The Harmony of Pythagoras

“What time is it?”
“Twenty-five to three.”
“Shit, I didn’t realise it was so late.”
“It’s not so late. You are so young!”
“I’m not so young. I’m twenty-seven.”

On the way home, we talk about youth and life and  happiness.

“You don’t remember the nights you didn’t get enough sleep, dear. Life is friends and conversation. Let your experiences overflow. Fill your soul. Wealth is not about money. Write. You cannot write in Greece because you are too busy living. But where else are you to go? What will you write about in Australia? Kangaroos? London? You wrote in London because you had to stay indoors. This is the country of creativity. Take it from me. I have been all over the world but nothing compares to Greece. Find a good man. Let him love you. Love will inspire you. You will not find him hanging around the same bars in the suburbs. Go out. Live. Write. You are young. Talk to people. Date. Connect. As long as you feed your soul, you will be okay.”
“I try.”
“That’s all life’s about, honey.”
“I know. I try. You know, you’re an old soul.”
“Listen to what I tell you!”
“You’re a very old soul and you know it! Old souls always recognise each other.”
“Goodnight, honey! Filakia!*”

On nights like this I am convinced that cab-drivers are messengers of The Universe.

The Harmony of Pythagoras: How Pythagoras discovered harmony, ergo, music.

Φιλάκια – Filakia – Little kisses
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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

13 thoughts on “The Harmony of Pythagoras”

  1. Fabulous. Two years ago I moved from a “taxi-less” (really anti-taxi, truth be told) city to living in the middle of a city intentionally redesigned to be pedestrian-friendly (anti-parking, natch). As such, though I’ve traveled extensively and learned adaptation, I’ve had to learn to cohabitate with a living city that is not just concrete and glass but the trains and buses and trollies and taxis (and the pussyfoots, if you know the term). My evolving understanding of taxi drivers, since they have gone from souvenir baubles in strange cities to familiar voices of my home, is that they are witnesses – night after night and many times per – to one of the most vulnerable moments for all of us: when we are packing up all the parts of us that we push to the surface to be our sociable (laughable, enjoyable, fuckable) selves, and bringing it all back inside. There’s an emotional “balancing of the books” that has to happen and it typically starts in the cab. It’s difficult to name another profession where someone is exposed to that much raw, unguarded humanness…and that must naturally feed wisdom. People say it’s bartenders that have seen and heard it all, but having done my time in that job I can say it’s cabbies.

    (And, btw, “old soul” occurred to me as well while reading her words.)

    1. Thank you. A lot of people complain about cab drivers but I think I’ve been pretty lucky. They’ve definitely been messengers of the Universe during pivotal times!

  2. I had a taxi driver in Paris in January, when I was going to the train station to leave the city, who was perhaps in his mid-50s or early-60s, a squat gruff older Eastern European/Slavic man. His French was shaky, he was extremely brusque when I got in the cab, and he spent most of the trip speaking whatever Eastern/Slavic language he spoke with a person on the other end of his cell phone ear piece thingie. But, when we got to the train station, and he had gotten my bags out of the trunk, he paused as I was paying him and asked me “Your hair…do you do that yourself?” And I said that I re-do the blue every month or so, but I have go to the hairdresser to have it all tended to professionally a few times a year. And he gave me this giant smile, and said “Keep doing that! It is perfect for you!” And I laughed, and said that I had just been thinking I probably needed to change it soon, because I had been doing this for two years already. And he touched my arm and shook his head very emphatically, and said “No, no — it is you! You must keep it that way!” And then he said some sweet goodbye/have a good trip things, and we parted, and it was the funniest dearest thing, because of all the strangers who ever comment on my hair, he was the last person I would have expected to say anything of the sort, in his heavily-accented broken French. It made me smile for a long while after.

    I love taxi drivers. When my legs weren’t working properly, I had to take taxis all the time here, and I had so many beautiful moments with taxi drivers.

    p.s. Elephant sends his love.

    1. It’s always about the little, beautiful moments!

      Also, Paris- sigh.

      Jeffrey is sleeping right now but he gave me a mumble that I assume was hello!

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