The Auction Block...

It’s sunny here. A lot. Most morning I look out my window and see bright blue sky and sunny weather. I sound surprised at this, which I shouldn’t be seeing as I’ve already lived in the Mediterranean for two years. But I forgot. I forgot how Spring comes early here, how come March I’ll be at the beach everyday and by the time I go home in April I’ll have a mid summer tan.

I’m currently whiling away a perfectly fine afternoon at a café in the square. It’s beautiful out today which is why I’m sitting outside despite the fact that I can hardly see what I’m writing. It’s just too sunny. My main concern of the day is whether my back will get burnt as I sit here.

I live in a fabulous neighborhood about ten minutes from the center of the city. The neighborhood is called Nea Smirni, which means literally New Smirni. The Greeks of Izmir (Smirni), Turkey fled the country in the 1920’s, came back to Athens and settled together in this neighborhood. They also brought their sports club; which explains the seemingly ridiculous devotion that some fans express.

But back to the sunny weather. Sun makes me think of oranges, which is appropriate seeing as the oranges in Greece are amazing. Every one tastes like a little bit of sunshine. I buy way more than is normal for one person. It’s not entirely my fault, however.

A fruit truck stops on a corner of my neighborhood, loaded up with all the colors of the rainbow. Just walking by it makes me happy. The problem is that if there are two things I can’t resist its fruit and the charm of old Greek men. The proprietor is just that, an old Greek man that talks continuously. I’m not exactly sure if he’s drunk or just fat and jolly. I have a hard time telling the two apart. Either way, he doesn’t at all listen to the portions or types of fruit I request. Instead he waddles around the truck, filling up bags at his own discretion. I’d blame it on my Greek but I’m fairly confident in my numbers and pointing abilities. So if I ask for 3 kilos of oranges, he gives me 5 (that would be 11 pounds). If I want one carton of strawberries, he’ll gives me two and tell me how sweet they are. If I tell him I don’t want a cantaloupe, which is the only fruit I dislike, he puts one in the bag. I spend 20 euros every time I stop, which I’m not even sure is accurate. But I pay him and he seems even more jolly. I really should stop going but I know I won’t; it’s far too entertaining.

Speaking of Greek men. There is a particular breed of Mediterranean men that exist. They have a kind of machismo that can be very attractive; they aren’t as fearful of rejection, they pursue women with a little more enthusiasm, they act like you’ve insulted their mother if you try to pay. And yet, sometimes this manifests itself in borderline stalker behavior. They have hard time taking no for an answer and they become obsessed entirely too quickly, with really little or no encouragement. The Turkish guy that called my 13 times in a row is of the same breed; as is the guy that followed me down the street in Athens until I yelled at him a few years ago.

I was walking down the street one sunny day last week. We had the day off, which means I guilted myself into wearing normal girl clothes instead of the usual team sweat pants that are two sizes too big. So I was looking like a bonafide woman; which is only notable because it’s rare. A man stopped me on the street; an overweight, older Greek man with a low, manly smokers voice. The following two minutes had me laughing continuously as he proceeded to profess his love for me. He introduced himself as an Onassis, which I mistakenly reacted to. I felt like telling him that if he was an Onassis, I was a Kennedy but then realized that was entirely the wrong famous American name to use.

He began by telling me how beautiful I am which, I’m not going lie, doesn’t feel entirely bad. The problem laying in the fact that most men that stop women on the street do so often and indiscriminately so its tough to feel too special. He continued by asking me what I am doing here, where I am living etc. and in typical Greek fashion, he started to ask me if there is anything I need. Whatever I need, I can have. An apartment? he says. ‘I have a big apartment near here with a view of the sea. You take it, you pay nothing.’ I have a house here, thanks though, I reply. Then he starts with boats, “I have many yachts, do you like boating? We will go.’ It doesn’t really matter what I responded with because he wasn’t listening anyway. And he was standing a little too close as well. But the whole situation was too amusing to cut short so I continued listening. “You need money? I give you 10,000 euros every month. You do nothing.” So now I’m a prostitute apparently .I’m standing in the middle of the street in Athens, thinking two things: why does this kind of stuff always happen to me? And, this guy is so full of shit that it’s actually entertaining. He kept on, asking me what I want so I blurted out that I need a passport. ‘No problem,’ he said, ‘I know the prime minister. We get married and you get passport.” By this time he has taken my phone out of my hand and put his number in it and called himself. Clearly I wasn’t paying attention to this and was too enveloped in the absolute gall of this guy. He was blurting out anything and everything he could think of. It was a blur of words from a Danielle Steele novel: wine, money, beautiful, love, blah blah. All I wanted from the day was some coffee with my friend and here I was being offered a trophy wife opportunity. What luck! And here I almost walked down a different street on my way for coffee.

Then he starts in with asking me my sign. I inform him that I am an Aries, which pretty much means I’m a bitch. ‘Oh no you are too sweet. You are very special. And you need man that is ten years older than you.’ Unfortunately, I wasn’t bitch enough to tell him that that statement rules him out.

Finally I escaped. We ended with a ‘don’t call me I’ll call you.’ After meeting with my friend Dimitra for coffee and relaying the story, I didn’t think much of it again.

My problem with stalkers is that I don’t get scared or nervous. My initial reaction is more of anger. I always feel like if they want to start the psycho game, that I can show them some psycho. This isn’t always the best reaction; though I have to say, that it’s worked well for me most of the time. I’d rather err on the side of being angry/potentially mentally disturbed that giving them any sense of timidity.

So when Mr. Onassis called later that night, I rejected the call and went back to talking on skype. But news to me, I have voicemail on my cell phone. So I casually checked my messages and heard the most disgusting monologue I’ve ever heard. The things he said should never be said, done, or thought of by a man of his age. Not to say anything of the fact that I am 30 years younger than him or that I just met him that day.

So I sent him a text message back saying something along the lines that I don’t ever want to hear a voicemail like that from him and that it was extremely offensive, don’t ever call me again etc. He calls. I don’t answer.

The next few days he called sporadically, mostly from a private number but didn’t say anything notable. Then Saturday night rolls around and I’m in bed as usual at 11, seeing as we have a game the following afternoon. Sometime around 6 in the morning, I hear my phone ring in the next room. I thought I was dreaming but then I rang again. I checked my voicemail, already sure who it was. Lo and behold. I was freaking livid! He got a quick sms back with a few choice words and more than one f-bomb.

My best friend told me I need to stop giving him attention. She’s probably right. But I am glad I was direct since he probably has had some luck in trying to buy women in the past. That or he is just a really slow learner, which hasn’t been ruled out. Either way, the angry/ignoring combo has worked so far and I’m not longer getting calls from him. Every once in awhile I’ll get a call from a private number, as if I don’t know that trick, but so far I haven’t gotten any inappropriate messages.


My thing with guys like that is this: it’s a little offensive. Its nice when older men tell you nice things, its even nice if they flirt with you. But only if they know it’s a game. Some of them just like to keep thinking that they still have it, which is fine. But its tongue and cheek; they don’t expect that anything is going to come of it. They might hope but they don’t really expect it. And, more importantly they don’t assume that I have no better offers. This guy treated me like I was on an auction block; ‘we’ve got a lovely, young, desperate woman with nothing going on in her life for sale today. Can we start the bidding at an apartment with a view…going one, going twice…. oh we got a yacht offer going once, anyone want to throw in some cold hard cash? Don’t be shy; seriously she’ll take anyone. Okay we got 10,000 euros from the fat guy in the back… Going once, going twice.

Seriously, I have a life.