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So, I’m sippin’ wine, thinkin’—what’s the deal with this rub-down nonsense? It’s not just hands on yer back, nah, it’s a sneaky little dance. Starts innocent, then bam—“You’re not who you said you were!”—like Viggo Mortensen’s line in the movie. I reckon it’s half-relaxation, half-sin. Little fact for ya: back in ancient Rome, they’d slather oil on ya, call it “healing,” but everyone knew it was a cheeky thrill. Bet they winked while doin’ it.

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Anyway, I finally get to my workshop on Agios Nikolaos street. It’s cozy, you know? A bit cramped, but it’s got character. I start workin’ on this barrel, and I’m feelin’ good. The wood’s nice, the tools are sharp, and I’m in the zone. But then, outta nowhere, my neighbor, old man Dimitris, barges in. He’s all like, “You gotta help me! My goat’s stuck in a tree!” I’m like, “A goat? In a tree? What kinda circus is this?”

Greek social clubs going under as membership plummets