An Embarrassing Dinner

 An Embarrassing Dinner

 

In the summer of 1971, my friends Allen, Marty, and I were determined to see Europe on as little cash as possible. We were truly living the “Europe on $5 a Day” dream—or nightmare, depending on the day. We scraped by with the help of shared meals, cheap rooms, and the occasional spot to sleep under the stars. So when we got to Athens and saw a room advertised for $15 a night, it was like seeing the gates of paradise open. We didn’t think twice and immediately handed over our cash, thrilled to have found such a steal in one of the most ancient and expensive cities we’d visited.

But that paradise quickly revealed itself to be a mirage when the hotel owner casually informed us that the room was, in fact, $25 per night—not $15. Twenty-five dollars! That was way over our budget. Now, if we were back home, maybe we would have grumbled and tried to negotiate. But here we were, three cash-strapped kids in a foreign city, who’d just been tricked out of a chunk of our daily budget. We knew we had to fight for our $10 back, even if it felt ridiculous to argue over what might seem like a small sum. It was a big deal to us! So, feeling wronged and, admittedly, a bit dramatic, we sought out the tourist police.

In Athens, tourist police were a thing—they specialized in handling situations just like ours, where non-Greek speakers needed a little help with disputes. Marching into the tourist police office with righteous indignation, we explained our predicament. The officers, professional and a little bemused, were quick to help. They even sent an officer along to accompany us back to the hotel. With the sight of a Greek officer at our side, we felt pretty invincible, as though we were the stars of some low-budget heist movie, on a mission to right a grave injustice.

When we arrived, the owner met us at the door, and we went through the whole song and dance of complaints, gestures, and negotiations. The officer talked to the owner in Greek, while we tried to look as serious as we could, nodding along to a language we didn’t understand. Finally, it was decided that we would check out of the hotel and be “relocated” to a more affordable place that fit our budget better. With the hotel owner glaring at us and the other guests watching this scene unfold, we gathered our belongings and slinked away, feeling oddly victorious.

As a cherry on top, the tourist police even gave us a lift to our new location. As we hopped into the car, we felt relief wash over us; we’d won our small victory and could now afford to eat something other than bread and olives for dinner that night. But that’s when we learned the twist: the original $25 rate had included three meals a day. We realized we’d essentially pre-paid for an extravagant dinner that very evening. Despite having packed up and left in a huff, we were still entitled to it. It was, in fact, non-refundable.

Dinner was to be served on the rooftop, where guests could gaze at the illuminated Acropolis. The idea of dining with that view was pure magic, and suddenly the embarrassment of earlier felt a lot less significant. We decided to take advantage of our last hurrah at the hotel, heading back like prodigal sons returning home, hoping no one would notice our red faces.

When we arrived back at the hotel, the owner greeted us with surprising warmth and ushered us to a spot with a view that belonged in a movie. The scene was almost surreal—the dark sky, the glow of the city, and the Acropolis lit up like something out of a dream. The dinner was an absolute feast, far better than anything we’d had since arriving in Europe. There were steaming plates of moussaka, stuffed grape leaves, warm bread, and olives galore.

But as we sat down, we noticed other guests casting glances our way. Word of our little drama had clearly spread, and it seemed like everyone knew we were the Americans who’d called in the tourist police over a misunderstanding. The waiters, the owner, even the other guests—they were all incredibly polite, but we could feel the silent, knowing smiles, and whispers as they walked by. The whole dinner, our cheeks burned, and we tried to avoid eye contact with anyone.

After dinner, we skulked out of the hotel, glancing around like thieves as we made our way back to our new accommodations. The irony of the entire situation wasn’t lost on us; we’d gone to great lengths to fight for our budget only to end up parading back to the very place we’d fled, sitting down for a luxurious dinner, courtesy of our earlier blunder. It felt like a scene from some kind of slapstick travel comedy.

Years later, I still laugh about that dinner in Athens and how I’d essentially forced my way out of a bargain deal, only to return to dine in shame under the watchful eyes of our fellow travelers. That night taught me that sometimes the best memories come from the most embarrassing missteps. If you’re going to mess up, you might as well get a rooftop dinner with a view as a consolation prize.