It’s getting louder inside and outside at the picnic tables under the yellowish canopy. Naptime is over, and the villagers have come out for their afternoon kafés. The men’s greetings are expansive, loud, jokey, excessive—few women, with most gathering separately on stone benches in the village's narrow streets. 

Now cometh the tour: “The Train Hersonissos” – a choo-choo on rubber tires moving slowly along the roads up from the coast. Its passengers stop by the olive factory, purchase oils, honey, herbs, and shrink-wrapped olives, and then walk up here to the taverna. 

The kitchen manager/cook has been expecting them, has set the tables with fresh napkins and holders, and refreshed the salt. Looks like ice cream is the order for the day. Coke bottles with straws. Beers for the sweaty. I’ve already had my scoop of chocolate vanilla swirl on a massive kataïfí (a baklavá that looks like shredded wheat). There is one waitress for everyone, the owner Sifi’s daughter. It’s high time in submontane Avdou Pediados, Crete. 

Waiting, waiting, one or two complaining, maybe one or two about to complain. The tour guides help take orders. What is this doing to the day? Is this guy really looking at his phone, or is he photographing me? Then, just as suddenly, the tour group is gone.  All toilet trips are completed, iced coffee drinks are downed, and Zorba's song and "Never on a Sunday" are turned off. 

Life in the village returns to its quiet normal.