The Brick Sandwiches: A True Greek School Trip Survival Story

Ah, school trips in the ’90s. The excitement, the coach rides, the singalongs. For us, three Greek girls in a posh, upper-class English school (where even the cucumber sandwiches had a trust fund), the build-up was always the same: anticipation… followed by pure chaos.

The teacher, in her calm, clipped English accent, had reminded us the day before: Teacher (smiling), “Girls, don’t forget your packed lunches tomorrow!” We nodded like angels, went home, and dutifully told our mother. A whole evening ahead — plenty of time to prepare. What could possibly go wrong?

Everything. Because the next morning, as we put on our uniforms and tied our shoelaces, Mum looked at us with sudden horror and declared: Mum (gasping), “Trip…? Today ?!” Her face drained of colour. No sliced bread. No cheddar cheese. No neat little triangles of ham sandwiches like our English classmates would be proudly unwrapping at noon. We three girls froze — then wailed in unison like a tragic Greek chorus at an ancient amphitheatre.Us (crying), “We’ll have no food ! No sandwiches ! We’ll starve !” The drama was Shakespearean. Neighbours probably thought someone had died. But my mother, in her broken but unshakable English, suddenly straightened up,  channeling the spirit of Leonidas at Thermopylae.Mum (with thunder in her voice), “No food? Leave it… ME. I make… best sandwiges ever!”

Now, when a Greek mother says “best,” what she really means is: fast, improvised, and slightly terrifying.We didn’t dare argue. We just clutched our lunchboxes, grateful she was saving the day. Or so we thought.

The Horror Unboxed.

Fast forward to lunchtime. The grass was fresh, the posh English girls sat politely with their dainty foil-wrapped heart-shaped sandwiches, cucumber, cheddar, perhaps a tomato slice if they were feeling adventurous. I, proudly opened my pink plastic lunchbox. And then…The smell. If there had been a church nearby, the bells would have started ringing themselves. If there had been corpses in the ground, they’d have risen to see what on earth was happening. Inside lay… the Brick Sandwich. Two slabs of Greek village bread, roughly the size of paving stones, enclosing a thick slab of homemade Greek salami. No butter. No garnish. Just meat, bread, and enough garlic fumes to fumigate the entire field. The English girls froze. One leaned over and whispered, trembling: Girl (horrified), “What… is… that… smell?” Panicked, I snapped the lunchbox shut as though I’d just uncovered nuclear waste. I bolted, desperate to find my elder sister, hoping she could absorb the humiliation on my behalf. But no.There she was, standing tall, holding her own brick sandwich aloft like a trophy from Mount Olympus.

The crowd of English girls stared at us, horrified and fascinated, as if Martians had just landed and decided to eat… salami bricks. And Helen, the middle sister? She didn’t even flinch. She sank her teeth into her brick sandwich with heroic defiance, while garlic fumes spread like an invisible cloud of doom.

Conclusion: Cultural Exchange, Greek Edition.
While the other girls nibbled on their delicate triangles of cucumber and cheddar, we sat there with sandwiches that could have doubled as construction materials. Forget school trip, we were ready to build a wall, start a revolution, or at the very least, fumigate a small village. We didn’t just bring lunch.We brought heritage.We brought architecture. We brought… ‘the Brick Sandwiches’.

Based on true events.

Written by OPA OPA