It’s autumn and a typical Friday night at Naufsika’s Taverna in Kefalohori, a bustling village beneath the towering Grammos mountains in northwestern Greece. Tonight seven or eight tables are full of diners; some locals, many family members
I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for
I stop by Mitsos and Konstandina’s house in Aliveri to find the front door wide open. No one responds to my call: “Yeia sou! Yeia sou!” Then Konstandina appears ambling across the side lot through the weeds with her skirt tied up, lugging a big bag
I call him Mr. Hollywood. He is the handsome gypsy, a cousin of Mitsos’s, who dresses like a model with clean pressed shirts, stylish pegged pants and a gold cross at his throat. He is breathtakingly handsome with ice blue eyes and olive skin, hair
It’s autumn and a typical Friday night at Naufsika’s Taverna in Kefalohori, a bustling village beneath the towering Grammos mountains in northwestern Greece. Tonight seven or eight tables are full of diners; some locals, many family members
I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for
I stop by Mitsos and Konstandina’s house in Aliveri to find the front door wide open. No one responds to my call: “Yeia sou! Yeia sou!” Then Konstandina appears ambling across the side lot through the weeds with her skirt tied up, lugging a big bag
I call him Mr. Hollywood. He is the handsome gypsy, a cousin of Mitsos’s, who dresses like a model with clean pressed shirts, stylish pegged pants and a gold cross at his throat. He is breathtakingly handsome with ice blue eyes and olive skin, hair
It’s autumn and a typical Friday night at Naufsika’s Taverna in Kefalohori, a bustling village beneath the towering Grammos mountains in northwestern Greece. Tonight seven or eight tables are full of diners; some locals, many family members
I call Marinos this morning to confirm our meeting at the astinomia, the local police. We agreed that I will sell them my old motorbike for 100 euros. That’s what we tell the police, anyway. In reality, it’s a gift from me to them in exchange for
I stop by Mitsos and Konstandina’s house in Aliveri to find the front door wide open. No one responds to my call: “Yeia sou! Yeia sou!” Then Konstandina appears ambling across the side lot through the weeds with her skirt tied up, lugging a big bag
I call him Mr. Hollywood. He is the handsome gypsy, a cousin of Mitsos’s, who dresses like a model with clean pressed shirts, stylish pegged pants and a gold cross at his throat. He is breathtakingly handsome with ice blue eyes and olive skin, hair