They seemed to enjoy the writing exercise as well, and definitely appreciated a move away from exam focus.
“Kyria, won’t Mrs Stella be angry with you? We’re not doing anything like this with our other teachers,” Dimitra and her classmates were referring to my maverick actions.
That’s because they’re shit scared of their boss, I thought. “Don’t you worry about Mrs Stella,” I replied, although I too had wondered how she’d take this, given that she never wanted to lose control of what went on in her school.
“Ah, Miss Rachel,” she cornered me that night while I was waiting for Manos to finish up so I could get my usual lift. “What’s this about a Christmas lesson? The students have exams soon and it is best to continue with the syllabus, don’t you think?” I saw Konstantinos pull a sympathetic face for me behind her back. He raised both his hands with his fingers crossed, offering me support. I realised Mrs Stella had made a statement, not actually asked me a question. She gave a tight smile and made to move off. Clearly the conversation was over for her. I took a deep breath:
“Actually, they’re producing some excellent ideas through this particular lesson,” I started. “This is going beyond English language acquisition; they’re learning to think for themselves, critical thinking skills. Essential for developing ideas in an exam situation wouldn’t you think?” I smiled sweetly, pleased with myself at having deliberately picked impressive phrases such as ‘language acquisition’ and ‘critical thinking skills.’ And besides, I was right—they were acquiring these skills. “Not to mention broadening their horizons with knowledge of other cultures, all through the medium of English Language.” God, I’m on fire tonight!
I could see Mrs Stella thinking this through, and actually agreeing with me. It wasn’t her fault she was traditional and stuck to traditional methods. Still, she couldn’t let it show, so she offered me a tight smile and said “Just be sure to return back to routine after the Christmas break.” I hoped I hadn’t burnt my bridges with her. I doubted it. I’d always thought that she may be draconian and scary, but she was fair.
The Christmas exercise was great for me too, as I managed to discover more about my students through reading their pen-pal letters. Dimitra enjoyed Christmas with her extended family—maternal aunt and uncle, their wives, husbands, children and her paternal grandparents. Konstantinos, by comparison, lived in a single-parent household with only his mother and sister, his parents having divorced when he was very young; his writing reflected how protective he was of his sister and mother.
“My mother has to work all the day to afford to send me to the private English school where Miss Rachel teaches, she’s from England. My sister she is hoping to go to the University and this also costs money. My mother buy us the clothes, so we don’t get many presents, but my sister helps her cook the chicken for Christmas dinner.” I began to realise that in order to understand these kids I was going to need to look at their parents and family backgrounds more closely. Only then will the jigsaw fall into place.
Driving home with Manos that evening, I brought up my discovery.
“Yep, Konstantinos’s mother is still talked about in the local supermarket and cafés. They usually make reference to Konstantinos’s behaviour and say it’s not just adolescence; they blame his mother for the lack of a father figure in his life. It doesn’t matter about the reality of a situation regarding divorce in Greece,” he went on. “The problem, especially in the villages, is that you’re expected to stay together regardless, and divorce is a big stigma here. The woman is usually held to blame, for not being strong enough to keep her family together and her man happy.”
“That’s like the Dark Ages, and bloody appalling in this day and age!” I was feeling more and more protective towards Konstantinos the more I learnt.
“Yes I agree,” shrugged Manos, “but mentality takes time to change, especially up here in the villages.”
Still feeling quite indignant and more than a little defensive towards Konstantinos, I started to read the pre-teen class’s letters at home that evening, eager to see what information I could glean about their backgrounds. By contrast these letters were quite upbeat—or beat-up, to quote Kaliopi—describing the Greek religious practises they observed Most Orthodox Greeks followed the tradition of abstaining from all meat and dairy products, including fish, from 15th November until 24th December. They then had a big meal on 25th December that included most of the products they’d abstained from, a breaking of the fast, with presents opened on 1st January, the Feast of Aghios Vasilis (Saint Basil).
I had planned to visit Athens the weekend before Christmas…it was also the weekend I was due to fly home. It’ll be good to go clothes shopping, get some more warm gear. And I can’t wait to see Dad again.
Two good things happened on the last day of term: Mrs Stella called me into her office to present me with a cash “Christmas bonus.” She made it clear that all teachers received the same: “This is from the government, the equivalent of an extra month’s salary.” Ah, not some personal ‘gift’ or bribe then. Great timing for my spending spree in Athens! Secondly, my students had gifts for me. The younger ones had drawn a Christmas poster depicting how they imagined a typical snowy English country scene to look.
“Look Miss,” Bettina proudly announced, “there is a little house and a snowman and a…umm, this in the air”
“Sleigh, Bettina, it’s called a sleigh.” I smiled at the crude depiction; they’d used cotton wool and tin foil in an attempt to make it realistic. The teenagers had clubbed together and bought me a white woolly hat. Konstantinos, Dimitra, and Litza came forward at the beginning of the last lesson to present it, artfully wrapped in newspaper. I was touched ... and glad to see that the three of them seemed to be getting along.
“You always are saying you have no warm clothes, so this will keep the heat in your head.”
“Thank you everyone, efharisto and kala christouyenna” I attempted the Greek for “thank you” and “Happy Christmas” to wild applause from the group.
“Litza,” I pulled her to one side once the class had ended and everybody had said their goodbyes. “Are things okay now among the three of you?”
“Oh yes, Miss. I remembered your Triangle of Love story and didn’t want any part of something that sounds so confusing. Besides, Konstantinos has a funny eye, haven’t you noticed? It looks to his nose.”
I hadn’t. I smiled at Litza’s observation, wished her a good holiday, and off she went.
“Kala Christouyenna!” everybody shouted to each other. Even the other teachers embraced me, kissing me on each cheek.
After the festivities and high spirits at school, I spent the evening packing bags.
It would be colder back at home; luckily I’d got warm enough clothes there. Packing my cotton t-shirts to the bottom of the drawer, I made a mental note to bring back some winter clothes with me, and there’d be no harm in buying a few new pieces in Athens.
I said Kala Christouyenna to Mrs Stella and her husband.
“Ah Miss. Rachel. Here are some melomakarona for you to take home.” This oval shaped Christmas biscuit was made from honey and walnuts, and tasted absolutely delicious. I wondered if Mr Ioannis had rustled these up, or whether Mrs Stella had exercised a hidden talent. I didn’t like to ask. “My sister makes them, you met her once.” Mrs Stella answered my unasked question. Ah yes, the spitting lady. I remembered her well.
“Thanks—they’re delicious.”
“They are a Greek Christmas traditional sweet snack. Be sure to save some for your father.” I doubt they’ll even last the journey to Athens, I thought.
After locking the flat’s door, I gave the neighbour’s ginger cat a friendly pat and made my way downhill to the bus stop. There was the old man, sitting outside his shop and once again, gesturing for me to join him for tea and honey. Alas, I didn’t have time—again—but yelled “Kala Christouyenna!” He offered a toothy smile and waved, pleased I’d attempted some Greek, and
started walking towards me so I moved quickly, wanting to avoid another of his bear hugs. Smiling I pointed to my watch and indicated my need to be quick in order to catch the bus.
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 ve
ntured “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.
Girl Gone Greek Page 9