I am very busy with the phonecalls today and this does not seem too good to me, since I had a very nice time this weekend. I visited an African bazaar with friends on Saturday. We went there early and managed to watch dances from all parts of that continent and of course move our bodies to the rhythms of Bongo together with the people from Ethiopia and Nigeria, who (justifiably) are so proud of their traditions.
You could see people of every age (from 4 to 80 years old) on the stage, dancing in a happy-go-lucky way. A little girl around 5 years old was dancing like a professional dancer, wearing fishnet tights and a little mini skirt, all in black. She had a painted tattoo on her belly and seemed to be in real ecstasy. She looked more like the future Despina Vandi than like an innocent little girl who had fun. I am not sure if I really liked the spectacle in question. I liked more the dark-coloured beauties with the great bodies. On the road home, we had a lot of ‘hot’ issues to talk about, we little boys. Imagine our surprise when our discussion digressed because of the boogie race of a Mini Cooper with two nuns wearing their habits (one of them was actually driving!). We roared with laughter! Earlier this morning I took my car (a blue Yaris) and drove around and around. I drive for a year now (an automatic and specially adapted car). I have accelerator and the brakes at hand and everybody says I am a ‘boy-racer’ but, after so much practice, I am getting better and nobody doubts that. That day, though, the careless driving of a cop, who tried to overtake me while I intended to turn right to the square, scared me to death. I had located him early on my mirror. He had stopped as if he was making me a sign to pass and, when I decided to do so, he stepped on the accelerator. So who is the ‘boy-racer’?
The next day, which was Sunday, my friend Natasha came by to tell me how she spent last weekend in Italy, where she was on a business trip… Later on, we went for a coffee to Cholargos on the side of an artificial little lake situated in a grove.
Natasha’s arms are quite strong and she can lift my wheelchair and load it in the car relatively easily. She can push me on the hills and let me roll on the slopes (I am joking. Only lads who like listening to me crying for help and rolling like a tornado, while being careful not to fall on any tree, do such stupid things. Luckily, they always save me at the last minute.).
Most of my friends may be strong enough but I am always concerned when I go out with them in various parts of our city, because I know well that they have to overcome with me loads of physical and artificial obstacles in order to ‘have fun’ at some bar in the end. At nights, when I come home, I wonder what I would do without my friends. Some times I feel very uncomfortable when I know that the girls are probably having difficulties because of me every time that we hang around in Athens. A city that –in my opinion- will never be truly friendly to people with a disability. (I sound pessimistic, I know, but let’s not laugh at ourselves, this is a matter of mentality that hardly changes.).
For example, it seems to be very difficult to have a long-term relationship with a girl (or a boy respectively), even if one is absolutely normal in that relationship. Why should your partner choose you, when every time you go out you have to face thousands of obstacles just for your transport? On the other hand, if your partner has a disability too, then your range of activities might be oppressively restrictive, if you cannot help each other in practical things that you might come up against while hanging out. Some times it is not enough to be understood and accepted, one should be able to help you in practical things.
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