Electrophone

Summertime in Prague
You do a simple action: you connect to www.radiofono.gr/live -because you suddenly missed the sound of your own language- and you choose Μελωδία fm among several options, but then it is the demon of the random melancholy who takes the steering wheel from your hands, with the decisive motion of a youthful apprentice. And it is the night, it is the hour, it is the specific four, four and a half minutes that Elli Paspala is singing, and it is the moment that your ears are open to comprehend the words, which on other occasions just come as blocks of cemented sensation. You set your adventure just for the sake of language, but the sentences come in english:

Summertime in Prague
When blood was warm, when blood was young
After all those tears
After all those years I long for...

Summertime in Prague
We were so rich without a dime
When I was your queen
And you were my king
Without a palace

We would sleep in cheap hotels
And wake up from the sound
Of bells on Sundays
We would only drink cheap wine
But I was yours and you were mine

Summertime in Prague
I was a fool I could not see
That you were meant to be
The only one for me
Now I long for...

We would sleep in cheap hotels
And wake up from the sound
Of bells on Sundays
We would only drink cheap wine
But I was yours and you were mine

Summertime in Prague
When blood was warm, when blood was young
After all those tears
After all those years I long for...
Summertime in Prague...

and there is a special breaking of the beautiful voice at that "I was yours and you weeeeeeere miii--ne". Then you are left behind, on the stopped carriage of the comments of the radio-producer: "in simple things, truth and deep emotion are to be found..." and then you do not listen anymore. You go back to the Summertime in Prague (last year) which was fine, but your steps take you even to other more meaningful "Pragues", with Maria and Leonidas on Skopelos, on the rock, with your long hair and the dozens of cigarettes. Walking for many kilometers, pausing under the tree (eating plums and drinking from the public fountain), Maria in a black blouse (how did she get this idea in mid July?) Leonidas in his honey coloured gaze. On the train, back to our Thessaloniki, I think we were tearful. For no specific reason. For all good reasons.