I get to Syntagma Square at four in the morning, after more than twelve hours on the road from Paris. The sky is dark and the square, enveloped in a lush yellow light. The luxury hotel on one side and the National Palace on another, perpendicular block stand in contrast to the shabbiness of the streets that were my first view of the city on the night ride from the airport. Just as I am about to begin my search for a cab, I spot a old, lone dog, a husky type, lying in the middle of the wide sidewalk across the road from the palace. He lifts its head up, enough for me to look into its cloudy yet attentive eyes, and there I go: despite the hour and degree of doubt about what I should be doing, I set about the task of light metering, intent - even after the many hours of heat, travel and grumpy people at the Belgrade airport where I caught my connecting flight - on not missing the chance to get this lone heir of nordic sled dogs resting in the almost breezeless heat of an Athens square.
I am taking too long to get my settings adjusted, but the atmosphere relaxes me: there is a Latin American family that has also just gotten off the bus, and some English-speaking tourists , and as I locate the taxi stop just at the near corner of the square, am inclined to believe the words of the hotel staff who have reassured me that I am within easy and safe walking distance from my cheap rented room. So I can take my own sweet time...
It is then that a woman appears - short, middle aged, with dark,cropped hair - carrying several bags, including a white plastic one that is sagging under the weight of its contents. She stops right next to the dog, who lifts his whitening muzzle again, without getting up, his ears anxiously pricked as she begins to pull out the goodies/ pieces of beef, chicken hearts, an endless stream of what appear to be uncooked scraps. She pays no attention to me at first, until I attempt communication, expecting - and soon confirming - that we have no common linguistic denominator. Yet she does manage to tell me that this dog, a "Malmut" - not a Husky, but like one, she seems to be saying - is named Konstantinos. "Konstantinos", she repeats emphatically, pointing to the contented dog who continues to enjoy his late night feast. "Here", she indicates with a sweeping gesture when I ask about his home, his family; "everyone", she says, using the English word and raising her outstretched arms to make it clear she refers to the entire population of the Square's regulars. "Love, I love!" she repeats, pounding on her chest, right over her heart. I ask if I can take their picture, and she willingly positions herself alongside here beloved friend; with gestures I am able to manage a bit of direction - to move closer to Konstantinos, look upward towards me - as she also gently directs him, his alert but dilated pupils, his kind face, this dog who is living out his last days on the city square, and is cared for. Not knowing whether I will be able to return over the course of the ensuing days, which promise to be hectic and hot, and to take me who-knows-where, I thank her as emphatically as I can. She smiles and then busies herself again with Konstantinos, pulling the scraps from the white plastic bag which lies on the ground a few steps away, and is now almost empty.
