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.”
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
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.”
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
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