“Oh good grief,” I mumbled, placing my finished plate on the floor and rolling over in bed. According to Kaliopi, the weather girl was an intelligent young lady with a degree in economics. Well, she certainly is the clever one here. She’s getting paid well to look like that on TV. Clearly I’m in the wrong profession! I had to admit, however, that people might actually pay me NOT to pose in a bikini on national television.
I drifted into an uneasy sleep in which I dreamt I was at a demonstration, dressed in a bikini, running away from baton-wielding policemen in aviator shades, trying to persuade them that my forecast of sunshine and showers had been correct.
Winter
At school, the topic of Konstantinos and Dimitra was on everybody’s lips. They had now fallen out again. Konstantinos had been caught with Litza, the intelligent copella I’d encountered on my first day. I kept her behind after class to ask about this development.
“Litza, you are an intelligent girl. Why are you becoming involved in a love triangle with Konstantinos and Dimitra?” Litza gazed at me with eyes that at first seemed to beg me not to take this conversation further, but then her expression turned to confusion.
“What is this triangle of love you talk about?”
“Well, in Greece you have many tragedies about love, with many people falling for one person,” I replied. “So the concept of a love triangle should be easy for you to understand. Just don’t get into something you can’t handle.” Litsa gave me an unhappy nod and trotted off, glancing behind her as she went. Konstantinos was waiting for her at the door and I just caught her whispering to him: “Kyria Rachel thinks that love can be understood through mathematics and trigonometry.” I smiled and pretended not to hear as I realised this was for my benefit—why else speak to him in English?
I missed Kaliopi at the weekends. Because of her feelings about the village she would, more often than not, escape to Athens on Friday night, returning by train early on Monday morning to go straight to work. I found these times best for exploring the village: the remains of a small castle, the enjoyable—albeit rigorous—walk to a church set into the hillside and the amphitheatre that Kaliopi assured me was no longer used for plays. “In a place like this, are you kidding? That would mean these people were actually cultured. They aren’t, as I keep telling you.” I was used to her barbs about the village by now and had learnt to let her comments float over my head.
But there was only so much exploring of the village I could do. “Come with me to Athens,” she encouraged when I admitted I missed her company.
“I wish I could, but not every weekend…it’s not possible. I have student essays to mark and lessons to plan, sorry.”
One weekend in December, however, Kaliopi decided it was time to educate me again, therefore she returned to the village on a Saturday night.
I was watching the Greek version of “Pop Idol” when I heard a rap at the window. Thinking it was Mrs Stella, I turned the TV down, the light off and pretended to be asleep… I didn’t want to deal with anything she might have to say, particularly if it was work-related. The disadvantage of living in the basement of your boss’s property was that you could never tell with Mrs Stella—she might be coming down to tell me she’d decided to stage a Shakespearean play at school and wanted me to direct it, or she might be bringing me a plate of chicken. The knocking grew louder and more insistent until I heard a familiar voice; “I know you’re in there. Are you hiding from me?”
“No, no!” I scrambled to let Kaliopi in. “I didn’t expect it’d be you. Why’re you back so early?” But Kaliopi was momentarily distracted. She was eyeing my little flat and shaking her head.
“You see? A hole of shit. Your boss must have lots of money, and yet she doesn’t have the decency to furnish the place properly for you. I bet you her place is better furnished, eh?”
“Let’s not focus on that, eh?” I repeated the very Greek ending of the sentence. Deep inside, I’d been thinking similar thoughts—but despite her demeanour, I felt a strange sort of loyalty towards Mrs Stella.
“Anyway,” Kaliopi shook her head as if to clear it of the image in front of her, “I had a few days off work, so I met an Italian acquaintance on his yacht. We sailed for one day, but he couldn’t satisfy me, so I slapped him. He yelled ‘No-one, not even my mother or sister has slapped me!’ and I was afraid he’d throw me out of that round window thing in his boat, so I jumped from his yacht in Santorini and flew back to Athens.” I was familiar with Kaliopi’s antics by now, but even this escapade gobsmacked me. She continued… “So I’ve come back early to continue your education. Tomorrow I am taking you to Delphi. Go to bed now because we will take the early bus. It is only a forty-five minute ride, so a day trip is enough.”
“Kaliopi, that ‘round window’ thing is a porthole, and as my friend I want to tell you that I really think you should pick your ‘acquaintances’ more carefully!” But she was backing out through the door already, glancing around her as if fearing that she might catch something nasty from my ‘hole of shit’ flat if she stayed longer. I was left with an image of her being thrown through a porthole into the Aegean Sea. This girl was better than a soap opera.
Early the next morning I walked to the bus stop, dressed warmly for the winter weather. Stomping my feet and attempting to blow smoke rings with the clouds my exhalations formed, I waited moodily for my friend. I realised why I love teaching in the afternoons and evenings; I really am not a morning person. At last Kaliopi waltzed up at exactly the right moment for the bus to arrive.
Seeing my grumpy face, she commented, “It’s not my fault you are British and always on time. And besides,” she looked at me, “what is wrong with you? You are usually, how you say, ‘beat-up’?”
“Upbeat,” I corrected her, the coldness of my mood starting to defrost in the warm bus. “I’m just not used to early morning rises, especially when it’s so cold. Who’d’ve thought Greece could get so cold in the winter?”
“Yes it does, and you’re in the mountains now. You see? It’s not sunshine and warmth all year round, but certainly more sunshine at least than your place. This early start will be worth it,” Kaliopi said. “Look, we’re heading up into the mountains now.” We wound up narrow roads and then onto the two-lane highway towards Delphi. The view grew more and more glorious the higher we ascended: steep ravines and drops on either side making me feel a little nervous, log cabins set into the hillside and the occasional goat here and there. It felt more like Switzerland.
After traversing a particularly difficult stretch of mountain road (God, please let us arrive safely! I promise I’ll be nicer in the mornings to everybody) and passing through the après-ski village of Arachova, known as the “Mykonos” of the winter months due to its clubbing scene and party atmosphere, the bus pulled into the village of Delphi. We disembarked and I looked around. There were the usual tourist shops but also smaller shops of the sort I was used to seeing in the village. One butcher shop was aptly named “Meat Market.” I smiled; I doubted if any clubbing or picking up of the opposite sex went on there after hours—but if this shop was in Arachova, then maybe...
Kaliopi gave me a gentle shove in the direction of the Oracle of Delphi archaeological site. “We’ve plenty of time to look at the town later, when we’re hungry and in need of a fill up,” she took a cigarette from her handbag.
“Let’s go and visit the site first. Besides,” she squinted at the clouds tumbling in from the coast, “it looks like rain later.”
Delphi was remarkably quiet, but it was the off-season and most of the tourists would be staying in Arachova. We wandered up to the entrance with Kaliopi chattering away. “Did you know that Delphi is considered the Navel of the Earth?” she asked.
“But why? Delphi’s nowhere near the sea.”
“No!” Kaliopi rolled her eyes and pointed to her stomach. “This navel! Good grief, you are an English teacher and you can’t tell the difference?”
“Not without seeing it written d
own,” I said in my defence, although it made more sense when I considered it.
“Anyway, a dragon called Pythia lived here and guarded the Navel, or Centre, until the God Apollo destroyed the dragon to make this place his own. Every four years since 586BC, athletes from all over Greece have come to Delphi to compete in the Pythian Games. These Games are just one such example of how the Olympic Games developed…the world has no idea just how much it owes to us Greeks…” She was wandering off into one of her glazed far-away monologues. “Now, look at the view.” Kaliopi snapped back to the present. I turned, not realising quite how high we’d climbed whilst discussing local history. The view was gorgeous. The ancient theatre was set against a backdrop of mountains and pines. We carried on up the path in front of us, which took us to the old Pythian Games stadium, situated at the top of the archaeological site where pine trees whispered their welcome. The stadium was shaped like a smaller version of the Olympic Stadium in Athens. We found a flat rock and sat in companionable silence, taking in the surroundings. There was not a soul in sight.
“I thought Gods were supposed to be good people. Why did he go and slay that dragon?” I said after a while.
“Why did your St. George slay that dragon back in the past?” Kaliopi countered.
“From what I remember of the story, the dragon was trying to kill the princess.”
“There you go then, I guess all dragons are bad…who knows? Anyway, we better get going.” Kaliopi motioned with her head toward the clouds that were moving towards us from the seaside village of Galaxidi that could be seen in the far distance. “Besides, I’m hungry now.” Reluctantly I rose and we started walking down. It had been really peaceful amongst the pine trees, soaked in ancient history and the view so unhindered, being able to see as far away as a small coastal town, 15km away.
Sitting in a taverna with a covered balcony overlooking the pine clad valleys far below, we ordered various small dishes: mezze including small fried potato and courgette croquettes; tzatziki; Greek salad and a pork chop each.
“Simple food is the best, eh?” said Kaliopi, squeezing a liberal dose of fresh lemon over her chop. “So, how do you like your day so far?” I hadn’t said too much, content to let Kaliopi once again do the talking, allowing myself to absorb and learn. And she’d been correct about the storm—it was starting to rain; waiters were frantically clearing the few outside tables and bringing them in. As the first heavy drops fell, accompanied by a flash of lightning, I snuggled back into my bench seat after polishing off the chop and nursed an after-dinner mug of hot chocolate.
“It’s not just Delphi, Kaliopi, it’s everything I’ve experienced so far, meeting you and your friends...taking in Ochi Day and 17th November. In only two months I’ve learned more history than I could ever have done at school, although they don’t look at Greek history in UK schools generally. Today’s been magical as well, look at this scenery!”
Kaliopi beamed; proud I’d complimented her country. “Greece is waving her magic wand over you. I am glad you are not so British. You are not like those people who only visit our islands once a year and go crazy stupid malakas drunk. You have style and class. You are a lady. As I’ve said before, you have the Greek hidden in you.” A compliment from Kaliopi was a compliment indeed as she rarely held back her feelings—which could be a blessing or a curse. She was genuinely pleased I’d had a good day and this was important, especially since I recognised that she’d sacrificed a valuable weekend in Athens to be with me and not the latest male ‘friend.’
“Come, let us test how truly Greek you are by seeing how you board the bus. You may need to dismiss your English politeness for a bit.” We had to wait outside in the rain for our bus back to the village. Not quite understanding what she meant, I dismissed her comment, but all too soon it became clear. Out of nowhere surged a sea of people, mostly old and all barging and fighting in their attempt to board first. Wielding whatever weapons were at hand (umbrellas, elbows, handbags), they pummelled us to the back of the queue. As a result, when it was our turn to board the bus was full.
“Great!” Kaliopi yelled as the driver waved us off and closed his doors. “Now we have to wait for the next one...in another hour!” she rounded off her anger by giving the driver a palm-splayed hand signal.
“At least it’s stopped raining,” I offered, shouldering some of the responsibility for being stranded. Maybe I hadn’t been ‘Greek’ enough and should have pushed and shoved to the front. “And what does this mean?” I copied Kaliopi’s gesture.
“Do not do that to my face! It is the Greek mountza, the worst insult you can ever give anyone. It’s the equivalent of saying to someone you want to rub excrement in their face.”
I gasped. “Good job the bus driver didn’t see you.” No, I certainly did not want to do that to my friend, yet was a little taken aback that Kaliopi had felt so strongly about missing the bus.
“Relax,” she almost immediately simmered down, “It’s sort of like you people extending your middle finger.”
And that’s another thing about this country: one minute it’s like the end of the world, the next everything’s OK. It’s like dealing with a manic depressive: you never know what to expect. I remembered my first morning in Piraeus, seeing the old men seemingly arguing then making up in the street. Kaliopi was just an extreme example of this.
Not wanting to lose the opportunity to board the last bus and run the risk, this time, of Kaliopi getting into a full blown argument with the bus driver, (although that could have been interesting) we decided to wait near the bus stop rather than risk sitting in a café. We wiped the worst of the rain off a large boulder then plonked ourselves down on it. The rain had cast a different glow over the area, and it positively glistened. I became caught up in the scenery and serenity of the place, already forgetting the stress of earlier, and we’d barely exchanged a word when we heard the distant rumbling of the approaching bus.
“Right,” I mumbled, jumping up in preparation for battle with the oldies. “Let’s get ready,”
Kaliopi grinned, “Now you are turning into a true Greek.”
“I just don’t want you to be in a position where you have to make that hand signal again.”
As the bus pulled up, I glanced around for old people to appear out of cracks and crevices, ready to push us out of the way. But this time the bus was half-empty and the only others boarding were a Japanese couple who had also missed the previous bus.
Disappointed that I hadn’t had the chance to do battle, yet secretly relieved (the old people held back nothing, and things might have turned nasty), we shuffled to the back, sat down and fell into a contented doze.
As winter continued its descent upon the village, the days and evenings became even colder. I should’ve done my research and not overlooked the fact that Greece still gets cold in the winter, despite its Southern European location. As Kaliopi had pointed out, I was living in a Greek village, nestled in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere. Luckily I’d packed one polo neck jumper. I could layer the rest of my clothes, and I vowed to go warm-clothes shopping with Kaliopi when I was next in Athens. My little semi-basement flat, though criticised by all those who crossed its threshold—which admittedly had only been Kaliopi so far—was surprisingly warm and snug. The neighbour’s cats didn’t seem to mind huddling in the doorway either.
At this time of year it was dark by 5:30 p.m. and as my classes started at four, my garden classroom would only get an hour and a half of sun-dappled light.
“Miss, we don’t eat the salad. Now we eat the stifado and the chicken because of the cold,” Bettina told me one December day. “I hate the salad anyway,” she said, twisting her face in disgust, “and my yiayia [Grandma] makes it the good.”
The teenagers seemed visibly depressed by the shortened days. Even the usually cheeky Konstantinos couldn’t be chided out of his dark mood, so I gave them a break from routine and the exam syllabus by constructing a unique Christmas lesson.
I Googled “Christmas traditions from around the world” and then discussed these in class. I was determined to continue their education of traditions outside of their own.
The project work involving the world map seemed to work, let’s give this a try.
“Did you know that on 24th December, Finnish people go to mass as they do in Greece, but then they visit a sauna and for lunch eat porridge containing a hidden almond? The person who discovers this nut has to then sing a carol” I started.
“Miss, what person has a fin?” enquired Bettina, wide eyed. The rest giggled, images of humans with a fin and tail no doubt swimming in front of their eyes.
“Well, a fictional mermaid for a start, but Finnish is the name given to people who live in Finland. Like you, you are Greek because you live in…”
“Greece,” the class shouted.
“Where’s Finland, anyone?” I didn’t really expect anyone to know, so it didn’t surprise me when no-one offered an answer.
“Here you are, all the way up here.” I let the students decide which colour pin to stick in the world map over the country of Finland.
“If it has the snow, we need a white pin” said Bettina “Does it have the snow, Kyria?” I smiled at her use of imagination.
“Yes it does, it has snow—no need to use the definite article. It also has log cabins in the woods and husky dogs.”
Glad of a break from routine, the students visibly warmed to this lesson change. I produced a different activity for the teenagers: by placing fictitious names of people from various countries in Konstantinos’s baseball cap, each student was to write a letter to his or her new pen pal, describing their own Greek Christmas traditions.
Girl Gone Greek Page 8
