4 from 487 and counting

found when lost

back in it

after the day trip

The Nigerian prostitutes are so beautiful. They stand lamp lit on a corner strewn with trash from an overflowing dumpster. Their colorful clothing shows off their powerful bodies. Their faces are perfection; their hair defies laws of physics. They do not notice me; at least they do not look as we walk by. They seem only to see each other, laughing as they teeter on the highest of heels. My friend and I pass them once, on our way to buy a late night telephone card, and in five minutes we pass back again. This time, there are two fewer women. My friend doesn’t look. I try to follow his example, but I can’t avert my eyes. These women are so beautiful, and they have a bold unshakable confidence that Greek women do not. I admire this. When we are one block away, my friend turns to me and makes sure that I know that all of the prostitutes are all Nigerian. There are no Ghanaians among them. I tell him that I don’t care where they are from, all of us were standing together on the same dirty corner of Athens late at night, and anyway I thought that they were beautiful. He shakes his head and falls silent as if there is no possible response to such naivety. We walk a few more blocks and stand at the bus stop on the busiest late night corner waiting for the 813. An old looking young man weaves between the speeding traffic speaking madly. He is almost hit several times, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He is concentrating on something, but only he can know what. My friend stands behind me, singing quietly to himself. A tall man from South Asia stands to the side of us. He looks as if this is the last place on earth he would expect to find himself. He seems both surprised and disappointed to be there, looking at the sad spectacle of a junkie in traffic, standing next to a tired American woman, and a humming Ghanaian man. Finally our bus comes and my friend and I enter. He looks around carefully and spotting someone he knows, he looks the other way. I ask him why, and he says, “Tonight I am not in the mood.” The stress of his life is starting to show in his face and in the now careless movements of his body. I am not sure if I should worry about him or not. When I almost miss my stop, he saves me, calling loudly in Greek for the bus to wait while I get off. I push my way through the knot of old women on their way home from church and exit. My feet and hips are tired from walking all day, and as I make my way home I think about how sore the feet of the Nigerian prostitutes must be after standing for hours on that dark slippery corner.