I say 'artist,' but he still had some way to go in perfecting his shtick, whatever it was. The fact that his opening gambit was to compliment the high quality of my shoes was a dead giveaway that something was awry:
My post-Acropalistic footwear
I was near a café, so I don't know whether he was after a free meal, trying to sell me more great shoes or some other form of daylight robbery you can conceive of, but I didn't let him get very far.
I may be curious, but I'm not an idiot.
It's a shame really, I'm sure we'd have had lots to talk about. The guy clearly had a keen eye for practical value over outward showiness (these shoes only cost about £7 in a Millets sale). And even during our brief exchange, he revealed that he had a relative living in roughly the geographical area I'm currently escaping from, who I'm sure isn't just a fictional creation.
Dramatic reconstruction
Enter MAN
MAN: I like your shoes. You have good shoes.
DW: (Continues walking) Thanks.
MAN: (Walking and talking) Did you buy them here in Athens?
DW: No; in the UK.
MAN: My sister is in England.
DW: (Sarcastic) That's a coincidence.
MAN: (Non sequitur) I'm Italian.
DW: Okay. I have to go now, I've got to... do a thing.
Exeunt
