The past two Sundays, Jimmy, my cake wielding admirer, has made an appearance at the Divine Liturgy. The first week I met him, he professed a disdain for ever going to Church; nevertheless, the past two Sundays, about 15 minutes before the end of the Liturgy, he has ambled in with a group of friends.
Accordingly, my habit has now become that as soon as the priest gives the final blessing and Jimmy has made his way forward for some blessed bread, I scootch out the back door, bolt across the town square, and into the recesses of the kafeneon I never usually frequent, which, hopefully, he will not think to investigate.
I hang out there for half an hour, have a coffee and watch the History Channel complete with Greek subtitles, and then take a back road to the farmers market.
He has also interfered with my coffee and reading schedule during the weekdays. Jimmy has now started taking possession of my customary table at the time I usually make a village appearance. So now when I go in, I take a side street that grants me a view of the Cafe's patio. If I see him, I zip round the corner, and head somewhere else.
The hazards of village life.
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Today, as I sipped my coffee, the guy -- Kostas? Christos? Yannis? Quite possibly one of those, but I wouldn't know since either a) he told me his name and I forgot, or b) he didn't tell me and I really don't know -- running the shop for the day decided to join me. He warmed up a large cream filled pastry, doused it with icing sugar, cut it into small triangles, and sat down. He speared a square of pastry, passed it to me, and motioned me to eat. He was very observant: the second I got close to finishing my bit of pastry, he would hand me another one.
I found myself almost in the same predicament as I was with Jimmy and his cakes a few weeks ago, except that I could not fake that I was eating the cake, since I was quite literally being fed.
My head started to pound just a little - the very fast first symptom whenever I start to ingest a large amount of sugar - and I tried to distract him by asking him various questions. Since his English is not good, he had to concentrate quite a lot, and as he furrowed his brow and tried to form sentences, he distractedly plowed through almost the rest of the pastry, until he unfortunately recollected himself, and oh so gallantly handed me the last piece.
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Gill was absolutely shocked when she found out that I hang out at the Kafeneons at least four times a week.
"No. You never."
"Umm....should I not?"
"Mary, that is awfully brave of you."
"Well, I know they look at me weird, but whatever."
"Wow. I have never done that. I just wouldn't."
"......There is nothing wrong with going, is there?"
"Oh no. Not at all. Its just that women never go there. And it's so awkward. They just end up watching you the whole time."
"Oh. I just thought they were old and nosy. So I ignore them, and then glare at them if the situation warrants it."
"Robyn. Listen to this. Mary hangs out at the Kafeneons in Harakopio. By herself."
"Blimey. That's brave of you."
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And here I thought all that they were referring to was the fact that the old coffee sipping men hate to have females on their turf and grumble away in Greek to themselves and occasionally give the stink eye.
Which just amuses me, and makes me want to go back even more.
Quite possibly, though, they were warning me of a very real thing - death by sweets.
It might very well happen to me one of these days.
I think the moral of this story is that we should use the word 'blimey' more often!
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