The Long Trip Home: Archives

It looks like just an ordinary street. From my second floor balcony, I can see the sweep of the road as it divides the high-rise apartments that are the new suburbs of Thessaloniki. There is little movement today save for the single car and the gypsy on her daily round checking the bins for used clothing.

The outdoor cats snooze in the sun with one eye open, waiting for a sympathetic meal of leftovers.

Opposite on the ground floor is Mrs Aracas’ gift shop – she doesn’t sell much but she has the occasional visitor for a coffee or a chat. It keeps the old women in touch and gives Mrs Aracas something to do besides falling asleep in front of the television. The old men go further afield to the taverna for a coffee and a game of cards or dominoes.

Down the road is Yannis, the local baker. The bread and spanakopita are fresh each morning. If you want anything else you have to go down to the main road supermarket where everything is in a plastic package, even the milk.

The trees that line the pavement have just been pruned, but as spring arrives their branches will grow with remarkable speed as if they know they will be required to shade the heat of summer.

Instead of vacant or underused shops, some of the high-rise apartments have parking underneath. But there is not enough, especially now with the increased car ownership – the young just don’t walk anymore.

And that is probably why it survives – the Thursday market in Santas Street. The freshness right at your door is irresistible – and it blends with smells and sounds that rise up into a living thing like the loaves baked by Yannis.

On Thursdays, a hundred or so market stalls suddenly appear in the early light. There is no sleeping in – the noise of the vendors slowly builds to disturb the otherwise quiet neighbourhood. You’ll want to rise early anyway to get the best of the produce.

Fresh fish, vegetables with their roots still crusted with dirt, red tomatoes, oranges, lemons, beans, peas, greens and salad leaves grown in the sun. Honey, cheese, sausages, marinated and fresh olives –everything made with tender care.

They are all regulars, the market traders. Santas Street is just one stop for them. Tomorrow they’ll set up elsewhere to do it all again for another set of customers and to throw some scraps at another family of outdoor cats.

The Thursday market in Santas Street is a long-standing tradition. It was here before the high-rise apartments were built. Then, people came from around the area. Now they also come down, descending from their two bedroom units to stock up for the next week.

Santas Street is no ordinary street. The market brings it to life each week – new neighbours have the chance to meet old neighbours. The crowded pavement lives and moves as it strolls between the high-rise apartments and under the awnings, looking for a bargain. In summer, people will pause under the trees; time will pass as they meet, talk, enquire, argue, and touch.

One day, maybe, a supermarket will come to live in the disused shops. The smells and colours will be shrouded in plastic, the line waiting at the check-out will shuffle forward looking at its watch and fingering its credit card; the trees will be cut down to make car parks.

When that day comes, I’ll move.