Girl Gone Greek (15 page)

Driving home, Manos made a quick call to Mrs Stella.

“Our kids are being examined tomorrow,” he explained. “I want to let her know the content of the exams so they know what to expect.”

I sighed inwardly. Despite my trying to teach the kids to take the moral high ground, it appeared that even my boss was trying to take shortcuts and accept any help she could. If this level of “corruption” was happening from the top, was it any wonder that it went on further down the chain and reached my kids? I pondered the complexity and ramifications of this thought and realised it pervaded Greek society as a whole—even at government level…ha,
especially
at governmental level.

With the exams out of the way, the end of term was approaching—it would coincide with the end of May. We still had one week of lessons left, but now that the older kids had finished their exams, they were much more relaxed in class.

“Have you ever had a Greek boyfriend, Miss?” Litza and Dimitra asked one day… Konstantinos sniggered in the back row. I was trying to conduct a lesson from the grammar book, but as it was the last week even I didn’t have the energy to teach formally.
As long as they’re speaking English, at least they’re learning something.

“That’s none of your business…” I tried to change the subject, but this went right over their heads. They weren’t going to give up this line of questioning.

“It’s nearly the end of the lesson.” At that moment Christina rang the hand bell to signal the end of class. As the others left the class, I kept the threesome back, “Come on, you promised me coffee once, remember?”

We ambled along to the nearest coffee shop, located by the bus stop. Konstantinos plucked a rose from the garden of one of the school’s neighbours and proudly presented it to me.

“I’d love to accept this, Konstantinos, but I’m sorry, you must put that back, it’s not yours to give away.” I was determined to instil some values into him. He looked genuinely rejected as we sat down, so I allowed him to order and pay for my coffee.

“In answer to your question about whether I’ve had a boyfriend here in Greece is no, not yet—I’ve been too busy teaching you!”

“But, Miss, you must have a life, a life of the heart, and that means having a relationship whilst you’re here.

You cannot leave Greece without meeting a man; it is unheard of!” Konstantinos clearly held views on this.

I sipped my latte and smiled at him, noting how much he’d improved in my time of teaching. Not only in his English. His sulky, reticent attitude had also mellowed: there was no way he’d be seen sitting with his English teacher in the local café at the beginning of the year. I thought about Kaliopi’s ability to fall so easily into relationships, even if they were just one-night stands.

“To be honest, I feel as if I have fallen into a relationship—one with your country as a whole. So much so, I’m considering staying here,” I thought aloud, “which will give me plenty of time to meet some
one
.”

“Oh yes miss, but don’t stay here,” Dimitra pulled a face, Litza copied her.

“Why not? What’s wrong with here?” asked Konstantinos.

“I want to go to the big city and meet a city man,” Dimitra looked purposefully at Konstantinos. I remembered Zoe’s attitude in the Oral Exams just a few weeks previously, and smiled.

“Don’t you want to try life in the city, Konstantinos?” I asked.

“Huh! There’s nothing I can get there that I can’t get here,” he stated proudly. “The food is fresher, and besides, who will look after my Mum?” I noted the difference between a seventeen year old Greek boy and a teenager of the same age in the UK: they were desperate to leave home, whereas Konstantinos seemed quite taken with traditional ways. But not Litza and Dimitra; they were both pulling faces and looked as if they couldn’t leave this ‘hole from hell’ fast enough.
Maybe there isn’t a future for Dimitra and Konstantinos after all.

That night, over coffee with Kaliopi, I thought about my conversation with my students and the thought that I might come back. I hadn’t realised the idea had even been on my mind until I’d said the words aloud.

“You’re not coming back to this shithole,” she characteristically claimed. She’d finally mastered the correct usage of the word. “
Look
at this place, and you can’t stay another year in that flat. Anyway, I hope to be living in Athens next year—I’ve requested a transfer and they’re actively looking to relocate me back home, thank God,” she concluded.

Did I want to stay in Greece? I’d certainly enjoyed my time here, discovered a passion for teaching, and developed a love of a country that holds family values dear to its heart. I didn’t come from a close family…but I felt as if I finally belong somewhere. And if I went to Athens next year, I’d have more of a life.

I decided not to return to the UK straight after teaching. Instead I booked a few days in Santorini to relax and consider the possibility.

“You look like a woman with a lot on her mind,” declared a man who looked about fifty, placing an un-asked for cappuccino on the table in front of me and sitting himself uninvited in a chair opposite me.

“Nikos,” he introduced himself as he shook my hand. “I doubt there’s a better sunset than this in the world. Whatever
malaka
made you come to Santorini alone and look so thoughtful is an asshole. Men these days are just boys; they have no knowledge of how to treat a woman.”

After unpacking my belongings in the small guesthouse, I’d slowly made my way to the café to watch the sunset over the caldera, and had purposefully chosen the quietest café in order to people-watch and just
be
. I forgot, however, that I was in Greece…and not just Greece, but Santorini—the most romantic island of them all—and I was a single woman. It was beyond the comprehension of many Greek men to see a woman alone. So my thoughts were interrupted by this Nikos character.

I smiled and gestured a thanks for the coffee.

“
Tipota
, nothing,” he dismissed. “So what brings you to Santorini alone?” He nodded sagely as I told him, as briefly as I could, my experiences of teaching and how I was thinking of staying in Greece.

“And whilst I may be physically alone, I don’t feel it. I feel as if Greece is my family, and she’s looking after me. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly accepted in a family, after never really being accepted in my own.” I bit my tongue as soon as I’d said it… again not realising until I’d said it out loud that that was how I felt.
Greece accepts me, whereas my sister never did. I didn’t realise I was so affected by her rejection.

“Greece does this to people … sucks them in, but in a positive way. Some people aren’t able to see beyond the surface beauty of this place,” Nikos sighed as he swept his arm towards the setting sun. “Others such as yourself,
copela
, you have experienced the
real
Greeks and their hospitality. What is there to even consider? Go back to your country with the rain, wind and cold and your
malakismeni
sister…or stay here and experience blue skies every day!” He leant forward in his seat, as if he was about to impart some top secret information. “You,
copela
, are an honorary Greek. I see it in your eyes. You’ve embraced this culture and feel accepted here—
of course
you must stay.” Nikos stood up, massaged my shoulder briefly, and gathered up my drained coffee cup. As he reached the entrance to the café, he turned back to me. “Now that we have sorted that out, enjoy your time here. There’s no need to waste time thinking … just be.” I smiled to myself, remembering that “just being” was the whole purpose of my visit to this café in the first place. “And come back tomorrow evening for watching the sunset—you’re welcome here.”

I grinned at his pidgin English, biting my tongue to stop myself from automatically correcting him. Yes, I would relax and enjoy my time here. It appeared that I would be staying in Greece after all.
Thanks for sorting that out Nikos.
I couldn’t wait to tell Kaliopi.

“So it appears I’m staying.” I announced. Kaliopi and I were sitting in our favourite coffee shop in the village. I’d told her about my experience with Nikos on Santorini and was now back in the village, spending the last few days before moving my stuff to Athens and storing it in Kaliopi’s flat for the summer while I went home.

“How will your Dad feel? Won’t he want you back in the UK?”

“I thought you were all for me staying.”

“Of course, but I just wondered.”

“We chatted last night.” I recounted the conversation. “He said he’s seen a change in me; apparently I’m more settled now than when I lived a ‘settled’ nine-to-five existence. He doesn’t want me to live the life I think everyone expects of me…and besides, he wants to come and escape the UK weather once a year.”

I grinned as I remembered his words: “Rachel, when have you ever given a toss about convention? And besides, don’t think coming back to the UK and getting a desk job will suddenly make your sister approve of you. If she doesn’t approve now, she’s never going to, regardless of how you live your life. Let go of your angst; you can’t choose your family and it seems you have better sisterly relationships with the friends you’ve made there than you’ll ever have from your own flesh and blood.”

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