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About Ioannina

But here’s where I get twitchy—it’s lazy now. Callin’ someone a whore? Yawn. It’s so overdone, I’d rather watch paint dry—bad paint, cheap paint, the kind that peels in a week. I’d tell my friend, “Dude, if you’re gonna insult, get creative!” I mean, Celine’d never stoop that low, she’d just smirk and sip her wine. Me? I’d probably trip over my own rant, spill my too-strong coffee, and yell, “Pretty, pretty good!” at the mess. That’s whore for ya—messy, loud, and somehow still kickin’.

The residents of Kaisariani’s refugee buildings prepare for the metro

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Then, outta nowhere, this street performer starts playing the bouzouki. I’m like, “Yassou, my dude!” He’s jamming, and I can’t help but tap my foot. The vibe is infectious. I’m smiling, feeling the rhythm. But then, this guy next to me spills his drink all over my shoes. I’m like, “Really, bro?!”

Molotov Cocktails Thrown At Police Station, Journalist's Car in Athens