Old (er) Men

This morning, because I was in desperate need of zucchini and figs and various other sundries, I walked to Charakopio. Before embarking on my grocery run, I walked down to the kafenion to get a frappe. I am finding them increasingly addictive.

I sat on the patio outside the kafe, and sipped and watched people  I got that weird feeling you get when someone is looking at you. You know that feeling?

I looked in the direction of the 'I am being watched' vibe, and sure enough, on the patio across from me, there was a man staring at me with the most blatant expression of interest plastered all over his face. I just looked away, and continued to enjoy my drink. But every time I looked up, I swear, I don't think he had even blinked.

He had a little boy with him, presumably his son, so I was not too worried that he would try anything. I mean, who does that, right? I finished my drink a little more quickly than I wanted to, and got up. He got up to, and dragged the little boy to his feet. Oh, HELL no. I started to walk up the street, while observing the man and his son out of the corner of my eye, and saw the little boy dragged away from his soda, and plopped onto the front of dad's motorbike. I hurried my pace, and then felt immensely silly as they zoomed up the street past me.

Not two minutes later, I heard the roar of a motorbike coming down the street. Here was the man, this time without his boy (Where was the boy? In the dumpster?). Up close, he was definitely nearing fifty. He stopped next to me and started talking, yammering away at a breakneck pace. I started talking to him in English, to make it clear I did not understand a word he was saying. He paused for a minute and then said "Peroulia (a beautiful restaurant on the beach)?" And pointed to me, then him, then the back of his bike.

Seriously? We. Don't. Even. Speak. The. Same. Language. 

I shook my head.

"Cafe?" Again the pointing to me, then him, then the bike.

I. Don't. Even. Know. You.

I shook my head.

"Beer?" Again the pantomime. 

"No." 

"No?" 

"No."

He looked crestfallen. As if I had crushed his soul then fed it to a lame dog.

I started walking away, and he took off down the street at a funereal pace. 

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This is yet another confirmation of what friends always joke about: I get the "old guys." Yep. The forty and older crowd just love me. And 90 percent of the time, they are highly off limits. As in married.

In Las Vegas a few months ago, I was sitting in a lounge, minding my very own business, when a guy wedged himself next to me and asked me to dance. I looked at his left hand. I always do. 

"Sorry, I don't dance with married men." In truth, I don't dance at all, being very much incapable of it, kinda like this:

"How 'bout a drink?" He was definitely over 50, and dressed terribly.

"Thanks, I have a very good one right here."

He then proceeded to be, what I am sure he thought was very convincing and winning. Las Vegas was for FUN, Las Vegas was for letting LOOSE, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. He was staying in this very hotel! His wife was in a totally different state! Etc.

By this time my friends had responded to my death glares and pulled me out from under his arm, and we left.

And they laughed.

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And, Oh yes. I have more stories. Perhaps for another day.

All I can say is, I would trade my figs for the Greek god in my favorite cafe.