My mission for the next three days is to learn a reservation program called “Amadeus,” that will make out of me a super-genius wizard fact book of airport codes, flightpaths, time zones and the social mannerisms of every country in the world.
Isn’t that cool? It feels like spy training. I was told to go to a class that started at 10am at Kterio (building) 157, Syngrou Avenue where the class was held. I struck out early enough to walk, headphones stuffed in my ears and singing my heart out to Neko Case and Abba, not even lowering my voice when my path crossed with another, just pleased to have something a little fresh on the itinerary. Something new. When I found the building I went up to the fourth floor and saw a spray of girls more or less my age sitting and waiting so I joined ranks.
9:50 we were ushered into a very average training room, white walls and laminate desks, by a lovely lady in a flowered dress, matching little black sweater, pleasant smile. Everything was altogether familiar with the exception that she was speaking in Greek. An unsettling revelation washed over me like dirty mopwater dumped from above; I tentatively took a desk, daring to look inside the handbook placed on top.
“Υπογρἀφοντας στο σὐστημα AMADEUS...”
Dashed out, “Beep bop bo beep, ring ring!!” Mimis, owner of Eve travel and the man who signed me up for the course answers.
“Mimis the class is in Greek! The book is in Greek! Everything is in Greek!”
He stuttered but the unsettling truth was that he had been aware from the start and failed to inform me. Just stay in a few hours, he recommended. See what you can get out of it.
It’s not that the thought hadn’t occurred to me for the program itself is in English, the international language of the travel business. From what I understood of Amadeus it is just a series of simple codes and likely I would just have to follow along, but I have this baggage from my childhood of being the girl in class without so much as an inkling of what is going on around her, always being lost and behind, desperate to just get back to the fresh air, books, and drawings. I developed a fear of raising my hand, completely ashamed of how thick the cloud of misunderstanding was and not wanting it to be revealed to anyone. Over the years I have overcome this but I’m afraid a six hour course, three days in a row, based on technical jargon all in a language I have a limp, Southern Belle grip on was going to be Herculean for my bruised ego and artistic attention span. I had a flashback of sixth grade Pre Algebra. I panicked a bit. I confess, I wanted to cry.
Went back inside, flushed with embarrassment, and told the instructor the situation, starting in Greek: “Is it a problem that I speak English...”
She, (in Greek) But the lesson is in Greek!
Me (in my nervousness had not understood what she said so I repeated the same thing again)
She (Also repeated the same thing SHE had said)
me (in English after a deeeep breath) I may not understand everything but I will try as best as I can to follow.
She (sympathetically in English) You understand, I must teach in Greek...
Well yes, obviously, I mean we are in Greece after all and these girls, unlike me, even the Indian girl sitting next to me, spoke the language, which didn’t do anything to help my confidence.
Six hours later, I had what I will call an elementary grasp of the subject. Sure enough I’d panicked without due cause. Sometimes I forget I’m a smart girl and sometimes I don’t give other people enough credit either. The instructor, now aware of the situation, took a gentle approach to knowing whether or not I was following by on occasion checking in with me in a discreet way.
The amusing thing about a Greek lecture on a computer program is that inevitably, some English gets mixed in. Click, Line 1, availability, sign out... one day there will be a new language called “Computer Greek.” It will make a good t shirt.
In a way, it was even better that the lecture was in Greek because as I mentioned the program itself was simple. If it had been in English I surely would have gotten arrogant, drifted off into the nether regions of my own private solar system and browsed the system as I was so inclined. In Greek, my mind’s eye was batting away the “POOR ME” thoughts, slaying them without mercy to serve as an example for the rest, all so I could focus on every word she said. Let’s say I caught four of ten. Maybe four of twelve.
STILL, afterward, the wave of self-pity reclaimed me and I found myself cursing Mimis, the class, the stupid world... by the time I met up with G later I told him I didn’t think I would return for day two.
“I’ll just figure it out on my own. It’s what a help file is for.”
But after he dug a little, the truth came out. That it had been an interesting challenge for myself I maybe even enjoyed. That I really liked the instructor and I find the program interesting.
“So why don’t you go back tomorrow? Who cares if you don’t catch everything. Just do it, stay on top.”
It’s so annoying when your still, small, inner voice finds its way into someone else’s mouth. You start to feel like a real brat if you continue to ignore it when it’s gone to so much trouble to give you wisdom.
Showing posts with label Greek Language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Greek Language. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Bravo Koritzi
I called Despina at 10:30 this morning. No answer. As I was in my office with functioning internet, I noticed that she was online, so I sent her a little message telling her I’d tried to call. She answered “Oh the girls must have hidden the phone.”
A plan was made to meet her and her mother at Melilitos by noon for what would be a preliminary run cooking lesson. A private one, as it happened, just for me. We needed to see what would be the issues, would it work out having a cook and a translator, all of these pesky little things that might come up when we bring the first round of visitors into the kitchen to learn how to make Greek cuisine. When I showed up in the little stoa, or alley that Melilotos is tucked inside, I saw a smallish woman with black hair smoking a cigarette, also waiting. Melilotos was still dark meaning Despina hadn’t yet arrived, so I got comfortable on the marble steps and she was eyeing me, eyeing me, until finally, “Perimenitai yia .... (I tend to fade out when people speak Greek to me, still latching onto the first word while they round to a complete sentence.)
“Oriste?” This is what I’ve been taught to say so that they understand I just want them to repeat so that I can try again.
As it turned out this was KIKI. I write all caps because that is her character. Don’t be fooled by the small package. When Despina arrived and opened up, she immediately offered to run for coffee leaving KIKI and I to sit. “Exeis Doulia etho?” (Do you have a job here?) I started to repeat “Doulia” and said, instead, “Dulia” like “Julia.” She made four quick steps over to me, clasping my face in both of her hands saying again, “doooLYAH.” And grinned. “eh!? Ohi, DULIA. Ohi.” (Not ____. No.)
Finally, my own Greek Yia yia!
But KIKI is Despina’s aunt (I believe), not the star of the show, Ireni, which confused me a bit. I kept looking at the photograph of Ireni on the wall with her light hair and Mucha expression (click Mucha for visual reference) and finally, a light, a presence entered the place wearing a white muslin blouse embroidered with flowers and a serene expression. This was Ireni, master cook and teacher of today’s cooking lesson.
But what shall we cook? The discussion surrounding this went on for a few minutes while I sipped on my coffee. Every once in a while Despina would poll me.
“Paige, what is the most traditional Greek dish you think people would like to learn?”
I told her it seemed like her department. I’m the dum-dum that’s here to learn how to cook after all.
The discussion continued. Despina turned to me.
“Do you think people would like to learn to make Dolmadakia?” or stuffed grape leaves.
I said surely yes and told her it’s something they could find the ingredients for when they returned home if they hunted a bit, but the discussion continued and everyone had seemed to agree on a final point. Despina looked at me again, saying with finality,
“We will make pita.” (Pie.)
If you have been a faithful reader, and even if you have only peeped in for one or two entries here on this online journal, you will see many many mentions of tiropita, or cheese pie. It is the national snack of Greece and one that I have happily added to my snacking repertoire, but I’ve always expected it to be a bit of a bugger-bear to make, at least for a stir-frying, egg scrambling cook such as myself.
Allow me to fast forward the tape a bit so that you don’t get the full lesson with paying for, I mean enjoying it in person! We beat dough with our fists like welter weight champions. We rolled it out with a long stick and spun it in the air until it was as thin as a bedsheet. We washed spinach, once, twice, three times, and I was filled with the terrifying realization of how much dirt I have probably consumed in my life now that I know what it really takes to clean greens, the peaks of grit that had accumulated on the sink serving as hard evidence. We crumbled feta, cracked eggs, poured, beat, rolled, and spun more dough.
“You’re doing the hardest lesson first, Paige!”
I beamed.
Bravo Koritzi mou. Ella Koritzi mou. By the time I’d finished I was dusted until my elbows with Allevi, flour and a bit wounded from the all of the effort. What a wimpy baker I am. Every criticism for me was “MORE FORCE, Paige, don’t be afraid.”
Eventually the bulk of the work had been completed and Despina excused herself to go shopping for a baby birthday party she would be attending later. I continued rolling with force and the big stick, watched more vegetables being washed, and before I knew it, it was singing time. KIKI started, out of nowhere, belting a Greek ballad, and Ireni joined in while she rolled the dough. Then KIKI was laughing with such emotion tears were in her eyes and said, in Greek, we’re all crazy here!!
They asked me if I knew any Greek songs. I said I was a fan of Hadzidakis, and they immediately started in with this:
The pita went in the oven. Despina returned. We sat. They smoked. We talked about life. I drank the same cup of coffee I had been working on since Despina offered it which had also been drunk by everyone there. The community cup, marked with an orange poppy.
To pass the half hour needed for the oven Ireni decided to make spring rolls. Without much talk the four of us started in on wrapping vegetables in rice paper until there was none left. Finally, the hour was upon us and our creation was ready to meet its purpose, to fill our now hungry bellies and delight our senses. Honorable pita that it was, it did its job perfectly.
The phylo was dark and crispy, falling in paper thin flakes on my lips, my shirt, the table, everywhere. There was an unusual addend of spearmint with the feta that gave it a fresher, lighter twist than the usual greasebombs sold on the streets. Having it hot, just out of the oven, made by my hands (even partly) was perhaps the meal of the year.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Aki.
According to my yogi tea bag, the best way to learn something is to teach it.
So here is a little Greek lesson, from the pupil to the public.
A little μαθηματἀκι (moth-εε-ma-takee) meaning a “little lesson”
and that is what I want to introduce. This “ah-kee” which makes anything that it’s added to, little.
Let’s take the word for “BEAR.” Grrr.
“I saw an ΑΡΚΟΥΔΑ” (ark-oo-tha) and you imagine a big hairy grizzley bear smashing through the underbrush, bending over trees as he scratches his back. And then I say, “I mean, I saw an αρκουδἀκι.” (ar-koo-tha-kee) And the big bear flies into the air and shrinks to a fuzzy, wuzzy cub, batting at a honeycomb and running away from the bees.
You can use it for almost anything and make a word “γλὐκο” (glee-ko) or sweet. Cute.
γαβανἀκι (ya-ba-na-kee) is a little swim.
πουλἀκι (poo-la-kee) is a little bird.
νερἀκι (neh-ra-kee) is a little water. (could I have a neraki would mean, Could I have just a little water?)
λεπτἀκι (lehp-ta-kee) is a little minute. So you can say “I’ll be back in a leptaki! means I’ll be back in less than a minute!
Imagine if Ogden Nash had this weapon of adding “aki” to everything to make it all rhyme, the volumes he could have added to his work.
A little demonstration of the “aki” in action. “Come my little birds, eat...”
Over dinner of lentils and tuna, I read my weekly edition of “Athens Plus,” an English newspaper just my size, with just the basics. Some important headlines for the country of Greece, some archaeological news, environmental news, arts, music, sports, cinema, television, cooking, and then, the reason I buy it, a fantastic double page spread featuring one area of Greece in detail and highlighting a few others in each direction of the country. For instance, this week the main feature was the island of Poros. It tells you the various old churches, quaint tavernas, nice hotels, interesting shops, archaeological sites... the next page will list a little village then in the north of Greece, south of Greece, west of Greece, and maybe one other island.
All this to tell you that I didn’t concentrate on this week’s section about Poros, or at least not yet. Even if every other week I don’t hesitate to skim with squinted eyes and quarter interest over the main headlines about what’s going on in the politics of Greece, this week there was a very big decision made by Papandreou, the Prime Minister of Greece. For the first time ever, a European country is asking for help from the International Monetary Fund.
I say this as if two days ago I had any idea what this meant. Please don’t be too hard on me, but I just have so many other things that interest me, things that I have immediate control over, like putting pen to paper and writing stories. Reading about the Manges of the 1900’s who ruled the underworld of Psyrri. Reading “Skinny Legs and All,” who has a character I identify with named Ellen Cherry Charles.
Here’s one relevant passage as to why:
“Until quite recently, if Ellen Cherry had been asked what was the first thing she thought about when she heard the words “Middle East,” she would have answered, “Rugs.”
She had never paid much attention to the Middle Eastern situation, per se, and now she knew why. It was an overload of craziness. It was a seventy-piece orchestra rehearsing a funeral dirge and a wedding march simultaneously in a broom closet. It was a firebug convention in a straw hotel.”
But I’m finished laying down my stance against current affairs and moving along to telling you why I suddenly am trying to understand what’s happening. It has touched my environment. Not me, per se, but my area. My neighbors.
My friend Panos of the Acropolis House, who I've mentioned many times, was walking up the steps of his hotel with a sandstorm swirling around his black aura. I shouted a "hello" at him then laughed in nervousness at his countenance.
"What's wrong?"
He stepped over to me and pointed to his breast pocket.
"Give it a pat."
So I patted his chest and felt a thick stack of papers inside.
"A fat letter?"
"6000 euros," he spat. "All to the government. I'm sick."
A nice man named George, of all things, had a fantastic Kafeneo, the place where old timers go for their Greek coffees or ouzos and play tavli (backgammon) for the late hours of the afternoon. It was such a traditional place with white walls and blue metal tables, and he was so attentive to the details like preparing a sandwich or slicing tomatoes and cheese for a little mezzes (appetizer) using things from his garden. We were even trying to figure out how to incorporate him in our tours as he was ideally located at the steps of Lycavitous Hill in Kolonaki, but he couldn't hold until the season started. We've just heard that he's closed for good.
The streets I pass by on foot or by bicycle are constantly being repapered with signs like these:
And as a final intrusion into my usual world free of politics, the cooking section of this week's "Athens Plus" had as it's feature "Crisis Cuisine: How to economize on cost, not flavor."
I sighed and turned back to the front page, leaned in, and started getting into this crisis with the rest of the country.
What I understand is this:
The Greek state has a deficit of 14 percent. This goes against the Euro zone agreement of not being over 3 percent. The Greek state tried to get a loan from the EU but it was only offered at a very high interest rate due to some doubt at the Greek state actually being able to pay them back. They are "high risk," something I can relate with having applied for a loan myself!
The EU said, "Maybe you should go to the IMF."
From the word on the street, they never thought Greece would, but Greece did. This panics the EU because they have never not been able to take care of their own and there is some worry of "contagion" meaning first Greece, then Spain, then Italy, until IMF is everywhere in Europe and no one has their identity anymore. No one is taking into consideration, for instance, the lifestyle or nature of the Hellenic people, when they are looking at the numbers. Numbers coming in, and numbers going out.
So the IMF and Mr. Papandreou are now trying to calm everyone down.
Or at least this is what I have gathered by my Athens Plus, and peppering my surroundings with simple, childlike questions.
"What is a deficit?"
Ειναι προβλεματἀκι.
(It is a little problem.)
So here is a little Greek lesson, from the pupil to the public.
A little μαθηματἀκι (moth-εε-ma-takee) meaning a “little lesson”
and that is what I want to introduce. This “ah-kee” which makes anything that it’s added to, little.
Let’s take the word for “BEAR.” Grrr.
“I saw an ΑΡΚΟΥΔΑ” (ark-oo-tha) and you imagine a big hairy grizzley bear smashing through the underbrush, bending over trees as he scratches his back. And then I say, “I mean, I saw an αρκουδἀκι.” (ar-koo-tha-kee) And the big bear flies into the air and shrinks to a fuzzy, wuzzy cub, batting at a honeycomb and running away from the bees.
You can use it for almost anything and make a word “γλὐκο” (glee-ko) or sweet. Cute.
γαβανἀκι (ya-ba-na-kee) is a little swim.
πουλἀκι (poo-la-kee) is a little bird.
νερἀκι (neh-ra-kee) is a little water. (could I have a neraki would mean, Could I have just a little water?)
λεπτἀκι (lehp-ta-kee) is a little minute. So you can say “I’ll be back in a leptaki! means I’ll be back in less than a minute!
Imagine if Ogden Nash had this weapon of adding “aki” to everything to make it all rhyme, the volumes he could have added to his work.
A little demonstration of the “aki” in action. “Come my little birds, eat...”
Over dinner of lentils and tuna, I read my weekly edition of “Athens Plus,” an English newspaper just my size, with just the basics. Some important headlines for the country of Greece, some archaeological news, environmental news, arts, music, sports, cinema, television, cooking, and then, the reason I buy it, a fantastic double page spread featuring one area of Greece in detail and highlighting a few others in each direction of the country. For instance, this week the main feature was the island of Poros. It tells you the various old churches, quaint tavernas, nice hotels, interesting shops, archaeological sites... the next page will list a little village then in the north of Greece, south of Greece, west of Greece, and maybe one other island.
All this to tell you that I didn’t concentrate on this week’s section about Poros, or at least not yet. Even if every other week I don’t hesitate to skim with squinted eyes and quarter interest over the main headlines about what’s going on in the politics of Greece, this week there was a very big decision made by Papandreou, the Prime Minister of Greece. For the first time ever, a European country is asking for help from the International Monetary Fund.
I say this as if two days ago I had any idea what this meant. Please don’t be too hard on me, but I just have so many other things that interest me, things that I have immediate control over, like putting pen to paper and writing stories. Reading about the Manges of the 1900’s who ruled the underworld of Psyrri. Reading “Skinny Legs and All,” who has a character I identify with named Ellen Cherry Charles.
Here’s one relevant passage as to why:
“Until quite recently, if Ellen Cherry had been asked what was the first thing she thought about when she heard the words “Middle East,” she would have answered, “Rugs.”
She had never paid much attention to the Middle Eastern situation, per se, and now she knew why. It was an overload of craziness. It was a seventy-piece orchestra rehearsing a funeral dirge and a wedding march simultaneously in a broom closet. It was a firebug convention in a straw hotel.”
But I’m finished laying down my stance against current affairs and moving along to telling you why I suddenly am trying to understand what’s happening. It has touched my environment. Not me, per se, but my area. My neighbors.
My friend Panos of the Acropolis House, who I've mentioned many times, was walking up the steps of his hotel with a sandstorm swirling around his black aura. I shouted a "hello" at him then laughed in nervousness at his countenance.
"What's wrong?"
He stepped over to me and pointed to his breast pocket.
"Give it a pat."
So I patted his chest and felt a thick stack of papers inside.
"A fat letter?"
"6000 euros," he spat. "All to the government. I'm sick."
The streets I pass by on foot or by bicycle are constantly being repapered with signs like these:
And as a final intrusion into my usual world free of politics, the cooking section of this week's "Athens Plus" had as it's feature "Crisis Cuisine: How to economize on cost, not flavor."
I sighed and turned back to the front page, leaned in, and started getting into this crisis with the rest of the country.
What I understand is this:
The Greek state has a deficit of 14 percent. This goes against the Euro zone agreement of not being over 3 percent. The Greek state tried to get a loan from the EU but it was only offered at a very high interest rate due to some doubt at the Greek state actually being able to pay them back. They are "high risk," something I can relate with having applied for a loan myself!
The EU said, "Maybe you should go to the IMF."
From the word on the street, they never thought Greece would, but Greece did. This panics the EU because they have never not been able to take care of their own and there is some worry of "contagion" meaning first Greece, then Spain, then Italy, until IMF is everywhere in Europe and no one has their identity anymore. No one is taking into consideration, for instance, the lifestyle or nature of the Hellenic people, when they are looking at the numbers. Numbers coming in, and numbers going out.
So the IMF and Mr. Papandreou are now trying to calm everyone down.
Or at least this is what I have gathered by my Athens Plus, and peppering my surroundings with simple, childlike questions.
"What is a deficit?"
Ειναι προβλεματἀκι.
(It is a little problem.)
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Making Friends
My estimation of the big celebration was on the nose. ON THE NOSE. From the hours of 4 (we started a bit late) to 8, I was sitting at a table high above Plaka with the roof line of Athens for my eye candy, delighted to nibble, then gobble all manner of vegetables drizzled, then drowning in olive oil, stuffed mushrooms, little marinated sardines and octopus in parsley and lemon and bountiful pitchers of red wine. Then the second round came. The huge platter of meat. Sausage, lamb, beef patties, grilled chicken, bacon. The sun had the effect of towels just out of the dryer, and we lingered, rolled around in it a bit, laughed. Discussed. Digested. A meal in Greece is hard to replicate in any other corner of the earth. There is some sacred formula to the weather, the olive oil and the wine, all reacting with each other to cause a certain euphoric state that might be the cheap, slutty sister of "enlightenment," but dangit, isn't she fun?
So yesterday was party day and today was school. Sort of. I've made another interesting acquaintance/fellow curioustician (a word I've decided means "one who spends their time finding answers to things which they are curious about) in a distinguished gentleman/ amateur photographer who has lived all over the world solving its problems and now has resigned to photograph its beauty. Today we agreed to go out in the streets and discover history and beauty together. Unfortunately, the beauty was not very photographable today as it was overcast and dreary, but history was pleased to take the spotlight and I think maybe even showing off a little.
We turned right off of Ermou street into the labrynthine neighborhood of Psyrri, an area I've been intensely curious about with its grimy, "Hell's Kitchen" attitude but purely Greek atmosphere. The buildings are crumbling, the grafitti is well executed, antiques are stacked on the sidewalks, indie clubs flaunt their cleverly titled bands to perform over the weekend. This is the area has flavor, but what are her stories? This is what the curiousticians wanted to know.
He knew a great deal, actually. Plenty to get us going in a direction, and that direction lead us to a closed up shop with some wooden puppets in the window. "Ah, Karaghiozi! Now this is something you should know about, it's very interesting."
And he began telling me about the social role of Greek shadow puppetry during the time of Ottoman occupation. To save myself a little typing I found that Mr. Matt Barrett has already defined it in layman's terms. The part of the story I want to write about here is how in the four minutes that we were standing on this deserted sidewalk in painted up, trashy, empty Psyrri, four men had collected around us and one of them produced a ring of keys like a cartoon jailer's. He threw open the door and re-emerged unfolding a giant poster with the set of the traditional Karaghiozi stage painted on it in simple, flat colors.
My friend, let's call him IGS, was carefully pointing out each detail and describing it to me with the patience of a professor. The shopowner, in a voice like cat litter in a garbage disposal, was amused by this Greek man speaking in such refined English and began peppering him with questions.
"Apo pou Eistai?" (Where are you from? )
"Eimai apo ti Athina." (I'm from Athens.)
"Nai, Endaxi, alla o Patera sou!" (Yes, okay, but your father?)
And this went on for a while to my pleasure, as I was following along perfectly.
The kitty litter-voiced man turned back inside of his hovel, I mean shop, and brought with him a magazine article which featured his very window with the very puppets that had stopped us in the first place. The picture showed his own, marshmallow face from the outside looking in. He was proud of the placement but we were interested in the fact that the magazine article was entirely about Psyrri. My gentleman friend asked to look at it.
The article showed individuals in their places of work, living, etc, in Psyrri and waxed romantically about the nature of the neighborhood. IGS read to me aloud, "It is the place of real people, of people with "Besa" and "Filotimo,"
These two words describe a person who, for better or for worse, can be counted on to be true to their words. I say for better or for worse because just as you can depend on them if they've promised to be your avenging Angel, you can be just as sure that if they've sworn to rake your face over a hot stove they're going to find a good time and place to do it.
As we were reading, Kitty litter marshmallow man (in a striking blue blazer, I should mention in his favor) said enthusiastically (to myself, IGS, and the other three men that continued to stare silently on at the "foreigners") that Psyrri is a place where you sense a difference once you step inside. It is mysterious and a place that rebels have always congregated, including the "Manges" and the "Koutsavakides" with their menacing black moustaches, who would stroll with their guns stuffed behind a broad red sash tied around their waists. The "Mortisses" or free-thinking women who had adventurous liasions with men and lived wild, unconventional, nomadic lives in a time when women were still never seen out of a dress, in a country where they often didn't sit in the same room with men.
I even love the way the name looks in Greek letters: Ψυρἰ
That Ψ in the beginning shows that it's something to be reckoned with. It's short and to the point. The people that lived here in the 1800's and early 1900's lived life in the present, too broke and too heart broken from the tragedies they had overcome to be bothered with worrying about the future, so they sang their "rembetika," drank raki and smoked hashish, made their lives and then lived them. I don't know if it's everything that I picked up the moment we turned right into its lair, but the facts are absolutely harmonious with the energy in the air.
I learned a great deal more with IGS but as it is getting latte, I mean late, Midnight to be exact, and I wanted to say a few other things before I sign out.
I am so jealous of freedom. This recording of mine was started with the idea of "mass" communicating things I was experiencing, but oh, the pleasure of just writing without fear of the effect of a word. And really, I believe in taking responsibility for one's words as they hold an awful lot of power. But every once in a while, with the back-clicking of something that might be misconstrued, should perhaps be rethought, maybe is a bit delicate, I would like to again be an anonymous commentator on the state of things, pure and simple. You lucky bastard, wherever you are, with your free streams of thought.
I've been counter-challenged by my fellow 100 Dayer to one up the value of two people, in the world, at the same time trying to consistantly record their days, thoughts, useless opinions, etc. Maybe someone would one day like to read the two alongside each other? Maybe in a time of strangeness, such as the times we're living in now, it might even be historically significant? Maybe it would make a crazy one man show off off-broadway? (Like, Topeka Kansas?)
So when we've reached the finish line we'll unveil our monsters right alongside eachother. It's a deal.
And my last note, excuse me while I give another specific aside, is to the language of Greece.
Dear Greek,
Tonight I sat on a barstool at the Low Profile and talked to my friend Katerina, and I did not have nice things to say about you. I confess, I called you terrible names. I complained, bitched, whined, and said all of the reasons I don't know you better, but really, I think it's time I confessed, I haven't really wanted to know you any better. Me and English, we go way back. I've discovered words and expressions that tickle me even if I say them to myself. I sing in English, write in English, and dream in English, but listen, Greek. I think I'm ready to make peace.
I accept that you're an f'ing tough language. Maybe I can even start to like that about you. You're a little intimidating, being that you come from a language used by Aristotle, that was used for the first bible, and has complex meanings that can't even be interpreted, but your words have little stories in them, and that's very attractive to me.
Maybe we can start over, have a coffee, learn to have fun with each other. I talked with English and she thinks there's room for both of you.
What do you say?
*
So yesterday was party day and today was school. Sort of. I've made another interesting acquaintance/fellow curioustician (a word I've decided means "one who spends their time finding answers to things which they are curious about) in a distinguished gentleman/ amateur photographer who has lived all over the world solving its problems and now has resigned to photograph its beauty. Today we agreed to go out in the streets and discover history and beauty together. Unfortunately, the beauty was not very photographable today as it was overcast and dreary, but history was pleased to take the spotlight and I think maybe even showing off a little.
We turned right off of Ermou street into the labrynthine neighborhood of Psyrri, an area I've been intensely curious about with its grimy, "Hell's Kitchen" attitude but purely Greek atmosphere. The buildings are crumbling, the grafitti is well executed, antiques are stacked on the sidewalks, indie clubs flaunt their cleverly titled bands to perform over the weekend. This is the area has flavor, but what are her stories? This is what the curiousticians wanted to know.
He knew a great deal, actually. Plenty to get us going in a direction, and that direction lead us to a closed up shop with some wooden puppets in the window. "Ah, Karaghiozi! Now this is something you should know about, it's very interesting."
And he began telling me about the social role of Greek shadow puppetry during the time of Ottoman occupation. To save myself a little typing I found that Mr. Matt Barrett has already defined it in layman's terms. The part of the story I want to write about here is how in the four minutes that we were standing on this deserted sidewalk in painted up, trashy, empty Psyrri, four men had collected around us and one of them produced a ring of keys like a cartoon jailer's. He threw open the door and re-emerged unfolding a giant poster with the set of the traditional Karaghiozi stage painted on it in simple, flat colors.
My friend, let's call him IGS, was carefully pointing out each detail and describing it to me with the patience of a professor. The shopowner, in a voice like cat litter in a garbage disposal, was amused by this Greek man speaking in such refined English and began peppering him with questions.
"Apo pou Eistai?" (Where are you from? )
"Eimai apo ti Athina." (I'm from Athens.)
"Nai, Endaxi, alla o Patera sou!" (Yes, okay, but your father?)
And this went on for a while to my pleasure, as I was following along perfectly.
The kitty litter-voiced man turned back inside of his hovel, I mean shop, and brought with him a magazine article which featured his very window with the very puppets that had stopped us in the first place. The picture showed his own, marshmallow face from the outside looking in. He was proud of the placement but we were interested in the fact that the magazine article was entirely about Psyrri. My gentleman friend asked to look at it.
The article showed individuals in their places of work, living, etc, in Psyrri and waxed romantically about the nature of the neighborhood. IGS read to me aloud, "It is the place of real people, of people with "Besa" and "Filotimo,"
These two words describe a person who, for better or for worse, can be counted on to be true to their words. I say for better or for worse because just as you can depend on them if they've promised to be your avenging Angel, you can be just as sure that if they've sworn to rake your face over a hot stove they're going to find a good time and place to do it.
As we were reading, Kitty litter marshmallow man (in a striking blue blazer, I should mention in his favor) said enthusiastically (to myself, IGS, and the other three men that continued to stare silently on at the "foreigners") that Psyrri is a place where you sense a difference once you step inside. It is mysterious and a place that rebels have always congregated, including the "Manges" and the "Koutsavakides" with their menacing black moustaches, who would stroll with their guns stuffed behind a broad red sash tied around their waists. The "Mortisses" or free-thinking women who had adventurous liasions with men and lived wild, unconventional, nomadic lives in a time when women were still never seen out of a dress, in a country where they often didn't sit in the same room with men.
I even love the way the name looks in Greek letters: Ψυρἰ
That Ψ in the beginning shows that it's something to be reckoned with. It's short and to the point. The people that lived here in the 1800's and early 1900's lived life in the present, too broke and too heart broken from the tragedies they had overcome to be bothered with worrying about the future, so they sang their "rembetika," drank raki and smoked hashish, made their lives and then lived them. I don't know if it's everything that I picked up the moment we turned right into its lair, but the facts are absolutely harmonious with the energy in the air.
I learned a great deal more with IGS but as it is getting latte, I mean late, Midnight to be exact, and I wanted to say a few other things before I sign out.
I am so jealous of freedom. This recording of mine was started with the idea of "mass" communicating things I was experiencing, but oh, the pleasure of just writing without fear of the effect of a word. And really, I believe in taking responsibility for one's words as they hold an awful lot of power. But every once in a while, with the back-clicking of something that might be misconstrued, should perhaps be rethought, maybe is a bit delicate, I would like to again be an anonymous commentator on the state of things, pure and simple. You lucky bastard, wherever you are, with your free streams of thought.
I've been counter-challenged by my fellow 100 Dayer to one up the value of two people, in the world, at the same time trying to consistantly record their days, thoughts, useless opinions, etc. Maybe someone would one day like to read the two alongside each other? Maybe in a time of strangeness, such as the times we're living in now, it might even be historically significant? Maybe it would make a crazy one man show off off-broadway? (Like, Topeka Kansas?)
So when we've reached the finish line we'll unveil our monsters right alongside eachother. It's a deal.
And my last note, excuse me while I give another specific aside, is to the language of Greece.
Dear Greek,
Tonight I sat on a barstool at the Low Profile and talked to my friend Katerina, and I did not have nice things to say about you. I confess, I called you terrible names. I complained, bitched, whined, and said all of the reasons I don't know you better, but really, I think it's time I confessed, I haven't really wanted to know you any better. Me and English, we go way back. I've discovered words and expressions that tickle me even if I say them to myself. I sing in English, write in English, and dream in English, but listen, Greek. I think I'm ready to make peace.
I accept that you're an f'ing tough language. Maybe I can even start to like that about you. You're a little intimidating, being that you come from a language used by Aristotle, that was used for the first bible, and has complex meanings that can't even be interpreted, but your words have little stories in them, and that's very attractive to me.
Maybe we can start over, have a coffee, learn to have fun with each other. I talked with English and she thinks there's room for both of you.
What do you say?
*
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Lost in Translation
I’m sitting in Deseo’s cafe, the coffee shop across the street from this exciting new place in my life, my “grafeio,” my office... and yet, for the fifth time since we’ve officiated the place, every member of my company is here.
Greece is a social country. Business more often happens in the coffee shops. And coffee shops here are not like coffee shops in the US with every nose in a laptop, every table an island amongst islands. Stools are pulled around the bar and everyone, bartender/barista included, is deep in conversation with a few common subjects: sports, politics, women. (Even the women like to talk about women.) Sometimes the result is an argument that gets so heated you would swear a cup of scalding coffee is about to be thrown in a some poor soul’s face, but no, it always seems that there is one guy sitting in the wings with a wisecrack that melts the tension into easy laughing.
The problem is I don’t speak the language. I spend 3/4 of my time watching transitions of emotion, not having a clue about the context. Sometimes people look at me as if eye contact is a form of inclusion in the conversation. I have to admit it is, but I don’t know that I prefer it to the alternative which is often being completely ignored.
Imagine, spending 29 years of my life developing my character, only to spend most of my social life in a role similar to wallpaper.
This is probably not an accurate portrayal; more likely it is a projection of how I’m feeling right now, sitting in a corner with my nose in a laptop. I’m a well trained American. On the other hand, it’s a way to avoid the blank expression of not understanding what’s going on or being said. Looking busy, even if it appears I’m antisocial, is an excellent alternative to looking dumb. But there are some advantages of not speaking the language! I don’t get offended at little things. I see more clearly than most that everyone talks and nobody “DOES.” Besides, sports and politics bore me. (Though I do like to talk about women.)
Oh, also, when someone switches to English I know that the conversation is being directed at me. Unfortunately the subjects usually stay the same.
“Paige, what do you think of Obama?”
Well to be honest, since the man was elected while I was here and I don’t watch television, I’m again without context.
"He's a handsome man and I like his voice."
It’s that fuzziness I was talking about before. I spend a lot of my day being fuzzy. I’m like a f’ing koala bear I’m so full of fuzzy.
I usually end my blogs with something positive, but I’m taking a cue from my friend. I’m telling the truth, and the truth is right now I’m really frustrated.
after an ice cream and a good two hours of people watching:
"Problems are an important part of maturing--meet them straight on. Work them out. It's like the chick in the egg. It has to break through the eggshell on its own. That's how it gains its first strength. If you break the shell for the chick, you end up with a puny little runt." (Mark Tobey to Wesley Wehr)
I'm gonna bust out of my shell so hard...
Greece is a social country. Business more often happens in the coffee shops. And coffee shops here are not like coffee shops in the US with every nose in a laptop, every table an island amongst islands. Stools are pulled around the bar and everyone, bartender/barista included, is deep in conversation with a few common subjects: sports, politics, women. (Even the women like to talk about women.) Sometimes the result is an argument that gets so heated you would swear a cup of scalding coffee is about to be thrown in a some poor soul’s face, but no, it always seems that there is one guy sitting in the wings with a wisecrack that melts the tension into easy laughing.
The problem is I don’t speak the language. I spend 3/4 of my time watching transitions of emotion, not having a clue about the context. Sometimes people look at me as if eye contact is a form of inclusion in the conversation. I have to admit it is, but I don’t know that I prefer it to the alternative which is often being completely ignored.
Imagine, spending 29 years of my life developing my character, only to spend most of my social life in a role similar to wallpaper.
This is probably not an accurate portrayal; more likely it is a projection of how I’m feeling right now, sitting in a corner with my nose in a laptop. I’m a well trained American. On the other hand, it’s a way to avoid the blank expression of not understanding what’s going on or being said. Looking busy, even if it appears I’m antisocial, is an excellent alternative to looking dumb. But there are some advantages of not speaking the language! I don’t get offended at little things. I see more clearly than most that everyone talks and nobody “DOES.” Besides, sports and politics bore me. (Though I do like to talk about women.)
Oh, also, when someone switches to English I know that the conversation is being directed at me. Unfortunately the subjects usually stay the same.
“Paige, what do you think of Obama?”
Well to be honest, since the man was elected while I was here and I don’t watch television, I’m again without context.
"He's a handsome man and I like his voice."
It’s that fuzziness I was talking about before. I spend a lot of my day being fuzzy. I’m like a f’ing koala bear I’m so full of fuzzy.
I usually end my blogs with something positive, but I’m taking a cue from my friend. I’m telling the truth, and the truth is right now I’m really frustrated.
after an ice cream and a good two hours of people watching:
"Problems are an important part of maturing--meet them straight on. Work them out. It's like the chick in the egg. It has to break through the eggshell on its own. That's how it gains its first strength. If you break the shell for the chick, you end up with a puny little runt." (Mark Tobey to Wesley Wehr)
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
My Daily Bread
SCHLACK
goes the doors of the train. I'm sitting inside on a green bench, an American, next to who looks like a Venezuelan, across from a Pakistani who is next to an African.
Two dark Greeks sit across from the African...the level of darkness that comes from years of mixing with the moors, the Turks, the Balkans.
I have a loaf of bread in my backpack that I stood in a crowded forno to get, looking at the rows of loaves speckled in powder, oblivious to the differences between them as more knowledgeable ladies made their choices confidantly (and quickly) from behind. If I could have spoken the language, if the bakery had not been as crowded as church on Easter Sunday (when the pagans go) I might have asked for what I was really after:
"I would like a bread to slice for breakfast and have with butter and jam, or honey on some days when I feel like it. Something that will fill me but not too heavy...a darker flour."
But as it was I could just look confused and point, reading out a sign that said "village bread." The woman held up a loaf for my approval and I nodded, waiting until I'd paid the sixty cents and was safely outside before I examined my purchase. It was beautiful. Round, dusty with white flour, uneven... the kind they take pictures of to make you nostalgic for the sort of place you buy your bread at a neighborhood bakery. Oh the lies we all have stuffed in our heads!! Buying food is perhaps the most stressful aspect of life in Greece.
I spent, on average, two hours at the grocery store in the States because I loved browsing the aisles, delighting in the epicurean labels, and my favorite was the international food aisle! Imagine. Now I spend on average one hour, and it's because I can't read the labels at all and also the produce scale. (cue a woman screaming.) This is the stuff that nightmares are made of. You have to remember the number of what you're buying and repeat it to yourself all the way to the scale. If you've managed to remember it you then have to find the number amongst the others that are just under the corresponding picture of the produce you're buying. And here you might say, "well Paige, that sounds very organized and user friendly!"
LIES!
The pictures just make it altogether more confusing because they're terrible pictures of unrecognizable vegetables. It's an apple or it's a tomato? This is spinach or horta, or romaine lettuce? Oh, there is no romaine lettuce? Why is there no romaine lettuce? And once I made the mistake of trying to ask someone. She yelled at me, grabbed the lettuce out of my hand and put it back.
I guess I didn't want lettuce after all.
Later I discovered that somethings are so commonly purchased there are no numbers for them. They weigh them at the counter in this scenario, but this is a dicey bet because if it just happens that there is no number there and it's NOT a commonly bought item, they'll yell at you at the counter, and this is in front of a line full of people who might also start yelling or at least it's very clear they would like to.
I've started buying my produce at the street market because mostly these are run by Albanian boys who seem to like me more than the Greek girls, go figure. Even better than service with a smile is that they weigh the lettuce for me.
goes the doors of the train. I'm sitting inside on a green bench, an American, next to who looks like a Venezuelan, across from a Pakistani who is next to an African.
Two dark Greeks sit across from the African...the level of darkness that comes from years of mixing with the moors, the Turks, the Balkans.
I have a loaf of bread in my backpack that I stood in a crowded forno to get, looking at the rows of loaves speckled in powder, oblivious to the differences between them as more knowledgeable ladies made their choices confidantly (and quickly) from behind. If I could have spoken the language, if the bakery had not been as crowded as church on Easter Sunday (when the pagans go) I might have asked for what I was really after:
"I would like a bread to slice for breakfast and have with butter and jam, or honey on some days when I feel like it. Something that will fill me but not too heavy...a darker flour."
But as it was I could just look confused and point, reading out a sign that said "village bread." The woman held up a loaf for my approval and I nodded, waiting until I'd paid the sixty cents and was safely outside before I examined my purchase. It was beautiful. Round, dusty with white flour, uneven... the kind they take pictures of to make you nostalgic for the sort of place you buy your bread at a neighborhood bakery. Oh the lies we all have stuffed in our heads!! Buying food is perhaps the most stressful aspect of life in Greece.
I spent, on average, two hours at the grocery store in the States because I loved browsing the aisles, delighting in the epicurean labels, and my favorite was the international food aisle! Imagine. Now I spend on average one hour, and it's because I can't read the labels at all and also the produce scale. (cue a woman screaming.) This is the stuff that nightmares are made of. You have to remember the number of what you're buying and repeat it to yourself all the way to the scale. If you've managed to remember it you then have to find the number amongst the others that are just under the corresponding picture of the produce you're buying. And here you might say, "well Paige, that sounds very organized and user friendly!"
LIES!
The pictures just make it altogether more confusing because they're terrible pictures of unrecognizable vegetables. It's an apple or it's a tomato? This is spinach or horta, or romaine lettuce? Oh, there is no romaine lettuce? Why is there no romaine lettuce? And once I made the mistake of trying to ask someone. She yelled at me, grabbed the lettuce out of my hand and put it back.
I guess I didn't want lettuce after all.
Later I discovered that somethings are so commonly purchased there are no numbers for them. They weigh them at the counter in this scenario, but this is a dicey bet because if it just happens that there is no number there and it's NOT a commonly bought item, they'll yell at you at the counter, and this is in front of a line full of people who might also start yelling or at least it's very clear they would like to.
I've started buying my produce at the street market because mostly these are run by Albanian boys who seem to like me more than the Greek girls, go figure. Even better than service with a smile is that they weigh the lettuce for me.
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