His face was even darker from a growing beard and scorched from sun rays hitting the piteous side walk he sat on caked in grime, blood and sticky remnants of old food melting in the Athens summer.
We had just left our hotel clean, showered and all loved up, ready for a day of walking the ancient streets of this both bedraggled and beautiful city.
Not ten metres from the hotel front door was this man and his patch of concrete, needle in hand trying to steady his shaking as the needle punctured the skin.
Flash to now. I’m drinking a 5 euro fresh orange juice as I type this.