Stories Told From Balconies

I have the fondest feelings when it comes to balconies. Whether they be attached to an apartment complex or a three-story home, on the side or the front or the back of a building, it is an escape from reality for the storytellers, the daydreamers, and whomever is luckily enough to have one.

Growing up I used to live with my whole family in a three-story home. Well, three and-a-half. It was a strange yet not unusual style of a Greek house. It was constructed whereby the staircase would be open and accessible to everyone and every set of stairs led to a door of an apartment. It was built for my grandmother and her family to live in and so they did. Grandmother lived on the first floor, Uncle and his kids lived on the second floor, and my immediate family lived on the top floors. The rooms of the apartment were small, but our balcony was large enough to be an extra room itself. Surrounded by a reed fence and big leafy plants for a sense of privacy, the balcony was my escape and comfort for a child who felt lonely and isolated. It was designed by my father to keep the peering eyes of other balconies away from us, yet I became those eyes. But can you blame me? Like I said, I found myself most of the time alone at the house.

My older sister was wrapped up in layers of her own world, as she tried her hardest in school, in English school, in dancing, in friendships, in love, that she lost sight of me. I do not blame her. My twin brother -- I believe -- knew how I felt (For what are twins sharing the same room and life and not knowing how each other feels?). But, unlike myself, he was willing to live his life in his own way. He went out to play soccer, went out to see friends, went out and lived life whenever he could. I do not blame him. Never would I blame him, for I am the culprit that stole that life away from him for my own benefit without asking what he wanted. But that's a story for another day. Where was I? Ah yes... Father, too, was busy living in two worlds of his own; being known by everyone in our city, constantly talking to people between his two phones. One day he's an educator, another day a business man and in between those two roles a father. But I will not lie that I was glad most of the time when he was out of the house. Because, just for a little while, the weight of my father's expectations on me would be lifted. But I do not blame him. My mother...well...there's not much to be said about her as she was physically absent for half of my childhood. She, too, lived in another world, or a matter fact, another country, Canada. Only seeing her a couple of months out of the year, and the rest of time just a voice through a phone. I will admit, though, that voice was a lifeline for me so many times, and I don't think I realised until know --or maybe I have always known-- how much I loved that voice, more than the physical presence of my mother. She could never live up to it, the feelings it brought out of me, even if the voice belongs to her. Does that even make sense? It doesn't matter anymore. That voice is gone now, even though I see my mother every week. I do not blame her.

But lets get back on track of how my solitary self lived such life as a child. When the emptiness of the apartment was too overwhelming and the sound of the TV could not cover up the deafening silence, I would climb down the stairs of the house to visit my grandma. She would either tell me stories of her life or prepare food for the next day's lunch, but when it was time for her to rest, for she was sick, I would go back up and go straight to the balcony. I would either sit on one of the blue outdoor chairs and stare right up at the sky until I saw random spots converging into the shapes of butterflies, or I would observe the people walking up and down our narrow street through the spaces in between the fence. The balcony doors were almost always open throughout the day,so whenever I would hear the giggles or hollers of kids my age and older I would quickly jump from my seat in front of the TV and spy on them. I would feel envy when I would see them smiling and laughing at each other as they walked up the street to the nearby park with a soccer ball in hand. Now, I could have simply act like them, go to the park and join the social activities of a child, right? Well, I had. I would go to the parks where my school friends hung out and socialised as best as I could. There were good moments, like going to buy pop (specifically Fanta), after having a water fight, from the kiosks and convenience stores that were peppered throughout the neighbourhoods. However, no matter the amount of smiling I did, for I was a smiley child in social situations, I felt like I was an outsider. Unfortunately, I cannot forget when friends and family would call my siblings and I the "American kids". Whether they were envious of us being able to travel every year to another country or because we preferred most of the time to to partake in North American pop culture rather than the traditional Greek one, it didn't really matter. They always made it a point to remind us we are not exactly the same. Anyways, the feeling of not belonging was very prominent in my childhood (I still feel it to this day), but the only place that I felt like I belonged was, of course, on the balcony. I would stare up at sky, observe the planes flying by and imagine myself on one of them taking me far away from the place I called home, just so the feeling could go away. It didn't. Now, living as a young adult in another country from the one I was born and raised, I do not just feel the sense of not belonging but also the pains of nostalgia. I knew it was for the best to move away, but I do regret not enjoying the little things of my hometown to the fullest. To enjoy my Greek heritage to the fullest. Since the move, I have gone back a couple of times to visit my father who stayed there, but once the pandemic begun I haven't had the chance.

I kind of feel guilty for the way I have expressed the feelings I had about my family when I was a child in this entry. To be honest, those feelings were much worse once, for I was emotionally neglected. However, I love my family and, like I said before, I do not blame them. I do not blame them for the way they lived their life, because that was the best they could do for themselves at the time. I don't know if I can say that about myself, but I have learnt to accept my past choices and remember the good memories, like the stories from the balcony.