The Kiosk, the Acropolis, and the Secrets I Never Sold

They call me Antonis, and I’ve run the same periptero—a tiny kiosk—on a corner of Koukaki for nearly 34 years. Most passersby barely notice it, but it has been my stage, my confessional booth, and at times, my cage. From where I stand, if you angle your head just so, you catch the Acropolis in the corner of your eye, like a stubborn ghost reminding you of who you were meant to be.

I wasn’t meant to run a kiosk. I wanted to become a theater actor, a proper one, not just an understudy in an amateur troupe. I studied at the Drama School of Athens with dreams of Euripides and Shakespeare, believing that words could heal old wounds. But the world didn’t clap when I needed it to, and a broken leg during a rehearsal at 26 made sure I wouldn’t dance across any stage again. That leg healed crooked, and so did my plans. I took over the kiosk from my uncle who was heading to Australia. Said I’d do it "just for a year or two." That was in 1991.

Athens, you know, has a way of holding onto you. The city doesn’t seduce—it devours you gently, like a vine wrapping around old marble. It hums with history, sure, but it's the contradictions I love: chaos and beauty, anger and affection, noise and silence, all baked under the same sun. Athens is not postcard-perfect; it’s cigarette butts on neoclassical balconies and philosophy scribbled on broken pavements.

From my kiosk, I’ve sold gum to politicians, handed newspapers to philosophers, and once—true story—I sold a condom to a bishop who didn’t recognize me from Sunday liturgy. Or maybe he did, and we just smiled in mutual embarrassment. Athens is small like that. People know. But they don’t always speak.

Let me tell you a truth I never shared: I used to write anonymous poems on napkins and slip them into people’s purchases. It started after my divorce. Lefki, my ex, left me when I became more kiosk than man. She said I’d stopped dreaming. Maybe she was right. So I began to write. Sometimes love poems, sometimes short thoughts about life, time, death, or the traffic on Syngrou Avenue. A few regulars started to collect them. They’d come by and ask for a packet of smokes and “one of your secrets.” It became a thing.

I never told anyone I was the writer, not even my daughter, who thinks I’ve only ever read instruction manuals and receipts. One of those napkins made it to a small literary journal, copied and posted by a university student who used to come for chocolate croissants after class. I saw it once on the internet, with a caption: “Author unknown, but I think he sells newspapers.” I laughed until I cried.

And now, at 60, I have come to see that the kiosk was my stage after all. Here, I’ve watched lives unfold in snippets. The old man who buys crosswords and flirts with death but fears the dark. The woman who used to be a ballerina and now sells olives at the laiki market. The refugee who thanks me every morning in Greek better than most locals. I’ve seen kids grow up, disappear, return with strollers.

We Athenians have an odd relationship with time. We talk about ancient glories but forget to water the basil in our yards. We argue like philosophers and love like poets. We complain constantly, but if you need help at 3 a.m., someone will show up with tsipouro and bad advice. My kiosk taught me that.

And here’s the plot twist: last summer, I sold the kiosk. Not because I was tired of it, but because I was ready to write without hiding behind a fridge of Red Bulls. I still hang around, though. I play backgammon at Filopappou Hill, read out loud to tourists who don’t understand a word, and once a week, I teach storytelling to high schoolers in Petralona. I tell them, “Your story is already happening. Don’t wait for the perfect time to live it.”

So what have I learned?

I’ve learned that dreams may twist, but they rarely die. They just find new costumes.

I’ve learned that in Athens, people don’t tell you their secrets outright—you must listen between the lines, in their curses and their coffee orders.

I’ve learned that even the smallest place—like a kiosk—can be a stage, a temple, a diary.

And mostly, I’ve learned that writing your truth, even on a napkin, can keep you human.

Take-away tips from a once-reluctant kiosk poet:

• Don't wait for applause to start living your life.

• Hide poetry in unexpected places—it keeps people curious and connected.

• Know your neighborhood like your own breath; it’s where your real education happens.

• Let go when you’re full. Then go do the thing you were afraid of.

• Athens rewards those who stay still just long enough to really see her.

Come visit sometime. I’m the guy with the crooked leg, reading poetry at the base of the Acropolis, muttering to pigeons and gods.