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embracing.
    “Hi, I’m Kaliopi,” she said in perfect English. Taking my hand, this exuberant Greek pulled me along, “Come with me, you look like you need a cup of strong Greek coffee.”
    “How do you know I’m English?” I asked.
    “Please. Have you looked in the mirror? Have you compared yourself with people around here? You at least look like you have…
some
style…” she paused. “I am not stupid, you know.” She tossed her head and gave a snort, turning her attention back to the task in hand: taking me for coffee.
    I got the impression she didn’t rate the local population very highly, and I guessed that like Mrs Stella, Kaliopi wasn’t a lady you said “no” to. Deciding to fall in line with this new turn of events, I followed her down the narrow, cobbled street.
    Passing the butcher’s—huge carcasses of pigs hanging in the window with their heads still on—and baker’s shop—delicious smells of bread wafting out to greet us, along with the whistling baker, I almost expected to find a candlestick maker’s as well. It felt very quaint.
    We passed several small haberdasheries with old women dressed in black crouched low behind the counter, but no supermarkets that sold everything under one roof. It was part of this small town’s appeal—the giants of capitalism hadn’t appeared to impose their presence and wipe out local trade. And there were no Golden Arches to spoil the view either. Instead there were small cafés selling their own chicken and pork dishes as well as home-made burgers. And apart from the narrow high street for cars, the side streets were all cobbled. It literally felt as if I’d stepped into a Dickens novel.
    “Don’t worry,” Kaliopi glanced at my face, “There’s a Lidl at the edge of town. I go there sometimes to shop, so we can go together from now on.”
Ah, so not entirely free of the supermarket giants, then.
Apparently it was easy to make a new friend here, not forgetting the old man and his oil shop. I almost expected to find the Greek equivalent of five “Bridesmaids” by the time the day was through.
    At the end of the village the small main road led off to the right, heading out of town, but Kaliopi led me to the left, away from the shops and through a different part of town—an area that resembled a small nature reserve that boasted a gushing river, several cafés and a cobbled pedestrian walkway that meandered first into a wooded area and then up to a ruined castle. We found a small café with tables outside and in. “Here—sit here in the sunshine. I know that you English people love to get your skin all brown and wrinkly for some reason.” She ordered from the waiter as she moved her chair into the shade of a large tree: tea and a large piece of baklava.
    “I have also requested you some milk, as I know you English love to milk in everything,” she said in her mixture of formal and Pidgin English. “And on third thoughts, you don’t look ready for our coffee,” she sniffed, giving me the once over.
    “And for you?” I asked, relaxing into my surroundings and choosing to ignore her strange comment about Greek coffee. Maybe it was this odd girl’s sense of humour. I didn’t want to presume to correct her English. I wasn’t there to teach her, and besides, she was a bit scary!
    “Me? Oh nothing, I took my breakfast this morning, after I returned from my six a.m. three-kilo run.”
Kilometre, it’s kilometre
—but I didn’t correct her. I must have responded with a look of horror, because Kaliopi added, “I walked most of the way. And now I have the opportunity to show off to a foreigner what little there is to do in this hole from hell, and also to practise in my English. This is perfect for me! Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to be joining me on the runs. I know how unfit you British are—you always eating the fatty things for breakfast. Frying with the vegetable oil bread and eggs and those sausage things…what is wrong with