This morning’s fresh bite count: a paltry FIVE. Amazing. Last night we ate in a taverna that played back to back live recordings of soft rock classics, from Foreigner to DeBurgh to The Scorpions. “I’d love to hear some Len,” said Charlotte. Just as we were about to leave, as I took the last shot from two complimentary bottles of Raki to the head, First We Take Manhattan came on.
Well, of course it did.
A wet dog came to the watch me taking a piss and almost knocked me into a gravel pit. He didn’t mean it. He was ever so friendly. We wondered aloud whether he was someone we used to know reincarnated, like my granddad Nink, short for Enoch. He followed us home, then ran into the road and got hit by a car. We comforted him, as his doggy heart went BOOM BOOM BOOM faster than a speeding bullet. He was miraculously unharmed, save having had the end of his tail run over. I tried to take him back to where we found him, but he refused to leave my side, until we passed a taverna where a woman and a mandelin sang, “back dog… back dog…” He snuffled off in her direction and we walked home dogless, beneath the constellations, amidst the warm din of crickets.
We fly back tonight. On Friday I’m getting all of my wisdom teeth yanked out. I will play Temple Run on the train, and in the hospital, because it is hugely addictive, and super fun.