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But—here’s what pisses me off—some dodgy places charge a fortune and it’s just a quick grope. No finesse, no soul! Like, mate, I could shoot a henchman faster than that rubbish ends. Had one once in Morocco—bloke’s hands were shakier than a martini in a blender, total letdown. Nearly flipped the table, I was that mad. “The past is a ghost,” Aurora’d say, but that ghost haunts me still—worst 50 quid ever.

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So, I take a break, head to the cafeteria. The food? Ugh, don’t even get me started. It’s like they’re trying to punish us with mystery meat. I sit down with my coffee, and I see this old guy, Mr. Papadopoulos, sitting alone. He’s a regular. Always has a story. Today, he’s talking about the good ol’ days in Tavros. “Back in my day, we had real streets, not these pothole nightmares!” he says. I chuckle. He’s not wrong.

Flood risks loom along Kifissos River