Ignoring me, Kaliopi continued, “These people who live in island villages—they have no class. Does she think she can examine with a mouth full of gum?”
I was reminded of my first day in class, back in September with the teens. “Well, I need to make the ‘no-gum’ rule clear to my kids too,” I said. “I manage to get them to remove it before class, but they’ll also need to remember to do so before the exam. They’re always moaning to me because they say it helps them concentrate.”
After finishing our food, Kaliopi wanted to go to a bar, despite the fact it was nearly ten p.m. “No,” I stated firmly. “You’re the one who starts work at 8:30 tomorrow. I don’t start until two and can sleep in, but I’m knackered! It’s no fun going up to Athens and back in a day, and having to sit through training.”
“Stop moaning, you English person” Kaliopi nudged me in the ribs (a little too hard). “But go on, I understand. You are tired and must sleep. I will see you soon.” We parted ways at the bottom of my hill, with a kali nikta and kiss on both cheeks.
Spring
January morphed into February, meaning I could start looking forward to Easter. Unlike the UK, Greece didn’t have half-term breaks, and despite enjoying working with the kids and never suffering a dull day, I was becoming worn down and looking forward to the two-week-long Easter break. Manos had told me that Greek Orthodox Easter follows the Julian calendar, whereas Catholic and Protestant Easter follows the Gregorian one. “So Greek Easter, therefore, falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon of the vernal equinox.” I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but basically Greek Easter isn’t at the same time as in the UK.
“Look love, I’ve decided. I might not have long left on this earth, so I’d like to come back to the country I call my second home and pay you a visit.” I’d been on the phone to Dad earlier in the week. It was good that he was coming to visit me, but I wish he hadn’t thrown so much doom and gloom in there too! Mrs Stella had suggested I go to the local (and only) hotel in the village and book him a room.
“Tell the man at reception you are a colleague of Mrs Stella and you will get a discount. He can’t stay with you in your place, it’s too small,” she said. I bit my tongue in order not to voice my inner thoughts: So you do recognise that it could do with a little more furniture and decoration then? I’d seen the local hotel from the outside—and if I could just get rid of the Eagles’ Hotel California in my head, I’d go and check it out as soon as possible.
“Book my flight for me, using that internet thing,” my father decided, and after I got him a good deal, I emailed Stamatis, letting him know Dad would be visiting. I groaned when I read the reply:
“Give me Yianni’s flight details, I’ll collect him from the airport and drive him to your village.” I hope he finds the drive long enough to catch up with his “dear old friend” and doesn’t want to hang out with us all through Easter. I didn’t want to begrudge Dad the opportunity to meet his old friend, but I felt rather proprietorial towards him, and besides, I didn’t trust that Stamatis’s version of catching up with “my good friend Yianni” didn’t involve some strip club full of Eastern European hookers. There weren’t any here in the village, but he might take him out in Athens to one.
“Oh, but I will be in my village!” exclaimed Kaliopi when I told her about Dad’s impending visit. “Can’t you come there?”
“No, sorry. I’ve made arrangements for us to visit Meteora.” We were discussing our Easter plans over coffee one evening. Kaliopi reacted in her usual excitable way by bouncing on her chair when she heard my father was visiting.
“That area is beautiful, not even I have been there. The monasteries, those rock formations! It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Did you know that a James Bond movie was filmed there some years ago?”
“Yeah, I think it was For Your Eyes Only.” I was looking forward to going. I also felt somewhat relieved that Dad wouldn’t get to meet Kaliopi. I loved my friend dearly, but I’d no guarantee that in her wide-eyed innocence and penchant for openness, she wouldn’t tell Dad an inappropriate tale about a recent sexual exploit.
I popped into the hotel on the main village thoroughfare and spoke to the manager, mentioning Mrs Stella by name.
“Ah yes, I know her husband well. We can do you a discount rate of 60 Euros per night, including breakfast. Come, I’ll show you a room.” We went up to the first floor and I was shown an en-suite room with double bed. Pretty small for 60 Euros, and that’s with a discount. The view is of the main street, but what choice do I have? And besides, he’s not going to be living in here. I thanked the man and reserved the dates.
I waited anxiously by the phone on Thursday evening. Dad was due to arrive anytime soon and the next day was Good Friday. We’d started and finished the school day earlier because the children’s state school had already broken up, meaning we didn’t have to teach in the evening. I went back to the “Hotel California” to ensure his reservation was OK, and tidied my small place up… not that that took long.
Finally the phone rang. I jumped on it: “Yes?”
“Where’s your bloody father?” boomed Stamatis’s agitated voice. I sighed inwardly. I’d repeatedly reminded Dad to bring his UK mobile phone and remember to switch it on, and that yes, it would work in Greece. Stamatis had clearly tried to call ‘his good friend Yanni,’ to no avail.
“His plane’s landed, I’ve checked. And I refuse to park my car and pay airport parking fees. So I told him I will be waiting in my 4x4 outside in the waiting bay in Arrivals, and to leave his phone on!”
“It’s OK, Stamatis,” I placated him. “Give him a few minutes—he might still be waiting for his luggage.”
Just before Stamatis hung up, I heard him yell, “Eh, Yianni! There you are, you bloody fool. I have been waiting here for over one hour. Where the hell were you? Did you not listen to me…?” Thank God for that, although I felt mildly sorry for Dad since he’d have to endure a car ride with his old friend huffing and puffing. And what a welcome after more than fifteen years of not seeing one another. I smiled as I replaced the handset and went upstairs to inform Mrs Stella. Her sister had prepared some meat and salad for us, which I brought down and stored in my small fridge. At 12:30a.m. I received a call from Stamatis again. “We’re in front of that bloody hotel. Come and get us, will you?”
I ran down the hill in my excitement to see Dad again. I hugged him hard and made the effort to do the same to Stamatis, noticing that he was still giving me the eye! I glanced over at Dad, who seemed not to notice; he was taking in the surroundings, albeit in the dark.
“This is where you’ll be staying, Dad,” I pointed to the hotel. “Let’s dump your bags and then we can walk up the hill to my place to eat. Stamatis,” I turned to him, struggling to maintain a neutral expression, “won’t you join us?”
“No way!” he exclaimed. “Look at that place, it looks like a shithole! Yianni, why do you insist on staying in shitholes when you come to my country? And you” he turned his attention to me, “take after your patera, obviously intent on coming to shithole places—just like your father.” I wondered if he was related to Kaliopi. They both think this place is crap and are happy to vocalise it.
Dad and I exchanged a look, but he smiled and clapped his excitable old friend on the back. “Ah, it’s just good to see you again, Stamatis old man.”
After another round of embracing, back-clapping and making arrangements for when we arrived in Athens, Stamatis finally drove off. We wandered to the hotel to dump Dad’s bags and headed up the hill to my place.
“Was the journey OK?” I asked. I was puffing from the exertion of the hill and trying to keep up with Dad—he was obviously fitter than I was at approximately two paces ahead of me.
“Ah, Stamatis is a typical Greek I suppose, he spent the first fifteen minutes bellowing at me for not
leaving my phone switched on, getting angry and hitting the steering wheel, telling me he feels responsible for me and wa
s worried you’d be angry with him. I just let him get it off his chest. Afterwards he was fine.”
I was itching to point out that in my opinion, Stamatis was an exaggerated version of a “typical Greek.” But clearly Dad was pleased to see him again, so I kept quiet.
“Anyway, this place you’re staying in is a little sparse isn’t it?” Dad puffed slightly as he entered my flat—maybe he’s not so fit after all. “I mean, it’s a good size, but it could do with a sofa or something to make it a bit homier,” he looked around, trying to find somewhere to sit. I pulled a plastic garden chair from the kitchen.
“I know, I know, but don’t say anything when you meet my boss, I have to work with her. And at least it’s warm in the winter and cool in the summer. Plus we’ve got some great snacks…she figured you’d be hungry.”
We spent an hour catching up and eating the food, then Dad meandered back down the hill to the hotel. We planned to spend Easter in the village before heading off to Meteora. Even Kaliopi had advised me to stay in the village during Easter because of its way of celebrating, with lots of meat. “Oh the meat!” she’d exclaimed. “You will find that on Easter Sunday, everyone has stopped being depressed because their Christ has risen again and the skies are black with smoke from the outdoor fires used for roasting the lamb on the spit.” It was the first time she’d ever said anything nice about the village.
Despite arriving late the night before, Dad was up by eight the next morning. “There’s a lovely river here, with a statute of a woman’s head in it!” he exclaimed when I met him at Reception at 10am.
“You’ve discovered where I go for coffee, Dad. It’s a beautiful area, you’re right. And that woman’s head is the nymph Herkyna, or ‘Krya.’ I go there a lot to drink coffee with Kaliopi. How did you sleep?”
“Well, the bed’s pretty soft, but I did my back exercises this morning, so that helped.”
“Morning, John.” An Englishman strode through Reception, greeting Dad with a clap on the back.
“Oh hi, I hope everything goes well for you today,” Dad called as the man exited the hotel via the revolving doors.
“What happens to him today?” I asked as we made our own way in the April sunshine along the main street back to my place. Checking to make sure the man wasn’t within earshot, Dad explained.
“His ex-wife’s Greek; he claims she’s crazy so he wants to get custody of his little girl. But she comes from a big family, so he has to battle the family in court. He’s stuck here over the Easter period, allowed access to his daughter for a few hours each day, and he’ll stay until the custody battle is over.”
“And he just volunteered this info to you?”
“Well, yes, he sat down at my table at breakfast and just opened up. Maybe it was nice for him to have someone English to speak to. It sounds quite messy and dramatic to me.”
“Yes, welcome to Greece,” I replied as we arrived at the flat and puffed our way upstairs to make the introductions to Mrs Stella.
The door was opened, just as I muttered “Now please be appropriate Dad, she’s my boss, OK?” Dad shot me an ‘Am I anything but?’ look as Mrs Stella shook his hand and led him to the sofa.
“Your daughter is constantly referring to you, Mr John. It is a pleasure to finally meet the man himself.” Mr Ioannis, meanwhile, seemed eager to chat about football. The combination of his limited English and Dad’s lack of Greek didn’t seem to matter one bit as he smiled widely when Dad exclaimed, “Liverpool!” This seemed to start off some sort of weirdly-understood conversation about the sport. Mr Ioannis, it turned out, loved Manchester United, so I left them to it.
“We don’t eat meat until Easter Sunday, it’s the tradition” Mrs Stella told us. “I’ve booked a table for later this evening in a local taverna. We’ll go to church, light a candle and “feel sad,” she dismissed this sentiment away with a wave of the hand. I remembered Mr Ioannis’s comments back on the Epiphany day in January: “You know she doesn’t like religious celebrations.”
“We don’t usually attend church,” admitted Mrs Stella in a lull in the conversation between the two men, confirming what I already knew, “but tonight we will make an exception, so as to accompany you and be hospitable.” She seemed to expect some kind of gratitude. Dad must have picked up on this too: “That’s really very kind of you, thank you. We’ll look forward to it.”
“Can we go back to that river area?” Dad asked. We were left to our own devices for the afternoon.
“She’s quite distant, your boss, unusual for a Greek woman,” Dad was tilting his head, cat-like, into the sunlight as he sipped on a Greek frappé.
“I know, it took me a while to get used to her, but she’s actually very fair in the work environment.”
“So long as you’re happy love,” he reached over to give my hand a squeeze, “and you certainly seem happy.” We headed back, needing a siesta.
At eight o’clock we walked further up the hill to the church, accompanied by Mrs Stella, Mr Ioannis and their two teenage daughters—home from Athens for the holidays. Melina, the youngest, pushed her way through the throng outside the church to get us all a small candle.
Having lit one, she then allowed us to light our candle from hers.
“Look at all the people here! Do they usually all turn up to church every week?” Dad asked.
“Ochi!” snorted Mr Ioannis.
“This is a social occasion for people. Look at everyone gathered in their finest dress, chatting to their neighbour. Would you like to go inside?” Mrs Stella asked in her stilted manner.
“Er, to be honest, no,” I didn’t blame Dad, in view of the crowds of people. We listened to the drone of the priest’s voice through the loudspeaker, the mournful sound that reminded everyone to feel very sad today. The crowd started moving in the procession of the bier where the epitaph was carried out of the church and back down the hill towards the town. It was culmination of a day of great ‘sadness.’
“Come, we can join them,” Mrs Stella instructed. Clutching our candles, we joined the throng. “There’s something magical about seeing all these people come together and walking with candles,” Dad was taken in. Looking around, I could see people chatting away, appearing not as sad as they should be. “As you said, it’s like a social gathering—a time for people to catch up.”
Mr Ioannis didn’t go unnoticed by the crowd, and part of his duty as Assistant Town Mayor was to be sociable to everyone. It took us roughly forty-five minutes to walk the short distance from the church as Mr Ioannis weaved his magic and chatted to men, mildly flirted with women and clucked at babies and children alike.
We left the crowd at the bottom of the hill to continue on to the town square, whilst our small party turned in the opposite direction toward the taverna.
“Best to get there early, before these crowds do. It will get busy once they finish in the square.” Mrs Stella turned out to be correct—the taverna was already straining at the seams when we reached it. No ordering was necessary as a set Easter menu had been prepared in advance. We settled down to a simple meal of calamari, bread, and salad. “No meat with blood is allowed, but calamari is OK,” Melina explained, sitting next to Dad. It felt a little like being with a pop star as Mr Ioannis back-slapped several people. I noticed Mrs Stella roll her eyes and smile tight-lipped at Dad, who had also picked up on Mr Ioannis’s behaviour.
“She’s a bit scary, your boss. Pleasant, but scary,” Dad whispered. I nudged him in the ribs to shut up, but Mrs Stella seemed preoccupied talking with her youngest daughter, Anthi, about her new hairstyle.
“My daughter has had her hair cut much too short.” Mrs Stella turned to me. “Don’t you agree Rachel? These young people, Mr Hail, they never listen to their parents” she concluded with another eye roll. Dad and I refused to be drawn into this family battle.
“You see? She can’t even be nice to her own daughter!” Dad exclaimed whilst I covered up a snort of laughter as a cough on a calamari piece.
“Why not? It’s Easter after all. And besides, a glass a day is supposed to be good for you. I’d read somewhere it helps ward off breast cancer.” And it’s probably better for me than the copious amount of Coca-Cola I drink.
“Huh—Mum’ll be alright then, she gets through a bottle a day,” Anthi chimed in. An uneasy silence fell on the table as Mrs Stella’s look to her oldest daughter spoke volumes. I breathed a sigh of relief when Mr Ioannis came back...his easy-going nature was infectious. They were so different. I wonder how their marriage works.
By one a.m. Dad and I had gone out separate ways to bed. We’d agreed to meet by the river the next morning.
“Bumped into that man again at breakfast, he’s off to spend a couple of hours with his daughter today.” Dad and I were sitting in the late morning sunshine, drinking a frappé and camomile tea.
“Not a lot seems to happen on Easter Saturday,” I looked around me. Of course, nothing could keep people from their pilgrimages to the coffee shops or the Kafeneos. We’d been warned by both Mrs Stella and the pleasant but portly man at the Hotel reception desk that pretty much everything shut down in the village on Easter Saturday. We’d been invited to Mrs Stella’s house for a meal, but not until midnight.
“Why do we have to eat so late?” Dad asked.
“I think people start celebrations for Easter Sunday late the night before,” I licked frappé froth from my upper lip, “because they’ve been fasting and abstaining from meat. Tomorrow is going to be a big day for them with roast lamb and all, so they have to line their stomachs tonight. Oh Jesus!” I suddenly remembered, “you’re a vegetarian, what will you do?”
“I can make allowances; don’t worry,” Dad grinned.
“Are you sure? When was the last time you ate meat?”
Girl Gone Greek Page 11