1. My 1st memory of PAN

From 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., he wears a suit he dislikes at a U.S.-based company, where he enthusiastically leads a research team — with empathy and flair. At 6:30 p.m., he’s back at his local electronics shop until 11 p.m., Monday through Saturday.. 

Every Sunday, Pan gathers his family for lunch. On that day, they’re squeezed into his white Audi, driving down Kifissia Avenue on their way to a penerli. Papou sits beside him. In the back: his wife, Yaya, his eldest son, and me — his daughter, who looks so much like him.

Yaya is not happy because Pan and his wife didn’t choose saintly names for their children. Pan has always been wary of human religions and the dogmas that confine the mind through guilt. What he hates above all else: manipulation.

— I prefer your son over your daughter, says Yaya, because he’ll carry on the family name.

Pan slams the brakes in the middle of the avenue. Horns erupt in a discordant symphony. He steps out of the car, walks around to the right rear door, opens it. Crouching down, his dark eyes locked on his mother’s, he gives her a simple choice: either she immediately apologizes to his little girl—or she gets out of the car.

Silence.

Calmly, but firmly, he repeats himself.

The symphony resumes.

Between two bursts of dissonance:

— I’m sorry, says Yaya, without daring to look at the little girl.

Who is now smiling. 

And Pan drives on.