Marlena Marlena was a tousle-haired thirtyperhapsish woman who owned a tiny cafe three doors down Odos Zampeliou from my balcony room above Armonia Keramika. Each morning I would gaze down on her small contingent of omelette-and-toast nibblers from my balcony. Marlena didn’t live above her little cafe like most shopfront locals. The building had been turned into one of those bedspreadsized room-with-communal-shower 'inns' that soak up the stragglers during the tourist high-season. For some reason—probably word of mouth back home—the inn above Marlena was a magnet for working-class Danes. After a week or so of observing the Nescafé sippers poring over their free Kriti Gold Shop street maps and underlining all the tourist must-sees except the Kriti Gold Shop, I could confidently state that Danish working men have never heard of Armani, while their wives prefer tiny-petal florals so reserved they made Laura Ashley seem daring. My late-afternoon colloquies with Maria and Tassos had turned into something of a get-acquainted session for Marlena and myself. Indeed, we had gotten to know each other’s likes and dislikes rather more than each other. I didn’t know what she thought of me, but I knew her to be a pharmacopoeia of tinctures that could be applied to the betterment of Cretan men. These came out with such pithy irony that I wondered how many of her relationships had ever progressed to the strolling arm-in-arm stage. I was a little awed by this visually unimpressive woman who talked like a torrent and laughed like a lioness.
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