George

"I'm George from L.A.," he said it so smoothly with such ease I had to look twice. No, it wasn't George Michael not with an American accent, though his 5 o'clock shadow hinted his look came borrowed from the beloved 80's icon and his style in the era of his album Faith. I wished it was him. The small casual perfect Greek hotel was washed white inside and out and George was wearing white loose linen pants and a shirt, he blended in. A smooth disposition to go along with the soft calm of the Aegean summer air and perfect sun. The light outside was sharp, the sun hot in June and the shadows it cast into the stone hotel lobby at once enchanted and invited us to enter. "Are you guys staying here?" he asked and we answered "yes". He wanted to check in and we all checked in at the same time. Back then you needed to give the lobby desk your passport as collateral so we handed them over and got the room key. The hotel proprietor assumed we were a group. My 2 friends and I had our own room and George got his own room. We agreed to meet later for dinner that evening which in the Greek summer starts around 8ish and goes late into the night. We couldn't wait.

Across the road which was really a lane we rented three mopeds after we dropped our bags in the room and zoomed up to the top of the peak to check out the view. We were situated half way up the high point of the peak on Corfu in the town of Pelekas. At the top was a flat open square and the view out to the Ionian Sea was magic and yes, the blue sea was wine dark when you looked out. The pure and uniquely Greek beauty bathed over us. We met with two other travelers at the top listening to Love Cats by The Cure on their little radio dressed in black goth summer attire and black eyeliner singing along out loud to Robert Smith, "Miss you, kiss you, love cats". We knew this was friendly territory.

Later we went next door to the restaurant attached to the hotel. What a scene as we entered, lively and loud. It was full of young beautiful Europeans and backpackers. Tony the waiter was the center of it all, with a shock of straight black hair thin and lithe not too tall and not too short. He was being called this way and that. We got a table. George was nowhere to be seen. We quickly forgot about him in the midst of the circus like room. Next to us was a table of 4 or 5 blonde tall and loud Scandinavian male revelers. They were sunburned red in their faces. We ordered dinner from Tony and some ice cold Amstel beer to drink. Horiatiki salad and souvlakia with tzatziki arrived and we happily ate and drank and our faces also slowly turned red.

Tony arrived to the table next to us with a tin tray of small shot glasses. The Scandinavians grabbed one each. They put salt in the web of their thumbs and licked it. Then cupping their palms over the top and they shook and banged the glasses down in unison onto the wooden table and shot them into their mouths in a fizzy explosion. We had met the "tequila slammer". Singing in Swedish, Danish and maybe some Greek they burst into chants ordering more and more. My friends ordered some for us and we did the same slamming the shot glasses that exploded with bubbles of 7-up into our mouths and cheers erupted. Before long the heat of the tequila, sunburn and the Greek night was in full swing. They started chanting for Tony. To our amazement he came running up followed by the rhythmic clapping of the Scandinavian crowd. Down went Tony and up he stood clutching the Greek taverna table he balanced one of its legs on his chin, his hands winged out towards the floor and he spun several times. Cheers erupted punctuated by the twang of bizouki music. More tequila slammers and then we paid the bill. Off to the disco and dancing late into the night. We stumbled back up the hill and into our hotel room beds before dawn.

We woke to the pure direct sun reflecting off all of the whitewash looking out our balcony and the perfection of a Greek summer morning. No worse for wear we ambled down to the lobby aiming to get down to the beach. The young lady behind the desk gestured for me to come over. "George left you this book, " she said and handed me a black leather bound diary. I took it from her feeling the smooth leather cover and asked where he was. "He got the early boat of the island this morning. Here's the bill for his room, he said you would be paying after I gave him back his passport." My jaw must have dropped, but the sting of the night before left me speechless. I opened to the first page and read the address, 1419 Westwood Boulevard, Los Angeles. No name and nothing else. Touché, George. We were now out 1,000 drachma and I started planning the next trip to return the black book to its rightful owner 5 degrees latitude to the south and 137 degrees longitude to the west.