although this pond was the same in this world as it had been in his and was the reason why he had come here. He had gotten lost in this place, mistaking it at first for his own place and had returned to the pond as the last spot he had been sure was his home.

He had given up, wounded and lost but had found the pond with his last strength and by some miracle I had been here too. His name was Loberius and in his world he was the King of the Wood.

“Loberius.” I said softly. He raised his head in surprise. Had he not meant to tell me things? How had I known? I walked down to the water and washed my fingers off. Loberius got to his feet and came to the edge of the pond. He was feeling better from the wounds being clear! He lapped up water gratefully. Blood muddied the water where I had washed off my fingers. I took the bullets and washed them off too and put them in my pocket.

I expected him to leave, now that he had drank his fill and he was feeling better, but he lie down where I had fallen asleep earlier and closed his eyes. He still had my t-shirt and I felt that this gave me certain rights. I went over to him and put my head down against his flank and closed my eyes. He kissed my forehead and we both fell asleep.

I woke up again and once more, it was getting dark. I was hungry but since there was nothing to eat I took another long drink. Lobarius was awake and alert.

“I'm hungry.”

He didn't say a word, but now I could almost hear him, a voice deep and somber in my head, “Hunt with me.”

“I'll only slow you down.”

He looked at me levelly, his invitation to follow him. Looking behind me as though the campground lay within easy distance and I knew the direction I shook it off. All of it, what had been was passed and so I followed him into the woods and never saw this world again.

+ + + + +

Virginia Carraway Stark has a diverse portfolio and has many publications. Getting an early start on writing, Virginia has had a gift for communication, oration and storytelling from an early age. Over the years she has developed this into a wide range of products from screenplays to novels to articles to blogging to travel journalism. She works with other writers, artists and poets to hone her talents and to offer encouragement and insight to others.  She has been an honorable mention at Cannes Film Festival for her screenplay, “Blind Eye” and was nominated for an Aurora Award.
You can read more of her words at www.virginiastark.wordpress.com

Guest post: From London to Athens - expat or in-pat?

I left Greece running, without looking back. I didn't even spare a thought on coming back. It was my little rebellion and attempt to travel the world. 

Back in 2006, there was not a hint of cloud in the horizon to suggest how bad things will turn out for Greece. A few days ago, I had my first anniversary of being, well, an in-pat, settling back in Athens and dealing with a very different Greek reality. But Greece is Greece and England is England and no matter how much I love Athens, I will always have a soft spot for London where I spent the best part of these 8 years away.

I first arrived in the UK mid-August, in an attempt to get myself acclimatized before the Master's I came to do. Fresh British summer days greeted me, a relief after the baking 40^oC of Athens. There was a bit of a drizzle to add a note of originality. I was tanned and completely out of place. I was longing for that fog, cup of tea at hand, sitting behind net curtains gazing at the purple grey clouds, solving the mysteries of the new city I was about to call home; a bit like Agatha's Poirot I liked to think. Well, Poirot was on the background, on telly, and the mystical fog took a while to come, both literally and metaphorically.

When I just moved to the UK, everything was a little bit too exciting. Life seemed like snippets taken out of a film. Strangers crossing their gaze and immediately turning away. Popping red phone booths breaking through the grey. Obedient red bricks standing ageless next to each other, pubs with smoked fireplaces long out of use, a boat cutting across the Thames. The first restaurant meal was at a candle lit basement in Goodge Street. I had little to say to my companions, but share my enthusiasm about the move in the new city. Somewhat shy, somewhat overwhelmed I was content to sit back, overhearing whispers from here and there. From tube network to ordering etiquette, everything was a mystery. The outing was paired with a couple of pints at a pub round the corner. Pints? Why on earth would anyone drink out of a bucket I silently wondered. Of course, I spent the best part of that beer tasting visiting the ladies. And just before 12, everyone was swiftly running to the last tube, as if we were about to be turned into pumpkins when the clock struck midnight.

I must have done the rounds of the major museums and parks within the first 3 weeks. From waxy celebrities, to theater costumes and dinosaurs skeletons, from a trip to the moon, to Dutch still lifes and stiff royal portraits, London museums are an inexhaustible source of entertainment, especially when you are broke and as a student you can expect little more than that. There is more treasure, it comes for free in the form of lush green parks. Pockets of oxygen in the metropolis, lest it rains, they become muddy nightmares. Ideally, parks are covered with fog too, and this is how London envelops you, in a thin sheet of drizzly fog. No matter where you are coming from or where you are going, the city has this ability to integrate you so smoothly, you will not even notice it. You start building a life from scratch, but you are not alone. You join some hundreds of other people that, just like you, are not from around there. In London, you are never really an ex-pat, no one is looking at you weird or cares what language you speak. If so, people are either too polite to show or too busy to care. You are allowed to be yourself, but please do not jump that queue and do share a cup of tea. You become part of that amasing fabric of people, a Londoner.

And you join the rat race. Once settled in your 9 to 5, you realise you live for the weekend. A crude awakening, but with a bit more money in the pocket, you are officially entitled to enjoy a few more of the dazzling treats London has to offer. You go to gigs, you manage to grasp some cheap tickets for the theatre, throw in a bit of clubbing and these Indian take aways. And did I mention shopping? Of course you stop by to browse at the shops after work on the way home and end up with a loaded credit-card and things you really have no clue why you bought in the first place. All hail consumerism.

So, did I miss home? Hmm, sorry, no, I didn't. I was too busy to realise there was no sunshine. I had a couple of good old friends from Greece and the Elgin marbles agelessly waiting for me at the British museum. I could always get my dose of Greekiness at a restaurant and the ubiquitous Turkish kebab was always larking round the corner. Food was becoming a bit of an issue, but hey, one learns to cook their favourites. I was visiting often enough for supplies (yes I was loading my suitcase with olive oil and pies from grand-ma). I got a chance to recharge these batteries, too.

 So I was all nice and settled, and one day I decided to come back home. Truth is, I was not all that settled, my bum was itchy for something else. Something didn't agree with me, it felt as if London was sucking the life out of me. I was always short of time. I had to schedule a coffee with a friend across the vastness of the city 3 weeks ahead, if lucky. The frenzy of London eventually got the best of me, it pushed me to the leafy suburbs. In retrospect, I think this made things even worse. The commute took 1/3 of my day and wages. It also left this metallic taste, I was becoming a machine. What with the rolling hills, serene canals and farmers markets around. There was not a hint of the blue, blue sea around. I think I became homesick with 8 years delay.

So here I am, back in Athens, taking in the blue horizon and trying to build up that tan. I was aware I came back to a very changed Greece. You live and breathe crisis these days, it has become second nature. Over here you don't go shopping to entertain yourself as in London. You do go out for a drink, perhaps an inexpensive meal at your local, but more often you will get these beers and enjoy them at home, in good company. There is a thin veil of worry behind everybody's gaze, very neatly concealed and tacked away. Some go ahead and in very eloquent French shower politicians with all sort of cosmetics. That's in the laiki, the farmers market. Some people pass by these outbursts grinding their teeth, others nod and join in, most of them laugh. We are rich, in spirit.

My return surely raised more than a few eyebrows. People are overjoyed to have you back but are looking at you weird. There is always this question: why on earth did you come back now, of all times now? Well, thankfully they do not expect the answer, they know it is home. There is one greeting from a good old friend that stayed with me and still puts a smile on my face: So Gen, did you finally realise where paradise is?

I guess I did. Paradise has some very awkward habits I struggle to swallow though. It's these moments when car drivers whistle at you in the middle of the road, I must be too sexy for my own good. Then you have to walk in the middle of the road, the pavements have become parking slots, because let's face it, no one needs a pavement. And to top it all off, you have to fight with grandpas and grandmas for they are jumping the queue, be it at the bakery or tickets hall. No angry letter will save you. You actually learn to laugh at it, something I had admittedly forgotten.

Still, there are slightly more important things one has to deal with daily. It can all be summed up in one word: survival.  Within the chaos of the crisis, you actually see people reaching out for each other. Not just family, it's strangers becoming friends over a coffee and keeping in touch. Neighbours exchanging pots of homemade jams. The cava owner insisting on you trying every single barrel of wine he has, before you buy a humble bottle of liquor It's people actually being human. In London, you might have to dig for this sort of connection. Here, even amidst the craziness of Athens, people open up and spare a moment to listen. I have overheard the most interesting political debates in the Metro and exchanged the most delicious tips on wild greens with a grocers and two grand-mas whilst savouring a slice of melon at laiki. It's the little things that make Greece so special to me. Oh, and the sea breeze.

And I am going to let you in in a little secret: I am not the only one who came back to Greece. There are 3 more good friends who braved it, after being abroad for years and are getting themselves settled back home.  A few more friends left London for more exotic lands. It's by no means an easy thing to do, but not impossible. We all weighed the odds and decided to give it a go.

As for me, I have my pet project going. I get things cooking in a little blog that goes by the name Eat Yourself Greek. I love the simplicity of Greek cooking, fresh veggies and fragrant thyme. But what I like more is sharing good, honest, everyday food. So, I set up cookery workshops. You can find more about me on the blog and why not, come and share a meal. All things are best enjoyed when you share them, especially a meal.

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Most non-Greeks struggle to pronounce Eugenia Makrogianneli’s name (it’s Ev-yen-ee-a Makro-yian-el-li, in case you’re curious). She became a translator as she really wanted to help people communicate. She also wanted to travel and take photos. But instead of becoming a modern day Philleas Fog, she relocated from her native Athens to London in 2006, from where her scattered wonderings across the globe taught her one thing: people connect better through cooking.

She moved back to Athens at the height of Greece’s economic crisis in 2014. At that time, she decided to take up another craft along with that of wordsmith, and she now embraces and shares the cuisine of her homeland on her blog, http://EatYourselfGreek.com. It's also her online refuge for her Greek cooking intelligence and travel adventures.

For good or bad, Athens won her over London and she now lives in a little place between the city centre and Piraeus, from where I can get to the sea or Down Town in less than 15 minutes.