Sophomore Year Is Greek to Me (6 page)

“Okay,” I said, flopping into a chair at the kitchen table. “I want to know.”

Dad looked up from the sad-looking Hot Pocket he was trying to eat without burning his tongue. It was Tuesday afternoon, just six short days before we were leaving for Greece, and also Christmas Eve. Why school made us come in for a single day I will never understand. Probably spite. Anyway, since we don't celebrate Christmas (Dad was raised Jewish, and I was raised nothing), he had pointedly left a hideous suitcase in my room with a Post-it attached that read:
Daughter Packs.
I was pretty sure the suitcase had been made from a tapestry in 1937 and may at one time have had a family of anthropomorphic voles living in it. I shoved it under my bed and hoped it wasn't haunted.

“You want to know what?” he asked, his mouth full. “I'm going to need a bit more to go on, Ace.”

We hadn't talked about Greece—other than logistics—since the night I cried in his office. I knew he was giving me space to sort out my feelings and waiting til I brought it up again. I also knew the clock was ticking and the situation wasn't going to change. So now I was ready.

“I want to know what the plan is. With the Marousopoulous. Are we just going to ring the bell at Mom's old house and be, like, ‘Hi, we're your long-lost relatives!' or something? Do they even speak English? I mean, do you know anything
about
these people, other than that they are awful and mean?”

Dad started twirling a fork over his fingers; it's a nervous habit of his, which he usually does with a pen. “They speak English,” he said, more to the wall than to me.

His tone made me immediately suspicious.

“Okay . . . and how do you know that?” He didn't respond, but switched the dancing fork to his other hand. I reached over and plucked it away. “Dad. What are you not telling me?”

He looked up. “Well, I know your cousins speak English, at least. And no, we're not just going to show up randomly. They know we're coming and they know all about you.”

“How could you keep this from me for two whole years, Dad?!” I finally said.

“I tried to bring it up several times and you refused to talk about it! And then you were starting high school and I didn't want to . . . Look, Ace, this isn't easy for me, either, okay? In fact, it pretty much sucks. But maybe it doesn't have to. And this isn't only about you, as hard as that may be for your teenage brain to accept.”

“Hey!”

“This trip isn't only about the Marousopoulous. I really want to write this story. Greece has had a massive impact on my life, too, you know? And right now it's enmeshed in a multilayered, fascinating, financially dire situation. I want to tell
Greece's
story. Greeks are different, and they care about different things. I want to be the one to really uncover what's going on, if I can.” He folded his hands on the desk, breathed deeply, and looked me in the eye. “This is very important to me. But so is your getting to know your mom's family. And it's happening. Period.”

I slumped a bit, defeated but not so angry anymore. What's important to my dad is important to me, too—we're a team, after all.

“Can I at least get my bearings before I have to meet the entire family? I hear you, okay, and I know we're going and I'm . . . not
cool
with it, but resigned, anyway. But this is a
lot
all at once.”

“That's not unreasonable,” Dad said. “They've had time to adjust to this on their end. Yiota talked to the family. Your grandfather died years ago, but your grandmother wants to meet you very badly. You're family, and Greeks love family. It's literally the most important thing to them: not money or jobs . . . family is
it.
”

“Could have fooled me,” I muttered under my breath. Dad ignored me.

“We'll be in Athens—where your school is—for the bulk of the winter, and most of the relatives live on Crete. You can meet them on your spring break. But you have to reserve judgment and see who these people actually are, all right? No reporting without a verifiable source?” He was looking at me almost pleadingly.

“Yes, I know.” I paused. “But that goes for you, too, right?”

“Well,” he said, retrieving his fork and flipping it around again. “Actually, they don't want to meet
me.
I'm still the enemy.”

I jumped out of my chair again. “Then forget it! We're a package deal—”

“Zo, I'll be working anyway. Look, I know you're pissed. But I also know how important these people were to your mom, and she would want you to meet them. She loved them, and they loved her.”

“Wow. Cheap shot, Dad.”

“I know. I'm sorry. But my only other go-to is ‘I'm the father and I said so,' and that one hasn't worked since you were nine.”

I smiled before I could stop myself. Dad visibly relaxed.

“So can you just cooperate?” he said. “Maybe it'll be fun. Maybe you'll learn something. I mean, this is a pretty cool opportunity. I bet every kid in your class is jealous as hell.”

“I guess.” I picked at a loose thread on my sweater. “I told Hilary about the letters.”

“Okay.”

“I don't know why I never told her before. I just . . . I thought she'd feel sorry for me. And that would really suck, you know? Because I don't feel sorry for me. It just makes me really mad. At them, I mean.”

“I know. And you can tell them that. But at least be willing to hear what they have to say.”

“I'm gonna go . . . pack.” I heaved a dramatic sigh and got up to leave the kitchen.

“Hey, Ace?”

I turned back.

“We're in this together, okay? You and me, just like always. I swear on the Gray Lady and her legacy.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said. I knew he meant it, so I'd try to mean it, too.
Try
being the operative word, of course.

When I got to my room, I found a catalog for a school called GIS, Greek International School, on my desk. Ugh.

Leafing through, I thought it looked pretty standard, as private schools go. Smiling kids (artfully arranged to show off versatility of race, age, and size) “hanging out” in classrooms, on benches, and at sporting events. There was a mission statement explaining the importance of bringing American school systems to Greece. It said that everyone who attends GIS must speak fluent English. That was a relief, at least.

Starting high school the year before, dealing with new people and buildings and teachers . . . that was hard enough, but I had Hilary and Matty with me. In Greece I'd be completely alone. And as for writing, who knew what opportunities I'd have there?

I flopped onto the rug next to my bed and peeked underneath. Yup—the suitcase was still there. I dragged it out and stared into its dusty interior.

I picked up the copy of
Let's Go to Greece!
Dad had given me during his initial breakfast announcement, and which I had subsequently also shoved under my bed. It didn't say anywhere in there if they had Duane Reade drugstores in Athens or Crete or anywhere.
They must have something similar, though, right?
I thought.

But what if the bad economy shut down all the stores and there's nothing left? Should I pack six months' worth of SPF 15 facial moisturizer? What about ketchup? Did they eat ketchup there? Should I bring some? What if all they had was olives? I would slowly starve to death. Should I bring a few hundred Nutri-Grain bars with me?

I imagined what my mysterious relatives would think if I showed up with a suitcase filled solely with breakfast bars and face lotion. They'd probably tie me up in the backyard and let the goats eat me. If they had goats. Maybe the goats and Tony would develop a beautiful symbiotic relationship heretofore unseen in the wild, and I'd make a YouTube video that would go viral and I'd have to come home to make appearances on the late-night talk show circuit.

Now I was going to be seriously disappointed if there were no goats in Greece.

And then, before I could fully process it, there was no more time left. Holiday gifts were exchanged, Matt and Hil left for winter break trips with their families, and my bag was actually packed (and not just with ketchup and goat treats).

New Year's Eve arrived, freezing cold and daunting. This was it. Everything was about to change, for better or worse. And I was still afraid that
worse
was the direction we were heading in.

I e-mailed my cousin Yiota right before we left for the airport. I felt like I should, now that I knew about her role in this whole reunion. I wrote three versions of the e-mail, each time thinking I should sound less (or more) enthusiastic or tell her less (or more) about myself . . . or not write at all.

Ultimately I went for a middle ground, just a friendly-ish introduction. Short and sweet. I shut down my computer for the last time on American soil and added the laptop to my carry-on. Then I said good-bye to my room, and our apartment, and my life as I'd known it for the last fifteen years. We doped up Tony, loaded our luggage into the trunk of a cab, and . . . we were off to the airport. Just like that.

And now here we are. In Athens, on a little cobbled street in Kallithea. We buzz the fourth-floor apartment, load everything into an elevator that looks suspiciously unstable, and head up to what will be our home for the next six months. The woman we're subletting from opens the door and ushers us inside, cooing over Tony and rushing around, bringing a platter of olives and grapes and cheese to the table in the living room.

She seems really nice, but I am suddenly rendered speechless by the proximity of both food (
not
the olives—gross) and a bed to collapse onto. After some small talk, a quick tour of the place, a lesson on how to turn the hot water on with a red switch, and a short speech about what is definitely the most confusing washing machine I have ever seen, she gives us keys, wishes us the best, and leaves.

So. Now it's real.

•  •  •

It turns out that in Greece, students have their final exams
after
winter break instead of before, which sucks for them (can you imagine having to study for tests during vacation?) but is pretty great for me. I don't have to actually go to school—meet anyone, sit alone like a total outcast, etc.—til late January.

On the other hand, I don't exactly have anything to do. If this were New York I'd be totally fine with hopping on the train and checking out some museums or walking in Central Park or window-shopping. But in Athens? I don't know if I'd make it two blocks. Not that people aren't nice, but I can't understand them, even when they speak English; if they talk to me in Greek it's like listening to Elvish or something. The words slide through my head before I can grab on to anything. My made-up sign language is improving, though, so I guess that's something.

Maybe I'll become a street mime. Though probably that's more of a Paris thing.

•  •  •

“So, what actually happened to the Greek economy, anyway?” I ask Dad over lunch about a week after we arrived. While I'm glad my internal clock has finally adjusted to the time difference, I'm sick of reading. I'm also sick of the three TV channels they have here, and of exploring the five-block radius around our apartment. (I'm too chicken to go any farther by myself, and Dad's too busy to join me.) So I guess if I'm going to be here, I might as well participate in Dad's project. Maybe I can be his secretary. That'll at least give me something to
do.

“Well, it's complicated—”

“I should hope so, if you're gonna get a whole book out of it,” I tease him. I toss Tony a piece of chicken from my sandwich.

“Har har. I don't know what it's gonna be yet. Quit with the pressure, kid!”

“Sorry,” I say. “Anyway, go on.”

“Well, to put it in very simple terms, before Greece joined the European Union and started using the euro, they had their own money system, using drachmas. They didn't have property taxes, and they didn't have to claim everything they owned, either. So if someone owned six acres of olive trees and made oil from them, they might tell the government they owned one acre. Or half an acre. And that was what they paid taxes on.”

“How could they do that? Who paid for roads and schools and . . . stuff?”

“Well, exactly. The government paid for it, borrowing, building up debt. It's a different culture here, more . . . relaxed. I'm not saying they don't care, but that stuff isn't a priority. Living is. Again, this is all very broad. But basically, once they were in the EU, they suddenly had to pay property taxes. People had owned land for years and never anticipated having to pay another dime—so they didn't have the money. Plus all the prices had to be jacked up to match other countries on the same system, so things suddenly cost three or four times what they had, but the amount people were earning stayed the same. Businesses closed, people lost jobs . . . Suddenly there's this massive unemployment problem, homelessness . . . and no one knows what to do.”

“I guess they can't just go back to the old system, huh?”

“Well, that's what some of the riots were about, but no, they can't. Because the world knows about the debt now. It's too late. On top of all those things, there are claims of massive political corruption. There are a lot of facets to the problem. And it's a pity. Greece was—is, as you'll see, if you ever leave our street—a beautiful place, with so much culture and so much
love
of that culture . . . and now many people just think of it as a place where everyone screwed up.”

“That should be the name of your book.”

“Very helpful, Ace. Thanks. Now get out so I can do some work, willya?”

My father wants me to call my cousin Yiota—aka the one who started this mess—and ask her to take me on a tour of the city. I'm tempted, since I'm bored and maybe a
tiny
bit interested in my new surroundings, as a good journalist always should be.

The longer I sit in the apartment reading my friends' status updates, realizing that Skyping with them all day and pretending to still be home is practically impossible with the seven-hour time difference, the more my resolve to avoid the Marousopoulous weakens.

I guess it can't hurt to ask her how to use the subway. Or say a few key words in Greek, such as “Sorry, I don't speak Greek” or “Do you speak English?” or “How do I get to New York from here?”

On the eighth day, I cave. I reopen Yiota's exuberant response to my e-mail and look at her long, strange phone number. She seems pretty cool in the e-mail, and very excited about meeting me. How bad could it be, really? It's just for an afternoon . . .