“If you’re a journalist, you’re either a whore or unemployed.” <— this from a Guillaume I met this morning over my grand crème at La Petit Mer and was initially very keen on but quickly lost interest in for how he seemed to be Someone Who Knows Everything, which at this point in my escape I have no use for.
I tried to sit outside to write but had to move in — it’s so cold! — but writing with this fresh pen is like how that emo brainiac from Stanford who spoke only to me on our birthright Israel trip described hang gliding, impressive in the back of that bus on the road to Haifa or wherever all those years ago — that is, like taking a long, long piss — that is, a relief.
The locals here — at least, around this bakery, which seems to be by the side of the Santorini version of a highway — are not friendly. They don’t smile back, and the latte lady fairly barked at me about where to pay and did not reply to my ευχαριστώ OR my thank you, and I caught myself sticking out my tongue when she turned her back. On the ceiling-mounted TV an advertisement for a water filter shows a water glass overflowing as this filter fills it endlessly and MADE IN THE USA around a circular insignia of the stars and stripes, so I guess that’s a selling point here.
Everyone but me seems to know to anticipate high winds, everyone meaning Byrdie-and-family plus the Australian guys I talked with on the shuttle up from the port, and I guess me, I only know for their telling because I don’t consume any information anymore. But they are correct. Powerful blowing, dust in my eyes. The table I started at outside was coated in a fine grit, like the Aegean sea spray finish on yesterday’s ferry but of earth instead of water borne on the air.
