“Have you been waiting long?” she asked, leaning in to the wing mirror to check her hair.
“Oh, you know, I got here on time,” I smiled, figuring this was the most diplomatic way of saying that yes, I’d been waiting for a while yet not wanting to alienate my boss on the first day. I figured there were two kinds of time in Greece: the “stated” and the “actual.” For example, if a Greek proposed to meet you at ten a.m., you should start getting ready at ten, and even then you’d probably be early when you eventually turned up at the rendezvous point at half past.
“Good, let’s go then.”
As I climbed into the passenger seat I looked up at the house and saw Vasiliki waving at me from the window. I smiled and waved back: at least my boss’s sister was friendly.
The journey was a fifteen minute ride to the next village, even smaller than the one where I lived. I managed to still my nerves by marvelling at the scenery: We were driving at an angle to Parnassos, past cotton fields with windfarms above them on the hilltops. There were small tavernas dotting the roadside, and cafes where men sat outside fiddling with worry beads. I took it all in, noting how different the commute was compared to life in the UK, and realised that if I were to settle comfortably into Greek life, I’d have to loosen up a lot and lose my grip on my English-isms—timekeeping would be a good start.
We pulled up outside a one storey structure…a winding metal staircase leading up to a flat roof which held the obligatory solar panels, so often seen on Greek buildings. The name of the school was painted in black letters across the front, and I felt a brief flicker of disappointment. I had a romanticized notion that all buildings in Greece were white with blue shutters. This one had been white once, but paint crumbled from the walls and there was no sign of any shutters, let alone blue ones. I did notice the ivy creeping up around the spiral roof staircase though, and the opposite side of the building looked as if a bougainvillea plant was trying to blossom into life. The building was small: two classrooms in the windowless basement, a room with a photocopier in it and three classrooms on the ground floor), and after a brief tour I found myself shuttled into the tiny staffroom to meet the other four teachers—all Greeks who were chattering away to each other, nursing delicious smelling small cups of coffee.
“Rachel will be with us this academic year,” Mrs Stella announced by way of introduction. They all stopped talking and turned to me with looks that seemed to say “and?” just as I heard the staff room door click closed as Mrs Stella left. She had left pretty swiftly.
I suppose I couldn’t expect them to jump for joy just because I was the new English teacher. I remembered my promise to adapt. Don’t let your subconscious colonial heritage make you feel superior, I thought. After all, the school hired a new native English teacher every year, so my face was just one of the many they’d seen come and go. And the teachers weren’t exactly rude, they were just…indifferent. The three women and one man regarded me with a “been there done that—let’s see how this one fares” expression…a wry smile revealing their inner thoughts. Eventually one piped up.
“Manos.” He extended his hand to shake mine.
“Helena.” Helena did the same.
“Eleni.” Eleni stayed seated, but at least she offered a friendly smile.
“Alexandra.” The same reaction as Eleni’s, minus the smile.
“Hi,” I replied, offering my own smile. I figured I could at least appear friendly and accommodating, not like the stiff-upper-lip Brit they might be used to. A paranoid part of me thought Oh God, they can see I’m new to teaching and look as if they’re going to relish seeing me eaten alive by the students!
“So that’s the introductions over and done with,” Mrs Stella re-entered the staff room, almost as if she’d been listening at the door. The other teachers kept quiet and returned to marking essays or preparing lesson plans, avoiding eye contact. “Ready to meet the students?”
“Don’t worry,” she said as she steered me towards the classroom. “I have great faith in you. You’ve already travelled to many places and taught abroad before; this shows me you can adjust to any new situation. It’s a trait that has to naturally be a part of a person’s character—it cannot be taught. You’ll adapt to this situation just fine, and the students will learn a lot from you.”
I cringed inwardly, remembering my only previous teaching experience as a volunteer in Sri Lanka—where I’d spent most of the time showing the kids pictures of red telephone boxes, London buses and black cabs.
“And don’t worry about the teachers—they are shy of their English language abilities in front of a native teacher,” she concluded. This was probably the longest speech Mrs Stella had made so far. All pumped up with adrenaline, I strode into the classroom with a sense of pride…only to have my balloon popped when I was greeted by a group of thirteen bored, indifferent-looking teenagers.
Mrs Stella had to nudge me through the door, since the shock of seeing so many blank faces had frozen me to the spot. I composed myself and turned to thank my boss for those last inspiring words, only for the second time that day to hear the door click shut behind me. And was that the sound of the key turning? No, just my imagination, as I discovered when I tried the handle.
Drawing a deep breath, I turned and strode to the front of the class, exuding more confidence than I actually felt. All eyes followed me as I placed my carefully prepared “Introduction to Me” materials on the small desk.
And, what was this—a blackboard? My training had used fancy interactive whiteboards with internet access. The nearest thing to technology in this classroom was going to be the light switch. And something else was odd—what was that noise? Turning toward the offending sound, I discovered that thirteen jaws were chomping to the rhythm of some unheard tune. The whole class was chewing gum, and doing so rather loudly. Okay, something had to be done, and fast.
I took the bull by the horns. “Start tough; later you can back down,” had been the advice of my tutor, Gloria, and now I fully intended to follow it.
“Hi. My name’s Rachel. You’ve probably guessed I’m from England. But I am slightly confused—I thought I was to be your English teacher,” I started.
A slight murmur stirred the classroom. One boy shouted from the back, “You are, why you say that?” In actual fact, as I’d discovered in my short time in Greece, he was speaking at a normal Grecian pitch, but to my ears and my heightened sensitivity and nerves on that first day, it felt more like a shout.
“Because I wonder if I am, in fact, a farmer—here to take the cows in to be milked,” I attempted a joke, wondering if they would understand such a dry observation, or if it might be a little too sarcastic for them.
Confusion flickered across their faces as another student, this time a girl with an unfortunate case of acne, dared to venture the question I’d been expecting: “You are saying we are like cows, Kyria Rachel?”
“Well, yes,” I replied. “Looking at you, all I see are cows chewing on grass. Listen to you, chomping your gum; you look and you sound like cows chewing the cud! Remove it, please.”
My aim was not to break the number one rule of teaching by throwing sarcasm at them; it was to introduce the students to an idiomatic phrase—they were learning English on the hoof, as it were. The cattle metaphors were blossoming nicely. Picking up the rubbish bin, I meandered among the tables, congratulating myself that the students were actually tossing their wads of gum into it—albeit with mumbles of Greek under their breath.
“Thank you,” I beamed as the last piece plunked into the bin. “In future, I’d appreciate it if you removed your gum before entering my classroom.” A few students nodded in assent, but most looked curiously at this new teacher who’d referred to them as cows and considered herself a farmer.
Meanwhile, I was marvelling at how well I’d handled myself, and how well the average sixteen-year-old Greek student understood English. Maybe the actual teaching part wouldn’t be too hard after all. Perhaps the challenge
will be winning my students’ hearts and minds. I might be new to teaching, but I wasn’t a fool. I was aware that it would be important to treat my protégées with respect as human beings, to listen to them, yet maintain professional distance and not become their friend. Turning back to the class, I relished this latter challenge and looked forward to getting to know their personalities and nurture their abilities.
“Good,” I continued. “Now that’s over, let’s get on with introducing ourselves. I’m not going to actually be teaching you today, but I am sure you’re dying to know all about me.”
“Not really,” mumbled an attractive boy at the back—the one who’d responded to my earlier comment about being here to teach and not to farm. Even though he was seated, it was obvious he was tall. And with his olive-coloured skin, his short-cropped jet black hair and his remarkable blue eyes (blue? I thought Greeks had brown eyes. In that instant I was struck by his exoticness), I realised I’d have my work cut out with this one. I made a mental note to rearrange the seating of these students before class met again and not have him sat at the back.
“And you are ...?” I gave him an open smile, intended to be neither hostile nor challenging.
“He’s malaka,” replied the acne-covered girl. Oblivious to what this word meant, I assumed this was the Adonis’ name.
“Pleased to meet you, Malaka.” The hoots and whistles that followed this exchange soon alerted me that this was probably not the thing to have said.
“Kyria Rachel, do you understand that malaka is not a word you should to be going around saying?” queried a third student, confirming my realisations.
There were two ways I could handle this. I could become outraged that they’d upstaged me, or I could go along with it. I thought quickly, but it turned out I needn’t to do either as the Adonis (who was, in fact, named Konstantinos) retorted to the rest of the class, “Be quiet and listen to the new Kyria.”
Clearly he felt bad that he’d caused embarrassment to his new teacher, so he was now working to bring the situation back under control. Their amusement at my expense subsided and I began to discover more about Konstantinos, Litza, (the girl who’d translated malaka), Dimitra (the girl with acne) and the rest of the class. All in all, my introductory lesson was a success. The hour flew by, and I heard an old-fashioned hand rung bell that signalled the end of the lesson, far sooner than expected. So the blackboard isn’t the only non-technological item here. It felt rather quaint; to be teaching in a remote village with ivy, bougainvillea, blackboards and hand-held bells.
Smiling as I said goodbye to them all, Konstantinos and Dimitra told me they’d see me tomorrow. “Try to remember my correct name, Kyria,” was Konstantinos’ cheeky parting comment as he left the classroom.
One introduction class down, only one more to go before I had to leave for the day. Just enough time to munch on a digestive biscuit before the next lot arrives. (As I’d thought, digestives had been another luxury I’d packed from home. I’d lied before; I’d have paid £90 in excess baggage fees.)
A knock on the door announced Mrs Stella’s arrival. “So, how did your introduction with the teenagers go…any problems that I should know about?” I was about to open my mouth and mention Konstantinos when I noticed him hovering behind Mrs Stella in the open classroom doorway. He was trying to communicate something with his eyes whilst shaking his head. Stopping in my tracks, I returned my attention to Mrs Stella and smiled.
“They took a while to warm to me, but I think in time we’ll be okay,” I replied. The relief in Konstantinos’s eyes was obvious as Mrs Stella agreed. She added, “Do not take any nonsense from Konstantinos—the good-looking boy with the blue eyes. If you have any problems with him, send him to me immediately.”
I glanced over to see him slink away from the door. I realised that these kids, even the formidable Konstantinos, were afraid of my boss. I wondered if the other teachers were also overawed by her, contributing to their silence and that lack of eye-contact when I met them.
“Ready for the next lot?” asked Mrs Stella. She jerked her head in the vague direction of a dozen nine-year-olds who were lining up outside the classroom. They trooped in, giggling and whispering to each other as they eyed me.
“I’ll do a little introduction, as their English knowledge is a little less advanced than the other class.”
While my boss (who managed to look stern, even when not telling someone off) was introducing me, I looked at the little faces in the room: they seemed much more open and inquisitive than those of the teenage class.
The rest of the day ran quite smoothly, and later on I sat in a pool of fading sunlight in the tiny courtyard at the back of my flat. The courtyard had an orange and lemon tree growing in it, and picking an orange from the tree, I peeled it and sunk my teeth into what I anticipated would be a sweet orange. My gag reflexes went into hyperdrive as I spat the bitter fruit out. What I had absent-mindedly ingested was not an orange, but a neranzi—bitter orange used to make jams and desserts, but never eaten raw. Oh well, isn’t this what living in a foreign culture’s all about—experiencing weird and wonderful things? I thought, although my mouth wasn’t quite agreeing with this internal dialogue.
The “little ones,” as I thought of them, had a surprisingly good command of English for their age. Most had been attending pre-school since the age of four. My lesson with this age group also helped me to understand the silence of at least one of the other teachers: Helena only taught this age group and I concluded that after a few hours of teaching the younger children, she was more exhausted than indifferent.
The children had been attentive, listening to me tell them where I was from and what I’d done before becoming a teacher. When it was their turn to ask me things, they fired questions at me in “Gringlish,” a marked contrast to the teens. And at least they weren’t chewing gum. The funniest question was from a young girl named Bettina:
“Kyria Rachel, has your family died?” she enquired in her pidgin English.
“Excuse me?” After some coaxing from the others it became clear that Bettina, like most of the others, was wondering if one of my family members had passed away because I was wearing so much black. This explained all their tiny whisperings when I’d entered the classroom. It was then I learned about the Greek tradition of wearing black during times of mourning.
When a member of a woman’s family dies, she wears black for a period of time. In traditional Greek families, when a woman’s husband dies, the widow wears black for the rest of her life. This practice contrasted strongly with that of the men, who wear only a black armband for a short period after the death of a wife. It also explained the typical picture postcard scenes of old Greek women dressed in black.
I didn’t have the heart to tell the children that no, the only reason I was wearing black was because I felt it made me look slimmer…it suddenly seemed so shallow and materialistic. So I uttered the first thought that came to mind:
“Yes, my older sister,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.
“Never mind,” Bettina piped up, “you are still beautiful, Miss.” I smiled at her implication. At least I was more attractive in this girl’s eyes than a dead person.
Glancing at the bedside clock, I groaned. It was only half past eight, and there was no need to leave for school until two. I forced myself out of bed anyway, determined to have a nose around my new neighbourhood.
After a long shower in my tiled bathroom that resembled something out of the 1970s (a disco ball wouldn’t have fitted into my luggage along with the teabags, otherwise the party would’ve been complete), I pulled on casual clothes and set off down the hill. It wasn’t lost on me how blue the skies were, and the mountain in the distance teased me with its snow-peaked presence.
My first human encounter in the village was with an old man, sitting outside his shop halfway down the hill—my street—that sold heating oil. An open fronted affair, the shop resembled a car mechanic’s workshop, but with bottled oi
l instead. The man was sitting on a wicker chair outside the shuttered entrance. Spotting me, he rose, waved me over and proceeded to rub my cheeks and try to embrace me, all the while chattering away in Greek.
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” I kept repeating as I backed away from his open arms, but it was no good: he carried on talking in rapid Greek. I soon managed to decipher a few words—“Kyria Stella” and “Scholeio Anglia.”
He must know I’m staying in my boss’s house and that I’m the new English teacher. I smiled a lot and promised that yes, one day I would join him for a glass of tea and honey…that’s what he’d been drinking and had kept trying to push into my hands. After about five minutes of this confusing but not unpleasant toing and froing, I continued on down the hill, eager to see all that the village had to offer. At least he hadn’t spat at me.
My next encounter was not so smooth; a Greek woman in her mid-20s was crossing the street at the bottom of the hill, looking in the opposite direction. My first meeting with Kaliopi was to almost bowl her over as the momentum of my descent wouldn’t let me stop, but it was a meeting that was to launch a lasting friendship.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I stammered whilst checking to see if the woman was all right. I wasn’t sure if she understood me, although it was clear I was genuinely sorry by the fact I was trying to brush her down. Tall, thin with large brown eyes and short black hair, she looked me up and down. After an awkward pause she burst out laughing and hugged me hard…these Greeks appear to enjoy embracing.
“Hi, I’m Kaliopi,” she said in perfect English. Taking my hand, this exuberant Greek pulled me along, “Come with me, you look like you need a cup of strong Greek coffee.”
Girl Gone Greek Page 3