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In the waning dusk of the hottest summer day so far, the silhouette of the approaching yellow cab seems suspended as it slowly makes its way towards me.
The face mask which I am wearing makes my glasses slightly foggy. I squint in order to identify the number plate. The cab stops in front of me, and the masked driver leans out of his window. The muffled sound of his voice utters my name. I enter the cab in silence. The heavy plastic screen separating me from the driver hinders any kind of verbal communication.
We arrive at the entrance to the Municipal Park and I can see the long queue of people standing at a distance behind each other, snaking slowly towards the brightly lit entrance where the names of tonight's performers, Rita and Manolis, are advertised. Have we all come together tonight longing to hear the old Greek ballads of our youth? Clutching my printed ticket, I push the mask tightly against my nose. A plastic gun points at my forehead and checks my temperature.
A masked usher guides me silently through the seated throng where hushed conversations carry a sense of muted anticipation … I try to pick up on any of the familiar social cues. But there is no clinking of glasses, no distinct smell of cigarettes, no jubilant fans waving to each other as they recognise friends across the sea of faces, no shouts trying to attract the waiters' attention. I am struck by the absence of person-to-person connectedness as I, like others, make only fleeting eye contact with strangers. On my seat, I am met with a sheet of paper urging me to stay seated and not to move around. As the night settles around me, only the light of the ushers' torches can be seen pointing people to their places.