Why Am I Still Alive Pt. 12: Bordellos and Beatdowns Part 1

Outside the USA, there exists, in parts of this world, a series of “clubs” or restaurants, Mafia or Cartel run, that prey on naive male tourists. While the method of luring in the unwary (or even wary) tourist differs, the mechanism once inside their lair is the same: massive unstated cover charges, exorbitant drink and food prices, and a group of seemingly available women who speak English well enough to chat you up and encourage you to stay. 

My first time experiencing this spider’s web, I was totally clueless. I was single, 22 and Eurail traveling through Europe having nearly no money for anything other than bread and cheese, staying in cheap hostels or sleeping on the trains. Nonetheless, I tried, as always, to dress well in case an attractive female might take pity on my lack of financial resources and spend time with me.

On this particular day, I had just visited the acropolis in Athens and afterward stopped at a small outdoor cafe for a sandwich when a well-dressed gentleman spoke to me in excellent English - asking all kinds of questions about where I was from, my travels, and everything else. He gave me his name, Angelo, and I gave him mine. At one point he asked how I was affording to travel so much and I told him I had no money. He then asked, “well you must have a credit card as a fall back right?” and I laughed and said yes. He offered to share his pot of tea and I accepted. As the sun faded he suddenly said, “I want you to come to my restaurant - it is new and I’d like an American’s perspective of it. You can have a free drink an appetizer and dinner on me just for your opinions - it is not far.” I said yes, of course. Just the week prior I had ended up staying at the mayor of Ios’s house and spending Easter with him roasting a lamb on a spit and sharing wine given to me by villagers, so this did not seem sketchy at all. 

We walked quite a way - perhaps 25 minutes and finally we arrived at his restaurant. It was dark inside and my host said, “I’ll be right back - but feel free to order what you want,” so I sat down at the bar. As my eyes adjusted I could see the place had perhaps 10 people in it - 2 men, each having conversations with a woman, and 7 or 8 nicely dressed attractive women loitering around. I ordered a glass of red wine and asked to see the menu. Moments later a tall attractive woman without a hint of an accent whisked by my side and asked me where I was from in perfect English. My spidey senses tingled but I answered politely and we chatted for a bit. She shared that she was from California but fell in love with Greece and had stayed in Athens for 8 months now. 

A couple of things occurred simultaneously next. The bartender showed up with the menu even as the woman asked, “would you like to buy me a drink?” I stuttered and asked what she wanted, and she said, “champagne of course,” which made me sweat. Even in the best of circumstances at that point in my travels, I did not have the budget for champagne and I didn’t think my offer from my cafe acquaintance of a free drink and appetizer etc. would apply to my new “friend.”

I looked at the menu. I froze. A glass of wine was $50. I read it several times. Nope, it was clear $50 USD. Champagne started at $75USD for a glass. The food was outrageously priced as well. 

I had not seen or heard from my new friend. I asked the woman to give me a second and asked the bartender about my friend the owner. He said “Angelo has left for the evening,” and indicated that he didn’t know anything about a free drink or appetizer, dinner etc., sorry.

I then told him that I had no money and that I would have to leave now to get cash. He then said that Angelo had informed him I had a credit card. (Bastard!). 

Thinking quickly I said, “fair enough, in that case, I’ll take the steak sandwich and a glass of wine as well.” At this point, I was just buying time.

I turned to my female suitor and asked, loudly, “where is the restroom?” when the bartender was close enough to hear me. She told me and so I then walked nonchalantly toward the restrooms. However, just before entering I turned left and bolted full speed for the exit. Unbeknownst to me, there was a security guard in a small alcove near the exit doors who made a dive for my legs but I jumped at the right time and escaped, banging through the doors an into the gloaming of the evening. 

Turning left, I sprinted down the street as the security guard emerged and chased fruitlessly. I mocked and swore at him over my shoulder full of anger and adrenaline. I dodged around alleyways and eventually made my way back to my hostel, chuckling a little bit. But I was still furious over the betrayal of “Angelo.” 

The next morning the full betrayal of the situation set in on me and I walked all the way back to the closed club. It was dark inside, but I knew that by the evening the Venus flytrap would be reset yet again to lure unwitting tourists into their sugary lair to steal their wallets and their trust. I paused. Then, scanning, I bent down, picked up a brick from the street, and threw it directly through the large darkened plate glass windows to the club before sprinting away. Part of me knew it was wrong, but damn, it felt good.