I should’ve done my research and not overlooked the fact that Greece still gets cold in the winter, despite its Southern European location. As Kaliopi had pointed out, I was living in a Greek village, nestled in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere. Luckily I’d packed one polo neck jumper. I could layer the rest of my clothes, and I vowed to go warm-clothes shopping with Kaliopi when I was next in Athens. My little semi-basement flat, though criticised by all those who crossed its threshold—which admittedly had only been Kaliopi so far—was surprisingly warm and snug. The neighbour’s cats didn’t seem to mind huddling in the doorway either. At this time of year it was dark by 5:30 p.m. and as my classes started at four, my garden classroom would only get an hour and a half of sun-dappled light. “Miss, we don’t eat the salad. Now we eat the stifado and the chicken because of the cold,” Bettina told me one December day. “I hate the salad anyway,”
