It is too easy. I am a machine. I am alpha, indeed I am the alpha-est. Which is why this afternoon, with the slowest of the papers still catching up with my heroic exploit and flattering attention from even the haughtiest of Athens’s fast set ladies still happily directed to my address, I am meeting Patriarch Nikolaos Megalos of the Order of St. Augustine and St. Spyridon. (He is called a Patriarch, which is a title usually reserved for the popes of different branches of the Christian church. Nikolaos Megalos is permitted to use the title for historical reasons that are really interesting if you care, which I don’t. Since his order is so important—and so very, very rich—I have no idea why they need two saints, except that Wikipedia says Augustine died of old age and barely performed any miracles, for all that his Confessions are so renowned, and St. Spyridon is basically famous for setting his own beard on fire as part of an explanation of the Holy Trinity. Perhaps two slightly substandard saints put them on a par with, say, the Franciscans, who can lay claim to one of the real zingers, a guy who talked to birds and healed practically everyone in Tuscany at one time or another.)