Blue

 Blue was the color of the telephone booth in the plateia of the small village in Lefkada. Ovidiu, Chris and I had rented a room above the cafeneio of the village and were enjoying the morning looking down from our balcony at the center of the village. The cafeneio was the place were people would gather to drink and talk about the news, to get away from the wives. The place were you could drop off or pick up the occasional letters. Letters that would come to the village, with a name on them.  And on such occasions the owner would send word for the addressee to come get them.

The old woman who was coming towards the cafeneio was short, pressed by the years closer to the ground.  But was walking firmly toward the phone booth. She used her card, waited a while for the connection to happen, and started talking loudly to her daughter. Maybe because she could not hear well, or because she had to be heard al to way in Australia we learned from our balcony as the old woman was asking how was the weather in Melbourne. And how were the kids? Like most of the youngsters, her daughter too had fled the village in search of work, water, and a more secure life for them and their children. The sky was the limit to dreams of the youth. The sky and the seas were also separating the two. The sea was the solace for the mother left at home , in her white village. And the one weekly call, from the blue telephone booth in front of the cafeneio. 

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