Girl Gone Greek (11 page)

As the bus pulled away, I mumbled a “goodbye” to the village, promising to return in the New Year. I noticed the same conductor with the exceptionally long fingernail I’d encountered the previous month. I gave him my small change, surreptitiously looking at his nail for proof of nose picking, as Kaliopi had maintained.
Nope, nothing there to see.
I settled back to enjoy the journey.

When I arrived in Athens, I made my way to Kaliopi’s flat, pausing to look at the Christmas decorations. One change to the city that was hard to ignore was damage to stores and shops across the capital, especially in its centre. This was done as a reaction to the shooting of a fifteen-year-old boy, Alexandros Grigoropoulos, on December 6th, by two policemen in Exarchia. Evidence of the week-long rioting, looting, burning of shops, and widespread anger that followed was everywhere: shops with smashed windows were now boarded up, anti-police graffiti was scrawled over many buildings and the Christmas tree in Syntagma Square had been burnt down. The details of the incident were unclear to me, but I’d heard students at school mention it and had been warned by Mrs Stella to steer clear of any conversation related to it—especially with the teenage students. They had mentioned the incident briefly to me, and Konstantinos had asked if I agreed that “all police were pigs.”

“I don’t have enough evidence to properly comment, and it’s always better to know the whole story before expressing an opinion,” the diplomat in me had replied. This resulted in a brief moment of disruption from the class whilst they goaded me for an opinion—but I was mindful to try to remain tactful, therefore refused to become dragged in to any heated discussions.

As it was, I still didn’t understand what had happened and suspected that the full truth would never be known. All I knew was that an altercation had erupted between some teens and the police in Exarchia, where Kaliopi and her friends had taken me on various occasions. In the scuffle, a young boy had been shot and killed. The week-long rampage and damage that had followed the incident had also been blamed on the ever worsening economic crisis and rising youth unemployment, as well as on government corruption and nepotism.

The evidence of this tragedy really saddened me.
Athens is a beautiful city, and Greek people are so misunderstood.
I wondered if the Greeks felt the only way to be heard was though revolutionary-style tactics. I was still mulling this over when I rang Kaliopi’s bell. Opening the door, Kaliopi announced we’d go to Ermou Street, “for shopping.”

We walked along in companionable silence for a while, and then I tried to start a conversation about what had occurred that fateful December day. Kaliopi, however, wouldn’t hear of it. She seemed to be in denial and brushed my questions aside with a sweep of her hand.

“I do not want to talk about such things,” she stated firmly. “I have had enough of such goings on in my country. And trust me, it will only get worse, these riots. People will mark the anniversary of this boy’s death with yet more rioting. So let us go and buy your warm clothes instead. You like H&M, no? It is that cheap shop you also have in the UK. There is one down Ermou also, come.” Extracting yet another cigarette, frowning and shaking her lighter, head and hand turned away from the slight breeze in order to light her cancer stick, Kaliopi then proceeded to give me a brief history of the name ‘Ermou.’

“In any Greek town where there is an
Ermou Street
, this will always contain shops.” She replaced her lighter in her bag, blew a puff of smoke in my vague direction and took me by the arm. “The name
Ermou
comes from
Hermes
, a Greek god who was famous for speed and good luck—but not only; he served as a messenger to Zeus and was the patron of travellers and merchants, amongst others.”

Evidence of the rioting was not so obvious once we reached the shopping street, although the street’s banks and some of its shops had been targeted for “representing capitalism” and there was a lot of graffiti sprayed over their walls. “Burn the banks, burn capitalism” was a popular slogan, strangely written in English. Most shop owners, however, had managed to get themselves up and running pretty quickly. They’d removed any sign of graffiti and had their glass fronts replaced. I dreaded to think how much their insurance premium would be next year.

I bought a couple more polo necks and a jumper from H&M—it really did get cold in the village—while Kaliopi cured my twinge of guilt about buying non-Greek products by suggesting that we eat at a popular Greek restaurant.

“
‘Tzitzikas ki o Mermikas’
…‘The Ant and the Grasshopper’ is the English translation of this place” Kaliopi informed me as we squeezed ourselves into an upstairs table. The restaurant was busy with Greeks and tourists.

The chicken mastic sounds good,
I thought, and it was. Chicken pieces atop a nest of pastry, covered with cream and mastic sauce: a natural resin found only in the mastic trees of the island of Chios. We also shared a pomegranate salad—iceberg lettuce, cucumber, and pine nuts, with a balsamic, olive oil, and pomegranate seed dressing.

It was the best food I’d tasted in a long time.

“This isn’t the best place to come for food, it’s an expensive tourist trap,” Kaliopi piped up, almost reading my mind.

“But there are Greeks eating here too. And you said we’d go to a traditional Greek restaurant” I pointed out as an afterthought. I didn’t really mind. The chicken dish combined with the salad was delicious.

“Yes, probably Greek tourists from the villages.” I didn’t want to get Kaliopi started off again on one of her rants about the Greek villages, so I allowed her the last word: “I didn’t say the food was bad here; I said it wasn’t the best.”

We decided for dessert we’d be even more traditional, so went for
baklava
in Kaliopi’s neighbourhood.

“I’ll say goodbye and
xronia polla
to you now,” she stated later in the evening over take-away pizza. “I’ll not be able to come with you to the airport tomorrow—but you know how to get there, no?”

“Yes, I do, no.” I smiled at her, confusing my friend with my mis-use of the language.

Early the next morning, Kaliopi once again brewed me a cup of her infamous Greek coffee to drink before my flight home. And as before, I tiptoed out onto her balcony to pour it into her long suffering aloe-vera plant while she was otherwise occupied in the shower. Having said our goodbyes the previous evening I slipped out, leaving Kaliopi a thank you note on the kitchen table. I made my way on the metro to Athens International, feeling excited at the prospect of seeing Dad again, yet strangely a little sad to be leaving Greece, even though I knew I’d be returning in the New Year.

Arriving at Heathrow was a strong contrast with arriving at Athens International three months earlier. Had I really been away for such a short time? For starters, the weather was decidedly colder. A layer of snow covered the ground. I smiled as Dad embraced me as I exited Customs.

“It’s bloody freezing,” he stated. “You’re looking well and you’ve lost some weight!” Naturally this pleased me no end, especially in light of all the
baklava
and gyros I’d been consuming. It must have been the daily trudges up the hill. I’m no Kaliopi, with her six kilometres a day runs, but at least the mountain air and Greek lifestyle seemed to be doing me some good.

Dad also looked well. He’d fattened out somewhat, which was a good thing as he was tall and tended to look gaunt if he wasn’t careful.

“And you’ve got fatter,” I remarked as we bundled ourselves into the car, ready for the three-hour ride back to the West Country.

“I’ve discovered cooking!” he exclaimed. “You’re in for a treat this visit—I have lots of recipes in mind for us. And as I know you’ll probably be missing Greece, I intend to try Mediterranean dishes, too.”

“I appreciate it, Dad, but I’ve been away for a while, so I fancy English dishes like a good old roast—even beans on toast, or Marmite if possible.”

Looking mildly put out, he ventured “Can I at least try out the spinach pie dish I’ve read about, Rachel?”

“I’m sure it’ll taste delicious.”

We enjoyed a quiet Christmas together, eating my Dad’s attempts at Greek cuisine and excellent traditional English roasts. But the dark evenings and cold, grey days soon had me yearning for Greece again.

“So, Greece seems to really agree with you,” it was four p.m. and the curtains had been drawn against the gloomy skies since two o’clock.

“Yes,” I brightened…I’d been visibly miserable for the past few hours because of the weather.

“Was I right? Has your dromomania settled down?” I’d looked up this phrase after Dad had first mentioned that he suspected I suffered from it.

“I’m not sure, but I know one thing: there
is
something about the place that makes me look forward to going back and maybe staying a while. And the weather helps, when it is warm.”

“Well, in Greece you can do many things deemed illegal in most other European nations,” he snorted. “There’s a type of anarchy that appeals to the inner anarchist in us all. I knew you’d like it there. And your inability to put your finger on exactly why you like it? That’s called contentment, love. Once you finally attain it, it defies explanation…it naturally becomes a part of you. Don’t spend too much time analysing it, just accept it.”

I loved these chats with Dad. We could spend days simply being together, going to the cinema or watching inane quiz shows on TV, not needing to speak much. Or we could put the world to rights.

Grateful for his insight, I hugged him goodnight.

“I still have to pack for the journey back tomorrow, and need to get some sleep.”

“Don’t forget the teabags and Robinson’s Orange squash,” he called over his shoulder.

Although the village was still cold in January, at least it wasn’t subject to England’s floor-to-ceiling greyness. Occasional white fluffy clouds drifted across the blue sky, otherwise most days were cloudless. I could see the snow at the peak of Mount Parnassos as my bus pulled into my adopted home, reminding me of my first arrival.

The village itself hadn’t escaped the snowfall either. Dumping my bags, I decided to go wandering, and ended up in the area that Kaliopi and I frequented. Glancing around at the café, I could see snow on the ground and on the leaves of trees that overhung the river, gushing now with snowmelt. The café was closed and Kaliopi was still in her father’s village for Christmas. It was January 3rd and she wasn’t due to start back at the bank until the 7th. School also started then. The sixth was Epiphany and I was looking forward to this celebration, having heard about the tradition of young men jumping into freezing cold waters to retrieve the crucifix thrown in.

I rose early as Epiphany dawned and wandered down to the river. Although the snow had melted, colder weather had produced ice and I half skidded, half ambled my way down the hill. Mr Ioannis, in his role of Assistant Town Mayor, was already there greeting everybody by the river with enthusiastic handshakes, like a B list Hollywood movie star.

“Where’s Mrs Stella?” I asked when he reached me, pumping my hand like a beer tap.

“Bed,” he replied, all twinkly eyed. “She no like religious celebrations. But you stay a little, our religion says this day Jesus was baptized. Watch.” Aside from asking me if I liked cheese, this was the most Mr Ioannis had ever said to me. I was impressed with his attempt at English and smiled.

At the sound of excitement coming from the river I turned to see the local priest throwing in a large cross. Three virile young men, clad only in bathing trunks, immediately plunged in, vying to be the one to retrieve it. You wouldn’t get teens in the UK following tradition and braving ice cold water at nine in the morning. They might do something stupid if they were drunk on the weekend religion of alcohol consumption, but this was different and I was impressed!

A loud cheer from the crowd signalled that one of the boys had succeeded in retrieving the cross. He was lifted onto several shoulders and paraded around, wrapped in a towel and revelling in his success. The atmosphere was proud, happy even, and I soaked it in, watching Mr Ioannis work the crowd, making people feel special—shaking hands, touching elbows of parents and heads of children…
almost like Jesus himself!
I couldn’t help observing.

Feeling cold and seeing the café was still not yet open, I made my way home to start planning lessons for the next day. I was looking forward to going back and seeing what my students had been up to. That was a first for me: looking forward to going back to work.

I received a lovely red rose from one of my younger students the next day in class. “You are beautiful, Miss Rachel,” she proclaimed, solemnly presenting me with the flower.

“Thank you
agapi mou
, [my love]. Christina, please can you put this in some water?” Christina was the long-suffering school secretary who made the place tick. She could be trusted implicitly and was always being called upon (more accurately, shouted at) by Mrs Stella. My classroom was next to Christina’s small office—which was more of a converted cupboard. I’d often hear Mrs Stella’s dulcet tones demanding the girl bring something to her office or classroom. I’d never understand what as it was always shouted in Greek, but she’d be expected to drop everything—even phone calls—and attend to the matriarch’s whims.

I popped off to do some photocopying in between classes. Christina had provided me with a vase and was dealing with a telephone call.

“What are you doing?” Mrs Stella made me jump, having sneaked up behind me. “Christina will do that, this is one of the reasons I pay her.”

“But she’s on the telephone, Mrs Stella.”

“I don’t care.
Christina
! Get here this instant and help Miss Rachel, will you?” she yelled in English for a change…probably for my benefit, but it just made me feel really embarrassed.

I cringed and pulled a ‘sorry’ face as a harassed Christina appeared in the photocopying room. “I’m sorry…” I whispered, “I was trying to help out by doing it myself.”

“Is OK,” Christina had long ago resigned herself to Mrs Stella’s demanding ways. “Go back to classroom now, before she come back!” We shared a giggle.

My younger classes were brimming with news about their Christmas—the presents they’d received, what they’d eaten, the church services attended. The Konstantinos/Dimitra/Litza soap opera hadn’t changed much. Although friends, Litza appeared to display less of an interest in Konstantinos. Their class trooped in at five p.m. for the last lesson of the day and plopped themselves down. Konstantinos remembered he had to sit in the front, chattering away in Greek. When he saw me, he asked, “Miss! Did you have a good Christmas in England?” and seemed mightily pleased with himself for his linguistic efforts.
He’s learning to drop the definite article.
I smiled, “Yes, thank you Konstantinos. It was nice to see my father again.” But I caught myself and blushed, remembering he
had
no father. This seemed to have slipped by unnoticed though.

“My sister has a boyfriend and doesn’t want to help my mother much in the kitchen,” Konstantinos started. “And I do not like this boy,” he continued. “He is a little
malakas
. I am sorry, but is.”

For the first time since Litza had mentioned it, I noticed his right eye. It did indeed have a slight laziness to it. I smiled as I recalled Litza’s observation before the Christmas break, and also at Konstantinos’s description of his sister’s new boyfriend. Still, I had to reprimand him for his language: “Konstantinos! I know it’s the first day back but please remember we do not use language like that in this classroom. And besides, no man will be good enough for your sister in your eyes. This is the way things usually go in families—the brother tends to be very protective.”

“OK,
Kyria
, but I still don’t like him.”

The lesson continued without much preamble, everyone keen to get home. At eight p.m. Manos popped his head round the door of my classroom.

“You ready for a lift?”

“OK,” I placed my pencil onto the desk and stretched. “Only if you promise to stop at the
spanakopita
roadside café on the way—I’m starving.”

As he drove, Manos filled me in on his own Christmas, interrupted only by the stop at our usual roadside jaunt.

“The little one kept us awake all night on Christmas Eve, running into the room, jumping on the bed, bouncing up and down and asking where Santa was. The older one was dead chuffed with his new karate outfit. We ate a lot, went to church on Christmas Day, that sort of thing. You?”

“Just a quiet one with my Dad. It was good to be home, but I’m realising that the weather makes a
huge
difference. It was miserable back in England, and if I’m honest I’m glad to be back. I can cope with cold, but not the oppressive grey.”

“Ah, you’re one of those
sad
people,” observed Manos. “We’re lucky. Never suffered from that, being raised in Oz and then coming straight to Greece. Never had the pleasure of experiencing this greyness you mention, not for extended periods of time at least.” I’d never given much thought to SAD before, but now he mentioned it…I thought about how weather shapes cultures and habits: it was true that the Greeks seemed to be a hell of a lot more open than their UK counterparts. We British are reserved, ingratiatingly polite, and border on being patronizing when compared to the Greeks and their way of dealing with things.

I remembered my conversation with Dad over Christmas when he’d talked about the anarchical nature of the Greeks. He said something interesting: “The Greeks—well, they’re just ‘blah’ aren’t they?”

Yes, they are just ‘blah’: they say exactly what they think the moment they think it, without processing or refining anything beforehand. And oddly, I didn’t get offended by their ‘blah-ness’—I actually found it rather endearing and refreshing; I knew where I stood.