Girl Gone Greek Read online

  “Oh, that. You see? You can tell he’s from a village. It’s something to do with tradition in these parts, although I suspect it has more to do with nose-picking” came her laconic reply.

  I smiled, leaned back in the cushioned seat and took in the scenery: wind farms high above the road on surrounding mountains; small roadside taverns; people bent over picking cotton in the fields. For ninety minutes we rolled through the picturesque landscape, stopping once or twice in small towns to collect more passengers. Then the scenery changed: more cars and built-up areas. Finally it was obvious we were approaching Athens: apartment blocks five or six stories high with green awnings shading balconies and CDs dangling from string to scare off the pigeons.

  It was still early when we arrived.

  “Let’s go back to my apartment for a little more sleep” Kaliopi suggested, “before we venture out.” Once again she gave me the bed; once again she commented that she hoped I wouldn’t snore like last time. I couldn’t help wondering who’d been in here last and if she’d changed the sheets. I didn’t have the heart to ask her, or to tell her that she was the one who rivalled a freight train. We awoke near midday, refreshed but hungry.

  “Come, there’s nothing here to eat. Let’s go and grab some gyros,” Kaliopi suggested. Gyros turned out to be strips of pork or chicken, freshly made chips (“patates” fried in olive oil), salad and mayonnaise or tzatziki—the traditional Greek dip of yogurt, cucumber, lemon juice and lots of garlic—all bundled together in a thick pita wrap. Having skipped breakfast that morning, I was ravenous. This was the sort of fare the cafés in the village sold all the time, but I hadn’t actually tried one yet. I could get to like Greek fast food. Appetites finally sated, we lounged outside the small neighbourhood café in the November sun alongside the locals. Kaliopi’s neighbourhood wasn’t in a touristy section of Athens, so I had the opportunity to watch her neighbours go about their day, uninterrupted by streams of foreigners. Her apartment fronted onto a small square with a domed church and at a pavement table in the kafinion opposite us sat a table of four elderly men, playing tavli, occasionally shouting at each other and slapping each other on the back. A cluster of young boys and a couple of girls kicked a ball to each other while their mothers sat on the bench seat fixed around the monkey puzzle tree dominating the centre of the square.

  “We will meet my friends again later.” She licked the last of the tzatziki from her fingers. “Come, I need fruits and there is a farmer’s market somewhere around here on a Saturday.”

  Indeed there was—we just had to follow the cries of the stallholders and follow the elderly ladies dragging large shopping trolleys to find it only three streets away. I picked out two red apples and tried to pay, only to be looked at by the stallholder as if I’d insulted him. He waved me away with a flick of his hand. “Dyo evro Copella, tipota!” he smiled.

  “It’s because you only want two items,” Kaliopi clarified. “He’s just told you two euros is nothing to him…if you’d bought more, he would have charged you.” Impressed by this act of kindness, I insisted that Kaliopi buy the salad vegetables from him. Feta cheese and meat from the local butchers completed our shopping for our evening meal and we made our way back to the apartment. It was nice to see that as well as supermarkets, it was possible to still find local shops in the capital city, and not just the village.

  Kaliopi had made the decision earlier that we wouldn’t be going out that evening; instead she’d invited ‘a couple of friends over.’ A couple of Kaliopi’s friends turned out to be Melanthi, Nektarios, Dimitrios, Dimitrios’s sister Maria, Nektarios’s cousin Evangelia, her boyfriend Menelaos and Menelaos’s dentist (of all people!), Eleni. I was left reeling in confusion with the introductions as they all trooped in at nine o’clock, kissing each other on both cheeks and welcoming me in a similar vein. Hold on, is Evangelia the dentist and Eleni Nektarios’s cousin? Still, there were definitely more than “a couple of friends.” I was bursting to know how the dentist fitted into the circle, but an enquiry to Nektarios about this merely resulted in his asking,

  “Which one is the dentist again? Ask Menelaos, he’s the one who brought her.” Kaliopi, not having been introduced to the dentist nor Menelaos before that night either, didn’t seem to mind and busied herself pulling pillows from the bed.

  “You’ll have to sit here, Eleni… Evangelia… Maria—whoever,” she threw the pillows onto the floor. “Katze, katze, sit, sit. I am preparing stifado with salad.” That explained the smell wafting from the kitchen during the afternoon. I’d heard of this hearty winter meat dish: beef stew with small onions, vinegar, red wine, and cinnamon. But Kaliopi was preparing hers with rabbit—which would be a first for me.

  “I’m Melanthi, we didn’t meet last time, I was away working in Dubai,” one of the girls extended her hand and shook mine formally, but with a smile. “I work for a major hotel chain in marketing and I get to travel a lot. Don’t let Kaliopi overwhelm you.” She leant forward confidentially, “she’s a lovely person with a very kind heart. I’ve known her for many years.”

  “Yes, she’s really taken me under her wing in the short time I’ve got to know her,” I smiled as Kaliopi came back into the room, carrying a pot full of steaming stew.

  We all tucked into the stifado and salad, complemented by a bottle of red wine. I found that rabbit didn’t taste all that different from beef, and as I settled back and allowed the good-natured arguing to manifest around me, and ducking away from Kaliopi’s flying fork as she rammed home a point, I found myself warming to the idea of enjoying life without all the need for advanced planning. So far in Greece, the times I’d most enjoyed had evolved spontaneously.

  I need to allow myself to let go even more, to go with the flow, I thought. Hell, I’ve managed well with the time keeping issue… My thoughts were interrupted as a piece of meat flew onto my plate from Nektarios’s fork as he rallied against Kaliopi’s argument. Life in Greece seems to consist of constantly fielding curveballs (and flying meat). I smiled at Kaliopi, still arguing and jabbing her fork in the direction of Nektarios and his cousin, Evangelia. He glanced over at me and winked. “We let her run out of the steam when she’s like this,” he attempted the English idiom with little error. “She’s complaining about the village…again.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “We keep telling her to be patient, a job will come up in Athens soon, and she has you now…this is good, no?” Melanthi joined in.

  “Yes, it is good, for the both of us,” I replied.

  I left them to it at three o’clock on Sunday morning and retired to the bedroom, leaving Kaliopi continuing her rant in the sitting room with Dimitrios, whose sister had long departed. I closed my eyes, thinking about how people in Greece didn’t feel compelled to leave a social gathering with the people they came with. It was all very relaxed. In fact, when Menelaos had left earlier, leaving his dentist friend deep in conversation with Nektarios, he’d stated he didn’t want to pay for a taxi, and it was too late for public transport. Leaning out of Kaliopi’s third-floor balcony, I’d witnessed him chatting with a twenty-four-hour pizza delivery motorbike man whom he’d flagged down in the street. After a moment, he turned back and yelled up, “Don’t worry about me, I’m getting a lift home. Kali nichta all!”

  We slept until early afternoon on Sunday, and then eventually made our way to Plaka. We took our time meandering through the flea market that offered everything from old books and coins to Nike running shoes and army paraphernalia. Needing to rest, we stopped at another gyros outlet, and as we sat outside and ate, I marvelled at how warm it was for November—about 18 degrees—it was still jeans and t-shirt weather.

  “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I took a bite of my chicken gyros.

  “I will take you to the university, where you will learn another part of our history,” replied Kaliopi, solemn for once.

  Greece was turning out to be so much more than just a job in the sun.

  Bright and early Monday mor
ning, I was awakened by Kaliopi shaking me, a cup of strong Greek coffee in her hand.

  “Drink this, get up and get ready,” she ordered.

  “So I’m ready for Greek coffee now, am I?”

  “We must get going! You have a lot to learn today.” I didn’t press for answers—mostly because I wanted it to remain a surprise, but also because I was still so damn tired at—what was this—eight thirty on my day off? I groaned as I rolled over and placed the coffee on the side table. I heard footsteps padding out of the room, followed by sounds of the shower running and Kaliopi singing at full blast, I heaved myself out of bed and walked out onto the balcony. Dodging a hanging CD, I poured the coffee into the nearest aloe vera plant. I didn’t want to offend her, yet my last experience with Greek coffee with the boys left me assured that its caffeine jolt would leave me jittery and headachy all day. Judging by the state of this plant, I wondered if Kaliopi’s various male visitors also had the same idea.

  We finally left the house around ten o’clock.—after I’d showered with what little hot water Kaliopi had left me, and after she’d dosed herself with coffee and a cigarette on the balcony. I love Kaliopi, I really do. But why wake me at 8:30am when we leave at 10? I grumbled away to myself. I wasn’t in the best of moods. Maybe I should’ve drunk the coffee after all.

  As we walked to the trolley I noticed many other people heading in the same direction. Most carried banners.

  “Oh look, another parade like Ochi Day! Will we see schoolchildren carrying the flag again?” I asked. Now we were outside I felt better, less moody. I’d not noticed the tear gas masks carried by most people and also failed to notice Kaliopi’s ‘look.’

  “Dear girl,” Kaliopi replied, patting me on the shoulders. “You have no clue, do you? It is good that you are coming today. But I will keep you away from trouble, don’t worry.” This last sentence Kaliopi mumbled, but loudly enough for me to hear it. Experience told me to trust her, and besides, I was too busy enjoying what I perceived to be the high spirits of everyone around me.

  Complete strangers were chatting, as they had on my first Athens trolley ride. I began to warm to Athens…it was a city in which you could never feel truly alone—someone was always willing to talk to you. As a traveller, I felt quite safe here.

  “Here we are, the Polytechnic,” announced Kaliopi, assuming tour guide status. “Ela, come.” We left the trolley, along with half the other passengers who disappeared up the street in the direction of the city centre.

  “We are standing at the gates where students were killed by a military tank that crashed into the grounds in the early morning of 17 November 1973,” began Kaliopi. I must have looked stricken because Kaliopi reached out and patted my hand. She sighed. “You are from a country that has never been oppressed and subjugated; you are from a different thought process entirely. Therefore it must be hard for you to understand what we have suffered in this beautiful land throughout our history.”

  “You’d better tell me more,” I felt deflated from my earlier jubilation.

  “Come into the building. They show an old film clip from a Dutch journalist who was secretly filming the whole episode from across the street.” She pointed to a beautiful colonial-style, rundown building, with a similar façade to many of the other neglected buildings I’d seen in Athens. This one used to be a hotel.

  Entering the Polytechnic we made our way into a room whose walls were lined with pictures of students who had lost their lives that day. Many people were there, looking at the projector screen. I squeezed into the back, and at last the fuzzy footage sprang to life. A tank was advancing towards the Polytechnic main gates, from which students were hanging.

  Kaliopi, eyes welling with tears, explained “One of the students pleaded with the soldiers to disobey the military order to do whatever possible to stop the student protests. He called them ‘Brothers in Arms’. He refused to jump from the gate and as it got nearer, he started to sing the National Anthem. Look what happens next.”

  The tank then crashed into the gate: the screen went blank and the sound stopped. The spectators in the room fell silent as well. The footage was rewound to be replayed for the next batch of visitors. No one made a noise—old people remembering and young people reflecting. It was a good five minutes before we felt ready to leave. Kaliopi was wiping her eyes, smudging her mascara. Kaliopi’s family had been directly involved—her parents had grown up under this dreadful military regime. Therefore she’d no doubt frequently heard tales told about this era and seen the effects of the suffering first hand.

  After regaining her composure, Kaliopi said “Come, let’s go for coffee and I will fill you in a little more.” And sitting in a quiet end of town, away from Exarchia and the brewing troubles, Kaliopi gave me a history lesson I’d never forget.

  “Since 1967, Greece had been under military dictatorship. Their practices included forcing “subversive” youths to join the army; imprisoning, torturing and exiling people based on their political beliefs; abolishing civil rights and getting rid of political parties. The junta basically wanted to control every aspect of our social and political lives. 17th November 1973 finally saw the students have enough and take control. They went on strike, staged a sit-in in the university grounds…”

  “What’s a ‘sit-in’?” I interrupted, not wanting to misunderstand a thing.

  “The students stayed in the grounds, locked the gates and refused to move. They transmitted radio broadcasts across the city and people took to the streets in support in their thousands, until in a panic the military received orders from their leader, Papadopoulos, to take action.” Taking a sip of her coffee, Kaliopi paused to light a cigarette.

  “And this action involved the tanks,” I concluded.

  “Yes, what you’ve just witnessed in that room. Of course, officially they say that no lives were lost that day, and there is still dispute over what is the “truth.” But you saw that film [no video back then, surely?] foot. We saw what happened.”

  Footage, film footage, I thought, but I felt it unnecessary to correct her right at that moment.

  “But of course, there is always a silver seam to every cloud” Kaliopi smiled for the first time that day. “All schools and universities in Greece are now a police-free areas, out of respect for what happened both on 17th November and throughout the junta era.”

  “But what if a crime happens on campus?” this was my first and obvious thought.

  “The police have to be invited, this is the point.” Kaliopi jabbed her index finger on the table, “they cannot just turn up. Later on today,” she continued, “there will be a parade in remembrance of 17th November, but not like the parade you saw back in October. People mistrust the police and anything to do with authority here, for reasons you have just witnessed. So always this ‘parade’ turns nasty, and people provoke the police, or maybe the police provoke the people—I am never really sure which comes first. It is a—how you say?—‘egg with chicken’ situation. Then a bottle or Molotov is thrown, the police throw tear gas and the whole thing becomes chaotic. That is why we are keeping away from the centre, and why you should not so innocently smile at the people with banners.” I must have looked worried as Kaliopi patted me affectionately, “Don’t worry, we’ll return to my flat, grab our things, and head back to the village.”

  Within an hour and a half, we were sitting on the bus, bound for home. “If you have any questions about this day, ask.” Kaliopi offered. Plenty swam around in my head: Where does a dictator come from? How do they gain and keep power? And why are we unaware of this period of time in Greece’s history? Dad must have known about these things, so how come I didn’t? And why did we only ever concentrate on World War II and the wives of King Henry VIII in school history lessons, and not about something so recent that took place within Europe? My thoughts were interrupted when the bus driver turned up his radio, the passengers talking to each other in the weary way of the cynical.

  “What’s going on?”
r />   “The usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just started, that’s all. The first bottle has been thrown, and it is starting to get ugly. And only fifteen minutes into their march,” sighed Kaliopi. “Sometimes I wonder if people will ever learn. How do they expect to win respect and instil change if they resort to the anarchy?”

  Eventually the bus driver turned off the radio, tired of all the doom and gloom. As we pulled into the village and got off the bus outside the café, Kaliopi hugged me hard and went her own way. I dragged myself up the hill and opened the gate to my flat, looking forward to a rest after an emotional day. Two of the old lady from next door’s cats sat on the doorstep, offering me a welcoming meow. As I bent down to scratch them behind the ears, Mrs Stella emerged from her apartment above. Has she been waiting and watching for my return? God, surely not! A quick glance at my watch showed nine p.m., not late by Greek standards.

  “So, did you learn a little more about Greek history this weekend?” she asked, coming up behind me and helping me to open the door. “Shoo!” she hissed at the cats at the same time. “Do not go encouraging them, they will only want feeding.”

  “Yes, I never knew about the junta. I assumed it was only South America and Spain that had suffered such regimes.”

  Mrs Stella pushed the door open to allow me to cross the threshold.

  “Greece’s history is littered with takeovers, tragedies, and censorship. But you will come to learn this over time. Off you go to bed—you must be tired. If you are hungry I will tell my husband to bring you some chicken and rice we had for our dinner. Would you like some?”

  I hadn’t realised just how hungry I was, so I gratefully accepted. It was an interesting choice of verb: ‘tell’ my husband, not ‘ask.’ But it was kind of her to offer food. I flipped on the TV, hoping to find a mind-numbing film that could help me switch off after the rather gruelling day. Most of the channels were filled with either the same footage I’d seen at the university, or scenes of today’s chaos in the city. I eventually found an old episode of a popular American sitcom. Sitting upright in bed and munching on the chicken dish, I laughed at the infamous weather-girl who came on during the break; she delivered her forecasts clad in short clothing and in such a suggestive manner that even men found her funny instead of sexy.