The Last Brush of Greece(land)

There’s two perks to being a private investigator. The big one is that you get to start off pretty much every story the same. You know, the whole “haven’t had a good case in a while, bored out of my mind until either the phone rings or a dame walks into my office with tears in her eyes” bit. The reader knows it’s coming, and effortlessly waltzes into the real heart of the matter, like an American eating anything that’s chocolate-covered.
The other plus is the voice. Every one of you is hearing your own personal ideal of coolness inside your head right now. Well let me just tell you, mine sounds exactly like Humphrey Bogart. Normally I wouldn’t be so demanding, but I need those 72 viewings of Maltese Falcon to count for something.
I answered the pre-ordained call without speaking. I didn’t have to. Immediately a feminine, Southern drawl inquired, “You interested in a wild-goose chase?” Now normally I’m not a goose fan. They’re mean creatures with a sick sense of humor, and have a way of turning any hunt into a Bugs Bunny-esque Lalapalooza. But I needed work and still clung to the hope that maybe just this once, it wouldn’t be my goose that was cooked. So I led her along.
“Sure, what’d you have in mind?”
“Well, apparently,” she crooned, “nobody in Athens knows where to find a squeeze brush, but—
“That’s hardly news, sister,” I interrupted. “The cops have been pestering me about those things for years.”
“Let me finish, please!”
I grunted. I was annoyed that my impatience had shown through, but I wasn’t about to let her know it.
“Anyhoo, apparently there is ONE such brush left, and I have the address!”
My ulcer welled up. “So you called me to brag? Real sweet, honeypie.”
“Well golly, you are a sourpuss today! I CALLED you to help me find the place. I can’t make head or tail of this city!”
As my exacerbation thinned, I realized that I knew this voice, and it belonged to a broad named Molyvi. A real sweetheart. Of course that wasn’t her Christian name: they called her Molyvi for two very good reasons. First, molyvi is Greek for pencil, and this girl was plenty skinny to warrant the association. But more to the point, molyvi is also Greek for lead, which happens to be what’s in the shells of my piece, and I wouldn’t lose a second ending her “unleaded” status if she gave me a reason. More than one P.I. had gone to their grave over her antics. But like I said, I needed work, so I arranged a meeting.

There I was, standing halfway into traffic trying to hail a cab, while Molyvi chattered on about the joys of inscribed stone. Just as I was about to call it quits and plug my ears with olive pits, one of the bastards actually stopped and let us in. He had to make a stop first, but we didn’t care. Only one problem: he had no idea where this address was.

Fifty minutes later, my fingers bloodied by paper-cuts from leafing through a 300 page map book of the city that somehow STILL wasn’t helpful, we got out of the cab, apparently at the right destination, only to be greeted by the heartless white bars of the gate in front of a closed shop. “Maybe he’ll open up again!” Molyvi wished aloud.
Yeah, and maybe the smog I’m breathing won’t give me cancer.
But I was out here, so I was a little more willing to try. So I asked two grandpas sitting at the kafeneio across the street if they knew the Brushman, and whether he’d be back. They answered the anticipated third question.
“His house is right up the street. Go try him there.”
I gotta admit, I felt uneasy knocking on a stranger’s door, but only because I wanted something from him. Force and deception wouldn’t work until we knew where the brush was, and I was guessing that this fellow didn’t have the last squeeze brush in Greece because his hands were soaked in butter.
To my surprise, the Brushman came down and took us to his store. He was old, but still retained the strength that pride in accomplishment endows in a local legend. When we got to the store, he pulled it out and set it before my eyes. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but I knew Molyvi was watching, and I couldn’t give her any idea of how excited I was. So I waited.
“This is my personal brush.”
These prefatory words to a lecture on brushmaking ensured that I wouldn’t pay attention to the rest of his speech, and that my hopes were crushed. Perhaps Molyvi was on his side, and any attempt to take the brush would end with a pencil-sharp coup-de-grâce. My head was spinning. I was two feet away from the finish line, but between me and my goal was an ocean of trouble.

The thing about squeeze brushes is that they’re the most beautiful things in the world. Solid olive wood handle and base, compact horse-hair bristles, master craftsmanship, the things could make an archaeologist look pretty. And I don’t need to tell you about the pleasures of smacking paper with one into a rock 2000 years old. No one quite knows why they disappeared. Sure, every two-bit crackpot had their theory: half of them blamed America and the other half were about as sane as a Scientologist who’s stared at a hologram picture for seven hours too long. As for me, I wasn’t putting it past Molyvi and whomever she worked for.


I suddenly realized that he was waiting for me to respond.
“Sorry, lost you on that last part. Could you repeat?”
“I said, if you knew that this was my personal brush, then why did you come all the way here?”
“Well, it’s like this…” I began, but Molyvi cut me off.
“Oh dear! This is a terrible misunderstanding, sir!! I didn’t KNOW that this was your brush! I thought you said you had one left. I’m SO sorry to have wasted your time.” She turned to leave.
If her words weren’t to my advantage, I would have been disgusted by the facility of her pretence. Still, I looked nervously at the Brushman. He seemed to buy it, or at least to be pleased with the effort of her performance.
“Endaxi. It costs 30 Euros.”
Before I could be stunned into inaction, I laid the money on the table, and soon felt the cool, soothing feel of the bristles against my palm. I’m not normally into gratitude, but I said a thousand efharisto’s before we left.
But I still wasn’t sitting easy. “I don’t get it, molyvi, why tell me about the brush, come all the way out here, sweet talk the Brushman, and then just let me walk away with the loot?”
The depth of her smile was a guarantee that I’d have fitful sleep for the next several weeks. “Oh, I just like to help a friend in need! Don’t mention it at all! Not at all—I insist!”
I grimaced in response. I didn’t know what her end-game was, but I didn’t like where things were going. I’d find out though, even if it took me the rest of the year…

My favorite thing about not living at Loring

[This is dedicated to AK and the art of the short blog entry]

Making everyone else jealous at lunch with my homecooked leftovers.

In other news, the quote of the month goes to Maraia (my buddy David Scahill's wife), when talking about a game of cards called "Sevens":

"Yes, David won me last night, but that's because I always win David when we play. Sorry, dear, but it's true, I win you every time, so I had to let you win me!" (N.B. Maraia speaks excellent English normally)


And finally, pot-stickers tomorrow for dinner (but still no knitting).

The cure for any 16 month drought

That's right, I'm back...in Greece, in travel-mode, in mischief, and in the mood to write about it every once in a while in this silly forum.

To catch you up, I convinced the government to fund 9 months of research for my dissertation, and to do 6 months of it in Euros. That means for about half a year, I'm worth more than you. Unless your British, in which case, go clean your teeth.

My days, as last year, place me at the same American School, but this time I don't live there, but in a humble apartment about a mile and half a way. This would normally take fifteen minutes to walk, but because my life is in peril everytime I cross a street, and because there is no word for "grid plan" in Greek, it takes over 30.

Ok, enough background for now. I don't know enough about the new students to do depictions. Another time, perhaps. But I CAN tell you about my trip to Santorini, though without pictures, because I didn't feel like being mistake-free and left my digital at home.

You may have seen images of Santorini, either in calenders or on Giada de Laurentiis' show where she pretends to talk about food but really just poses in front of the camera so people will write in and tell her how pretty she is. Anyways, these images are entirely false, like anyone who disagrees with Dwight K. Schrute. They of course glorify the island by focusing on a particular angle that probably involves dangling from some half-rotted olive tree on the roof of some local innkeeper. But worse, they can never capture the panorama, and it is the full 180, or sometimes 360, that you get when gazing at the top of the cliffs that is too incredible for words.

Ok, enough bobloblaw. I'm gonna skip straight to a story, since most of the time I flew solo, and by "flew solo" I mean I slogged up and down the hilly terrain on a bike for someone half my size. My last night there, while trying to watch the US Open at a bar, I struck up a conversation with two Brazilians (of Japanese descent, go easy boys) and a Canadian. The Canadian was, of course, annoying, so once I sent him packing, I let the other two introduce me to their friends, who included a more "stereotypical" female (now you can get excited) and some loud Aussies and Kiwis. This was another moment where I rued not knowing Portuguese, and I ended up hearing criminal English all night. Luckily, these kids were funny as hell, so I wasn't too disgruntled. The bonus moment came when one of the girls started dancing by herself and some random, of swarthy complexion and dark hair, started leering at her. I tried to embarrass him by making fun of him, but since he didn't react I figured he was Albanian or something. So I asked him where he was from in Greek (most Albanians in Greece know Greek). He looks at me and goes "Huh?" So I tried again in English, "Where are you from?" "I'm fockin' Irish!" he declared and hastened away. Later, when I left the bar, he gave me the finger.

Now I'd like to examine the Irish pedigree of this supposed leprechaun man. I'm not talking about looks, cuz I don't need every Irishmen to be Ginger McGingerson. I get that they're a diverse looking bunch. But when I insult you at a bar, and mistake you for another non-Englishing speaking nationality, and all you do is give me the finger, and even that an hour later, by golly you're like no Irishmen I've ever met. Cuz I'm pretty sure a real Irish bloke would knocked me out at least four times that night. Once when I was trying to embarrass him, once when I spoke Greek (because at that point such gibberish would have pissed him off), once when it was clear I had mistaken him for something else, and one more time just because. So yeah, buddy, you need to check your family tree.