“Excuse me, do you have the time?” This after a burst of Greek which was
probably the same question. This should have been my first tip off - I
have never before or since seen a Greek look at a watch, let alone ask a
stranger for the time. Ordinarly, I wouldn’t have responded. It doesn’t
take long to stop turning around when you’re addressed on the street.
Shopkeepers and touts take advantage of the ingrained politeness and
easily triggered sense of obligation of Americans. But this man - John, I
later learned - didn’t have the usual pitch. And I was eager to talk to a
local.

“15:30” I said.
“Ah, you are American?”
“Yes…”
“I visited America. My sister in Philadelphia.”
He wore the typical costume of a middle-aged Greek man—slacks, shirt.
Late forties, greying moustache and hair. We fell to talking in the middle
of the hot street.
“Tell me something - if I may ask you a question?” I began.
“Of course.”
“Tell me - how do the Greeks feel about their king?”
“Oh, this is… you know he, uh, fled? To England? We have a revolution,
he is afraid to be killed, and… we should sit, we should have a beer.”

Perfect! Beer with a real live Greek! I follow him to a bar two doors down.

The bar looked closed, with curtains drawn against the sun. Walnut shelves
behind the bar held a few bottles of American and foreign spirits, but no
ouzo or other greek drinks — this was a bar. In addition to John and I, a
young greek woman sat in one of the couches at the back. She was
extravagently beautiful, like so many young greek women, and was wearing
the typical skin-tight sundress. Something about the look she directed at
me as I stepped in put me on guard. I sat down, with my wallet buttoned
into my pants and my bag between my feet in front of me.

The bartender was another young greek woman, similarly beautiful but for a
constellation of purple moles spread across her face and teeth as crooked
as her makeup. I glanced sideways at John, but he didn’t communicate with
them as far as I could see.

“I’ll buy you a beer,” I said, “and you can tell me about the King.”

“Thank you.” The bartender had already turned to me with a glass and a can
I hadn’t noticed her opening. If I had had hackles, they would have raised.

“The king - he ran away. We are not taking this easily. He was afraid they
would kill him and he ran to England. “

I heard the other patron get off her couch behind me. “Would you be nice
and buy me a drink?” she said into my right ear.

“No.” I said dismissively, trying to sound bored, and turned slightly away
from her. “Go on.”

“The Greeks - we think this is cowardly.”

“A drink for both of us?” the bartender interjected.
“No.”
“Why not?” she pressed.
“Why would I?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t think of a good reason I would,” I said.
“We are very nice girls,” she insisted.
“I’m sure you are. But I’m talking to this man, not to you.” I tried to
indicate the conversation was over.
“They have a special conversation relationship,” said the bartender
suggestively to the floozie. “They don’t need women.”

I ignore her and turn to John. Is my drink seems to be gaining on me
quickly, or am I being paranoid? It is 5% by volume, and I had a light
Greek breakfast.

The bartender edges over. “What do you think of Greek women? Do you like
us? The way we talk, the way we walk?” She demonstrated.
“Greek women are kind of rude, in my experience.”

“If a ship - how is it called? Captain, thank you - a captain should stay
with his ship.” John continues.

“Maybe you don’t know of all the tricks Greek women know,” she continued.

“We are one in a million Greek girls, we know things even other Greek
girls do not.” said her friend from my right.

“Oh yeah, how many people live in Athens, anyway?” I said, addressing the
bartender. She seemed a bit taken aback. “I don’t know, four million?”

“So there are four women like you in Athens? Go on, John.”

“Now he is coming back, and he wants to be king. He visits, comes back and
visits and tours. A few years ago, he had 30% approval ratings. Now more
Greeks like him. I think if there is an election, he will be the king.
Will you buy these girls a drink?”

“Really?” This surprised me away from my glowering and paranoia, enough to
make me ignore what was no obvious — John was in on the scam, to some
degree. I was flushed, I’m sure, and still sweating though the bar was air
conditioned.

“We were angry - but people change. Myself, I change. I said no before but
now, in a vote, I would say yes.”
John seemed to believe that a king would be a useful central image of
Greece, both for citizens and the rest of the world. “Like the British?” I
suggested, asking if the King would be ceremonial.

“No no - he would be in charge. With the way it is now, responsibility can
be ignored - a king would demand that people did their jobs, he would be
in charge. When there is one man, he can control.”

“Just a beer for me?” the bartender’s friend pressed, putting her hand on
my back.

I drained my glass and stood, feeling oddly wobbly. “Thank you John - I
must go.” I started walking immediately and took a few turns vaguely
toward the Plaka, putting some distance between me and the bar. I tried to
convince myself that I felt oddly drunk for one beer but I think paranoia,
stress, and a lack of sleep was most of it. I realized I hadn’t played it
quite as coolly as I had hoped when I found I’d left my bottle of water on
the bar.

I walked in a detached doze until I found Kydathenion and my hostel, and
collapsed on my bed. My new roommate found me face down a few hours later.
Politics are dangerous in Greece.