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Date:
October 14, 2002
(Note: I have a lot emails waiting to be written.
Please email with suggestions. In other words, let me
know if you like my stories or not.)
I haven't had to worry about being robbed in Europe
because everything is grossly overpriced. However,
Greece being on the fringes of Europe has some
economically depressed areas. Dennis and I, passed
several shanty towns constructed of haphazard sheets
of plastic, corrugated metals and odd-shaped lumber.
The clothing of the people are pieced together in a
similar manner; and, rather, than the friendly
greetings of the Greek country folk or the unilateral
indifference of big-city folk, they stop and stare as
we pass, a look I associate with the desperation of
poverty. I don't meant to say being poor is bad, some
are the happiest, most generous and proudest people I
have met, for instance, the family in Peru that
invited Dennis and I to breakfast. They had no money
and survived by trading plants and animals for other
basic necessities. Even an empty soda bottle was
valuable to them. They invited us to breakfast and
shared a bowl of soup and coca tea with us. How much
of a sacrifice would the richest man in the world have
to make to equal this gesture? In contrast to this
family, whose lifestyle was the norm for hundreds of
years, where poverty is surrounded by money there is
the perception of the haves and the have-nots. I think
this phenomenon is present in Greece and, certainly,
Athens. The desperate and unhappy people migrate to
the cities to prey on the rich and the ignorant.
On our first night in Athens, Dennis and I were
approached by an overly-friendly Greek who said he
worked in the oil business and had lived in Houston
for eight years. He proclaimed, "Americans, they are
here," he pounds his chest, "close to my heart." This
began to make my spider sense tingle -- no one likes
Americans. He invited us to have a drink, something
that has happened many times. "Come, I am on vacation.
I have lots of money. I will take you to a good Greek
bar and buy you a beer. He was a clean cut man with
the burly body of blue-collar worker, though he didn't
appear to be a career drinker he stank of beer. I was
a bit suspicious and looked at Dennis he shrugged as
if
leaving the decision to me. I wanted to believe our
new friend. "Why not? One beer then we must go," I
said planting a seed for our escape. We walked around
the corner and down the stairs of a "Night Club." Of
course, it was a brothel and Dennis and I both
confirmed our suspicion that it was a scam. But my
curiosity and inclination to push people to their
limit got the best of me. The matronly lady behind the
bar opened three mini-beers and handed them to us
before we could protest. "How much is this," I asked,
assuming I would be stuck with the tab.
"Only five Euro. Very Cheap."
"That's not cheap. That's more expensive than London."
"No. Very cheap."
I decide to make the most out of my beer and leave.
Just then we were surrounded by unattractive women
begging for drinks. "Buy yourself a drink," I said.
"Please. Just to say, 'Hello.' If you want me to sit
here you must buy me a drink."
"Then go sit somewhere else."
Meanwhile in the background, I heard Dennis say,
"Uh... Scott." I turn in time to see his heels as he
runs up the stairs and out the bar.
"What a goody goody," I thought, annoyed at being
abandoned.
Then a surly man came out to tend the bar. "You must
pay ten Euro twenty for your beers."
"That's not my beer." I point to Dennis' unfinished
drink.
"It is your friend's beer. You must pay now."
"I don't even know that guy."
"You must pay now."
"He's paying," I point to the overly-friendly Greek
who has moved to the end of the bar and is
conveniently ignoring our conversation.
"You must pay now," the surly bartender repeats.
"Can't I finish my drink first. Then I will pay for
this one."
"You must pay for both. Now."
"I didn't order that drink. I'm not drinking that
drink. I'm not paying for it."
"It is your friend's drink. Now it is your problem."
The situation was deteriorating. At any moment, I
expected the bouncers to appear and roll me. I stand,
"Now it is your problem." And I dash out of the bar.
Several women grab me.
"Stop. I will call the police." The surly man starts
to move around the counter towards me.
I shrug off the women easily. My bicycle weighs more
than any of the homely waifs and I carry that over a
mountain everyday.
All and all, it was quite exciting and I was very lucky. After relating my
story to other hard-core travelers, I have learned that it is very
common to be robbed by the bouncers, or even drugged and gassed.
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