My purpose the following day was to look. What a revealing action, one that I had ironically abandoned for nearly a month. I looked at the city, which had welcomed me the previous night with a warm clear atmosphere, now unfolding at my feet. I observed the streets and faces crowding in the bustle of a sunny Saturday, tempered by the coolness of an autumn morning. Every corner I paused to look at felt like a linen canvas, where time had left its mark—slowly, without haste, without order. The sea breeze gently caressed my face as I gazed at the White Tower of Thessaloniki, that chunky, cylindrical figure rising toward the sea, its grayish stone shining white under the sun. It serves as a reminder to both visitors and locals that city and sea share a common history: the tower marked the path back to the fishing boats laden with provisions during dark nights, while simultaneously warding off unwanted strangers.
I lost myself among the terraces and squares, amidst the murmur of a language that sounded to my ears like indecipherable onomatopoeia, and the footsteps of those following the rhythm of the day. Turning a corner, the crowd swept me toward the Kapani Market. Here, everything felt more raw, more immediate. Colors mingled on the stalls, and the aromas from the kitchens blended together: the crispy bougatsa, or the souvlaki roasting in the midday heat, the glossy skins of fruits and vegetables, the mounds of spices resembling small volcanoes, and the fish with scales gleaming like the armor of ancient knights now defeated. The atmosphere was saturated with sensory overload—salt, blood, oil, with a touch of freshly ground coffee softening the intensity of it all. People negotiated in the Mediterranean way: shouting, almost yelling, their hands moving frantically as they measured, cut and exchanged.
The following Saturday, I visited Meteora. The journey left behind the hurried pace of the metropolis, and through the bus window, I watched as the horizon blended into the sky like a painting by Gerhard Richter. In Meteora, land and sky seemed to have no boundaries. The mountains, rugged and silent, rose with a breathtaking majesty, as if shaped by the very force of Poseidon's seismic powers. On the rocks, a deep reddish hue formed by millennia of wind and rain, stood the monasteries, suspended in the air. Built centuries ago, these manmade structures appeared to defy gravity. Each one was an echo of temperance, a tangible act of faith made into stone.
Ultimately, if we allow ourselves to truly look in detail around us, this action invites listening. When we surrender to the gaze, something in the world becomes more intimate, more profound. The image turns into sound, and vice versa. Details that once went unnoticed begin to occupy a significant space. The gaze, attentive and silent, becomes a listening to what is unsaid: the echoes of the stones, the whisper of the wind between the streets, the quiet vibration of voices crossing paths. To look is to open oneself to a listening that goes beyond the audible, to perceive the hidden story in the air, what things and people want to tell us—always, when one stops with enough intention to truly look.
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