"Tax the ship owners!" she said.
"It can be done," she said, but couldn't explain how.
It went on like that with others, including a 6-foot-6 man mountain who threatened Tribune photographer Chris Walker and told him not to take pictures or else. It would be the first of three times Walker would be threatened by protesters this night. This man was so angry his fists were clenched and his upper lip was trembling. We calmed the mountain down by asking for his opinion on things.
"This wasn't suicide," he said. "This was murder."
But didn't he pull the trigger himself?
"It was murder, I tell you," said the mountain. "He had no choice."
They wanted it to be murder, and so they made it murder. Political murder.
Naturally, it got worse. When the sun set, the anarchists arrived, on bicycles, wearing helmets and face guards. One jumped off his bike and ran up the steps of the Hotel Grand Bretagne, where I was staying. He had a heavy piece of iron and used it to break the marble steps, then grabbed a chunk.
"What are you doing!" yelled another protester, a blond woman in her mid-30s.
"Shut up, you!" said the man, and ran at her.
"Let's not fight among ourselves," said a young woman. It was a nice sentiment, but they were past that. The anarchist disappeared. About 45 minutes later, he returned with dozens of his friends. They had smashed up marble from the square and from other hotels, and had a lot of rocks to throw.
They threw them at police guarding the Parliament. They threw them at the hotel. These weren't pebbles. These were jagged chunks of marble as big as a fist. A hotel lockdown was ordered, and gates came down to shield the hotel from attack. Some of the anarchists tried to hold the gate open. They failed. Then more of the rocks started to fly. The street was covered with broken marble. Then came the tear gas.
Angry street protests — and the tear gas that accompanies them —- have become such a part of life in downtown Athens that the five-star hotel graciously provides platters of lemon slices and hot towels in the lobby for guests like me who catch a whiff of gas.
I called in the story to the Tribune newsroom. Then a friend and I ran out the back door to get a better view of what was happening outside. The rock throwers had been run off the street, but they were still in Syntagma Square, also known as Constitution Square. There were loud chants, and the smell of tear gas, and the sounds of marble hitting pavement, walls and glass. But eventually the sounds and the tear gas faded away.
It had been quiet hours before, when the old man walked out there with his gun.
And it was quiet again, just before dawn, when I returned to the square.
People were paying their respects at a shrine set up to Dimitris. They were making the sign of the cross and saying prayers.
And city crews were using high-pressure water hoses to wash down the square, just like they do every morning.