The Idiot Sticks at Harry's Bar

Harry's Bar was the unofficial job centre for the casual labour that existed in much of Greece at the time. Brits, Irish, German, French, Dutch and North Africans. All working illegally, all with a story to tell and all just passing through. Some had been passing through for years, one or two had left it so long to move on, they had actually passed away. It had the feel of a frontier bar in the old west, anyone could invent their past, exaggerate their worth or rob you blind. On the other hand, adversity meant you formed friendships that had real bonds and a desire to look out for each other that could be both uplifting and border at times on murderous. The one unifying factor, if one existed at all, was the drinking. Along with its associated singing, fighting, ludicrous storytelling and lying, of course. Life was by turns surreal, sublime and brutal and sometimes all three at the same time, but it was also now my home and that of my dysfunctional and transient extended family. But life was about to change for both me, my friends and as it turned out, Greece itself.