Read Girl Gone Greek for Free Online

questions at me in “Gringlish,” a marked contrast to the teens. And at least they weren’t chewing gum. The funniest question was from a young girl named Bettina:
    “
Kyria
Rachel, has your family died?” she enquired in her pidgin English.
    “Excuse me?” After some coaxing from the others it became clear that Bettina, like most of the others, was wondering if one of my family members had passed away because I was wearing so much black. This explained all their tiny whisperings when I’d entered the classroom. It was then I learned about the Greek tradition of wearing black during times of mourning.
    When a member of a woman’s family dies, she wears black for a period of time. In traditional Greek families, when a woman’s husband dies, the widow wears black for the rest of her life. This practice contrasted strongly with that of the men, who wear only a black armband for a short period after the death of a wife. It also explained the typical picture postcard scenes of old Greek women dressed in black.
    I didn’t have the heart to tell the children that no, the only reason I was wearing black was because I felt it made me look slimmer…it suddenly seemed so shallow and materialistic. So I uttered the first thought that came to mind:
    “Yes, my older sister,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.
    “Never mind,” Bettina piped up, “you are still beautiful, Miss.” I smiled at her implication. At least I was more attractive in this girl’s eyes than a dead person.

Glancing at the bedside clock, I groaned. It was only half past eight, and there was no need to leave for school until two. I forced myself out of bed anyway, determined to have a nose around my new neighbourhood.
    After a long shower in my tiled bathroom that resembled something out of the 1970s (a disco ball wouldn’t have fitted into my luggage along with the teabags, otherwise the party would’ve been complete), I pulled on casual clothes and set off down the hill. It wasn’t lost on me how blue the skies were, and the mountain in the distance teased me with its snow-peaked presence.
    My first human encounter in the village was with an old man, sitting outside his shop halfway down the hill—my street—that sold heating oil. An open fronted affair, the shop resembled a car mechanic’s workshop, but with bottled oil instead. The man was sitting on a wicker chair outside the shuttered entrance. Spotting me, he rose, waved me over and proceeded to rub my cheeks and try to embrace me, all the while chattering away in Greek.
    “I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” I kept repeating as I backed away from his open arms, but it was no good: he carried on talking in rapid Greek. I soon managed to decipher a few words—
“Kyria Stella”
and
“Scholeio Anglia.”
    He must know I’m staying in my boss’s house and that I’m the new English teacher.
I smiled a lot and promised that yes, one day I would join him for a glass of tea and honey…that’s what he’d been drinking and had kept trying to push into my hands. After about five minutes of this confusing but not unpleasant toing and froing, I continued on down the hill, eager to see all that the village had to offer. At least he hadn’t spat at me.
    My next encounter was not so smooth; a Greek woman in her mid-20s was crossing the street at the bottom of the hill, looking in the opposite direction. My first meeting with Kaliopi was to almost bowl her over as the momentum of my descent wouldn’t let me stop, but it was a meeting that was to launch a lasting friendship.
    “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I stammered whilst checking to see if the woman was all right. I wasn’t sure if she understood me, although it was clear I was genuinely sorry by the fact I was trying to brush her down. Tall, thin with large brown eyes and short black hair, she looked me up and down. After an awkward pause she burst out laughing and hugged me hard…
these Greeks appear to enjoy