August 25th

Today is Monday, a day which for most of the US signals the return to monotonous existence for five more days followed by a two day respite which never seems to bring rest. For we formerly happy few who just arrived in “beautiful”—not seeing it—Athens, the weekend held no respite and Monday was a tale of terror. I will share with you, patient reader, the details of this most bizarre tale.

HOUSE STUFF

The house hunting on Saturday afternoon was torturous. The house hunting on Sunday was the stuff of Abu Ghraib. Stuffed like sardines into a bus with subpar A/C, we meandered throughout the city, climbed stairs at about 20 apartments, and bleared at rooms in houses which very quickly began to appear to be the same house. In fact, we’re not convinced that the realtor didn’t just drive us around the block several times to show us apartments in the same building over and over. On the bright side, the houses yesterday began to help us choose which ones we thought we might live in for the next two years based on proximity to shopping, the metro, or the school—no house fit all of them. However, it quickly became apparent that there were about four houses for which everyone would be willing to kill.

I don’t handle emotionality well. At all. As my friends and family—or former friends and estranged family—know, my heart only beats for Miah, sad stories about impoverished children giving away toys, stories about dogs who gave their lives for their masters, and occasionally a fine bourbon. Tears because someone was frank with you don’t garner any sympathy from me. I’m sure my mother would have some unfortunate anecdote about a time when I cried because someone said something honest to me, but she can start her own blog if she wants to tell it.

After we looked at the last house, it was apparent that the two houses which were our top choices were also the top choices of two other renters, a single woman and a couple. The location of our top choice was quite close to the school, and it had a beautiful garden—rare enough in dry Athens—with blossoms that reached up toward the patio overlooking them. We loved it. The next one was next to a bakery and grocery store about 20-30 minutes walking distance from the school, and it had the advantage of having a large kitchen and two bedrooms. Another possibility was a small one bedroom apartment that was quite nice but had a kitchen the size of a walk-in closet. It wasn’t really on my radar, but Miah liked it.

Since several us wanted the same apartments, we entered into a lively and frank—not hostile—discussion about how best to handle the situation. The need for a quick decision was generally recognized, but two people were quite adamant they needed till the next day to decide. Fortunately, the HR director was on the side of those who wanted to begin the process of elimination and choice much sooner, and soon it was decided we would have a sort of lottery drawing. One of the people who wanted more time sat on the bus and cried.

After an ice cream courtesy of ACS, we went into the playground which is at the park center of Aghias Paraskevis, a municipality south of Chalandri. There was an enormous Greek Orthodox church which electronically tolled the time as we sat there for the better part of an hour going through the list of houses and putting our names in for the drawing. I truly wish I could have had my camera so I could have taken pictures of this ultimately ludicrous and honest sight. In the middle of a playground, surrounded by swings and slides and sitting on a toy car, this group of adults proceeded to play a game of chance for our home for the next two years. It was a surreal moment, though surreal may not be the word to describe what was essentially a micro-moment of human existence, a moment when the curtain of maturity is pulled back and the childishness of all our endeavors is shockingly lit. I was so irate at the process that I went and sat with our bus driver, Demetri, who was watching the entire process with a bored smirk on his face, and we talked about Greece and language and cigarettes and all the things that were more important to us in that moment.

As chance would have it, we were not given first pick of either of our top choices, so we essentially resigned ourselves for the apartment with the small kitchen. We came back to the hotel—of course too late to swim on the rooftop pool—and sat around discussing our options. We finally dropped the topic, went up to the roof, and watched the sun wash the sky in orange and ruby and finally amber. It set so quickly behind the mountains it seemed to have dropped from the sky as if its supporting string had burnt up in its own flaring demise. It was a moment which made the humanity of the day seem silly, and it was wonderful.

After the sun went down, we went out with the new English teacher, a 30-something guy from Virginia whose Slovak wife is in staying at home until next summer so she can finish her degree before joining him. He led us to a taverna/restaurant a few blocks away, and we ordered gyros through a series of attempted phrases and pointing and miming. The gyros—not pronounced “heroes,” by the way—were utterly delicious and as unhealthy as could be. Splitting the bill was another series of phrases and circular gestures with the arms and finally an “efcharisto” and to bed. This was at about 11:00.

I woke up at 2:30 and stayed awake until about 5. I was sweating and couldn’t stop thinking about school and houses and Greek pronunciation and money and all the banality of the day. For a few minutes, I think I tried to focus all of those things into a single ball of thought which would transcend the individual and convince my brain that it was time to give and go to sleep, but it didn’t work. When I stumbled out of bed in the morning, I was resigned to fate. Of course, and I’m sure you’re thinking this already, how bad can a fate which puts a roof over your head in Athens be? A good point, and you’re a better person than me for thinking it. Get your own blog.

I met with the middle school principal this morning, and this is where this post really turns negative.

THE JOB

When I interviewed in February for the position at the school, I was interviewing for a high school English teacher. When the school director told me the job I would be doing, I was slightly disappointed when he said “Academy classes and maybe a middle school class of students who need only a little help with English.” When we received our packet of information in April, I was startled to find out my biography had me listed as both Academy and middle school ESL. When I found out this morning I was teaching a 7th grade English class, two middle school intensive ESL classes for kids with no English, and two ESL high school classes which have never been taught before, I was demolished.

My first words to Miah were, “Two years and I’m gone.” I have absolutely no experience or interest in teaching middle school. Kids at that age are as much a mystery to me as they are to themselves! The principal was extremely supportive when I tactfully reminded her of my training, certification, and experience, but I think she mistook the rictus of horror on my face for a smile and kept on telling me about the need for structure and caring and what have you in the middle school classroom.

Caring? Me? I’m the teacher who goes out of his way to make sure his students think he doesn’t care about them and should fear him! I’m a Machiavellian teacher! Middle school? I’m still freaking out about this, by the way, and it’s 16 hours later. It’s one in the morning, and I can’t sleep.

I also met the English department chair—the chair serves both middle and high school—who is extremely helpful in regards to the 7th grade language arts class but who can’t tell me squat about the ESL class. The ESL teacher—who everyone calls a guru and loves—won’t be here till next Tuesday, two days before school.

Freaking out.

Anyway, I have to move on. Must move on. The two high school classes sound interesting. If I can focus on the positive. Not in my nature…

Long story short about the rest of the apartment lottery, after much collaboration, we worked out what seems to be a mutually agreeable living situation for everyone except for one new employee who is a complete…. I must keep this family-friendly. Our apartment is the one by the bakery, and a great description will follow.

This afternoon, we…. I have no idea what we did. Oh, yeah, Miah and two other people and I went with Costas, our Remax agent, to look at some houses closer to town. He’s an awesome guy who’s been great in dealing with us and telling us things about Athens and apartments we need to know, and he’s sold me on the country. He even told us a great joke in his heavily accented and pause-heavy English:

An Australian walking in London stepped out into the street and was nearly hit by a car. The driver shouted out, “Did you come here to die?” The Australian waved and said, “No, I came here yesterday.”

This evening the entire group went down to the Plaka for dinner. We wandered through the narrow streets until we found a restaurant in view of the Acropolis but not the Parthenon. I had moussaka, an eggplant plate which was delicious. Our waiters were friendly, and two lucky people out there reading this might be receiving the complimentary postcards we received which show our table and the Acropolis. Might. But probably not.

Lit at night, the Acropolis is an intimidating reminder of the ghosts and thoughts which run through the veins of this city. It’s easy to focus on the traffic and increasingly apparent smog and stray dogs and cats—which put their paw on your lap while you’re eating moussaka and make you scream like a child and throw your hands in the air and wonder if it’s a rat staring at you hungrily—which plague the city. It’s also easy to forget that the pillar you pass quickly in the plaza is older than any structure in North or South America. So much of our daily life as Westerners and as Americans is rooted in this place: customs, names, words, philosophies, and countless more things I’m not smart enough to know.

I am now a person who has seen the Acropolis. Actually, I didn’t consider myself to have seen it until we walked a bit and were suddenly confronted by a sky full of Parthenon. For me, and I think this is a tourist thing, it represents the core of the Acropolis. I’m no longer the person I was this morning; I’m now “dwain who has seen the Acropolis.” It hasn’t changed my life in any significant manner, but it’s like seeing a portrait of the person for whom your parents named you.

At the same time, it’s just a building. Around it is the scruffy city which is the remnant of a great civilization. We romanticize the buildings, but we cannot deny that their power is gone.

A long day, and I want to sleep.