Halsted Street runs on a north/south axis, crammed with the noise of tourists…the sounds of celebrations. Restaurants flourish between authentic markets with experience for sale amid olives, lumps of tart, white cheese, grape leaves, and ouzo. No one really shops for food; locals in the area buy their goods in the places no one sees and where the prices fit their wallets; tourists buy cheese and olives and authentic extra-virgin oil in stereotypical bottles so that they may return home with mood, an event, a story to tell, of that night in Chicago…that night in Greek Town. On warm nights, when Halsted Street is sultry and alive and loud with tourists, Adelfo takes a break. There are chairs out back, where the waiters smoke, where the cooks smoke, and where the entertainment smokes. He comes for a moment of silence with tobacco and long moments to clear his head. He comes as belly dancers undulate and cavort among diners, munching on feta cheese in an obscure, out-of-town fashion. They always go for the cheese, set aflame so that they may shout opá, the wives in their company eye the waiters, guessing—as a game among themselves—which of them is named Zorba. In the games such wives play among themselves, there’s always a Zorba in Greek Town. For their collective part, the husbands shout with exuberance: drunk on the mood of Chicago, and the alluring beauty of belly-dancers in the isles. They don’t know that belly-dancing isn’t a Greek Thing, not in the way they imagine it, but no one ever tells them that. No one ever scowls or sniffs when the tourist men, drunk on their presence in Chicago, shout Oprah, in lieu of the only Greek word they’ll ever learn. No one smirks when they pat themselves on the back for their cleverness. Adelfo takes his break with Helio. Always. They sit in old chairs, smoking Marlboros and twiddling with their iPhones or twiddling with nothing at all. They smoke together on a regular basis and their friendship centers on the presence of a lighter. They listen to traffic sounds and tourists shouting oprah!, in fake Greek accents as flat as the cornfields of Iowa They sit. They smoke. Sometimes, they talk. They weren’t there, when—in winter-chilled sunlight—a tourist photographed their empty chairs and the absence of cigarette butts. * I took this photo in Chicago’s Greek Town. I’d gone there with Corey, to wander around and take pictures, and at the moment of this shot, I flashed back to my college days and my occasional free meals in a restaurant named—as expected in Greek Town—The Parthanon. I suspect there’s a Parthanon wherever there are tourists within an easy hand’s reach of black olives and feta cheese. In The Parthanon, one may eat flaming cheese and watch flirtatious belly dancers (with suspiciously Turkish features) doing their distinctly non-Greek thing. In Chicago’s Greek Town, it isn’t uncommon to hear tourists pretending to break expensive china, while shouting “Oprah” and laughing, among themselves, at the pun. I saw these chairs outside of Chicago’s Parthanon, a long, long time ago…back when I flirted shamelessly with a fellow Columbia College student (and part time waiter) at his place of employment. I sat in one of those chairs, once, while he smoked, and in passing the place with Corey, the chairs greeted me like old, old friends. I doubt they were the exact same chairs, but one never knows. I called this photo “Two Greek Men” in partial memory of friends of Greek ancestry, and because there are no men, Greek or otherwise, in this photo. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great Yule-Season week.