Not the New York Bar and Cafe (or Hijacked Again)

With six teenagers in our blended household, my wife and I kept going to Greece. In between our trips, I continued to improve my language skills. However, no matter how much I added to my vocabulary or refined my pronunciation, locals kept responding to me in English. Finally, I decided to take a language course in Athens the week before my wife joined me.

I thought it might help if I dressed like a local. At that time, Greeks favored graphic t-shirts that, intentional or not, jumbled American geography and cache, like Authentic North Beach 4^th Park Best Team. So, I got off the airport bus wearing fisherman sandals and my new shirt: Surfing Buffalo Trading Post. But the stout man on the curb wasn’t fooled. “You need hotel?”

To show him I wasn’t his typical tourist, I said, “Ohee efharisto,” No thanks.

“You speak Greek?”

“Mathaino.” I am learning.

As I rolled my suitcase downhill, he walked beside me. “Greek American?”

“No,” I said in Greek. “Maybe in spirit.”

“Bravo!” He shook my hand. “George.”

I pronounced my name the way Greeks did. “Har-ees.”

By now I was savvy to the hawkers that hung around the bus stop, but this guy seemed harmless. He was friendly and I was thirsty to practice my conversation skills. Why not keep talking with him? On the ten-minute walk to my hotel, we talked mainly in Greek. He asked me basic questions, encouraging me with me bravos and gently correcting my mispronunciation. I confided in him that intonation often tripped me up. If I asked someone for a bank and put the stress on the second syllable, trah-peza, it didn’t matter if I was waving my debit card in front of an ATM. They would shrug until I made the correction.

At the intersection before my hotel, George gestured to a blue and yellow sign, New York Bar and Café. He grinned. “You know New York?”

“Of course.”

“What you say? I buy one beer and we make more practice.”

It was three in the afternoon. I was jetlagged. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in a bar drinking alcohol. But I had learned how hard Greeks take it when you refuse their hospitality. 

“You want to talk more Greeks?”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the bar’s reflective windows. You’re here to stretch yourself. Here’s a local who wants to speak with you.

“Okay,” I said in Greek, “one beer.”

Inside, the place was strangely quiet. Three men wearing identical-looking suits and hats sat at the bar Behind them, a blonde bar maid absently wiped the counter.

George led me to a table, wheeling my suitcase to the corner. A moment later, he brought two Heinekens. After a few more questions, he fell silent.  Self-conscious, I nursed my beer while he fixated on the pedestrians on the pavement. I wasn’t sure if he was bored by our rudimentary conversation. Or was this typical behavior for Greek barflies? After all, the other three patrons weren’t talking.

Suddenly, George slapped me on the back. “Come! We make introductions.”

I stood up, lightheaded from the beer. I followed him to the bar, anxious about holding my own with three men who seemed less refined than George. However, he headed for the bar maid. “This is Athena.”

She gave a vacant smile.

“Haris,” I said, without my customary enthusiasm.

“Buy her a drink,” he whispered loud enough for the bar maid to hear.

I looked down the counter. The businessmen were staring straight ahead, the tilt of their hats obscuring their faces. Fuck me, I thought. How am I going to explain this to my wife? Ten minutes on my own, and I stumble into a brothel.

George nudged me again. “Buy her a drink and you can talk the Greeks with her.”

Athena gave me an uncertain look, as if we were both prisoners there. “That is okay, yes?”

I’m not sure why I answered the way I did. My wife likes to think it was because I am chivalrous. Or because this seemed like the best way to move an uncomfortable situation forward. Buy a watered-down drink for double the cost, then graciously bow out. Quite possibly, I was holding onto my original goal. Now that my first conversation had run dry, why not finish my beer chatting with an attractive Greek woman?

“One drink.”

She came back with a gin and tonic, and George discreetly retired. “So,” I said in Greek, “Where are you from?”

Athena gave her trademark stare.

In case she couldn’t understand my accent, I tried to prompt her. “I am from America. You know Massahoosettee?”

She sipped her watered-down drink.

I don’t remember how long I stood there. I know we exchanged some pleasantries in English. I was careful not to lead her on, without seeming rude. In other words, let the prostitute down easy. Somehow, I excused myself and made my way back to the table. I had some beer left and I needed to figure out what I was paying for.

George spoke to me in English now. “Beautiful girl, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“You like her?” He raised his thick eyebrows.

“Not really. I don’t think she speaks Greek.”

“Then speak the Englishes to her.”

I swigged my beer. “I need to go. My wife is calling me at the hotel.”

He sized me up for a moment.

“Thanks for speaking Greek, and—”

His faced turned serious. “This is what you owe.” He slid the bill holder across the table.

I stared at the total, feeling sick to my stomach. “I’m not paying that.”

George produced a menu and showed me the prices: $100 for beer, $150 for mixed drinks.

I shook my head.

He nodded over my shoulder. The businessmen had relocated to the sidewalk. The three of them stood side by side, facing the bar with arms crossed.

I didn’t register the threat. I was too blinded by my indignation. At being taken advantage of once again. I remembered a phrase from Desperate Housewives on Greek tv. “Afto einai malikies.” This is bullshit.

“Malikies?” He chuckled slightly and I wondered if I had mispronounced it.

I doubled down on the word for bullshit.

He nodded toward the window again.

Almost giddy to be standing up for myself, I spoke faster. “I am not paying. This has no justice. I will go to the police.”

“Astinomia?” he repeated the word for police, calculating.

“I have 20 euros for the two drinks.”

He gave me a long stare.

“Take it. Or the police.” I slid a 20-euro bill toward him. As he held my gaze, the gravity of the situation started to sink in. George threw a glance to the enforcers. Then he pocketed the bill. I grabbed my suitcase and wheeled straight for the door. It didn’t occur to me that the door might be locked. Or the muscle blocking my exit.

To my surprise, the handle turned and the muscle let me pass. I merged with the pedestrians, relieved to have escaped, but also incensed to have paid 20 euros for a beer. I called my wife from a card phone. As I told the story, I could hear my voice shaking.

“Not the New York Bar and Café?” she interrupted, clearly pissed off.

I thought she might be upset about the prostitute, but she couldn’t get past my naivete. “It’s in all the guidebooks. Whatever you do, don’t go to the New York Bar and Café.”

Not finding the support I was looking for, I wheeled my suitcase into the thick of the tourist area. Christos, the manager of the t-shirt store, gave me a hearty welcome. As I retold my story, his eyes widened. “Not the New York Bar and Café?”

“That’s what my wife said.”

He lowered his voice. “That’s run by a crime syndicate. Last week they put the owner of a rival bar in the hospital.”

After I finished the story, Christos grasped my shoulder. “You are lucky, my friend. That other guy got a broken arm.”

Feeling better about the outcome, I tried to continue as if nothing had happened.  I checked in, grabbed an early dinner, then treated myself to an ice cream cone. Strolling back to the hotel, I wanted to check out the bar from across the street. George was out front, laughing, luring a lone backpacker inside. My indignation surfaced along with my embarrassment and fear. 

Now, I wasn’t going to testify against the syndicate, but I thought somebody should know what was going on in Plaka. I found a policeman standing by his motorcycle. Tall and intelligent looking, he reminded me of the supportive cop from the airport. I asked if he spoke English.

“Of course,” he said. “What is the problem?”

He nodded as I described the scam—the friendly hawker, the drugged-out prostitute, the three guys in bad suits—but as soon I named the bar, his face went blank. He lifted his chin. “No English.”