It was a brilliant, blustery day. The honey sandstone walls bathed in its golden sheen and sparkles under the blue.

It was the final day in Oxford. The final day for a long, long time. So why not take a stroll around town? Why not capture, in my parting shots, the essence of Oxford?

But what is the essence of the place I've built my life for the last 4 year?

I strolled past every college. Every door opened or closed. These are the doors that guard the other-worldly world behind. These doors stood to separate the time-capsule within it and the ever changing world out there.

It was quiet. A Saturday where no one was really in the colleges. Perhaps that was the kind of life I led for four years, different from the busyness of a city, the city I lived in for most of my life. The pace is slow. There is nothing much else to do other than the people you see, building and hearing interesting relationships and ideas. There is time to consider what to do. Sure, this sounds like typical student life, but Oxford gave the air of aloofness and perfection. It is a predictability that sounded more optimistic than the roiling mess at home.

I miss such simplicity.

Those doors reflect the character of each college. And these doors will defend those worlds for centuries to come. 

After the annual Jazz festival in Copenhagen (excellent, but a story for another day), one wouldn't expect Stockholm to top that. Not that it lack musicians (think Avicii), but a festival of open air concerts is quite hard to beat.

But perhaps what I didn't anticipate was the mysterious power of nostalgia.

As I roam the city of Stockholm (larger than expected to be honest), tired out by the warm sun, I wandered into a bicycle tunnel beneath a hill in Ostermalm. This is no normal bicycle track of course. Given the predilection for Stockholm adorning its public spaces, this tunnel is equipped with a resonating railing. At a certain pitch the tunnel would sing (or eerily a wail really). For the uninitiated, it'd be a scary experience, as if ghosts are wailing for their release from the walls.

This wail, however, seem to amplify a particular note from a melody played in the tunnel.

The wail was a high pitched one, but the melody came from some stuttering, low pitched strumming, as if the player was learning his notes. Two notes were played and stopped, with one of it hitting the resonating frequency and sending the tunnel into a glow of a wail. He tries again, another wail.

I stared back.

Not out of annoyance, but that the strum was one that I was familiar with.

Yes, the ghost of my past did appear. Not Haunters or Gastly of past, but of a musical instrument that followed me for years. And which a copy of it now permanently stuck onto the back of my phone.

Yes, it did sound like a Liu Qin (柳琴), just at a lower pitch.

I did not linger, but turned back and stared, twice. Melodies of the past now stuck in my head, repeating the oh so familiar songs I've played in the days of yore.

So I returned the next day.

There was that old man who was busking with his mandolin, with a music stand in front of him. Busking is probably an overstatement, its sounded more like an old man trying to learn the mandolin while earning some money from kind strangers. Out of pity, perhaps.

I did the same, but turned back and spoke with him. Even in halting English we were kindred spirits, sharing the same love for a lesser musical instrument family. There was a wonderment as he looked at a picture of the Liu Qin, a surprise that there is another instrument out there that sounds like it. And indeed unexpectedly the rarely used pick I've always held in my wallet finally had its value, an object of discussion.

We parted ways. But perhaps I should have played something, to share bit more of the life that I once had. And stories that he would have.

***

The past. Indeed my past is filled with music. Unintended or not, those days of time consuming practice did not go to waste. It is there, always there. Just like the past. It will never fade. It will always, always be there.

Like the ghosts of the past, it sometimes does glow out of the depths of a resonating tunnel, and the soul.

Welcome to Athens. 

Surely as you may have thought, what foolishness have brought me to Athens in the midst of wrangling between a bankrupt government and the "troika" of creditors? And when banks are closed and ATM limited?

Secretly perhaps we wanted to arrive in Athens for all the excitement. "Historical" decisions in a city that which had left a way greater historical footprint than the current chaos. Financial bankruptcy will most probably be a small footnote compared to the triple influence of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle over Western civilisation.

It isn't a pretty city in all honesty.

The mass construction in the 1960's led to huge Brutalist, indeed ugly looking city of tall apartments and narrow streets in the suburbs, while the centre is dominated by the Acropolis hill and the touristy (maybe 1700's-ish) Plaka area at the centre. More of this in later post. Roads are pockmarked, and while the Metro and buses do exist surprisingly well (incredible for a city probably haven't had a lot of funding for some time) they do look old, 1990's feel. 

But it is too a rapidly ageing city. On the streets, in the restaurants, nearly everyone is either tourists or at least older than 50. Perhaps we were out during working hours and in the hot sun but it does become apparent the longer we were in even on the weekends. 

Now back to the hottest topic: austerity and the people.

Athenians do not seem to be passionately conversational nor cold and respectful to people. Rather they are nice people (even when you are lost and know no Greek some old lady would walk you to your place!), and it is one thing that stood out throughout our time. Nor do the people seem lazy. I have seen "worse" professionalism in countries that aren't in credit crunch (hint Malaysian public transportation and services) but even in the midst of hardship people still work. And none of the protest I've bumped into (yes, all three evenings by different groups) nothing is damaged, only buses to my accommodation blocked out at 5pm (protests at the same time each day too!)

That seem odd in the face of the media onslaught of a city in crisis. No one attempted to rob us nor do the street seem filled with shady or desperate people trying to nick a living. The dignity of living life well meant the cafe's are still filled at 6pm (pre-dinner coffee as per tradition) and restaurants still open. Families still do have hearty meals together on Sunday and busy as ever. Normality reigns, and even with the protests in the Syntagma Square facing the Parliament no one are too riled to start fighting. London probably seem more threatening then crisis hit Athens. 

All the while the beginnings of democracy watches down from the Temple of Athena, the Parthenon. The contract between the demos (the citizens) and the city to remove all tyrants by law if they ever exists that once stood at the gates to the Pynx (site of the Athenian assembly, the ekklesia) still stands in a museum. The Acropolis as the crowning glory of the city, the Agora as the city centre and centre of commerce.