Adrianne Kalfopoulou Because the News Was Bad - 4/3/2015, Athens, Greece I picked up honey from a man who didn’t give receipts, dark curls of homemade pasta with pitouri. The kitchen isn’t warm but there’s tea for evenings when I sit in it, and wine that’s not expensive. These accomplishments are so small I don’t know if I can even use the word for what they celebrate. Though it is an occasion when you find the woman still there who sells honey and fruit at the stand on Panepistimiou. She was there for years, bagging the healthy-looking apples and oranges and bananas and the cherries and plums when they were in season, her rough hands with their polished nails, dark reds or pinks were the colors I remember, I think it was important for her to polish her nails. The honey she sold was the best and cheapest buy, it came from Tripoli she said, the man who had the bees delivered only certain times a month. Behind the fruit stand the heroin addicts shoot up on the sidewalk, you sometimes recognized the faces, they were the same ones waiting for the pushers who don’t always look much different from the users, maybe quicker on their feet, more alert. The police are rarely around. I go to work every day feeling as if that is already something to manage, the trip to work not an accomplishment in the way receiving an award might be. Kiki wrote me that she is reading Rimbaud, “delighted” by the poems. I don’t think this is a verb used frequently to describe Rimbaud, but it says a lot about perspective. Kiki also said that the horizon felt empty, and the line between being devastated and saved was thinner than anyone realized so we really can’t talk about a celebration or an accomplishment though we enjoy the wine and honey and poetry.