Thessaloniki, despite carrying the weight of around three thousand years of history (more violent than peaceful), welcomes anyone eager to enjoy its beauties with open arms. It may look down on you, but that’s only because the terraces of more or less modern buildings seem to be everywhere, generously sheltering little green oases: oleanders, olive trees, and all kinds of aromatic plants. Your first steps through Thessaloniki are taken while gazing up, utterly charmed. And only later, after shaking off the magic of the vibrant colors that envelop you, do you begin to discover its bohemian streets, the youthful cafés, the wines, the laughter. Enough to make you want to stay just a little longer than you had originally planned.
Kalispera, the locals greet us with wide smiles everywhere, asking where we’re from and offering us coffee from a briki. As any self-respecting foodies, we ask about the city’s signature flavor and immediately learn that we can’t pass through Thessaloniki without trying bougatsa, the pastry with vanilla cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. Only when we start unraveling the city’s stories do we understand why it’s bougatsa: rich, layered, sometimes murky, Thessaloniki's history has unfolded over the city in layers, just like the sheets of pastry, one on top of the other, stuck together but still distinct.
Named after Alexander the Great’s sister, Thessaloniki builds its history on a Greek foundation, later layered with Roman, Byzantine, Ottoman, Jewish, and Bulgarian influences. It’s not just the city of Aristotle but also the birthplace of Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey, whose childhood home is now a museum (a well-guarded one, as it now also houses the Turkish Consulate).
The symbol of the city is the Lefkos Pyrgos (White Tower), a citadel used by the Ottomans throughout history as a fortress, garrison, and prison. Once a symbol of a historic massacre, the “Tower of Blood” was painted white by the Greeks when they “took Thessaloniki back,” to erase the tragic memory and mark the restoration of peace. Today, the Lefkos Pyrgos has been transformed into a museum, but for most, both tourists and locals, it’s the victorious end to a long walk along the seafront, beginning at the port and ending with the tower.
If, instead, we stray off the path and venture into the narrow streets, time seems to slow down, a pace we initially find bizarre. Here and there, orange trees line the streets, colorful oleanders complement the shop windows of pastry shops displaying multicolored meringues, and on the tavern tables— instead of flower vases— small pots of Greek basil. In certain places, the intoxicating scent of roasting meat wafts through the air. “Whatever you do, please don’t eat gyros at these new fancy restaurants where you sit down— that’s not real gyros,” a local teaches us in charming English. “Real gyros is held in your hand and eaten on the street.”
And the street is lively, to say the least. In Ladadika, Thessaloniki's Old Town, musicians sing love songs to the tune of a bouzouki, accompanied by the clinking of cutlery as guests feast at tables laden with fish and seafood. The same goes for the non-touristy Greek taverns near Aristotelous Square. No hour is too late to enjoy a meal here, not even midnight. When you thank them in Greek, the tavern and café owners and waiters become even more cheerful. And generous. Because although there’s an old saying that you shouldn’t accept gifts from Greeks, their attitude is contagious, and you find yourself becoming more generous in turn. You want to take a little piece of Thessaloniki back home for everyone. Spices, pasta, powders, salts, creams, oils, magical elixirs quickly fall into the category of “souvenirs” and become immediate must-buys.
The wine, surprisingly good: close to Thessaloniki lies Naoussa, one of Greece’s most famous wine regions. On the recommendation of yet another local, we stop at a modern, lively wine bar, apparently very popular with the younger crowd, just as we descend from the highest point in the city. The place is called Egli, a very fitting name considering it’s right next door to the Agios Dimitrios Church. Here, we quickly bond with the young people serving us. The boy teaches us about the wines of the region, and the girl teaches us a few more Greek words. In conversation, she admits she’s been thinking for a while about leaving for abroad to earn better money, but finds it hard to part with Thessaloniki, the city where she was born and raised. We understand her perfectly, and we find it just as hard to say goodbye, even though we weren’t born and didn’t grow up here.
So, clichéd as it may be, we think of Zorba, of the joy of life, of life lived in slow motion— and we decide to stay one more day. We’ve already grown too fond of the morning bougatsa.
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