The pungent sting of teargas seeped into the car, while a swarm of faceless riot police, alien in gasmasks and segmented armor, lumbered into the square. As we sat in the car philosophizing the value of “dude let’s get outta here” vs. “dude relax it’s nothing”, several sharp explosions punctured the night, followed by shouting and the dull thud of flashbangs.In a show of mutual agreement that Greek politicians could learn a lot from, we concluded that Exarcheia was quite blasé after all, while Psiri was clearly the place to be.

Historically, Psiri has been home to influential artists and poets. It was here that Lord Byron first laid eyes on his muse, Teresa Makri, who inspired in him the words of “Maid of Athens, ‘ere we part”. A tiny neighborhood in the heart of old Athens, it’s main square is called “Heroes’ Square,” after the glorious heroes of the Greek War of Independance. Alas, as Giannis Kairofyllas surmises in The History of Psiri, the association is now more with the shady individuals that used to frequent the square. These were the manges, cocky ladies’ men at best, drunken brawlers at worst. As the era of old Athens gave way to cosmopolitanism, so did the manges’ dens become the haunts of beggars and addicts, their sunken eyes and ravaged bodies scaring off tourists.

Since the early 90s, though, the area has experienced substantial gentrification and been brought to life by colorful bars and restaurants. Every venue encroaches a little bit more than it should onto the road, so the sidewalk is a patio, and the street an impromptu sidewalk. At the very end of Miaouli street is where we hold court on most weekends, in the land of Ousies. Translatable from Greek as either “substance” or “essence,” this hole-in-the-wall captures both meanings, and that night we would discover both.

Here comes George! The tall Ivorian called out to us in English, a winning smile breaking through his creased, tired face. How are things, we ask him.”Business is much slower. Especially after midnight, we are empty.” The trains close at midnight, and few adolescents can allow themselves the luxury of a taxi home. “But anyway, what can I bring you?” Ah, substances. The usual order of coronas, a half-kilo of warm oinomelo – honeyed wine – and an apple-flavored shisha. “One moment,” George beamed, and he was gone.

Two rounds of beers later and with another jug of oinomelo on the way, the dark alley was suddenly drenched in warm light as a ball of fire erupts out of nowhere. The fire-breather had arrived! A staple of any night in Psiri, the flame-spewing little man strolled down the middle of the street, cackling in delight as first-time viewers recoiled in horror. After the show, he weaved through packed tables, jingling his hat for change. As we dropped him some silver, I asked where he’s from. “Wales,” came the reply. “It’s nice ta’ hear some English, and I’ll tell ya what. Let me get myself something ta’ drink and I’ll be right back.”

He talked like a pirate, in a singsong drawl, and was dressed like one, too. Boots, a half open white cotton shirt, worn out black pants, and a leather jacket, trimmed with silver clasps and zips. Underneath all that was a man on the wrong side of fifty, his skin a tan hide, festooned with necklaces and earrings, and sporting a grey Minuteman ponytail. Pulling up a chair, he introduced himself as Johnny. Johnny the Fire-Breather. “How long have you lived in Greece, then?” asked my friend.

Ten years. And before that, South America, all around Europe, Canada. He traveled the world. “I had to run away from home when I was eight and joined the circus.” He pauses dramatically, taking a long gulp of beer. “Best decision I ever made,” he added, his leathery face transforming into a mischievous grimace. The pirate had us transfixed. A performer by trade, he knew how to tell a story; now, with a willing audience and no language barrier, he slipped into this role like a second skin.

We bought him another drink, and then my friend dropped the inevitable question, one that’s been asked countless times in our little Mediterranean country during the past year: “How is the crisis affecting you?” Within the system that created it, the economic crisis has wreaked havoc since 2008. The country sank into a black abyss of seemingly non-repayable debt, and by February 2012 the unemployment rate had soared to a record 21.8 percent. Yet for the man who does not accept the system and lives without it, all of this is meaningless. “There’s only three things in life that one needs,” he announced. “Anything else is superfluous”. In a poetic twist of fate, substances gave way to essences, as a small Welsh pirate in an obscure corner of Athens would let us in on his personal philosophy on life.

“Live, Laugh, and Love. These are the three staples of a happy, healthy life”. At the truism, my mind regurgitated a memory of a local skate shop, hardly a block away, with the same motif as its slogan. “I’m living a prolonged adolescence,” the owner had once told me as I poked around his shop. And the secret? The same three ‘L’s as Johnny’s.

“The most important thing is to live your life. You only get one shot, and you better make it count.” He had us hanging on his every word, our shisha smoldering forgotten at a corner of the table, empty shot glasses scattered on the miniscule table. Johnny was no longer a pirate, but a singer-poet, his appearance and voice reminiscent of Keith Richards and his powerful message of rock and roll.

Continuing to explain the philosophies that compose his life’s song, Johnny dwelled the importance of love. “Whether it’s for your job, your family or the boy next to you in bed,” he said, tailoring his words to his audience, the last part clearly aimed at me and my girlfriend. “You can’t live your life without some love.” That mystical word, he explained, that is thrown around with such ease but that bears a huge weight, is something that society lacks. Hard times have made us all forget how to love, with people increasingly resorting to violence and hatred, he said. The anarchists, the police, the government, all lack compassion and affection towards their fellow man.

His third beer was almost empty. It was getting late, even for those carefree souls who weren’t relying on public transport. But Johnny had one last pearl of wisdom to bestow upon us. “Where was I. Live your life, love…” He ticked off each value on a gnarly, tattooed finger. Ah yes. “Laughter”, he started, leaning in as though to part with a secret of untold importance, “is the best medicine.” At that little joke, he guffawed, his eyes twinkling slits of black diamond, and ended his mirth in a series of substance-induced coughs. “Too many Marlboros, too much beer, but one life to live, ya’ know what I’m saying?” With that, he took his leave. If we’re ever in Psiri again, we should go find him, he said. As suddenly as he had entered our existence he was gone, a fiery ghost prowling the streets of Athens, living as he always had.

And so the night came full circle; there we were, philosophizing the state of Greece. This time around, we had with us Johnny’s words, and through them the essence of Psiri lingered in us all.