I’m in Athens sitting with R., having lunch at ‘I Kriti,’ a restaurant owned by a friend of R.’s. We’re sitting at an outdoor table under an awning (I’ve just arrived in Athens that same morning), and, having finished a Frappé, which has helped me regain a little strength after the redeye flight, we’ve just been discussing our impressions of post-pandemic Athens. Suddenly the peaceful mood is shattered by the screeching howls of a woman, storming up the sidewalk. She’s in her mid thirties, disheveled and heavily tattooed, and she’s pulled her top down to bare her breasts. She runs up to people on the street, to storefronts and outdoor dining areas, shouting in incoherent Greek, thrusting her breasts at people and laughing maniacally. We watch her for a moment, then turn back to our conversation. ‘And then there’s that Athens,’ R. says.