Girl Gone Greek (9 page)

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 morning, 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?”

“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.

“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.

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 down,” 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.”