Girl Gone Greek Page 6

  I thought for a minute and concluded he was right; compared to Greece, at least, we are apathetic about anything political or historical that has helped to shape our present and is important for us to understand. It was another characteristic difference between our nations.

  “Don’t worry,” Dimitrios continued. “Come with us to the Ochi Day Parade tomorrow morning; you’ll continue your education with us.”

  “Oh,” groaned Kaliopi. “But it starts so early. I need to lie in. Come by my apartment tomorrow morning, collect and take her with you. And you boys, look after Rachel and don’t wake me up.”

  “Now who’s being shallow, Kaliopi?” Nektarios jibed, “but OK, we’ll do just that,” he winked at me and smiled, his face transformed.

  Another thing I noted about these two characters—in contrast to my students at school, who didn’t speak bad English, these two spoke English perfectly. OK, so they were older than my teen class, but I still wanted to know how they’d learned.

  “A Masters in English Literature, from Essex University,” Nektarios was visibly proud of this fact. “Although,” his shoulders slumped, “these days it’s hard to get a job in Greece, so I deliver pizza. Such a waste of a degree. But at least I got to experience living in the UK, alas also got to see how much you people seem to want to waste your time going out and getting drunk on the weekends, and you call that living!”

  Dimitrios jumped in before I could start protesting—although to be fair, Nektarios had a point and there was really not much to protest about. “I work as a tour guide, so I get to practise my English every day. Also, as you’ll see the longer you’re here and teaching, the system here in Greece really pushes for people to obtain some form of English language certificate from a young age. It’s vital, for a nation that relies on tourism so much.”

  Sunday dawned bright and early for me, despite having only rolled into bed a few short hours ago. “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t snore, and I hope you don’t either,” had been Kaliopi’s last words before she fell into a deep sleep.

  Hope she’s changed the bed sheets—I dread to think what last went on in here, were my last waking

  thoughts. Now I felt groggy...but also intrigued; I’d get to see how “Ochi Day” would be celebrated.

  I have a degree in International Relations, but I knew nothing about Greece. At least this ‘Ochi Day’ will give me the opportunity to have a more intimate glimpse into Greece’s past. I was thoroughly enjoying the brilliant sunshine and bright blue skies Greece offered in plentiful doses, but I was discovering there was far more to this country than initially met the eye. The chance to learn more about it was tempting. And the chance to not appear so shallow… I was reminded of Dimitrios’s comments last night.

  A gentle knock on the door signalled the boys’ arrival.

  “I’m heading out now,” I whispered to a snoring Kaliopi—despite last night’s assertions, she actually snored like a train.

  Closing the door quietly behind me, I smiled at them both.

  “Pame, come. Let us take you to Syntagma—Constitution Square—where we will show you what happens on this day” smiled Dimitrios. I marvelled at how wide awake they seemed, until they produced a small Styrofoam cup of Greek coffee. “Kaliopi told me that I wasn’t ready for Greek coffee,” I said.

  “Try it,” encouraged Nektarios.

  “I made myself a cup at home once, so I know what it tastes like.”

  “Yes, but try this one” Nektarios insisted. Gingerly, I sipped what looked to be a cup of mud. It set my heart rate hammering and snapped my eyes wide open.

  “Have you put something else into this?”

  They smiled. “No, you’re just trying the proper stuff,” Dimitrios assured me.

  That explains it. They live off this stuff, I concluded, looking at their sparkling eyes. Who needs drugs when Greek coffee’s on offer? And Kaliopi was right…I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this stuff.

  After a trolley ride and a ten-minute walk through streets crowded with people, we arrived in Syntagma Square. Nektarios had purchased three Greek flags to wave at the passing parade. Many people carried nationalistic paraphernalia such as more flags, flag badges and small banners proclaiming “Ochi!”

  The square teemed with people. Whole families were there; old ladies displayed banners and children, perched on their fathers’ shoulders, waved their flags. At eleven o’clock the military band struck up its march, followed by old soldiers who’d served in the Second World War, who were followed in turn by a selection of schools from the area.

  “Do you know who carries the Greek flag at the front of each school’s delegation?” Dimitrios pointed to a young girl in a uniform of white shirt and navy blue tie and skirt, who was struggling to carry the huge flag. “It’s the most intelligent student in the school of that year. That student has the honour of representing his or her school by carrying the flag in this parade. Every student aspires to be voted the brainiest in order to be awarded this opportunity.”

  “Yes, but the problem is,” Nektarios chimed in, “nowadays the ‘brainiest’ could be of non-Greek descent.”

  “Why’s that a problem?” I was confused.

  “Well, it’s not a problem for people like me and Dimitrios. We are open-minded. But a lot of Greeks aren’t. You will find, at this time of year, people on television debating the issue. Some claim that non-Greeks shouldn’t be allowed to carry the Greek flag—even if one of them happens to be the brightest in school—since they are not true Greeks. We invented the word ‘xenophobia.’” Silently I marvelled at how the Greeks got away with being so openly nationalistic, almost racist by my standards.

  Were there parades held at home in which a marcher struts in front, proudly waving the Union Jack? I couldn’t recall any, and if there were I doubt there’d ever be a televised debate about the multicultural origin of the flag carrier. I couldn’t decide whether Greece was excessively celebrating their nationhood, or if the UK was trying too hard to remove any celebration of theirs. Not coming from a county that had ever been occupied, at least in recent history, I doubted I’d fully understand the concept of nationhood and how important it is to its citizens. As if reading my mind, Dimitrios said:

  “I’m not making excuses for racist attitudes, but when a country’s been occupied as much as this one has, you can understand where they come from, especially the older generation who’ve lived through a lot.”

  I watched the excitement on everybody’s faces…seeing them come alive at the memory that their country had fought so hard. My history has been a lot easier than that of the people of this nation. We’re all forged in the crucible of our nation’s history. When I came here I just wanted sunshine and beaches, but there’s so much more to discover. Given my different historical upbringing, I wondered about my empathy and my ability to become as excited as the Greeks about such events.

  After the parade, we went to eat in a place that resembled a New York City delicatessen that displayed a selection of freshly prepared food and salads: I chose my dish and it was heated and served with a glass of wine and water. I perked up when I saw the homemade desserts on display. As I tucked into a tiramisu, Kaliopi arrived and plonked herself next to us.

  “So this is Exarchia—traditionally an ‘anarchist’ area of Athens where it’s thought people from the left meet to ‘plot’” she informed me.

  “Plot what?”

  “You know, to overthrow the government.” No, I don’t know! The concept seemed so far removed from my everyday life that I found it difficult to imagine.

  “So that explains why there are so many police around here.” Every street corner seemed occupied with men clad in navy blue uniforms, Top Gun shades and desert boots; they carried riot shields, gas masks, guns and canisters of tear gas.

  “Yes, don’t be alarmed,” said Nektarios. “But also don’t think that these are your friendly neighbourhood policemen either, because they aren’t,” h
e continued. Clearly not, I thought. Look at their get-up! They look like they’re ex-Navy SEALS. “Don’t ask them for directions. They will ask to see your passport and proof of who you are without any reason…just because they can.”

  “Should I be worried then?” I asked. “I mean, all I’m doing is eating tiramisu, not planning to overthrow the state.”

  “No,” it was Dimitrios’ turn, “Nektarios is exaggerating. Although they look scary with their uniforms, I’m sure if you were lost they would help a pretty girl like you.”

  I wondered what would happen if I weren’t so ‘pretty?’ At least we’re not afraid of our police force in the U.K., or more to the point, at least I feel comfortable asking for directions. These guys? They look like they’d relish the chance to stamp on me.

  Kaliopi leaned in to polish off the last mouthful of my tiramisu, literally just as I was about to fork it. “Let’s take Rachel to the Acropolis, there’s more to Athens than military parades.”

  “Too tired. You go” Nektarios bowed out and told us he was off home to sleep. Shame, I’d been enjoying his moody “Mr Darcy” presence.

  Two stops on the metro later, we arrived at the Acropolis at about three p.m. Athens only had three metro lines and the trains were quick and clean. The stations were really clean too. I could get used to this civilized way of travelling: elevator-style music playing on the platform, a computer screen displaying the next 3 days’ weather forecast, and what was this? The Acropolis metro stop had ancient artefacts housed behind glass displays! No comparison to the London Underground. I voiced my admiration to Kaliopi.

  “Yes, but you must realise that the Athens Metro was only built in 2004 for the Olympic Games, so of course it’s more modern. You’ve had your Underground for horse’s years.”

  “Those artefact displays, they’re incredible!” I continued. “In London, any such displays would be regularly broken into and/or graffitied.”

  “Well, you people clearly have no respect for your history,” Kaliopi observed flippantly, then announced we’d go to the Acropolis Rocks. “It’s at the base of the Parthenon and you get a great view of Athens, as far out as Piraeus.”

  “I stayed in Piraeus when I first arrived here.”

  “Never mind, dear.” Kaliopi patted my arm, helping me over the marble rocks, trying to find somewhere to sit.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Dimitrios after he’d spread his jacket for us to sit on.

  “Yes, it is, but there are a number of young teenage couples that should really be thinking about getting a room,” I said drily as I viewed young teens—about my oldest students’ age—cuddled up close, nibbling each other’s ears.

  “Oh, ignore them” Kaliopi piped up. “They’re here all the time. These rocks are famous for young lovers. And it is romantic, with the view and everything, don’t you think? But of course, the English: they are so uptight about such things, public displays of this affection,” she added. Ouch—another barb about my nation in the space of half an hour! But spot on.

  “Kaliopi, you realise I’m English and although a lot of the time you’re correct, you’re not being very nice about my fellow countrymen.”

  “You’re more Greek than I am Rachel, you fit right in here…you’ll see in time.”

  Dimitrios smiled…he was used to Kaliopi’s cryptic comments.

  Behind us stood the Parthenon, and just beyond that, a flagpole proudly flying a huge Greek flag. Seeing me eyeing this Dimitrios explained, “When Germany finally invaded Greece on 27th April 1941, a German soldier demanded Konstantinos Koukidis, the Guard of the Greek flag here, to hoist the Swastika instead, or be shot. Koukidis took the flag, but when he reached the flagpole, he wrapped himself in the Greek flag and threw himself from the Holy Rock. He would rather kill himself than fly the German flag that represented occupation, and so the Resistance Movement in Greece was born.”

  I was humbled by such an act of bravery. This country’s history of being occupied and being the underdog must be a factor in its desire to literally ‘put the flags out’ when celebrating a day such as ‘Ochi Day.’ The history of a country does, indeed, shape its people. I was increasingly impressed by what little history I’d learnt so far. I wasn’t quite sure, though, if Greece’s history explained Kaliopi’s excitable nature.

  Descending, we wandered to Plaka, a fashionable tourist area near the Acropolis. We spent a pleasant hour chatting over coffee in the late afternoon sunshine. When the shadows lengthened, Dimitrios gave us both a Greek farewell kiss and hug.

  “Come again, and soon. It was lovely to meet an English girl/secret Greek who is actually interested in our nation—not just here for the sunshine and alcohol on the islands!” I smiled, pleased that I’d managed to scrape beneath the surface and meet some lovely people—and also pleased I’d not voiced my original attraction to Greece.

  We headed back to clean up Kaliopi’s apartment, gather our belongings and return to the village.

  “We’ll meet my friends again, don’t worry, and probably Melanthi next time too, I think she must have been away this weekend,” said Kaliopi as we made our way to the railway station. As the train pulled in to return us to our weekday realities, I noticed a subdued mood had shrouded my friend.

  “You know how much I hate the village, with its farmers who don’t clean under their fingernails and shout at me when they come into the bank where I work. Athens is my home and I love her, but I can’t get a job there unless my bank transfers me. They won’t do that unless there is a vacancy. And as nobody wants to work in the hole of shit provinces, I am stuck there for the time being!”

  “At least you have me,” I offered as consolation.

  “Yes, I have you” she visibly brightened. “Pame, pame, katze kato; Come, come and sit down” Kaliopi patted the seat next to her.

  The train pulled away and I smiled down at Kaliopi who’d promptly fallen asleep on my shoulder and started to snore again, mouth ajar and dribbling ever so slightly.

  School continued. The same issues with Dimitra and Konstantinos recurred, and I found myself having to dream up ever more innovative ways of dealing with them. One day, however, things took a turn in the opposite direction. I stumbled across them in a street near the school—kissing. “Ahem,” I cleared my throat.

  “Ah, Kyria Rachel.” Konstantinos didn’t look at all embarrassed. In fact he seemed rather pleased with himself. “Dimitra has a problem with her family.”

  “And you’re helping her how, exactly?” Blushing, Dimitra glanced away. “Besides, I thought you hated each other.”

  “Love ... hate, is this not the same thing?” Konstantinos asked. God, so astute and cynical at such a young age.

  “Regardless,” I continued, “we’re not here to discuss love. You have class and should be in Mr Manos’s room right about…now” I peered at my watch. I pushed them on their way, but not without a last plea from this Greek Romeo and Juliet.

  “Please don’t tell Mrs Stella you found us.”

  I pretended to ponder this for a minute. “Hmm,

  well ….” I trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “Oh Kyria, we will be quiet in class from now on,” offered Dimitra.

  “And I’ll buy you a coffee,” added Konstantinos, winking at me. This thing with Dimitra was inflating his ego more than usual.

  “Konstantinos, winking at your teacher isn’t really appropriate. Save that for Dimitra.” Ah, that got him. He looked away, embarrassed. “But,” I continued more gently, “I’ll take you up on that offer of a drink at the end of the school year—thanks.” They beamed as they headed off to class hand in hand, leaving me to ponder the complexities of teenage strife.

  Not long after Ochi Day, another holiday came along. Although not an official public holiday, the schools didn’t open on 17th November and luckily for me, it fell on a Monday.

  It was a perfect opportunity for a long weekend, and another chance to educate myself about significant dates in
modern Greek history. I felt proud of myself: wanting to know more about my host country rather than just taking it at face value. Kaliopi and I got up early on the Saturday and boarded the coach for Athens.

  “I’ve had enough of trains,” she stated. I could understand why: from my point of view, although the train was faster and cheap, the village station was at least twenty minutes out of town. My only experience of the train was the time I went to Athens for the weekend and whilst it was quaint, it was quite scary at night and early morning…not because of potential crime—more because of its isolated location. The station was pretty sinister, especially with the hooting owls and the screeching. I hope they’re foxes and not wolves—or maybe that’s my overactive imagination again. Having travelled by bus a short distance from school occasionally, I knew what to expect: people unwilling to move their bags from the window seat. But this time it wouldn’t be an issue with the two of us travelling; we picked an empty row together.

  “What about the tickets?” I asked as we sat down. “Shouldn’t we have bought them beforehand at the bus station?” We’d boarded outside a small café two stops away from the main village terminus.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Kaliopi. “The conductor will come and take your money. Get it ready—he doesn’t like to wait.” He was ambling down the aisle, collecting everyone’s fare. Luckily we both had the exact change—buying bread the previous week had taught me how much Greeks loathe making change, and often round up or down to the nearest five cents to avoid giving and receiving the pesky one and two cent coins. When he reached us, I couldn’t help noticing his right pinkie fingernail—it was about a centimetre long. Trying not to stare, I pointed it out to Kaliopi once he’d passed.