Picture, if you will, a tall man walking around Athens. He is staring at the buildings, unable to read the signs. He has only a vague idea of where he is. He has a wild mane of graying hair poking out from under his Gatsby cap, and he would never be mistaken for a Greek.
He’s my father-in-law.
This was some years ago. He told us the story later: A man approached him and introduced himself. He said he’d lived in the United States and wanted to practice his English. My father-in-law said he was in a hurry, but the man insisted on buying him a drink. So he shrugged and went along to a little bar around the corner.
They talked for a few minutes. Then a couple of women joined them, and soon the man disappeared. The women were friendly – very friendly – and started ordering drinks. Then more drinks. “Boy,” my father-in-law thought, “these Greeks sure are friendly.” And then, “I wonder who’s paying for all these drinks?” As he got up to leave, he was presented with a bill for $30.
He got his answer: The sucker was paying.
Frank Bures 