Kallithea Market

a bridge towards the agora

(Words) Katerína Papanikolopoulos
(Images) Irini Stamatiadi

Somewhere there, somewhere there… 

One day, there was soil of deep red, like the thigh-shaped terracotta of roof tiles. And years later, a skeleton of iron, cement, and aluminum emerged, knotted with half-lit cigarettes on the forged path. This is how generations are born – from actions that lower the soil to raise a building. The transmission of raw material and that of the ‘pneuma’.  And with these earth-born hands, the agora of Kallithea was born – the sign of a Pontiac heart that pulses and laughs with all the children’s feet that have passed from the lowered door. Within this porcelain time that has broken, the children and voices have lowered their heads. Only a hushed whisper of memory remains, and the agora with blaring eyes still is re-born. 

It is the balcony of one mnemonic time. Like an iconostasis rebuilt—where the farmers once plowed, the agora emerged, plot after plot, and the polyphony of their intentions brought forth one, or many, miracles: the ones that are saved, and the ones that must be saved. “For us, it is a lifetime,” they say, and the lights dim on the rooftop of this old structure melting under the bitterness of the years, its cornice weathered by the glances that long ago ceased to rise toward it. Through the scent of bread and coffee, the market of Kallithea puts to flame a new century into being.