Once I made a mix tape for a Russian girl.

She came here for a couple of weeks on business

It was a small collection of songs by  90’s greek “indie” artists of the punk/rock sound cause she said she liked the genre and wanted to learn about greek artists that followed it.

Hell, I liked those songs too and I hadn’t done that for anyone before so I jumped to it.

I remember spending ages trying to translate greek lyrics into english, discovering that, when you isolated them from the music and song, half of them didn’t make any sense in greek, let alone any other language.

A couple of days after I gave her the CD I asked her what she thought of her.

Her reply, a ritual of silence, lip movements, hesitation and factual statements related to the number of songs on the disk made it plain that it wasn’t something that she would fondly remember

A couple of days later she went back to Russia and I never heard from her again

Most of the time I recall this incident as an anecdote of life, devoid of any significance.

But sometimes it lingers on as all unsolved mysteries do. Just like finding where Amelia Earhart’s plane crashed wouldn’t make any difference to the lives of people today, finding out what exactly she didn’t like back then wouldn’t make a difference in mine; yet I like to think that such closure would at least leave me with a spoonful of satisfaction, much like turning the last page of a book brings with it a sense of accomploshment no matter how bad the story was.

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