Travel journalist Michelle Burford scours the salons of Athens for a bit of help with her wilting hairdo. In summer , I galavanted around Greece for three months as I co-wrote a travel guidebook.
In Athens, I traded a headful of frizzy twists above, on the grounds of The Acropolis for a fresh set of braids. Which is precisely why I set out on a quest one morning: I had to find at least one Black person in Greece who could re-braid my hair.
Though Greece isβsurprise, surpriseβ98 percent Greek, I nonetheless spotted one Black person during my first week in the country.
Then one morning one of my braids completely unraveled while I was in the shower, and I got desperate. I threw on my clothes, I marched out onto the main avenue, and I waited. And waited. After 28 minutes, I actually saw another African. Faster than you can say Monistariki, I accosted her. I scrambled up the stairs to my apartment and googled the area of town the woman had mentioned.
Zippo luck. Even after trying several alternate spellings over the next half-hour, I found absolutely nothing. Africans have settled over the last several decades. Within 48 hours, I was sashaying along the lively streets of Kypseli, marveling at the vibrant colors, animated conversations, and savory smells of ethnic cuisine in this enclave that reminded me of my own Harlem neighborhood.
