Girl Gone Greek (7 page)

“I think I’ll give that a miss, thanks.” Despite her frivolousness, I felt safe around Kaliopi. I allowed her to lead.

Suddenly, “Quick, run!” she yelled, grabbing my hand and tugging me into the road.

Oh God, we thought we were safe, but they’re after us!
I glanced back. But no; they were still just hanging around, some smoking, others chatting, drinking frappes from plastic cups—all looking bored. Up ahead, I saw a yellow “bus” pull up, with antennae on its roof attached to two parallel overhead wires that were dangling over the road. It was towards this that Kaliopi was dragging me.

“Ah, that is better,” she sighed after sinking into the seat. “These dashes for the trolley always leave me short of the breath. Now then, we will get you into my flat, re-dress you, and you will be ‘as rain as right’ as you say in your country.”

Ninety minutes later, I found myself sitting in a cosy bar, sipping hot chocolate. I was increasingly enjoying evenings in Greece as I realised the people had a much more civilized approach to a night out: no-one seemed to give a damn that I didn’t want an alcoholic drink…there was no pressure. I was squeezed between two of Kaliopi’s friends—Nektarios and Dimitrios—having first shoehorned my upper body into what can only be described as a black boob tube. It turned out this was the only item of clothing Kaliopi had that fitted my larger frame, and it went well with my jeans and trainers.

Nektarios was tall, with a strong, square jawline and short-cropped black hair. He wore black cargo trousers and a black t-shirt. He’d nodded at me, but seemed a little moody. Trying to be polite and remembering my students’ enquiries into my own black clothes, I asked him if anyone had passed away in his family lately. “What have you been teaching her there in the countryside, Kalipoi?” Nektarios looked at me quizzically.
OK then
, I thought,
it’s just his dress sense. Clearly it fits his Mr Darcy image.
I smiled, a little embarrassed, not least because it was rather difficult not to stare at him.

By contrast, Dimitrios was only just slightly taller than Mr Ilias. He wore colourful trousers, a bright purple t-shirt and had the loveliest smile that touched his eyes, in contrast with Nektraias’s smouldering moodiness.

Moving on from my comment about black clothing, they started in on my education: the significance of the next day; the 28th of October.

“It’s ‘Ochi Day’”, Nektarios began. “‘Ochi’ means ‘No’ in Greek. It’s the date in 1940 that our Prime Minister, Ioannis Metaxas, refused Mussolini’s ultimatum to surrender to Italy. We entered the Second World War on that day—we said ‘OCHI!!’ to that asshole,” Nektarios finished loudly by raising his fist in the air.
OK then, moody yet passionate,
I concluded.

“Ochi!!” shouted the occupants of several tables around them who’d heard this exchange, again with the raised fist. “Ochi!!” yelled an elderly gentleman, raising his fist as he passed by outside under the open windows of the bar.

“Wow, that day certainly has significance and support around here. Unfortunately kids in our country don’t pay much attention to significant historical events. And I’m sorry, I don’t know the exact date Britain entered World War Two,” I admitted.

“Er… Rachel,” said Dimitrios, “I don’t want to sound critical of your nation, but you all seem a little apathetic and appear to neither know nor want to learn about important events that shaped your country. This is a shame; it makes your people appear shallow and uneducated, which clearly
you
are not.” He finished, beaming that smile of his, dissolving any insult I may have felt.

I thought for a minute and concluded he was right; compared to Greece, at least, we are apathetic about anything political or historical that has helped to shape our present and is important for us to understand. It was another characteristic difference between our nations.

“Don’t worry,” Dimitrios continued. “Come with us to the Ochi Day Parade tomorrow morning; you’ll continue your education with us.”

“Oh,” groaned Kaliopi. “But it starts so
early
. I need to lie in. Come by my apartment tomorrow morning, collect and take her with you. And you boys, look after Rachel and don’t wake me up.”

“Now who’s being shallow, Kaliopi?” Nektarios jibed, “but OK, we’ll do just that,” he winked at me and smiled, his face transformed.

Another thing I noted about these two characters—in contrast to my students at school, who didn’t speak
bad
English, these two spoke English perfectly. OK, so they were older than my teen class, but I still wanted to know how they’d learned.

“A Masters in English Literature, from Essex University,” Nektarios was visibly proud of this fact. “Although,” his shoulders slumped, “these days it’s hard to get a job in Greece, so I deliver pizza. Such a waste of a degree. But at least I got to experience living in the UK, alas also got to see how much you people seem to want to waste your time going out and getting drunk on the weekends, and you call that living!”

Dimitrios jumped in before I could start protesting—although to be fair, Nektarios had a point and there was really not much to protest about. “I work as a tour guide, so I get to practise my English every day. Also, as you’ll see the longer you’re here and teaching, the system here in Greece really pushes for people to obtain some form of English language certificate from a young age. It’s vital, for a nation that relies on tourism so much.”

Sunday dawned bright and early for me, despite having only rolled into bed a few short hours ago. “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor. I don’t snore, and I hope you don’t either,” had been Kaliopi’s last words before she fell into a deep sleep.

Hope she’s changed the bed sheets—I dread to think what last went on in here,
were my last waking

thoughts. Now I felt groggy...but also intrigued; I’d get to see how “Ochi Day” would be celebrated.

I have a degree in International Relations, but I knew nothing about Greece. At least this ‘Ochi Day’ will give me the opportunity to have a more intimate glimpse into Greece’s past. I was thoroughly enjoying the brilliant sunshine and bright blue skies Greece offered in plentiful doses, but I was discovering there was far more to this country than initially met the eye. The chance to learn more about it was tempting.
And the chance to not appear so shallow
… I was reminded of Dimitrios’s comments last night.

A gentle knock on the door signalled the boys’ arrival.

“I’m heading out now,” I whispered to a snoring Kaliopi—despite last night’s assertions, she actually snored like a train.

Closing the door quietly behind me, I smiled at them both.

“
Pame
, come. Let us take you to Syntagma—Constitution Square—where we will show you what happens on this day” smiled Dimitrios. I marvelled at how wide awake they seemed, until they produced a small Styrofoam cup of Greek coffee. “Kaliopi told me that I wasn’t ready for Greek coffee,” I said.

“Try it,” encouraged Nektarios.

“I made myself a cup at home once, so I know what it tastes like.”

“Yes, but try
this
one” Nektarios insisted. Gingerly, I sipped what looked to be a cup of mud. It set my heart rate hammering and snapped my eyes wide open.

“Have you put something else into this?”

They smiled. “No, you’re just trying the proper stuff,” Dimitrios assured me.

That explains it. They live off this stuff,
I concluded, looking at their sparkling eyes. Who needs drugs when Greek coffee’s on offer? And Kaliopi was right…I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this stuff.

After a trolley ride and a ten-minute walk through streets crowded with people, we arrived in Syntagma Square. Nektarios had purchased three Greek flags to wave at the passing parade. Many people carried nationalistic paraphernalia such as more flags, flag badges and small banners proclaiming “Ochi!”

The square teemed with people. Whole families were there; old ladies displayed banners and children, perched on their fathers’ shoulders, waved their flags. At eleven o’clock the military band struck up its march, followed by old soldiers who’d served in the Second World War, who were followed in turn by a selection of schools from the area.

“Do you know who carries the Greek flag at the front of each school’s delegation?” Dimitrios pointed to a young girl in a uniform of white shirt and navy blue tie and skirt, who was struggling to carry the huge flag. “It’s the most intelligent student in the school of that year. That student has the honour of representing his or her school by carrying the flag in this parade. Every student aspires to be voted the brainiest in order to be awarded this opportunity.”

“Yes, but the problem is,” Nektarios chimed in, “nowadays the ‘brainiest’ could be of non-Greek descent.”

“Why’s that a problem?” I was confused.

“Well, it’s not a problem for people like me and Dimitrios. We are open-minded. But a lot of Greeks aren’t. You will find, at this time of year, people on television debating the issue. Some claim that non-Greeks shouldn’t be allowed to carry the Greek flag—even if one of them happens to be the brightest in school—since they are not true Greeks. We invented the word ‘xenophobia.’” Silently I marvelled at how the Greeks got away with being so openly nationalistic, almost racist by my standards.

Were there parades held at home in which a marcher struts in front, proudly waving the Union Jack? I couldn’t recall any, and if there were I doubt there’d ever be a televised debate about the multicultural origin of the flag carrier. I couldn’t decide whether Greece was excessively celebrating their nationhood, or if the UK was trying too hard to remove any celebration of theirs. Not coming from a county that had ever been occupied, at least in recent history, I doubted I’d fully understand the concept of nationhood and how important it is to its citizens. As if reading my mind, Dimitrios said:

“I’m not making excuses for racist attitudes, but when a country’s been occupied as much as this one has, you can understand where they come from, especially the older generation who’ve lived through a lot.”

I watched the excitement on everybody’s faces…seeing them come alive at the memory that their country had fought so hard. My history has been a lot easier than that of the people of this nation. We’re all forged in the crucible of our nation’s history. When I came here I just wanted sunshine and beaches, but there’s so much more to discover. Given my different historical upbringing, I wondered about my empathy and my ability to become as excited as the Greeks about such events.

After the parade, we went to eat in a place that resembled a New York City delicatessen that displayed a selection of freshly prepared food and salads: I chose my dish and it was heated and served with a glass of wine and water. I perked up when I saw the homemade desserts on display. As I tucked into a tiramisu, Kaliopi arrived and plonked herself next to us.

“So this is Exarchia—traditionally an ‘anarchist’ area of Athens where it’s thought people from the left meet to ‘plot’” she informed me.

“Plot what?”

“You know, to overthrow the government.”
No, I don’t know!
The concept seemed so far removed from my everyday life that I found it difficult to imagine.

“
So that
explains why there are so many police around here.” Every street corner seemed occupied with men clad in navy blue uniforms,
Top Gun
shades and desert boots; they carried riot shields, gas masks, guns and canisters of tear gas.

“Yes, don’t be alarmed,” said Nektarios. “But also don’t think that these are your friendly neighbourhood policemen either, because they aren’t,” he continued.
Clearly not,
I thought.
Look at their get-up! They look like they’re ex-Navy SEALS.
“Don’t ask them for directions. They will ask to see your passport and proof of who you are without any reason…just because they can.”

“Should I be worried then?” I asked. “I mean, all I’m doing is eating tiramisu, not planning to overthrow the state.”

“No,” it was Dimitrios’ turn, “Nektarios is exaggerating. Although they look scary with their uniforms, I’m sure if you were lost they would help a pretty girl like you.”

I wondered what would happen if I weren’t so ‘pretty?’ At least we’re not afraid of our police force in the U.K., or more to the point, at least I feel comfortable asking for directions. These guys? They look like they’d relish the chance to stamp on me.

Kaliopi leaned in to polish off the last mouthful of my tiramisu, literally just as I was about to fork it. “Let’s take Rachel to the Acropolis, there’s more to Athens than military parades.”

“Too tired. You go” Nektarios bowed out and told us he was off home to sleep.
Shame, I’d been enjoying his moody “Mr Darcy” presence.

Two stops on the metro later, we arrived at the Acropolis at about three p.m. Athens only had three metro lines and the trains were quick and clean. The stations were really clean too. I could get used to this civilized way of travelling: elevator-style music playing on the platform, a computer screen displaying the next 3 days’ weather forecast, and what was this? The Acropolis metro stop had ancient artefacts housed behind glass displays! No comparison to the London Underground. I voiced my admiration to Kaliopi.