Girl Gone Greek (10 page)

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.

They seemed to enjoy the writing exercise as well, and definitely appreciated a move away from exam focus.

“
Kyria
, won’t Mrs Stella be angry with you? We’re not doing anything like this with our other teachers,” Dimitra and her classmates were referring to my maverick actions.

That’s because they’re shit scared of their boss,
I thought. “Don’t you worry about Mrs Stella,” I replied, although I too had wondered how she’d take this, given that she never wanted to lose control of what went on in her school.

“Ah, Miss Rachel,” she cornered me that night while I was waiting for Manos to finish up so I could get my usual lift. “What’s this about a Christmas lesson? The students have exams soon and it is best to continue with the syllabus, don’t you think?” I saw Konstantinos pull a sympathetic face for me behind her back. He raised both his hands with his fingers crossed, offering me support. I realised Mrs Stella had made a statement, not actually asked me a question. She gave a tight smile and made to move off. Clearly the conversation was over for her. I took a deep breath:

“Actually, they’re producing some excellent ideas through this particular lesson,” I started. “This is going beyond English language acquisition; they’re learning to think for themselves, critical thinking skills. Essential for developing ideas in an exam situation wouldn’t you think?” I smiled sweetly, pleased with myself at having deliberately picked impressive phrases such as ‘language acquisition’ and ‘critical thinking skills.’ And besides, I was right—they were acquiring these skills. “Not to mention broadening their horizons with knowledge of other cultures, all through the medium of English Language.”
God, I’m on fire tonight!

I could see Mrs Stella thinking this through, and actually agreeing with me. It wasn’t her fault she was traditional and stuck to traditional methods. Still, she couldn’t let it show, so she offered me a tight smile and said “Just be sure to return back to routine after the Christmas break.” I hoped I hadn’t burnt my bridges with her. I doubted it. I’d always thought that she may be draconian and scary, but she was fair.

The Christmas exercise was great for me too, as I managed to discover more about my students through reading their pen-pal letters. Dimitra enjoyed Christmas with her extended family—maternal aunt and uncle, their wives, husbands, children and her paternal grandparents. Konstantinos, by comparison, lived in a single-parent household with only his mother and sister, his parents having divorced when he was very young; his writing reflected how protective he was of his sister and mother.

“My mother has to work all the day to afford to send me to the private English school where Miss Rachel teaches, she’s from England. My sister she is hoping to go to the University and this also costs money. My mother buy us the clothes, so we don’t get many presents, but my sister helps her cook the chicken for Christmas dinner.” I began to realise that in order to understand these kids I was going to need to look at their parents and family backgrounds more closely. Only then will the jigsaw fall into place.

Driving home with Manos that evening, I brought up my discovery.

“Yep, Konstantinos’s mother is still talked about in the local supermarket and cafés. They usually make reference to Konstantinos’s behaviour and say it’s not just adolescence; they blame his mother for the lack of a father figure in his life. It doesn’t matter about the reality of a situation regarding divorce in Greece,” he went on. “The problem, especially in the villages, is that you’re expected to stay together regardless, and divorce is a big stigma here. The woman is usually held to blame, for not being strong enough to keep her family together and her man happy.”

“That’s like the Dark Ages, and bloody appalling in this day and age!” I was feeling more and more protective towards Konstantinos the more I learnt.

“Yes I agree,” shrugged Manos, “but mentality takes time to change, especially up here in the villages.”

Still feeling quite indignant and more than a little defensive towards Konstantinos, I started to read the pre-teen class’s letters at home that evening, eager to see what information I could glean about their backgrounds. By contrast these letters were quite upbeat—or beat-up, to quote Kaliopi—describing the Greek religious practises they observed Most Orthodox Greeks followed the tradition of abstaining from all meat and dairy products, including fish, from 15th November until 24th December. They then had a big meal on 25th December that included most of the products they’d abstained from, a breaking of the fast, with presents opened on 1st January, the Feast of Aghios Vasilis (Saint Basil).

I had planned to visit Athens the weekend before Christmas…it was also the weekend I was due to fly home.
It’ll be good to go clothes shopping, get some more warm gear. And I can’t wait to see Dad again.

Two good things happened on the last day of term: Mrs Stella called me into her office to present me with a cash “Christmas bonus.” She made it clear that all teachers received the same: “This is from the government, the equivalent of an extra month’s salary.”
Ah, not some personal ‘gift’ or bribe then. Great timing for my spending spree in Athens!
Secondly, my students had gifts for me. The younger ones had drawn a Christmas poster depicting how they imagined a typical snowy English country scene to look.

“Look Miss,” Bettina proudly announced, “there is a little house and a snowman and a…umm,
this
in the air”

“Sleigh, Bettina, it’s called a sleigh.” I smiled at the crude depiction; they’d used cotton wool and tin foil in an attempt to make it realistic. The teenagers had clubbed together and bought me a white woolly hat. Konstantinos, Dimitra, and Litza came forward at the beginning of the last lesson to present it, artfully wrapped in newspaper. I was touched ... and glad to see that the three of them seemed to be getting along.

“You always are saying you have no warm clothes, so this will keep the heat in your head.”

“Thank you everyone,
efharisto
and
kala christouyenna
” I attempted the Greek for “thank you” and “Happy Christmas” to wild applause from the group.

“Litza,” I pulled her to one side once the class had ended and everybody had said their goodbyes. “Are things okay now among the three of you?”

“Oh yes, Miss. I remembered your Triangle of Love story and didn’t want any part of something that sounds so confusing. Besides, Konstantinos has a funny eye, haven’t you noticed? It looks to his nose.”

I hadn’t. I smiled at Litza’s observation, wished her a good holiday, and off she went.

“Kala Christouyenna!”
everybody shouted to each other. Even the other teachers embraced me, kissing me on each cheek.

After the festivities and high spirits at school, I spent the evening packing bags.

It would be colder back at home; luckily I’d got warm enough clothes there. Packing my cotton t-shirts to the bottom of the drawer, I made a mental note to bring back some winter clothes with me, and there’d be no harm in buying a few new pieces in Athens.

I said
Kala Christouyenna
to Mrs Stella and her husband.

“Ah Miss. Rachel. Here are some
melomakarona
for you to take home.” This oval shaped Christmas biscuit was made from honey and walnuts, and tasted absolutely delicious. I wondered if Mr Ioannis had rustled these up, or whether Mrs Stella had exercised a hidden talent. I didn’t like to ask. “My sister makes them, you met her once.” Mrs Stella answered my unasked question.
Ah yes, the spitting lady.
I remembered her well.

“Thanks—they’re delicious.”

“They are a Greek Christmas traditional sweet snack. Be sure to save some for your father.”
I doubt they’ll even last the journey to Athens,
I thought.

After locking the flat’s door, I gave the neighbour’s ginger cat a friendly pat and made my way downhill to the bus stop. There was the old man, sitting outside his shop and once again, gesturing for me to join him for tea and honey. Alas, I didn’t have time—again—but yelled
“Kala Christouyenna!”
He offered a toothy smile and waved, pleased I’d attempted some Greek, and started walking towards me so I moved quickly, wanting to avoid another of his bear hugs. Smiling I pointed to my watch and indicated my need to be quick in order to catch the bus.