PORTO LEONE WITH HOWLIN

I was born in a working class neighbourhood 10 minutes away from the port of Piraeus, a town that watches ships pass it by silently every day without ever looking back. Most people get a glimpse of Piraeus only during the small hours, while catching a early boat to the Cyclades with heavy eyelids, collapsing under the weight of heavy backpacks with a cold coffee in hand. The promise of tranquility on the island, the allure of the Aegean is too strong to let you dedicate a minute to love this forlorn town, standing here patiently for the last 3000 years waiting to be embraced by the unforgiving traveler.

I met with my Belgian friends Howlin to shoot their summer collection a while ago. We met this old lady with no teeth that wanted to pose for me. Her old friend with a Ferrari hat that was keen to discuss the war in Ukraine and hated Putin. We moved though the port hiding from Port Police while shooting casualky among the homless that occupy the port when tourists are not around. We ended up in Keratsini, eating small shrimps and fried calamari as the sun set. A guard watching over the fishing boats was telling us about his shift ending at 6 in the morning. He slept in a small room at the back of a big cargo ship. The flour mills behind us where casting their long shadows upon us. We drove back through Petrou Ralli avenue. Suburbia. The red rear lights from cars glowing sleepy in the distance. Athens so far away.