it’s all greek to me
Thursday, September 10th, 2009Beach Number 1, Greece
Being able to recite the Greek alphabet, a feat learned almost three decades ago and for some reason retained ever since, is of little help when your feet touch Greek soil. Pi and sigma mean more mathematically than linguistically. Alpha and omega hold more spiritual significance than practical assistance when it comes to ordering bread.
But pointing works. I remain uncertain about whether fingers should be clenched or outstretched, palm facing up or down, how many digits to present, but my single choice accompanied by slightly nodding head worked. Devoid of any other common courtesies or social pleasantries, I flashed a smile and pointed to the biggest loaf in the shop.
”Eno?” she enquired.
I nodded more decisively; I wanted to buy only one in case it turned out to be too expensive. When it didn’t, I extended my point to another crate on the floor, full to the brim with smaller loaves looking like local staples (and according to my reasoning, should therefore be inexpensive).
”Eno.” I tried out my first Greek word. The baker obviously appreciated my effort and rattled back a full and complicated reply. Wanting to explain that I had not exactly quoted Plato, I settled for taking advantage of her friendliness to find out the Greek word for two. With the help of newly-acquired Italian and more semaphore, I asked.
”Theo,” the baker-teacher replied. “Eno, theo.” And to prove her point she waggled the corresponding number of podgy fingers in front of my nose.
”Eno, theo,” the teacher drilled; I repeated dutifully, grasping both her words, searing them into my memory. With a good teacher learning is so easy. So enjoyable. Even inspiring.
I bounced back to the van eager to share my treasure.
”Eno, theo, I can speak Greek, well, count to two like a toddler anyway.” Explain. Sneak the words into an English sentence. Repeat. Enthuse. Or try to.
”Pl—ea—se, Mum.” The kids were more interested in the paper-wrapped contents of the bag.
”This is the best bread we’ve ever had on the trip,” Tgirl5 would later theatrically proclaim. For now, they want to know if there’s any Turkish Delight that I had told them about (there isn’t) or flaky pastries like the men are eating outside the bakery with their cartons of milk (negative again) or two-toned biscuits (none of them either). But I promise we’ll try them all, even if we have to share eno between theo.
Tonight we need to study up our first written Greek lesson received into our magic black box as we sailed away from Italy yesterday, just before the internet connection disappeared.
Endaxi – mutiple uses but mostly it means ‘ok’
Posso kani afTO – how much is that? (very useful)
A raise of the eyebrows and a tsch of the teeth / lips, combined with a small head tilt – means ‘no’
Echete psomi = do you have any bread (if they don’t, see above response) (‘ch’ pronounced like the Scots ‘ch’ as in ‘Loch’)
Poli kala = v good
Parakolo = please
and of course efcheristo = thank you!
We’ve arrived, somewhat ill-prepared. That’s one of the disadvantages of a long-ish-term multi-country trip: preparations for each place, especially the later ones, are necessarily less comprehensive than if you were heading for a single-destination sojourn. But jumping in the deep end is (for us) preferable to not getting wet at all – besides, we started our paddle into Greek waters many years ago in the ancient Greek literature. We may come without language, but we bring background history to these shores.
And so, alpha beta gamma delta, we shall wade deeper. Who knows, with the help of dual alphabet map and road signs, we might even start reading a bit of Greek! In one day we’ve already deciphered the capital form of pi and are putting sounds to triangles, a Chinese character, a Cyrillic shape and other random squiggles.
As I was writing the above, the kids were having their own initiation into the lingo.
In a manner of speaking.
Kicking a dried-out sea sponge around the beach, the boys were engrossed in their own (new) world when into it stepped their first Greek conversation. He was wearing board shorts and a dirty half-buttoned shirt, as well as an aged-tooth smile. He threw the makeshift ball, and Kboy12 automatically sputtered, “Grazie!”
”Ah Italiano? Francois?”
Hmm. No. But how do you say that?
”English.”
”London?”
Pointing at both his mouth and Kiwi Rugby Shirt, Kboy12 explained, “I speak English, but come from New Zealand.”
With his own pointing and expressive mime, Mr Greece indicated one could swim to Australia from New Zealand.
And he walked on up the beach.
Later that afternoon, as Kboy12 was writing his name in the sand, the friendly man returned.
Again pointing, this time at the sand, he asked, “You?”
”Yes, my name is Kyle. Your name?”
(good ol’ Kboy cannot remember what he answered, but it sounded something like Lithuania!)
More air drawing with fingers from the man to enquire where Kboy’s house was.
”Camper” (pronounced the European way “cumper”)
”Mama?”
”Mama in camper”
”School?”
”Mama school me”
”Mama school?” asked in astonishment.
”Ja”
”Restaurant Bar” and off he toddled there.
Seems to me Kboy would do well to forget Greek and concentrate on English!
rayres