Apologies To Graham Greene

I found a toasty taverne on a Tuesday night in Athens whose name in Greek translates as "The Good Wolf." The name resonated with me and George Harrison's solo songs poured from the speakers, so I had to stop in. I ordered an Alpha beer, got comfortable in one of the wicker chairs on the sidewalk under the electric heater, and took out my notebook. Guilt crept in after a bit because eavesdropping replaced my writing as I honed in on the chatter at the neighboring table. Two couples- one Greek and one German- smoked cigarettes and drank white wine and picked from small plates and laughed together. They use their common tongue- English- and spoke of old films and of mortgages and of the sea and it made me a little lonely as George's cuts from All Things Must Pass played behind me as I scribbled notes. I never looked back at what I wrote and drank another Alpha and more of their words... "rubbish in Cambodia," "built-in swimming pools," "Bavarian restaurants," as Crackerbox Palace played from the taverne's kitchen. The nimble gaits of the stray cats in the street and the clanging of the far off church bells and All Those Years Ago by George were my only interruptions. George might have been the Quiet Beatle, but I was The Quiet American in The Good Wolf that night.