I’m sitting outside at a cafe in Syntagma Square. About thirteen inches to my left, the glass panes of the windows are shattered into spiderwebs. Some two meters behind me, I can see the yellow pay phone booth where yesterday, I lost my phone card when a man grabbed my shoulder, screaming in Greek, and I turned to see a cloud of tear gas rolling towards me.
Yesterday I watched men shatter bank cameras and windows with their fists and sticks while they jeered at police and lit Athens on fire. For some reason, though, it wasn’t until right now, watching pigeons flutter onto a table through the space where there used to a pane of glass, that I really feel sad and scared.