Journal

The storks have arrived from their African winter bases. They are busy refurbishing their nest, set up on a pole near the old school building, using fresh birch twigs. The same two storks have summered in our village for years. Our storks, we call them. Storks are often thought to mate for life, like geese – and some probably do. They return to the same nest every year, this much is true, but the two birds always migrate separately. If one of them is delayed by many days,…

How the plague came to our village, nobody remembers. Maybe a cattle trader was to blame, or a visiting relative, or the postman. Or maybe a goose from the swamps, caught in a trap and eaten for lunch, carried it into the first family that died. It was a spring day in the 1850s, this much we know, when the son of that family began to feel unwell. He started coughing and developed a fever. At first he did not tell anyone. They were peasants, his father was…

Something extraordinary is happening in the village People are leaving their houses. They actually walk in the streets, greeting and talking to each other. Young mothers push their buggies side by side. Neighbours I have not spoken to in years now stop for a klönschnack, a pleasant little chat. It is one of the ironies of the lockdown: while cities have sunk into a coma, villages are coming to life again. This village is usually quite dead. In the morning, most people take the car to work, return…

The airplanes are gone. They used to fly over this area, on their way to Hamburg airport, their contrails crisscrossing the sky in ever-changing abstract drawings. No longer. German airports are all but shut down. Lufthansa has grounded nearly all of its planes and only maintains an emergency schedule. Other airlines have ceased to operate entirely. Only the birds are left in the sky – many pigeons and buzzards, some seagulls. The other day, I saw a bald eagle soar into the clouds. Loud chatter will announce a…

I used to keep bees. It was my favourite hobby when I was at school. The other day, as my mother and I were looking at old albums, I re-discovered two photos showing myself, as a teenager, in full bee-keeping gear. The bees lived in the back of the garden, in a wooden shed painted green, with red roof tiles. We called it the bee house. It was built with an open front, like a veranda, with a long shelf for the beehives. The shed faced south-east, for…

I am here now. At home. Back in that small village in the German countryside where I grew up, miles away from any big city. A world away from Piraeus. Close to the Atlantic coast, the village is set in flat farming land, interspersed with lakes and forests. The first thing you notice when you get here is the silence. You may have trouble falling asleep, that is how utterly still it is here. A few tractors, the odd car, otherwise no traffic at all. There are many…

Another drink? Daphne asked. I nodded. Might as well. It was not like I had anything else to do. Or anywhere else to be but here, at the Veranda hotel bar. With the city’s other bars all closed, the Veranda was my only refuge now. I was the last guest left at the Cavo d’Oro hotel and had spent every evening at the Veranda, sharing tales and laughs with Daphne, the bartender. Aptly named, the Veranda was a roofed, open-air porch on the first floor, overlooking the sea.…

I needed a drink. And company, most of all. It was early evening, the city lights were coming on. From my balcony, I watched the sun go down over Piraeus. The view was spectacular as ever but somewhat meaningless now. Nothing seemed the same anymore, the value of things was shifting. To my left, built on a wooded promontory, was the venerable Greek Yacht Club. Only a few weeks earlier, I had attended a glamorous mask ball there, dancing and carousing all night long. I remembered the fanciful…

I had to get out. Out of the hotel, out of the city, to another place, away from it all. I decided to do a day trip to Aegina. That gentle island, a mere 45-minute ferry ride from Piraeus, was my favourite place to visit on weekends. It had some interesting ruins, and its hills were great for wandering. I strapped on my boots and walked to the port. It was Sunday morning but the streets of Piraeus were deserted, all cafés were closed, group gatherings banned. Social…

First, I lost my workplace. The Greek government shut down all cafés and restaurants, at least partly. No more sitting down, only take-away. Disbelieving the rumours, I walked over to my favourite café in Piraeus, where I normally write. And indeed, the chairs were piled atop the tables, red-and-white ribbon cordoned off the outside seating area. Like myself, a few other men were prowling around the café, incredulous. Most Greeks, in my observation, are not keen walkers. They prefer to sit. At most, they saunter from one café…

”You have come back?!” Georgios looked at me aghast as I walked into the hotel lobby last week, my travel bag slung over the shoulder. It was not how the long-time director of the Cavo d’Oro hotel in Piraeus normally welcomed returning guests. Then again, what was normal these days? Georgios stretched out his elbow across the reception desk. It seemed more like a defensive move than a greeting. I lifted my elbow, our bones met. “Why didn’t you stay in Germany?” he asked. “Things are getting crazy…