he‘d materialised like a djinn at the table and was already having a shot of rakia on the house.uch time in the high altitude sun. "the secret is to have three hearts," he said. "one for loving people, another for loving yourself, and the third one to love the mountains. kostas here has three hearts," he pointed to the greek owner of the taverna. he reminded me of the scarecrow from the wizard of oz. his speech was fast and garbled, not helped by his mixing of bulgarian and greek words. "that‘s the secret, he said, "not yoghurt." "hi, i'm ziko. ziko‘s the name." he got up and bowed unsteadily. "if they ever open up the old road between greece and bulgaria so we can feel normal again," kostas said, "as they have been promising for years, useless states, the both of them, they‘ll now sponsor a statue right by the border pyramid. the statue would be of ziko," kostas said. "life—sized." "wow," ziko said, chuffed. like most in the village, ziko looked ageless, but he had history. in his late 20s he‘d been stopped by a police car on a deserted road above the village and beaten to a pul