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So Much For Greek Gods

I want to label myself an adventurer, but maybe I’m just a lonely widow desperate enough to fly 5000 miles to see – whom?  WEB STALKER is hardly Old Mr. Right. He’s more like Mr. Scarcely Okay.  But sand, sea, stars, and someone to say nice things to me in a lilting Greek accent…. 

My friends from Crete, Vic and Lena, are at the Athens airport with hugs and good-natured teasing about my impending rendezvous. We’re laughing and talking so intensely we almost miss the flight to Corfu.

WEB STALKER is waiting at the airport with a smile and a bouquet of wildflowers.  He is wearing jeans, sandals, and a muscle shirt that reveals a forest of graying chest hair, but his charm and Armani scent overwhelm this fashion failure.  He divides the bouquet and gives Lena half, exchanges a vigorous handshake with Vic and enfolds me in a bracing hug.  He leads us to a taxi, which he says he’s engaged because his own car is Euro-small.  


I’ve made plans to stay with my friends at a hotel, lest WEB STALKER turn out to be boring, over-eager, aggressive, dangerous, or all of these. He seems okay with this plan, but uses our snug fit in the taxi to nuzzle and whisper about moonlight swims in quiet coves, etc.  Lena interrupts his seduction program. We are passing a marina and she wants to know if his yacht, which he has described to me in detail and I in turn have described to her, is docked there. WEB STALKER looks vexed, says no it’s not.   

I am already hoping that WEB STALKER will leave us alone to get settled, but he follows us to our rooms, helpfully translating for the young bellman and reaching in his pocket for the right amount of tip. That he wants to help me unpack is an appalling prospect, so we go to the bar for a drink instead.

Shall I just cut to the story’s end and save us all some time?  This guy is a stalker, period. He wouldn’t leave me alone. It was like being Velcro-ed to an overripe beach boy.  Charming and gallant, yes.  A conversationalist, no. 

He doesn’t own a yacht. He has called it “my yacht” in the same way I might say “my office” — he works there.  He’s the cook — or, to be charitable, I might say “chef.”  The taxi at the airport was because his car only runs occasionally. The Armani was apparently a gift from his last lady victim.


Vic and Lena and I are having a blast. The sand is warm, the sea and the sky are blue, the grilled fish is uber-fresh and delicious.  At night the beach is a magic place.  Getting rid of WEB STALKER was difficult. Vic had to step in finally to let him know that contrary to his understanding of the female mind, “no” does not always mean “yes”.

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'So Much For Greek Gods' have 5 comments

  1. March 19, 2013 @ 7:31 pm My Inner Slut

    Well, well. Going half way around the world just to be disappointed big time. Sounds familiar. In my case it was London. Maybe I can introduce my guy to yours and they can form a boredom team.

  2. April 16, 2011 @ 12:32 pm Sienna

    Thanks for asking about this, Patsy. This is the third in a series about this man. I met him in Florida and when he returned to his home in Corfu we had some — too many — webcam chats. You can follow the thread of my encounters with him here:

  3. April 16, 2011 @ 12:26 pm Patsy R.

    Why is this man called Web Stalker?

  4. February 8, 2011 @ 3:00 pm Roxy

    In the last couple of years I’ve had a couple of Mr. Scarcely Okays in my life. I wouldn’t travel more than 30 miles to see any of them. But at least you had a vacation.

  5. October 15, 2010 @ 11:29 am Lynne

    Love all the blogs. At last, someone who gets it and has original insights.

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