Okay, first a confession. I'm a bad Greek. I love the culture, the food, the dances. I am proud to have a difficult to pronounce but unforgettable last name. I was raised with Greek values and superstitions and all the old world restrictions that come with being the Greek American daughter of a Greek father. But in Greece I'm a bad Greek because I don't speak the language.

When people ask how much Greek I understand, I always say if you yell at me or swear at me I'll understand you perfectly...beyond that I can't promise anything. Seven years of Greek school resulted in only an elementary knowledge of the language. I actually understand a bit, as long as the person speaks s-l-o-w-l-y, but getting a Greek to speak slowly is like asking him to not use olive oil in his cooking.

As for my language skills, I can ask directions and order food...period. I've managed through 32 countries in my lifetime but coming 'home' to Greece always creates anxiety for me because I'm embarrassed that I can't speak reasonable Greek. I've even invented some creative stories to tell those who inquire about my 'deficiency'. Over the years I've:

• Been an Italian American who loves Greece so much I learned a little language - a great trick for getting me smiles and appreciation from the "griks".


• Told people my mom's dialect of Greek was so different my dad couldn't understand her so we didn't speak it at home. If they express skeptism I say in a low voice, "She was from Turkey" and then they cluck sympathetically.


• Said my dad didn't want us learning English with a Greek accent so we weren't raised with Greek at home. If this results in raised eyebrows I say indignantly that Americans looked down on accents back then and then my critic nods knowingly and forgives me.

The truth is a combination of things: I was a bratty kid who refused to pay attention in Greek school (when you're 7 you consider this a horrible punishment immigrant parents administer their American/Canadian/Australian kids to keep them away from their "Xenia" (foreigner) friends after school when they are all outside playing); my dad passed when I was 15 and my mom's first language was Turkish and then English...so why speak Greek?

So suffice to say that the thought of trying to get to two locations via the mass transit system in one afternoon with severely limited Greek-speaking abilities was a bit intimidating to me. But I had no choice if I wanted to get my Olympic volunteer creditenials, uniform and complimentary opening ceremony rehearsal ticket. I did have two things to my advantage. An aunt who's a life long resident of Athens and the ability to read some Greek. So armed with the directions my aunt was given by the volunteer coordinator I headed out.

The first stop was near the baseball stadium located just off the new tram; the new tram that literally stopped in its tracks because too many people tried to ride it in its first hours of operation. The tram was a trolley ride from our home in Pangrati (a neighborhood in central Athens just a few blocks from the original 1898 Olympic stadium where this year's Olympic marathon race would finish) to the Syntagma main station. From there, the tram goes right to the baseball stadium at Elliniko Olympic Complex. Simple. Except that the tram wasn't running from Syntagma - which I found out when I arrived at the station.

And why wasn't it running? "Because of the Olympics," said a volunteer.

HUH? Isn't that why they built the tram in the first place? Syntagma is a main transfer point in Athens. Most trolleys stop there. The metro main station is there and the end of the tram line is there...or so it's supposed to be. But Greek logic prevailed and so the tram was NOT going to stop there during the Olympics. Why again? BECAUSE of the Olympics. I'm sure there is some important reason, maybe it's on the marathon route or something but apparently no one felt that disgruntled passengers might like to know. I could, however, pick up the tram just three metro stops away.

Conveniently located across the street (um, the idea in the first place!), I hopped the new metro's Agios Demetrios line and got off at Neos Kosmos....and had no idea where the tram was. I was told to just exit the metro station and it would be right there...

What was I thinking? This is a country where everything is 10 minutes away, even when it's a half hour...so using Greek logic, "right there" must mean a block or two. I just followed the crowd and found my way to the correct tram stop. After a 20 minute wait I had a very comfortable and air conditioned ride on a tram so fresh it still had that new car smell. Twenty stops later I exited the world's slowest tram (apparently it too works on Greek Time), crossed the pedestrian bridge into the Elliniko complex, signed another acceptance letter and received my ceremony ticket! Woo-hoo. One small detour, four inquiries and 1:45 minutes since I left my apartment in Pangrati and one challenge down.

From the Elliniko complex, which is located in the Southeast part of the Athens metro area, I now had to go due North to pick up my uniform and credentials. "No problem," said Kelly, my volunteer coordinator. Just get back on the tram, get off at Peace and Friendship stadium, hop the elevated train to Nea Ionia, and "a few blocks away" is the Olympic headquarters. (Sounded simple enough, but it wasn't until I acquired a map later in the day that I realized to travel North I had traveled severely Northwest and then jerkily Northeast to reach my destination.)

Now I have a travel quirk - I hate being lost. So that means I'll usually carry all kinds of maps and will ask for directions frequently even if I'm reasonably sure where I'm going. I didn't have a cadre of maps to consult yet, so naturally, I asked for directions at the tram stop.

The tram is only a couple of weeks old so the transit authority hired a mass of young workers to introduce the tram in its first month and help commuters and Olympic visitors get to their destinations easily. They roam the tram lines handing out maps, identified by their logo'd white t-shirts...well kind of identified...from the back. The rear of the shirt sports a caricature of a train with the words in English "follow us!" It doesn't take a genius to deduce that it's tram-related...especially when there's four or five tram-shirt-wearing, freshly scrubbed, Gen X'ers hovering in a group. But from the front it only says "tram"...in Greek....and M in Greek is not identifiable to anyone who uses the Latin alphabet. But this is just a tiny issue because once again, using minor powers of deduction, you can figure out that "tra" followed a symbol Prince might like means "tram."

The tram workers are a cheerful, but still a little green, bunch. The worker I spoke to sent me to the wrong side of the tracks, literally, to get to my next destination. Luckily one of her co-workers timidly approached me and brought me back to the correct side. As penance it seemed the confused tram worker was assigned to see me to my transfer point. I'm not sure if she was just going home anyway, but I wasn't going to balk at a personal escort!

As she explained on our way to the Peace and Friendship stadium, which she assured me was only 15 minutes away, it was many of the workers' first day and they didn't have the tram line all figured out yet. I'm sure in just a few days and several hundred inquiries later, they'll be giving directions in their sleep. In addition to being my personal escort, she became my personal guide - telling me the name of each stadium we passed and what would be played there (four of the Olympic venues are along the shoreline where the tram runs).

Thirty five minutes later (that's Greek time for you!) we arrived at the Peace and Friendship stadium on the other side of Athens and I couldn't figure out where the train station was...because why would it make sense to put up signs pointing the way (see Olympic tips)? But now, armed with my own translator, she soon figured out we had to walk a couple of blocks, cross the street and go to an upper level platform. It turns out we had disembarked too early, the result of another new worker's advice. There we parted company and I bought yet another travel ticket and hopped the train toward Kiffissa. I don't know why, but for some reason, I thought it would be a short train ride (maybe I was being seduced by Greek time) but as I passed back through central Athens, not far from home, on the way my next goal I realized this was going to take awhile. This line is Athens' original subway/elevated train and as such is un-airconditioned, making for a sweaty ride in the midday 40C heat. The train ride was a good 30 minutes and I emerged sticky but excited to be reaching my final destination. But then there's that Greek logic again.

I was told would be signs to follow to get to the office. There WERE signs, but only two blocks from the office and the office was about a 10 minutes walk the station. Luckily, because it is the main hub for workers, there were plenty of brightly attired volunteers to skulk behind to find my way.

But once I stepped into the Olympic building it was like entering an alternate Greek reality...a brightly colored, well oiled, Greek speaking, air-conditioned and most importantly, efficient, reality. It was like the Bizarro world on Superfriends or Seinfield...only I had left Bizarro world and returned to the "real" world. In no time, I was given a number, checked in, sent for a photo, checked again, photographed, processed and sent to play musical chairs while waiting for my uniform; guided step-by-step by a colored tape path (follow the green duct tape road!) taking me to each station along the way.

Even "musical chairs" was organized. A volunteer had each row of people waiting for uniforms move up to the seats in front of them every time one group was taken to the dressing rooms. It was silly, but efficient at the same time.

Once in the dressing rooms, we tried on sample clothing (see Olympic sized clothing below), had a checklist marked off with our sizes and sent to an assembly line-like area where we tried on hats, were issued our gear and sent off for final processing before being swept past the very first "official Olympic memorabilia" sales booth on the way out the door.

After stopping to purchase my first "official Olympic memorabilia" (and deal with a scowling cashier for daring to offer a 50 Euro note for an 8 euro item), I reemerged into the Athens summer heat with 1 credential card (with a pretty good photo), 3 polo shirts, 2 gigantic trousers, 3 pairs of baby sized socks, 1 floppy but cool hat, 1 oversized fanny pack, 1 water bottle and, of course, 1 Olympic commemorative pin all bundled into an official Olympic shopping bag. Whew! Second mission accomplished and I haven't gotten lost yet.

Now I only had to find my way back home via the train and trolley to the stop called Alsos...but alas, when I arrive at the trolley depot there is no Alsos stop listed. As I search the listings again, finally, seven miserable years of Greek school pays off as I figure out the all Greek trolley sign says Pl. Pagratiou...and I remember the name of the Alsos (park) near my apartment is Pagratiou....but that's another story in Greek logic.

I return home tired, sweaty and hungry but 'official' and it only took six hours and a trolley-subway-tram-tram-train-long walk-train-and-trolley ride to accomplish. I wonder if conquering mass transit can also be added to the Olympic roster...

Olympic Sized Uniform

I don't know whether it's Adidas, the official sponsor of the Olympic gear, or some bureaucrat, but apparently some decision maker thought Olympic volunteers were fat and short. When volunteers arrived to try on uniforms we were warned that they had been running out of some smaller sizes for women and longer/larger sizes for men.

When I picked up my "ensemble" I found out the smallest trousers they had was a 42! Now I don't know European sizes compared to American but the number sounded frighteningly large.

I quickly saw that a 42 is about an American size 10 or 12...and I'm a 6. When I commented that the sized 42 trousers were, oh, about 4 sizes too big for me, the clothing coordinator casually mentioned that I could alter the pants. Uh right, not only are they actually sliding off me when I walked, there's enough room in the rear for me and JLo's booty, and the legs are big enough to smuggle in a gate crasher or two. They did have small shirts in stock but Adidas' idea of a "small" size shirt is my idea of a medium. As another small sized volunteer commented as we stood laughing at ourselves in these outfits, "we're doin' the emimen thing".

But the ensemble wasn't complete yet. Volunteers also get slouchy jackets, fanny packs (extra large of course) a water bottle and a nice big floppy sunhat. All on I look like a suburban housewife rapper on her way to go fishing!

All that's missing is the official Olympic underwear...in extra large, of course!