Girl Gone Greek

by Hall, Rebecca

  As usual, he was spot on. I swallowed back tears.

  “So where will you work?”

  “Mrs Stella’s set up an interview for me in Athens with a well-known school owner.”

  Waking up at about eight a.m. in Kaliopi’s Athens apartment, I noticed she’d already left for her new job. The transfer from the village had been remarkably quick for her. In the kitchen, I read the note she’d left: “Coffee in the pot. Do the washing up please—you’ll be helping me out.” Scratching my bed hair and yawning loudly, I eyed the pile of dishes in the sink and the left overs of last night’s pizza.

  Having washed up and dressed in my trademark black trousers and light purple shirt, I sat at the kitchen table counting the bonus pay Mrs Stella had pressed into my hand on my last day.

  “You have worked hard this year, my dear, and I wanted to thank you,” were her parting words. Not used to such a display, I tried to protest the extra money, saying it was my job.

  “Yes, but it was a job well done, and this is my way of thanking you,” she repeated. When I saw Kaliopi, she had backed this up. “Get used to it, it’s the Greek way.” I’d felt embarrassed and flattered. After all, I had mixed feelings about my boss and had spent time laughing with Manos about her draconian ways. He’d given me the spanakopita recipe as a present. Dad would love that. The other teachers had been characteristically remote and just wished me well in the staffroom on the last day. Oh well, they’ll have a new member of staff next year.

  Deciding there were worse things in life than receiving an unexpected one hundred and fifty Euros in cash, I made my way across town to the centre of Athens, ready for my interview with the formidable owner of my potential new workplace.

  “Yes?” enquired an attractive and well-groomed receptionist, looking up from her computer.

  “Yes, hi, I’m here for an interview…” before I could finish my sentence, she barked “Teaching or Editing?”

  “Teaching” Does she have to be so rude? And what does she mean, editing?

  “Wait here,” she gestured towards a bench seat whilst she went off into a small room to the right of the reception area. I looked around. There was a TV screen repeating a video of a nativity play. It seemed the younger students here took part in a Christmas play every year.

  “She will see you now,” the receptionist announced from the doorway. Gesturing that I should go in with a flick of her head, I stood up, smoothed my trousers, adjusted my top and entered the small office.

  I needn’t have worried—sitting in the corner was a well coiffured elderly brunette who looked me up and down twice and exclaimed, “Well, you’ve got the job…just go and see my secretary to arrange your timetable.”

  “Er, don’t you want to see my CV and my recommendation letter?” I felt like I was missing something, that I needed to try harder or that it wasn’t possible to simply land a job just on looks.

  “What’s there to discuss? You’re a teacher and clearly a professional woman.” I was subjected to the up and down scrutiny yet again, “so you have a job, starting in September. Do you need somewhere to live? We will arrange all that—now go, I am a busy woman. Go and talk with the secretary.” I was waved out of her office. Clearly my time was up and luckily for me, I appeared to have made an impression.

  Feeling somewhat bewildered by the experience, I was shown by the fashion model receptionist into yet another side room; to meet another secretary. The place resembled a rabbit warren. A name plague stated she was Mariela and she placed her pen and glasses on top of her pile of paperwork, smiled wearily at me, indicated the seat opposite and again repeated the mantra: “Editing or teaching?”

  “Teaching,” I informed her. “But what’s this editing?” Mariela rubbed her eyes as she explained the nature of work at this particular school.

  “We’re not only a school; we run our own editing department and write our own teaching materials. So, we employ staff to do both tasks. Do you want to do both tasks?”

  “I’ve never edited before, can I let you know?”

  “Sure sure, plenty of time before the new term starts in September. We can discuss then. Now, we will have an apartment ready for you when you come back, the term starts on the 19th but you will need one week’s training, so make sure you’re here for 10th September. See you then.” I backed out of this slightly more affable lady’s office, thanking her.

  Later that evening, Kaliopi and I were drinking coffee near the Acropolis. “The whole process was over in about 10 seconds. They took one look at me and offered me the job! I felt a bit like a prostitute, without the sex bit, obviously.” I remembered Stamatis’s and Mr Ioannis’s once-overs. It wasn’t just the men, then.

  Watching the tourists wander by, Kaliopi said: “So you were subjected to the Greek scrutiny and made it through. Well done.” She took a deep breath. “I have some bad news though: I am leaving for Barcelona in the summer. I have a job offer there—an international branch of our bank,” she looked sceptically at me, not knowing how I’d react. I smiled at her.

  “Fate’s been good to me, Kaliopi. Going into that interview, I hadn’t been too sure whether I wanted to stay or not—now it seems it’s decided for me, I’m happy. And I’m happy for you. You and I saved each other in the village…now things are working out for you. I’ll never forget our coffees, or how you introduced me to all things Greek. We’ll be friends, regardless of where we are or how often we do or don’t see each other.” She hugged me, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Come! You’re making me cry,” she wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Now come home and help me choose my bed sheets. You may be flying back to the UK tomorrow, but Andre is coming over.” I grinned: “Just take it easy with the Spanish men—and take plenty of washing powder.”

  “I thought you’d have got it all out of your system by now. You know, come back and settle down to a proper lifestyle. But you’re saying you want to go back?” Kirsty was on a roll again. No change here then. Really, what did I expect?

  It was déjà vu. The three of us were once again sitting around the kitchen table and I’d told Dad and Kirsty that I’d be returning to Greece for another year. This time, however, I was TEFL qualified, had a job secured in Athens, a good friend in Kaliopi and something else; I was a tougher, more resilient person. I had developed a Greek sense of den pirazei—never mind. Let people be who they were, and try not to mind.

  “I said a year ago, Greece sucks you in, and besides,” my Dad turned to Kirsty, “at least she seems to have found her anchor now, so stop giving her a hard time. Just because it’s not your version of a settled life, it doesn’t mean it’s wrong.” He turned back to me and winked. This was the longest speech my Dad had made in support of me, especially in front of Ugly Big Sister. I smiled and straightened my back. Even in my mid-30s and despite my personal growth, I could still feel somewhat belittled and undermined by Kirsty—but this time, instead of feeling unsure about my decision, I knew deep down that to return was the right thing to do. So what if I led a ‘rolling stone’ lifestyle; at least it made me an interesting person. I looked over at Kirsty and I felt a rush of affection; It’s not her fault she’s so prickly. I reached out and stroked her hand, smiling at her. Kaliopi and Greece has taught me a lot about displays of affection.

  Regarding me with suspicion, she snatched her hand back and lent forward in her seat. “Listen,” she pointed, “I know all about the economic problems out there, so don’t go thinking that by being nice to me, you’ll get any money—or my share of Dad’s Will money when he dies.”

  I took a long, hard look at her.

  “You really don’t like me, do you,” it was a statement, not a question.

  “I don’t like what you represent,” she leaned in and whispered.

  “And what’s that?” I knew I shouldn’t be drawn into any sort of confrontation—exactly what she wanted, but I was intrigued.

  “Freedom, selfishness, the ability to do what you want.” />
  I realised there and then that it didn’t matter what I said or did, she had already made her mind up about me. I sighed. Whereas in the past I would have taken such negativism towards me personally, now I saw her for what she was: a sad and bitter divorcee who lashed out at family because that’s what she felt they were there for. And what kind of person already kills her own Dad off before he’s dead? Any affection I felt previously was snatched back, just as quickly as her hand. Taking a deep breath, I put the tougher, new Greek ‘me’ into action:

  “Listen. Dad’s not dead yet, I don’t live the same lifestyle as you. I am younger,” I paused and added as an afterthought “and prettier, let’s face it, but all these facts don’t give you any right not to hear me when I speak, not to take me seriously, to look at me like you trod in a piece of shit. Like it or not, I am family—just like I accept you as family. So as long as we see each other, then I want no more barbed comments about my lifestyle choices, right? You can choose to accept it and maybe even come out and visit me one day, or continue the way you are and lose a sister. If you have nothing nice to say to me, do everyone a favour and don’t bother opening your mouth.” By the end of this monologue, I was trembling. It was the first time I’d ever really stuck up for myself.

  Not bothering to wait for a reply, I threw an apologetic look at Dad, he’s going to have to deal with the aftermath, and took myself off, intending to walk through the fields that surrounded our house. I felt proud. Siga siga—slowly slowly as the Greek’s say. My growth is coming slowly. As I left, I could hear Kirsty’s high pitched “Did you hear that? She shouldn’t be allowed to talk to me like that, I’m her older sister, I’m a teacher!” I couldn’t resist sticking my head back into the room and retorting, “Try acting like it then!” Dad responded by turning on Radio Four very loudly to listen to the cricket score.

  Negotiating a kissing gate to enter the nearest field, I found myself grinning. Stopping to watch a cow and her calf exchange nose rubs, I shouted “I’m free, I’m Greek,” startling a flock of sparrows from the nearby oak tree. Yes, I was going back ‘home’, and I couldn’t wait.

  End

  About the Author

  Girl Gone Greek is Rebecca Hall’s debut Contemporary Women’s Fiction Novel. After extensive global travels, Rebecca left the UK to return to the country she fell in love with — Greece, where she teaches English, writes and wryly observes that the chaotic nature of her adopted country actually suits her personality very well. All travel experiences, & particularly living in versatile cultures, have helped to shape who she is today. She is a Rough Guide co-author (Greece and The Greek Islands) and has contributed to numerous publications including Apollo Business Class Magazine for Cyprus Airways and Let’s Go for RyanAir, the Daily Telegraph Travel Section and her container ship voyage from Athens to Hong Kong caught the eye of NPR National Radio in the United States, where she was interviewed twice. When not writing, you’ll usually find her drinking coffee with her friends, or sourcing a new place to eat baklava.

  Follow her adventures at:

  www.lifebeyondbordersblog.com

  www.facebook.com/LifeBeyondBordersBlog

  www.twitter.com/BeyondBex

  www.instagram.com/BeyondBex

  Thank you for reading my debut novel. Indie authors rely on reviews so if you enjoyed it, do please head to Amazon and/or Goodreads to spread the word!

  And feel free to contact me via my website www.lifebeyondbordersblog.com for more adventures in Greece and worldwide.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following people:

  Russell Bowers for his initial input—without his support, this book would not have developed beyond the initial idea. Anne Scott, founder of Girl Gone International, for permission for the book title. Tina Jones of Girl Gone International for her invaluable editing. Jessica Bell of the Homeric Writer’s Retreat on the Greek island of Ithaca, and Chuck Sambuchino of Writer’s Digest who ran the course at this retreat. Their ongoing encouragement helped me believe in myself and get this finished. Natascha Maria for her patience and arranging the layout for me, it was a big job! A huge thanks to the extended network of authors I have met online: Savannah Grace, Sara Alexi, Torre DeRoche, Nene Davis, Samantha Verant and Sonia Marsh to name but a few—all of whom have been a tremendous support, especially during the times when a lack of belief that this book would ever come to publication took over. Marissa Tejada, fellow expat author, helped me through the process, and Caroline and Nigel Daniels became, over time, part of my extended family who grew to be as excited about this novel as I am! My thanks to my editor, Perry Iles, for tirelessly working through the script several times. Then there are the friends and characters I made in Greece itself, without whom this book would never have been possible—especially Artemis, I love you, crazy one! Finally, huge thanks to my father; my anchor, my rock. And ironically to my siblings; without our relationship, this book would not have been written.

  GIRL GONE GREEK

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  About the Author

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