Kinda Cool

Dept of You Had to be There: For reasons too complicated and Albanian to go into, Kosta had his battered truck up here and our natty Micro voiture chez lui.

Dinner over, I set out to return it but first went via boppin' Gouvia to drop in some floral goodies on a pal and pick up another carton of lung grating Karelia.

Like all decent artisan wheels, the sound system in K's jalopy is of the finest even if the woofer is just anchored by twine to the back board.

Has jazz anything to show more fair than Miles et co's incomparable Kind of Blue?

In particular, track 2 with Wynton Kelly on joyful skittish ivories for "Freddie Freeloader"?

So, I'm tousled from the swim and in anonymous t-shirt proclaiming the delights of Tegucigalpa. I've had mum rehearse me in the Greek for whatever I might need to say, and off I go.

I park outside Taki's taverna, lined with tourismic diners, and vault out of the cab and swagger in with what I hope are convincing Greek gestures, Miles still pumping from the cab.

Easy to spot the buffs from the way they look up: Say what? Voted the best jazz album evah , and it's romping out of a workman's truck in the heart of Gouvia?

My Greek is up to accepting a quick Metaxa brandy so I go back to switch off the muzak.

"No don't," calls a Wayne Rooney look-alike, switching to pidgin Anglais, "Is good. Good music?" Thumbs up.

I beam at such acceptance by White Sahib Who Bringeth Mighty €uro Dollar to my humble country .

"Meelesh Daveece," I attempt in my halting Anglikà.

"F-ing A, mate!"

"Wossat all abaht?" asks Spiro in his equivalent ruffian Greek as we sip and light up.

Nuffink, I confide ('tipota' but drawled "t'p'taah" which I hope is their equivalent of sarf of da river pernunciation). Just being an asshole.

Spiro gives me that rise of eyebrow that no foreigner can possibly hope to enunciate, followed by his "level" lool followed by playful cuff around the chops that reminds me never to actually irk him:

"Ne! You're a good kid but you *are* a bit of an asshole. I've noticed that."

The surrounding Greeks raise their glasses "To assholes!" which the tourists catch onto and also raise beer mugs in mis-pronounced toast.

I just have enough Greek to jest that we should encourage them to take that toast to the Corfu Palace.

"On yer way," growls Spiro, "you're trouble."

I clamber back in the cab and wave to the diners.

"Kali orexi!" Bon appetit.