4. A Greek man lured her to his apartment recently and tried to make love at her. That was how she said it: “Make love at me.”
5. Germans are terrible people. She said this again and again—insisted on it. I have no reason to dislike them, so I just said “Huh” a lot.
On the bus from the port to Heraklion, I met Wally, an opera student at Columbia. We talked throughout the four-hour trip, and when I later introduced him to Dad, Wally addressed him as “sir.” I wanted to sleep with him.
August 18, 1982
Athens
I go to a toy store and say, in Greek, “How much is the small dog?” I’m in a good mood, doing what I love—shopping. The woman is the rudest person I’ve met so far and says in flawless English that the dog winds up but is broken. Old and broken.
“That’s all right,” I say.
She then chides me for wanting a broken toy.
I leave and come back three times, and each time she’s meaner. After she leaves I buy the dog from her assistant, who gives me a huge discount. What do I care that it’s broken?
August 20, 1982
Athens/Patras
Dad, Paul, and Lisa left for Raleigh this morning. I walked them to Syntagma Square, where they caught a bus to the airport. Now I am one of the traveling youth. Single. I went to the post office and then returned to the hotel to pack and catch the bus to Patras. From there I’ll go by ferry to Brindisi, and then on to Rome against Dad’s better judgment. “Italian men will get you drunk in order to rob you,” he warned.
On my way out of the hotel, I heard a man on the phone at the front desk trying to change his flight. He said it was an emergency, that his mother died and he needs to get back to America as soon as possible. That can’t be true, can it?
Later:
After our bus arrived in Patras, the driver made me help him pick up all the garbage people had left behind and throw it out the window. This town is the Greek Baltimore. I got a hotel room with four beds in it. That was fine until three other people showed up and claimed them. Roommates! And a shower is extra. Next door is a bumper-car pavilion. The thuds are fairly constant.
I went out tonight after dinner and had a beer at a gas station with a table in front of it. The owner had a live duck in her hands. When I went to pay, I saw her in the back room, wringing its neck and singing along to the radio. This place makes me feel stoned.
August 30, 1982
Athens
Back in Athens after Rome. The bus ride from Patras was dismal. I’d run out of books, so all I could do was stare out the window. After we arrived at the station, I met Rosa Rubio from Madrid. She speaks only Spanish, and after talking for a few hours, I brought her to my hotel. The room has three beds in it, so I offered her one and she was beside herself—hadn’t seen a real mattress in weeks, she told me. I gave her my black-and-white-striped referee shirt because it never really looked good on me. I bought us dinner and drinks. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in four days, and she was very patient with my Spanish. I enjoyed her company, and it was nice to treat someone, to be in a position to.
September 20, 1982
Raleigh
A joke I heard:
Q. Do you know how to bake toilet paper?
A. No, but I know how to brown it on one side.
October 11, 1982
Raleigh
I was riding my bike down Hillsborough Street when a carload of girls pulled up beside me. They yelled something I didn’t understand, and then one of them hit me over the head with a broom and they all shrieked—funniest thing ever. I was going full speed, and had I wrecked, they’d certainly have driven off. From now on I’m going to carry a rock in my bike basket. When something like this happens, I’m ruined for days.
November 21, 1982
Raleigh
I ran into Brant last night, the college student I met last spring who said he loved me three times and then gave me a fake phone number. Since I last saw him, he’s grown a sketchy mustache, which brings out his bad complexion and makes his chin look weak. “Remember me?” I asked. “Your name is Brant, your favorite band is Heart, you go to Louisburg College and have your graduation tassel hanging off your rearview mirror.”
He looked at me for a second and said, “All I remember is that you’re a Jew.”
I didn’t correct him because of the way he said it, the word Jew spat out as if it were leper. Both of us walked away then, though I swear I did it first.
December 19, 1982
Raleigh
Tuesday is Lisa’s birthday. She will be twenty-seven. I always told myself that when I’m that age, I’ll make a drastic change. I’m not sure why twenty-seven; maybe because it’s the age Avi and Katherine and Allyn were when I met them.
1983
January 25, 1983
Raleigh
Paul’s birthday was four days ago, but we celebrated it last night. I gave him $6.50, which is a lot for a fifteen-year-old. Sort of.
Afterward I went home and called R., another person who’s given me a wrong phone number. He said when we met that he’d like to have a wife and children—that he’s actually had sex with a woman. “Did you have to force yourself?” I asked.
He said yes.
I have much more respect for drag queens than I do for all these full-grown men lying about who they really are. Plus R. never makes his bed, so, really, who needs him?
February 14, 1983
Raleigh
Blind Billy was at the IHOP tonight. He doesn’t wear dark glasses, and his eyes are wild-looking. Sometimes he’ll yell out, “I’d like some more iced tea, please!” or “I think I’m ready for dessert!” If he hears someone settle into a nearby booth, he’s likely to start a conversation about sports, any kind will do as long as it involves a ball. Billy most often comes in alone, but tonight he was with another blind man who is new to both the IHOP and the YMCA, where Billy has lived for twelve years. The new guy plays blind baseball. In the afternoons he connects his wrist with a shoestring to a sighted person’s and jogs.
While eating, he asked Billy a number of questions. “Does anyone bother you in the shower at the Y? Is there hot water in the morning?” He asked about the discount blind people get on taxi service. “I’m told it applies from eight a.m. until six at night. Is that right? I’ve got friends I’d like to visit.”
Billy said he didn’t remember. He last took a cab six years ago.
The new guy talked about the library for the blind and some good books he’d listened to lately. He mentioned one and Billy said, “Did you listen to that Villanova game on Saturday night? Now that was something!” He’s really loud. All he’d talk about was sports until the new guy mentioned an audiobook on World War II. Then Billy said, yelling, “Now those German people, they talk ugly! Sounds like everything they have to say is just pure meanness. I bet they can sure give somebody hell. Same with those Japanese.”
February 18, 1983