IN WHICH I’M SMASHED, AND I MAKE SURE SOME PLATES ARE, TOO.
Zorba took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. I had no idea what to do, but three other Greek men appeared to help me. With hands on each other’s shoulders, they formed a line and invited me to get in the middle, where I just followed their simple grapevine steps and bends.
The crowd clapped and I glided along, grinning from ear to ear and doing my best not to tip over in my high heeled sandals. More people joined us. To my delight, a waiter appeared with a tower of plates — this is what I’d been waiting for.
We each took a plate and by turns, smashed them with gusto on the floor, where they were quickly swept up by another waiter — as good a catharsis — a Greek word! — as I’ve ever enjoyed! Meanwhile, as we danced, Zorba guzzled from a bottle of ouzo from a nearby table, then passed it down the line, and we each took a swig.
After four songs, the band took a break and we headed back to our tables. But all of a sudden, Zorba grabbed me from behind and with his hands holding me by the waist, began grinding his crotch into my ass.
His sweaty face appeared over my shoulder, and I was overcome by his hot, nauseating breath as he whispered something — likely even more disgusting — in my ear. Like other surreal events in life, this unfolded in slow motion — I was in shock.
Suddenly I became aware that the roar of the crowd had stopped and there was dead silence. Everybody’s gaze was directed at Alexandros. But he was already getting out of his seat.
In Greek culture, being the man who accompanied me, it was Alexandros, as much as I, who was getting dissed. And now, mild-mannered-archaeology-professor-by-day, damsel-honor- avenger-by-night Alexandros pulled Zorba off me and with an impressive right hook, knocked him to the floor.
Everyone — in fact — was floored.