By Nitsa Anastasiades
(February, 2025)
Things really haven’t changed since I lived in a certain country and this was thirty years ago.
I remember back then, being touched in the street, on my backside, my child to my left, my husband, the other side. I had been wearing a long flared skirt, flowery, with fairly muted colours, thinking—together with my long and white sleeved buttoned-up shirt—I was respecting the culture.
Today I took a walk outside, in the same place, although a different district, as a sightseer would, backpack on my back, Reebok trainers, black tights, matching coloured skirt, although more modern this time—in a jean-like material and mid-knee.
My neighbourhood is pretty ‘local’ and ….‘happening’, some might call it—with the usual western outlets and coffee bars, intermingled with local grills, takeaway joints and quite good attempts at international cuisine. Occasionally, you see westerners, but mainly it has a multinational workforce with men drinking coffee outside.
I love the freedom of walking outdoors, looking up at the varied buildings advertising Ladies’ Nights, Russian all girl bands and two for one all day breakfast breakfasts. You also get to pop into bistro-type coffee bar restaurants you wondered about, passing them in your car, surprised, on foot, at their vastness, inside—their old fashioned-ness and sheer potential, if anyone knew about them…
It was at his point I crossed the road, by the traffic lights, and did a complete U around my block, heading towards, yes, Starbucks, where I would unzip out of its felt case, my laptop and begin my afternoon’s novel writing.
Two iPhones were held in my direction—snap—one to the left, the other right, the photographers’ faces then burrowed in their screens, a thumbs-up across the street to each other—you become observant as a writer.
I sat in Starbucks, well actually outside it—why not?—a courtyard conveniently located on the edge of my street with ample view of the sporadic traffic, and likewise lady with an umbrella…It is pooosiee today, my late mother, in Greek Cypriot dialect—God rest her soul—would have said for this type of ‘cloudy’, I suppose, day, where all merges into one, hangs in the air ready to pop, but instead sheds droplets delicately on your work.
A great looking man with stunning green eyes sat opposite me—very confident—jogging pants, t-shirt, as though just returned from the gym. Then, an elderly gentleman from the street to my right asked me in desperate tones, something, something pressing, pointing to the right side at a demolished shop being worked on, by workmen: Sorry, I said, only English (and Greek, some French, German, I might have added), when he briskly vanished.
I stilted the urge to go inside—I came out to be out and out I was going to enjoy, despite the dribbles on my computer, which I wiped, shut, put under my arm and sat a good deal longer outside, watching the rain and strange stares.
In my travel/journeys collection Our Foreign Borders, story: ‘Ukraine, 2016, Waiting on the Other Side’, a conversation (extract) between female taxi driver, Gigi, and couple Lorra and James, goes thus:
From driver Gigi’s perspective:
‘They say,’ I tell them, ‘that in many Eastern countries, women now, they are driving, a lot of them.’
‘That’s right,’ Mr James says to me. ‘It’s good to see.’
She’s asleep.
‘And it is fantastic, at last,’ she mouths, her eyes firmly shut, ‘to be addressed as “Madam” and not “Sir”, yes, when entering and exiting a taxi.’
She elaborates on how, in many countries they’ve visited around the globe, male drivers still only address the Sir, as though the She does not exist. ‘And that’s not excluding a lot of Europe, either, unfortunately.’
‘Goodness,’ I tell her, imagining how I’d be boxing everyone over there. The worst they do to us here, I tell them—and not because we’re women, but with Uber—is block our path to the airport, oftentimes: protests, fights, so we don’t get their business. Uber could be in danger, I tell them, you know? —because of this problem. Nobody knows its future right now.
The air, outside, here, the rancid drain smells, roofs, eclectic facades and… beep beep … Seriously? I have to be chaperoned now??
I went in, and not because of the annoyances (well, partly because of them), and took a window seat, cosy chairs around a square coffee table. Interestingly, only men again (a few inside) and totally different atmosphere. A woman’s, as well as a man’s, place, clearly, unlike the Cyprus local kefeneia—old traditional coffee shops—where the mighty Cypriot villager’s boot still stamps. But this is Starbucks. And Cyprus has it too, where—whatever gender you are, penguin (to part phrase Mr Morgan), included—you can camp, write, chill in, read, put your feet up, be ignored in, do virtually whatever you want in…
A narrator, in another of my stories: ‘Memories from O’D-of-A’ from the same collection,
‘pensively’ ‘poses’… ‘against lone men angling their cameras through the mall’s coffee shop fountain’ as she takes a shopping spree break, looking neither left, or right, afterwards, but walking straight ahead so she doesn’t attract attention—
In Mumbai where I’ve lived, and Delhi—but particularly in Mumbai—I recall taking several photos of groups of men dominating public spaces—on the road side, for example—enjoying masala chai, vada pav (Mumbai burger) or crunchy bhel puri—gram flour mixed snacks—looking around, architecture above them, at the passing traffic, under trees, enjoying a chat. Some could be alone, or in pairs, walking or not, as they saw fit. Only in Delhi, and this was Noida, a new and developing tech district, did I see young people in small groups or pairs enjoying such an activity, and at night. In both Mumbai and Rajasthan, however, women would occasionally be seen stopping for a quick snack—popping pani puri, little round puffs with spiced water and veggie fillings in their mouths, on their way back from the nearby bustling market—or with family members during festivities, like Diwali.
Change, I want to believe, is inevitable; evident, and, although small scale, sporadic measures in these regions for safeguarding individuals whilst travelling— like GoPink cabs (!—no explanation needed there) and shared footpaths (wouldn’t you say God’s earth is for all??), ‘Women Only’ gardens (retaliation to men enjoying chai and chat on the side of the road, is it?), better lighting to improve safety … (for whom?), isn’t it clear work from the roots up is what is needed? Freedom for all? To move? Work? Enjoy a coffee? Outside or sideways?— no matter what your sex is? Isn’t it? Interested to hear your thoughts on this one x
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