Arriving in Greece: 1981

 

It seems like only yesterday that I left Croydon with a suitcase, a certificate of good health signed by Doctor Brightwell, cards wishing me luck from my lively and loving Sussex University friends, a diploma from International House which supposedly equipped me to teach English as a foreign language, an adventurous spirit and a trusting heart. But in fact it was last century, October 1981.

I arrived in Greece after the sun had set, made my way in the darkness over 200 kilometres north of Athens by dimly lit bus and arrived at a dingy brown hotel in the middle of the night. It seemed like a miracle when I told the hotel receptionist my name and she not only found my name on the hotel register but told me that Mr Mavrikas was expecting me at his school at ten the following morning. I remember nothing of the hotel room but for its browness, stillness and strangeness. I slept with the confidence of a girl starting an adventure.

I awoke to Lamia and a morning flooded with light, people, welcome, new beginnings and loud speakers on every street corner, every car, every square, blaring out election campaigns and songs.

During those first confusing days, people were always telling me that ‘It’s not normally like this here.’ Andreas Papandreou, the socialist PASOK party candidate was standing for the first time as Prime Minister after centuries of foreign oppression, junta rule and conservative government, and emotions and hopes were running high. They meant, I suppose, that it wasn’t normally that noisy, that chaotic, that enthusiastic. Well, they were trying to be nice and save me from a little culture shock, I suppose. Because really, bar the loud speakers, Greece is like that every single day. People were cycling around the town, cars were hooting, the marble squares glared white in the early autumn light and I had an address on a scrap of paper where I was to meet one of my employers. Of course I couldn't read the street names and didn't have a town map. So naturally I ignored everything I had ever been taught and flagged down a passing truck. I showed the driver my scrap of paper and climbed into the front passenger seat next to him. Was I foolish? Was he trustworthy? Whatever. He took me to the school, wished me a good morning and left me. I was twenty five, wearing bright pink, tight jeans, foreign and vulnerable and I was safely delivered.