A boring, unnerving, and ultimately enchanted evening

Motorcycles scare me. Now, as we left the bright heart of Athens, I had more to worry about. I had no identification and no money. I couldn't communicate in Greek - even to call for help. Where were they taking me? How could I have been so stupid? I had to keep my wits about me.

We rode into deep residential suburbs; down deserted streets, past closed shops and silent, shuttered houses. I pictured terrifying scenarios and mentally rehearsed self-defense strategies, discarding them one after another. There were two of them, only one of me. They knew where the heck they were. Feverish imaginings added hours to the 15-minute ride.

At about the same time that I decided I was doomed, we arrived at a local party. A half dozen people sat at candle-lit tables arranged on the pavement. There were no neon signs, no blazing windows, no menus or waiters to indicate that this was, in fact, our destination - a typical local taverna.

Inside, a motherly woman hugged my companions and ushered us to a table where the third fireman - with my belongings - waited. A typical Greek meal, steak and French fries, appeared on the table. Then two mandolins and a guitar were produced. For the next two hours, my new friends sang and played for our supper.

Other patrons joined in. In between songs, we four struggled to converse.

I could've danced all night, as they say. But my appointed hour at the airport approached. I asked Apollo to ring for a taxi.

"Oh, no," he said. "We take you. We sing for you. We go together, everybody. Yes?"

It was not a question.

Once again, my bags were loaded into a cab, this time accompanied by two mandolins and a guitar, and we left in a convoy - the taxi and two motorcycles.

The 3 a.m. flight to London was delayed; nobody knew for how long.

"Don't you worry," said Apollo. "We don't leave you to be alone."

My firemen - by now I had become proprietary - settled on the floor to tune up.

"How old you are?" Apollo said.

"That's not a very polite question to ask a woman," I said. I guessed I was at least a decade older then any of them.

"I think you are same old as my Auntie," he laughed, "but she is very young and pretty Auntie.... So now you tell me, what music you like?"

The only bouzouki tunes I knew were "Never on Sunday" and "Zorba the Greek." So Apollo chose; one song after another.

Soon, we attracted an audience. In groups of twos and threes, the backpackers who throng the airport were drawn to the music until we were encircled.

Now and then, slim, tanned young girls approached my troubadours with requests. Each time, Apollo nodded at me. "We play for her," he'd say. "You ask her."

So I was serenaded until my 6 a.m. boarding. And here is the best part: They never asked for anything; wouldn't accept a cup of coffee, never even told me their names. Perhaps, like me, they found sheer joy in a gallant gesture.

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