Girl Gone Greek (14 page)

“Shall we just take a taxi?”

“OK,” I agreed. “It’s too cold at this time of morning anyway.” We were standing by the bus stop in town, waiting for the shuttle to take us to the train station. Having observed the quaintness of this rural train station before, I’d become blasé about it, but it was a first for Dad.

“Look at this place.”
He looked around him as the taxi dropped us off. “It reminds me of the countryside stations when I was evacuated as a kid.” At this early hour, the only other noises came from the man behind the ticket counter, who was chatting on his mobile phone. There were no other passengers on the platform; they’d probably all left earlier in the week so as not to have to travel on Easter Monday. Any passenger traffic would come later in the day—people returning to start work the next day. Luckily, working for a school meant I had the whole week off.

Leaving Dad on the platform, I went to purchase the tickets. The station master seemed to be deliberately ignoring me, ‘busy’ with his phone call. It wasn’t until I exclaimed very loudly
“signomi”
[
Excuse me
] that he turned to me with a bored expression. I decided to treat us both to first class.

“And we have a whole compartment to ourselves! This really is like the old-fashioned trains,” Dad continued his admiration of the Greek rail experience once the train squeaked to a halt and we boarded.

“And you wouldn’t believe how much the tickets were, Dad…only twenty-five Euros each, first class.” I decided not to share the experience with the station master with Dad, not wanting to tarnish his ideal of the journey so far. I marvelled that the journey would take us about three hours, and compared that to the price of a three-hour journey in first class on a UK train. There was no comparison, really.

We settled into our seats, closed the sliding outer door to our carriage and gazed as the train cut through mountains and sped past shepherds’ huts, the occasional shepherd tending to his sheep, arm raised in greeting as our train snaked past him. There were decidedly fewer lambs in the fields. I guess they’d all been eaten by now.

“There’s hardly anyone on this train,” Dad returned from the buffet area with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “For a state-run enterprise, I’d say these trains are better maintained and cheaper than the privatized ones back at home.”

“Well, privatized or not, one thing doesn’t seem to change—the toilets,” I’d just had the privilege of visiting one. Yes, suffice to say that Greek and British toilets on trains remained equally disgusting; irrespective of the fact we were the only ones using them in First Class.

I fell into a doze, just as the train slowed to approach Kalampaka, where we were due to get off. Peering out, I glimpsed great monoliths—the Meteora pinnacles. They looked ethereal, especially with banks of low clouds shrouding the summits.

Arriving at the guesthouse, my Dad once again tested the firmness of his bed.

“At least my back won’t hurt too much. This mattress is much better than the one in the village hotel.” We were sharing a twin room, something I hadn’t done since I was a child. I hoped his snoring hadn’t worsened over the years, and congratulated myself on the fact I’d packed earplugs, just in case.

“I might have to lob a sock at you in the night if your snoring’s worsened.”

“
Me snore?
Ha! We’ll see about that.” I didn’t have the heart to remind Dad that one of the cited reasons in the divorce of my mum and Dad, for unreasonable behaviour, was ‘snoring so much at night so as to inhibit basic daily functioning due to excessive tiredness.”
Maybe if Mum’d worn ear plugs…oh well, no point in going down that route now.

Having tested the bed and unpacked, we made our way into the town. We were surrounded by the ancient, towering rock pinnacles, which managed to look both majestic and eerie.

“It’s beyond comprehension that they were created over sixty million years ago.” I was struggling to get my head around it.

“It says here they were sculpted by wind and earthquakes,” Dad read from a local guidebook. “Yes, they are indeed amazing.”

After a simple lunch in a
taverna
in the town square we decided to explore further. The guesthouse was set amongst some of the rocks and a path cut its way through them. Scattered around were the small houses of Kalampaka, and before long we came across a small Orthodox church.

“I don’t think this is one of the monasteries,” I said. It wasn’t; those were perched atop the rocks themselves. More than twenty had been originally constructed, dating back to the fourteenth century. However, only six remained today—four inhabited by monks and two by nuns.

“We’ll visit the monasteries tomorrow,” I said as we made our way back to the guesthouse, a little yapping dog following us most of the way. He’d appeared from behind the church to play. We stopped to play for a while…he looked like a little spaniel and was quite happy to roll onto his back to have his belly rubbed.

We fell into bed, exhausted from the day’s travel and looking forward to visiting the monasteries the next day.

Mum hadn’t been exaggerating when she cited Dad’s snoring in the divorce. I’d stopped myself at one point last night from chucking one of Dad’s slippers at him, the noise was so loud.
Don’t forget, you’re glad he’s here
I kept repeating as I lay there, earplugs firmly planted in my inner ear. I finally managed to sleep about two am.

“You snore too loudly,” I couldn’t help myself grumbling as we bundled into the taxi. We’d negotiated a good price with Nikos, a local taxi driver to drive us up to, and around, the six monasteries. A trek by foot from the guesthouse to the top of the rocks would’ve been strenuous, plus it was drizzling. Besides, I was too tired from lack of sleep.

“I love you too, sweetheart” Dad said. I smiled, despite myself. In the warmth of Nikos’s Mercedes cab, we rode up and arrived at the first, the Holy Monastery of Varlaam.

“It’s the second-largest monastery, inhabited by monks,” Nikos told us. Leaving him at the base, smoking a cigarette out the taxi window, we scrambled up the staircase cut into the rock to reach the entrance. Access to these monasteries was originally made very difficult due to fear of occupation, requiring either long ladders or nets to haul people and goods up the sides. Finally in the seventeenth century, staircases were cut into the rocks. “Good job too,” remarked Dad. “You wouldn’t get me sitting in a net to be hauled up, not with my back.”

We gazed around in silence at this great place, built in 1541. Neither of us had any words as we looked out over the great courtyard to the sweeping views of the fertile plains of Thessaly below. There was no sign of any monks, however.

Next stop was the Holy Monastery of St. Stephen, which sat atop a flat plain, not one of the ancient rocks. Fewer than ten nuns lived here. We went up to pay our entry fee, and an elderly nun pointed to my trousers, then a sign that proclaimed “Women must wear skirts to cover their legs” in various languages.

“But my legs are covered” I stated, reasonably I thought, until Dad nudged me hard in the ribs and smiled benignly at another nun who was handing me a sarong.

“I am afraid all the women must where the skirts and not the trousers. It is offensive for women to dress as men. Please wrap this around your jeans,” she smiled. The nun looked about the same age as me, if not younger.

“So, if I came in wearing a miniskirt, I’d be allowed entry, but not in trousers?” I was determined to get to the bottom of this warped logic. I could see Dad covering up his embarrassment.

“No,” replied the nun patiently. “They must also cover the legs with these items,” she indicated the basket of skirts. “They must just not to wear the trousers, it is too manly.” I tried to probe further, it just didn’t make sense. “Why...?” I started. But Dad was gently but firmly pulling me along, nodding at the growing queue of Greek tourists behind them.

“Sometimes, love, you have to just accept religious and cultural differences and stop asking ‘why.’ You wonder why you used to constantly get detentions at school? Well, your desire to question teachers all the time got too much! Come on, let’s accept, let go and enjoy this place.” I grudgingly backed down as I wrapped the awful piece of sarong material around my waist. It just about brushed my ankles and upon spying a brown stain at the front, I stopped myself from trying to imagine how many other people had worn this before me.

Peering over the edge of the courtyard, we stood in awed silence yet again and gazed at the rope ladder that spilt over the edge from a small hole in the monastery’s wall, another example of how people used to get supplies up to the place. “I wonder if anyone’s fallen trying to get up to these places.” Dad’s question echoed my thoughts exactly.

Our third stop with Nikos was the Monastery of the Holy Trinity, inhabited by monks and used in the 1981 James Bond movie “For Your Eyes Only.” By the time we came out, Dad had decided he was all monasteried out for the day. Besides, the weather had deteriorated from a light drizzle to a steady rain.

“Malakias (bullshit)”
Nikos swore under his breath. As we were driving back, we rounded a corner, only to be confronted by a goat herd and his shepherd. Dad and I didn’t mind having to slow down, it was a great photo opportunity. Nikos had his window open and one or two goats stuck their heads in, making Nikos swear even more.

Finally we arrived back at the guesthouse for a shower, change of clothes and last meal in Kalampaka before heading to Athens the next day. Dad would spend the night with Stamatis, me with Kaliopi, before Dad flew back to the UK and Kaliopi and I returned to the village.

Lying in bed one Friday morning, I reflected how—only three weeks earlier—Dad had been with me and we’d experienced the delights of a Greek Easter and the Greek countryside. He’d arrived back in the UK safely, after a night with Stamatis doing God only knows what—
there’re some things a daughter is best not knowing about her parents.
Embracing me hard at the airport, he’d then held me at arm’s length:

“You look fantastic, love. This country is doing you some good. It’s not just the food, I see a change in you, a sort of mellowing. See? I
told
you Greece grabs you and takes you in.” I waved a slightly tearful goodbye to him, looking down at myself and realising that yes, I had had to make another notch in my jeans belt to tighten it. I’d lived off spanakopita and gyros, which probably accounts for my weight loss.

Kaliopi was most disappointed she’d missed Dad, and insisted on hearing all about Meteora. “Hypocrites, that’s what those nuns are,” she stated when I told her my skirt story. “They are men-haters, that’s why they’re nuns—don’t want women to wear trousers because they look like men—huh!”

“Actually, Kaliopi, I thought they were really gentle and calm people, and I’m not religious in any shape or form.” I felt the need to stick up for the kind woman who’d patiently insisted on my wearing a skirt and equally patiently explained why.

“Huh—listen to yourself: one visit to a nun place and you’re ready to convert!” Kaliopi blew smoke into myface in mock disgust.

“No worries there, Kaliopi, I’d get vertigo living there and besides, you’d never come and visit me,” I re-assured her.

“Of course not—and besides, they wouldn’t let me in once they see how many male visitor ‘friends’ I have. They wouldn’t want me corrupting you.”

As May came around, it grew warmer. The snow at the peak of Mount Parnassos started to melt and the Oral Exams crept up. My students had become increasingly agitated in class—especially the ‘Terrible Threesome:’ Konstantinos, Litza and Dimitra. I put this down to exam nerves and tried my best to improve their vocabulary in areas surrounding the economic crisis and its effects, as well as a range of other subjects, such as environmental problems.
The more I read, the more I learned as well! Mrs Stella will be pleased.

“Miss, what’s a word for those people that come into our country and take our jobs, you know—those people from India and stuff?” asked Konstantinos.

I took a deep breath. I had to remind myself that these kids hadn’t been exposed to such integration—unlike myself—and Greece and other Southern European countries seemed to be some sort of ‘holding area’ for illegal immigrants trying to enter Europe. It was a very complex problem—one I suspected Northern Europeans were not keen to see resolved anytime soon as it suited them to keep illegal immigrants out of their own countries…but it didn’t help my immediate cause and besides, I wasn’t about to get into this debate with Konstantinos and his posse. Contentious as his comment was, at least he was trying.

“I tell you what, Konstantinos,” I turned on what I considered to be my most winning smile—“why don’t we take a look at how the ‘crisis’ has affected this immediate area.”

Litza started. “Well, my uncle he can’t sell potatoes like he used to…he says it’s because they must be a certain size for the EU. So he not bring home much money anymore.” I even learnt something interesting myself: Apparently the region where the village and school were located was thought to have high concentrations of mercury in the soil, therefore farmers often had problems selling their produce…once every couple of months they would take their vegetables and fruit to Athens and in a united attempt (and to prove there was nothing wrong with their wares), would give it away free in a central market.

“It’s all a lie, Miss!” said Konstantinos—he’d started to refer to me in the English form, not the Greek now…he’d dropped the word
Kyria
—“They are trying to make out we are bad people…there is nothing wrong with our food! Look at me.” I smiled at him.

“Indeed, look at you!” I replied, not unkindly. “And the word you were looking for was ‘migrant’, Konstantinos: people who go to a country other than their own to find work. Greece has a long history of migrating…look at how many Greeks are in Australia and the U.S., for example.” I was determined to give him food for thought.

Manos collected me early morning on the last Sunday in May, and off we went to examine in a town about an hour away.

“Jump out here,” he pulled up at a three story school building in the centre of the rather ugly town, “I’ll go and find somewhere to park.” We’d passed a long snaking queue of nervous looking teenagers outside the building—all waiting their turn to take the exam and for once, most had arrived early, vying to be the first in.

Announcing our arrival at the Reception of the grey Communist-style building, we made our way upstairs to collect our ‘packs.’ Kept strictly under lock and key, it wouldn’t have been out of place to label them ‘Top Secret’ as they contained the topics and questions for the Oral Exam.

“You must
not
leave your room unattended with this inside,” instructed the unsmiling, severe looking woman as she passed our packs over and we signed them out, “a student could, and probably will, find his or her way in and arm his or herself in advance with knowledge.”

Manos and I gave our most sincere and serious nods in affirmation, whilst I smiled to myself; this was something I could imagine Konstantinos trying to do, and probably succeeding in.

We examined in pairs: one person asking the questions and the other sitting, listening to the students’ replies and allocating the marks. Luckily I was paired with Manos, as I’d spied ‘Godzilla.’

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked as I tried to make myself inconspicuous behind him. “Come on, let’s go to the room. You wanna question first? Half way through, we’ll swap to give your vocal chords a break—trust me, they’re gonna need it!”

Our examining room turned out to be the school gym with a table and chairs set in the corner.

“Whey hey, look at
this
,” Manos walked towards a huge chess set, the pieces sitting at waist height. “Oh, and
these
,” he further noted as he ran childlike to the set of ropes hanging from the ceiling and tried to scale them, all the while making monkey noises.

“Manos!” I hissed, “The first candidates are sitting outside and can probably hear us, let’s sit down eh?” I was feeling really nervous. Some kid’s future in English would partly be decided by me. All their months of study would finish today, so I had quite a big responsibility.

Zoe and Melanthe turned out to be the first “victims.”

After going through the rigmarole of getting them to spell their names, I started on the first question:

“So Zoe, what do you like about living in your town?” I offered her a beaming, encouraging smile.

“Nothing,” she sulkily replied, arms crossed and eyes looking at the floor. I waited a good five-seconds to allow her to redeem herself, figuring she might be nervous.

“OK then, Melanthe, how about you?”

“Oh, I like the sun and I like the drink café with my friends and I like the cinema and I like the television and I like the volleyball and I like the.…”

Behind me, Manos interrupted with a loud cough. Taking the hint, I tried to move them along.

“Zoe, I’m going to show you a picture and I’d like you to tell us what you see,”
This is like an ink-blot test!
I placed a black-and-white picture of a family seated around a dinner table, the woman dishing up a meal. Zoe took one look at it, laughed, and retorted in perfect English.

“Well, that’s just typical, a woman serving the food. I can see a
typical
Greek family [she spat out the word ‘typical’ as if it had a bad taste] and they are eating
typical
Greek food like
mousakka
and
pastistichio
. And like a
typical
Greek family, the woman is cooking and serving all the men first. The daughter will have to collect the plates and wash them up and….” Again Manos interrupted this rather impressive diatribe from the previously reticent Zoe with a prolonged clearing of the throat.

Rather nervously now, I passed Melanthe’s picture to her and she attempted to describe a silly picture of another family, this time in a water park. Privately I wondered if I had wasted my time getting my kids armed with vocabulary about the economic crisis if they were going to be looking at pictures of rather simple scenes. Or maybe that was the Greek way: the exam board tells us to prepare the kids for one thing, only to be tested on something much simpler.

Melanthe’s contribution couldn’t be more different than Zoe’s: “Oh
look
at the happy faces of the young children in this extended family! They all look so happy, going down the water slides and they all want the day not to end and they will go to the home at the end for the big family meal with the grandma and grandpa…” as she said this, Zoe threw her a dirty look and actually, I was sure I detected a hint of sarcasm in Melanthe’s otherwise naïve demeanour and definitely caught her throwing a sideways smile at her fellow candidate.
Are they colluding together? Good cop/bad cop?

Manos’s throat-clearing saved the day once again. Eventually the exam wound to an end, and with some relief I noted that the last questions required knowledge of everyday events and economic problems. I was also somewhat relieved that this exam with this particular set of students was drawing to a close. I’d found them exhausting.

“Goodbye!” I beamed as they left the gym. Puffing out my cheeks in a long sigh, I raised a questioning eyebrow to Manos who delivered his opinion.

“That first girl—what’s her name, had a bloody chip on her shoulder and the other girl sounded as if she’d inhaled helium! Got to admit though, that first one, Zoe? She picked up when faced with the picture—but I sure wouldn’t want to be the man that marries her. At least they both had the vocabulary. I’m passing ’em.” Smiling I agreed with him and now, feeling less nervous having got the first candidates out of the way, I felt OK about waving in the next batch.

And so the day progressed. By six pm we’d seen over fourteen pairs of students between us and taken turns in examining and marking. I was knackered by the time we came to collect our cash for our day’s work.