Tag: lifestyle

Buttons. It is possible to tell how much feral masculinity a Greek male has based on how many buttons he has undone on his shirt. I’m sorry. I don’t have visual proof of this phenomenon–the men did not cooperate, but I am sure you can envision it.

Men in Greece—as most men in the United States—start with their top shirt button undone. It only makes sense. No guy wants to be so buttoned up his Adam’s Apple is straining to maintain its blood supply. Now, two buttons undone reveal both a healthy Adam’s Apple and a titillating peekaboo view of a man’s chest.  It’s the third button that separates the wheat from the chaff—and the easy going from the creeper.

Throughout our travels in Athens, the Peloponnese Peninsula, Corfu, and Crete, lots of Greek men have so many shirt buttons undone I can envision exactly what their first-of-the-morning belly scratch looks like. The more undone buttons, the more audacious the behavior, in my experience. Add in a few gold necklaces and mats of thick black hair, and the air practically buzzes with overt machismo like bees suckling at the breast of the hive.

My first experience with a triple button undoer was our tour guide for the Acropolis and the Parthenon. Small in stature, but large in Greek pride, Spiro wore a Jumanji safari hat and spoke into a microphone.

“Athenia, the goddess of our great country, was bestowed the honor of the dedication of the Parthenon for her wisdom and for her love.” He smiled at the group, sweat trickling down the inside of his shirt. My hand shot up in the air. Spiro paused and desperately looked around at the group. He sighed. “Yes, Madam, you have a question?”

“I was just thinking…how is it that Greek men thousands of years ago did not let their women leave the house, but they worshipped a goddess?”

Spiro stared at me for a long moment and straightened the collar of his shirt. “Athenia was not a woman. She was a goddess.”

Okay, well then.

My next experience happened a few hours later while Paul was napping, and I was shopping. We have an unwritten rule we’ve used for 23 years. While on vacation, he yawns and says he’ll take a rest after lunch while I sit up tall and suggest that I shop so as not to disturb him. It works.

I was in a dress store. We didn’t know it, but most of Greece shuts down on October 31. Only a skeleton crew of tourist-related activities continue until March 1 when the country awakens from its slumber and throws open its doors for the visitors seeking Greek salad, windmills, and ruins. Dresses were on sale, and I was flinging them over my arm envisioning dinners in which I looked like a local. Never mind the fact that the locals were the ones cooking and serving the food.

 “Madam, I take these for you to the dressing room.” The shop owner held out his arms, and his too-tight shirt lifted up exposing a dark tunnel of a belly button covered by a thick fringe of hair. His shirt was unbuttoned three buttons down, which, when you think about it, means a single button was all that stood between me and a half-naked man.

I dutifully followed him to the “dressing room” which turned out to be his office/lunchroom. He draped the dresses around the room and then pulled the door shut behind him. I didn’t know where to put my purse, so I plunked it in the middle of the desk. It was somewhere between removing my shirt and sliding out of my pants that I realized there could be a camera mounted somewhere in the messy room. I yanked my clothes back on and threw open the door.

“I’ll take this one, and I must leave. My husband is waiting for me.” I held up the dress and extended thirty euros to him.

“No, I have more for you.” He dove towards me holding a necklace and earring set. He grasped me by the shoulders and turned me around, so I was facing a mirror. He whipped the necklace around my throat and purred, “Beautiful, yes?” My shoulders shivered. His hot breath fluffed the hair just under the nape of my neck.

“Okay, I am done,” I said firmly. “Put them both in a bag.” I grabbed the necklace and tried to turn around. He didn’t move. Smiling smugly, he whispered, “beautiful American woman.”

“Agnacious!” The necklace slid to the floor and the rotund man knelt to pick it up. Head down, he tugged on the tails of his shirt in a desperate attempt to cover his sagging belly. A tiny woman dressed completely in black from the scarf on her head down to the manly black leather shoes on her feet, slammed a purse the size of a suitcase on the table next to the cash register. A large gold cross swung wildly across her chest.

She shoved the bag containing the dress and the necklace at me, and I left the store. I had just one question: was it his mother or his wife?

Just after we got to Crete, I woke in the middle of the night with the flu. In a tiny part of my brain, I knew I would be fine, but during the hours of vomiting, body aches, chills, and fever, I was certain I was going to die.  

Paul left to find a pharmacy as soon as it was light. When he came back an hour later, he lined up box after box: Tylenol with caffeine, instant glycerol enema, colon probiotic, herbal relief for constipation.

“Who talked you into all of this?”

“The pharmacist.”

“Get me in the car, Paul.” He paused and gave me that look. He was weighing his options: give in and drive me there or go back again by himself.

“Now,” I growled. He pulled the keys out of his pocket.

We parked our tiny rental car in front of the pharmacy and Paul helped me in. Yep, there he was. The Greek Creeper. He had three buttons undone, two thick gold chains, and a big, gold coin ring on his middle finger which he tapped on the Formica countertop as we negotiated my symptoms.

“Look, I’m not constipated. I vomited. I need something for my stomach,” I croaked. I tried to peer around him at the medicines on the I shelf.

“Nauseous?”  He asked and crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the shelves.

“Sort of, but not really. It’s my stomach.” In my delirious state I knew what I needed, but I couldn’t remember the name of the medicine.

“Ah, pregnant,” he said smiling and shaking his head in approval at Paul.

The utter absurdity of his statement made it impossible for me to speak for a moment.  “No,” I said deliberately shaking my head back and forth. “I’m not pregnant, it’s my stomach. My stomach hurts,” I wanted to call him some vile names, but I didn’t know any in Greek.  “I’m old,” I stuttered. “Too old.”

“Not too old, maybe.” His eyes flicked to Paul. He turned and began looking through his shelf of boxes with pictures of women holding babies.

“Pink,” my eyes flew open. “Pink medicine. Pepto Bismo. There. Right there.” I pointed to the shelf where a box of Gaviscon sat. “It is the same medicine, just a different name.”

“No, that is not the right one for you,” he said and turned back to his shelf to rearrange the boxes again.

Paul cleared his throat. “We’ll take that one.” He tapped his finger on the Gaviscon.

“Very well.”

It was silent in the car as we retraced our route back to the rental.

“Pregnant?” Paul’s timing was perfect. Even as horrible as I felt, I couldn’t help but give him a small smile. Now we had to decide what to do with all the constipation medicine.

Two buttons—just right. Three buttons? Watch out!