A few hours earlier and three kilometers to the north, next to the hill of Strefi, a very different couple was preparing to enjoy a light breakfast. Or rather, he was taking one last look at his balcony table to make sure everything was in place: the toasted bread that smelled fragrant next to the jar of orange marmalade and cholesterol-lowering butter; the container with muesli, low-fat milk, and a two-person omelet — made only with egg whites, as the latest dietary rules prescribed, with chopped mushrooms and peppers. On the side table stood side by side, like gossiping neighbors, the jug of steaming coffee and the carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice. Haris sank into the deck chair and opened his newspaper, sipping the first sip of coffee. October was nearing its end, but the weather had the spring-like sweetness usually seen in Athens' autumns. “Ah, Indian summer,” he said softly, proud of his English. Opposite him, Lycabettus was shining, decorated with brown and green, orange and golden colors.

Once again, he congratulated himself on choosing this particular apartment. A three-room penthouse with a wide veranda and a view of Lycabettus. And twenty minutes on foot from the office. Twenty-three minutes, to be precise. From inside the house, the usual morning noises could be heard: the water running in the sink, drawers opening and closing. Betina had woken up. Haris was eager to tell her about his proposal for a five-day trip. The October 28th holiday cut the week in half, as it fell on a Wednesday this year. He could take two days off using leave and attach them to the weekend, so they could enjoy a little trip to Nafpaktos. It was the perfect time. They would catch the Saint Demetrius fairs, go hiking under the dense vegetation of the villages in the mountainous Nafpaktos region, and drink tsipouro in the cafes where the few old men played koltsina.