Bilingual bad language [WARNING: CONTAINS SWEARING – Avert your eyes/ears, Mother!]

There are many advantages to living the life bilingual, but possibly the most delicious one has to do with behaving badly.

Having been brought up in a nice, respectable family in the nice, respectable wilds of deepest Surrey, I’m not much of a potty mouth. 

I’m no angel, of course. The occasional “Shit!”, “Fuck!” or "Bugger!" blurts out, but I usually follow-up by looking round to make sure the Mother Ship isn't listening. As we were growing up, Mum had a zero tolerance policy on swearing, except for "Bugger" which for some reason no-one really understands, she uses frequently and with great gusto and simply doesn't consider it bad language at all, despite repeatedly having the dictionary definition  shoved under her nose. I’m still smarting from the memory of having my mouth washed out with a bar of Lifebuoy soap after sticking two fingers up at her in a fit of pre-teen pique. But to her credit, I grew up surrounded by books and so entered adulthood armed with a vocabulary that lets me express EXACTLY what I feel without resorting to ‘naughty’ words.

But the truth is, there are times when you want to – no, you NEED to – just let rip and turn the air blue.

Enter the joys of speaking Greek.

It’s a great language for letting rip (if you don’t believe me, just pay a visit to the nearest Greek tax office). 

It's a terrific language for obscenity. The Hellenic dictionary of foul language is filled with words that are meaty and fibrous, they fill your mouth (oo-er Missus!) and the satisfy that need within you to tell that *****   ******   ******   who just cut in front of you just what you of think of him – and if you’re in the UK, there’s a good chance he won’t have the foggiest what you just said.

It’s an earthy, colourful tongue filled with heartfelt oaths and insults to help you spill your guts and vent your spleen when you really need to. You can shout out an explosive expletive of “Γαμώ τη πουτάνα μου!” (Translation, to be said in your most measured BBC received pronunciation: Fuck my prostitute), “Τι στο σκατα?” (What the shit?), “Αι σιχτίρ!” (Go to hell - I believe dating back the days when Greece was occupied by the Ottomans) and other delicious γαμοσταυρίδια (assorted obscenities) without making anyone bat an eyelid. 

Back in Blighty, though swearing is pretty mainstream these days, many everyday Greek oaths would be frowned on for their extreme lack of Politically Correctness. Here, they're par for the course - and it’s probably a lot healthier than the British habit of swallowing our bile and letting it fester inside.

It also comes virtually guilt-free for an English import like me. I know it's swearing, but having come to the language as an adult and not an impressionable child, it doesn't really feel like I'm being bad.  

Since slotting my oh-so-British self into Greek society more than two decades ago, I've gained the ability to swear graphically without inflicting an iota’s worth of damage to my ‘good girl’ halo from the land of my birth.

And by assimilating my bilingual vocabulary of bad language I have created something of hybrid, which keeps my Greek Other Half entertained. He still chuckles at the memory of me flying round the house in the early days of our marriage, desperately trying to create a pretense of tidiness for my mother-in-law’s surprise visit, and roaring a frustrated “Oh, bloody, fucking γαμώτο!” as a wardrobe door that refused to stay closed against the pile of scrunched-up clothes stuffed into it.

Greek is great for releasing such frustrations. I’m so glad to have its panoply of obscenities at my disposal. I believe I’m a healthier woman for it (or maybe I just need to be, to deal with some of the practicalities of daily life here?).

But there’s one word that my Greek will never replace. It’s one only a true Brit (or possibly an Aussie) can say convincingly. It’s simple, direct, and conveys utter contempt – especially when delivered in a total dead-pan response.

It is, of course, “Bollocks”.

Celebrating our differences (whilst banging my head against the wall)

I like the Greeks. I love their lust for life, their too loud voices, their sense of community, their connection with their past, their unashamed Mediterranean nature, their appetite for….well, pretty much everything.

Let’s face it, after 25 years here, I’d be a fool (or a masochist) if I didn’t.

I’d like to think that I’m pretty flexible and have assimilated with Greek society, without abandoning my innate Englishness (though my definition  of Englishness is probably very different from that of certain others I could mention – but that’s another story for another day).

But no matter how much well-meaning friends tell me “Ελληνίδα έχεις γίνει” - Translation: You’ve become Greek (I haven’t, just as Uncle Mitsos who’s been living in leafy Surrey for the past four decades hasn’t forgotten to yell “Opa!” and give us an impromptu sirtaki on the dance floor at the drop of a plate), there are some things I will never get used to. Even in those nearest and dearest (and therefore more annoying) to me.

Here are just a few of  the English/Greek differences that never the twain will meet, but which I have somehow had to learn to live with in order to stay sane…  and married.

Timing (or should that be ‘Ti Ming?’)
I am borderline anal-retentive when it comes to time. If I have a date with someone I will be like a frog on hot coals if I am prevented from setting off in good time to arrive at least quarter of an hour earlier than agreed. I have spent many an hour and additional Euros on that extra (solo) coffee whilst I wait for Greek friends to stroll up. It’s taken me more than two decades not to have my suitcase packed and waiting in the corner a full week before any planned travel (but I still have the contents sorted and folded in my head, ready for packing at the earliest point which will not invoke merciless mockery from the Beloved). And I insist on getting to the airport before the Check-In desk has even acknowledged the existence of my flight as a possible future event.

The love of my life is Greek. Actually, in this respect, he’s SuperGreek. His favourite word (and the one that drives me furthest up the walls) is “θα” stuck in front of any verb, indicated that things “will” get done at some vague point in the undefined future. He views my obsession with being ready or arriving early as an amusing foible from which he can derive even more entertainment value by delaying everything as much as possible.

For him, time is not to be managed, but to be filled with a multitude of piffling tasks: making coffee, smoking a fag, enjoying a full body stretch and scratch, staring out the window, smoking another cigarette, checking the weather forecast, phoning his mother, shouting at the television, looking for his lighter….   you get the picture. All the while keeping a sneaky eye on me squirming in the corner as I feel the seconds, the minutes, the hours of the day dripping away to be lost in the sea of time.

It’s not that he doesn’t get things done. He does. But it’s all at the last minute, with all the stress that entails. He’s the King of the Last Minute. And, as it turns out, I must have the constitution of an ox to have survived so far.

Birthdays vs Name Days

I have no Greek Name Day. My name was not handed down to me down the generations to honour my grandmother. It’s not taken from the Bible, or even from Greek mythology. It has a Latin root, and therefore does not feature in the gallery of Greek saints each of which have their own special day of the year.

I do, however, have a birthday. Unfortunately for me, it’s just days before the Other Half’s Name Day which inevitably means lots of well wishes in the first week of December – for him. Whilst I sit there smiling patiently and smiling indulgently, inwarding seething and waiting wanting to scream “Oi! Where’s my cake?” (The answer to which will probably be “You tell us” as it’s the one celebrating who’s supposed to provide the treats.)

Back in the days Before Parenthood, we used to throw a big party to mark my birthday/his Name Day, and I tried – believe me, I did – not to be bothered by the panoply of whisky bottles and other male appropriate gifts that piled up next to the paltry selection of packages from those close enough or thoughtful enough to think of me too.

Though birthdays have become more widely celebrated in the years since I’ve been in Greece, they still play second fiddle to the Name Day, and all too often are barely acknowledged. And if you’re expecting the fanfare, fuss and special cards that are showered on significant birthdays – 18, 21, 40, etc. – in the UK, forget it. And as for special birthday cards, well let’s just say it’s not one of Hallmark’s prime markets.

Oh, and another thing. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking it’s enough to wish your cousin-in-law “Many years!” on his Name Day. If you don’t want to experience a full-blown Greek mama cold shoulder, you’d better make sure you call her to extend your wishes to her too.

Midday, Afternoon, Evening – it’s all relative

In the UK, we think of morning as being any time from when we get up up until 12:00 to be morning. Anything after that is afternoon, unless it’s after 6pm, by which time we’ve moved into evening. Simple,  right?

Think again.
In Greek, midday is usually considered to start at around 3pm and afternoon is probably until at least 8pm. The evening really only kicks off after 10pm.

(Come to think of it, that might be what’s at the root of my timing issues with my Greek friends.)

Coffee – commitment or quick pit stop?

You average Greek can make a coffee last at least forty minutes. I think my record (on a very good day, with extreme effort on my part) is 14. And I’m much better than I used to be, and streets ahead of visiting Brits.

Perhaps it’s because that it’s only in recent years that we Brits (or some of us) have actually learned to make and appreciate real coffee. Most of us chuck the brown stuff down our throats as fast as we can without fatally scalding our gullets.

Greeks make an art of savouring their coffee – especially the thick, rich, grainy Elliniko variety that simply cannot be rushed. Try downing that in a hurry and you’ll find yourself choking on the grinds that collect the bottom of the cup. Believe me, I know. From personal, public and highly embarrassing experience. The trick is to sip it with a slurp and a sigh of satisfaction, in between your animated discussion about politics, football or plans for world domination, or alternating with carefully considered moves in your game of tavli (backgammon to us Barbarians) or loud comments to whoever will listen on what’s written in your morning paper.

I’ll admit that the Greeks have probably got it right on this front – but I just can’t stretch out my cup to Hellenic time. And anyway, I’ll probably be too busy itching to get moving in order to be stupidly early for that appointment to savour the brew.

“You don’t eat no meat? No problem, I’ll make lamb”

It may be a line from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” but I’ve lived it first hand.

Despite the cornucopia of fresh fruit and veg in their traditional cuisine, most Greeks don’t really consider a meal to be a “real” meal if it doesn’t involve meat in some form or another. I seem that flash of panic in the eyes of friends and family when told I don’t eat meat ahead of some festive gathering. Usually followed by a barrage of incredulous questions about why, how, what (“What? Not even chicken?”) and even puzzlement as they try to reconcile my dietary eccentricity with the fact that I’m built something like an East German shotputter circa 1974.

I always assure the hostess that no special effort needs to be made for me. The contents of the average Greek dinner table usually more than cover my needs – pies, cheeses, salads, and much more. But some take my vegginess as a challenge to their skills in the kitchen. One was a well-meaning aunt who presented me with a beautiful, golden brown, gently bubbling dish of to enjoy while the others tucked into their roast suckling pig. My very own…   ham soufflé.

Don’t bore us, get to the chorus

Greeks love to talk. And Greeks who have attained some position and sense of self-importance love to talk even more. That’s why, almost every public event – from the opening of the school year for a bunch of six-year-olds to a concert staged like the local pensioners’ choir – will have lengthy preludes and votes of thanks topping and tailing the action that you’ve come to see.

This is usually accompanied by me hiding somewhere in the wings or the back of the crowd rolling me eyes at hubby, hissing “Gerroff!” in the direction of the stage and making subtle wrist-slashing gestures, whilst my Other Half gently kicks me and shoots me warning looks that could kill whilst feigning his own show of respect and attention to those droning on and on…  and on.

The “Thank you” minefield

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a rude person. I’m quite polite, if a little impatient. I was brought up to say ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ like most middle-England children of my generation.  But even that can be a bit of an issue.

It took my father-in-law many years to stop getting offended every time I said ‘thank you’ for something. And, like most Brits, I say it a lot. I see it as simple courtesy, due to even to those closest to me. He saw it as a cold, formal acknowledgement of something which was taken for granted.

It’s to his credit that he managed to adapt to my habit faster than I managed to quit it.
To be honest, I still haven’t. And it’s not unheard of for me to apologise to a lamppost I’ve walked into.

But despite the differences, I have one big advantage. I’m foreign – and as such there are things I can get away with that my Greek girlfriends would never be forgiven for.

Just don’t tell the mother-in-law.

Smells like Greek spirit

Take a walk pretty much anywhere in Greece tonight and you won’t be able to miss it.

There’s something in the air.
Something unmistakable assaulting your nasal passages (unless the latest flu bug to do the rounds has got there first).
It’s the aroma of burning coals and charred flesh.

But don’t worry, it’s not the scent of barricades burning, rubbish bins ablaze or the eruption of new riots. Though unrest and anger has become all too familiar in the past few years, today  is ‘Tsiknopempti’ – a day traditionally marked by the consumption of mountains of meat, ahead of the 40-day Lenten Fast when observant Orthodox Greeks are forbidden from eating any meat, fish or dairy products (though oddly, seafood and fish roe are permitted).

Those who abstain for the full 40 days are in the minority these days – but that certainly can’t be said for the Meat Fest that comes before it. Almost without exception and in spite of ever tightening purse strings in almost every household in the land, everyone rushes to prepare and enjoy their favorite meat dishes, with a strong emphasis on grilled cuts. The result is an unmistakable cloud of flesh-scented smoke hanging over each neighbourhood like a layer of fog.

In true Greek spirit, the key is excess. To quote my Mother-in-law, “If there’s not too much, it’s not enough”. And although many Greeks have tempered that philosophy in their everyday lives recently, out of harsh economic necessity rather than choice, when it comes to special food for special days, excess is still the key to success.

You won’t find any half-hearted examples a couple of bangers and a few frozen beefburgers thrown on the grill here. Oh no. It’s gotta be a rich selection of choice cuts, including spare ribs, skewered cubes of flesh, assorted offal, homemade burgers, village-style spiced sausages the size of baby pythons, massive oozing steaks, and more. There may be some chips to accompany the Meat Fest, and maybe a lonely looking salad lurking at the corner of the table – but don’t count on it.

If it were possible to measure the communal cholesterol count and blood pressure of the population of Greece on the day after Tsiknopemtpi, you’d have the World Health Organisation handing out emergency supplies of statins and blood thinners to every man, woman and child in the country. As it is, the national consumption of antacids usually spikes at this time of the year, just as it does at Easter.

So what, you may ask, is it like for the a lonely herbivore like me in Greece on this "Feast of the Carnivores"?

For some time now, I have avoided meat. Not for any pressing moral, religious or health reasons – I just felt I didn’t need it much (proven by still my healthily high haemoglobin), I don’t crave it and I'm more than happy with veggy, fishy and (especially) cheesy alternatives. Though on the seriously soft end of the veggy spectrum (actually a pescatarian if you want to get technical), I am considered something of a weirdo here, despite the fact that classic Greek cookery offers a veritable cornucopia of meat-free delights.

You may recall the scene from ‘My Big Fat Greek Wedding’ where a concerned (horrified?) aunt asks “He don’t eat no meat?” with an arch of her perfectly plucked eyebrow, followed by a sigh of compromise followed by “No problem, I make lamb”. Believe me folks, that was no poetic license. I’ve lived it first hand.

Considering that is the day to day reality, you can imagine the response on this day of meat, meat and more meat when I try to politely decline. That’s usually countered with protests and assurance that the slab of glistening grilled flesh dripping with tempting juices and a squeeze of lemon isn’t fattening, forcing me to explain that actually I don’t eat meat. The reaction – at least on days when my ego is feeling robust – is hilarious: usually a look of surprise, bemusement and the question, spoken or simply flashing in their eyes, “How can you be a vegetarian when you’re SO…. big?”. (The answer, for the record, is “Easy as pie - literally”.)

In truth, I have no problem with Greece’s meat-loving culture. It’s part of what gives the place and its people the full-blooded personality that first drew me here all those years ago. My husband and son eat meat, and I’m fine with that. I know I’m the oddity (so what else is new?) and that’s also OK, but there are times when I feel like more of an outsider than ET desperately trying to find a call box to ‘Phone home’.

But, on the plus side, once I’ve managed to extricate myself from invitations to tables groaning with stuff I don’t eat where I’ll watch the carnivores chewing away as I nibble on a chip, I know that when I head for the gym tonight, instead of waiting in line with all the other sweaty bods at the treadmill, I’ll probably have the place to myself.

And tomorrow morning, I may be one of the few not reaching for the Rennies.

The Life Bilingual: Kissing with confidence

When you uproot your life and transplant it somewhere other than where you've grown up, you know you’re going to probably have to learn a new lingo. So, you diligently sign up for classes, or buy the books, in preparation for your total immersion in a sea of words you don’t know.
But how many of us transplants gave a moment’s thought to learning the body language of the place we're moving to?

         

Experts disagree on the extent to which body language – or non-verbal communication if you want to get scientific – contributes to what we ‘say’. Estimates rate from about 65% to as high as a staggering 93%. No matter which you choose to believe, the fact that the actual words we use only contribute 35% (tops) makes you want to stop paying those tuition fees and chuck away the phrase books.

It didn’t take me long to understand the role of body language when I first arrived in Greece nearly 25 years ago. A loud, passionate bunch taken as a whole, Greeks can seem pretty intimidating when you first arrive. You get off the plane at Athens airport or the ship at Piraeus port and all around you are people waving arms, rolling eyes, and shouting at a rate of knots. Moustaches (male and female) quiver, faces turn a delicate shade of magenta. Any minute, you expect to see daggers drawn and blood spilt. And then, they roar with laughter and embrace like brothers.

Once I realised I hadn’t inadvertently walked in on the start of new civil war, I saw that I was probably going to fit in OK. By the relatively reserved standards of England, I have rather ‘loud’ body language. When I get my teeth into a subject, my hands flutter by face, fingers jab, arms flap, eyes bulge and teeth are occasionally bared. My dear old dad used to say that if anyone wanted to shut me up, all they’d need to do would be to tie me to a chair.

So, for me, mastering the basics of Greek body language was actually much easier than getting to grips with the convoluted grammar, use of three genders and spiky alphabet of its words.  I even quickly came to understand the seemingly counter-intuitive upwards head nod (sometimes accompanied by a 'tut' of the tongue) that actually means “No”, “No way!” or “Over my dead body” depending on its depth and vehemence.

But, what I STILL struggle with – especially when stepping away from Greek soil – is the whole kissing thing.

Most of us Brits are brought up to be a little stingy with our kisses. Apart from the erotic variety, we usually just deliver little pecks of affection on dry closed lips or the cheek of our family and closest friends. Really good chums might get a hug. And British blokes are horribly ill at ease with the very idea of kissing or being kissed by another man, no matter how well they may know each other.  

In Greece, it’s a completely different kettle of kisses. Lips are pressed to faces in a double-sided greeting for almost everyone you come across. Mwah-mwah, it goes for friends, acquaintances, families, distant never-met relatives-in-law, work colleagues....  you name it. Believe me, I was in serious need of a chap stick after the seemingly endless line of well-wishers at my marriage to Ovver Arf all those years ago!

OK, so you probably shouldn’t pucker up when you see your boss or bank manager (though you may have to metaphorically kiss some other cheeks), but you get the picture. Greeks kiss. A lot.

These days, so do I.

That’s fine, I suppose. Shows that I’ve assimilated into Greek society and that I’m not a stereotypical, stand-offish ‘kryokoli Anglida’. The double-cheek twin peck is now second nature to me.

The problem comes when I head abroad – either back to the UK for a family visit, or (worse) when on a business trip, which usually means Dubai or Singapore where such an intimate and invasive display is certainly NOT the norm.

My family seem to have come to terms with the change of my kissing etiquette, though I think some still find it odd that I now give them a peck on the cheek rather than a dry sexless kiss on closed lips (strangely, most Greeks limit mouth-to-mouth contact to lovers, small children and pets).

Yes, I’ve seen the fleeting look of surprise, bemusement, shock, even horror, flashing across the faces of people I know only vaguely as I home in on them and plant a smackeroo. Sadly, it usually only registers once I’ve done the deed – by which time it is too late, and too embarrassing, to take it back or explain myself.

So if you are reading this and nodding your head in recognition as you recall that time I traumatised you with an overly-effusive greeting, please forgive me.

I maybe bilingual these days, but can I help it that my body isn’t?

Surviving Pascha: An outsider's guide to Greek Easter (and not a creme egg in sight)

Easter in Greece is heavy on symbolism, rich in tradition and dripping in calories. In a country where religion is woven into the very fabric of society, Easter is a very big deal.

It’s THE religious festival, and like so many occasions here – including elections, military parades, graduation ceremonies, funerals – it’s an intensely social event.

It can come as a bit of a shock, especially for a visitor from places like the UK where most folk see Easter as an excuse to stuff yourself with chocolate and hot cross buns, watch endless hours of sport and old movies on the goggle-box, or take your place in the traditional Bank Holiday traffic jams that clog the roads like too much cholesterol in the nation’s arteries.

So, here is my guide (as an outsider on the inside) to surviving one of Greece’s most enchanting and evocative traditions.

Get your timing right:
If you’re planning to book a trip to experience Orthodox Easter in Greece, check first. There’s a good chance that it won’t conveniently fall at the same time as your 4-day long weekend. Though the dates occasionally coincide, the Greek festival usually comes a week or so after it has been celebrated in many countries.

So, as my friends and family in the UK tucked into Hot Cross Buns to mark this year's Good Friday, we still had Palm Sunday and Holy Week leading up to Easter ahead of us,

Religious run-up: 
The week before Easter – Holy Week – is marked by heavy religiosity, solemn tolling of church bells, the melodic melancholy of priests and psalters chanting, and the gradual emptying of the cities as Greeks head for their villages. 

It can come as a disappointment to visitors to Athens, especially when they find that EVERYTHING shuts on the morning of Good Friday. But, on the other hand, it gives you a rare chance to enjoy the city without crowds and choking traffic. 

Maundy Thursday is a day of preparations, with traditionally-minded housewives (and the occasional obliging grandchild) hard-boiling and dying the red eggs that Greeks crack and eat once the Lenten fast is over (though the less traditional housewives buy them ready-dyed from the supermarket).

At every church, an army of ladies painstakingly place hundreds of flowerheads into the “epitaphio” – a funeral byre covered in countless blooms, which young children are encouraged to pass under throughout the day, for good luck. Come evening, however, the mood becomes much more somber, as a the epitaphio winds its way through the local streets in a symbolic funeral procession.

Fast food:
Strange as it may seem in a country where vegetarianism is considered an eccentricity and vegans as downright certifiable, most folk (even the non-religious) swear off meat, eggs, fish and dairy products for a full week before Easter. Like so many traditions, this is based in pure practicality – a kind of detox before the assault on your body that will follow with the feast on Easter Sunday.

But don’t worry – you won’t go hungry. Seafood, salads, pasta and a plethora of fast-friendly delights are always on offer (and as a visitor, no-one will begrudge you for tucking into a plate of souvlaki).

There is even a “get out early” clause for Greeks suffering from meat withdrawal symptoms – thanks to the so-called “little Resurrection”, marking the time when Christ’s tomb was said to be found empty, they can get carnivorous again from the afternoon of Easter Saturday.

Lighting the way:
My favourite part of the Greek Easter is the midnight ceremony on Saturday when everyone gathers outside their local church waiting for the priest to emerge and announce “Christos anesti!” (Christ has risen), at which point, things go berserk.

Bells peel out madly, fireworks go off (some alarmingly nearby), if you’re near a port you’ll hear ship horns blast, and a frenzy of kissing and cracking of painted hard-boiled eggs breaks out. As the priest makes his announcement, the light from his candle (claimed to be lit from the “Holy Flame” that is said to ignite mysteriously and spontaneously in a sealed chamber in Jerusalem) spreads throughout the crowd, lighting the wicks of the long and often garishly decorated candles (“lambades”) everyone holds.

I'm not a religious person, but I am a bit of a sucker for some traditions, and this is one of them. It's a moment with an intense sense of community, and has the power to move the most determined of atheists.

If you plan to attend the occasion, you have been warned. Go with your own lambada in hand and be prepared for startling bangs, whizzes and being grabbed and greeted by people you don’t know. But you won’t regret it. It’s a beautiful event – even to non-believers – as is the sight of everyone walking away from the church with through the scented spring night, lit lambades in hand, to the midnight feast waiting for them at home. And the combined smells of incense, melting wax, intoxicating orange-blossom and jasmine and countless plates of Easter soup waiting in households everywhere are a real treat for the nostrils.

Food, glorious food:
This is what it’s all about. In a traditional Greek household, most of Easter Saturday is spent with the women in a frenzy of preparation for the coming feast. It’s a heavy, heady assault on the senses - and a little rich for some of the uninitiated.

First of the menu is the traditional “magiritsa” soup served up in the deep of the night after everyone returns from church with their lambades. It’s not everyone's cup of tea, as it’s a broth of braised goat intestines (preparation involves meticulously turning them inside out with a knitting needle and scrubbing them clean) with boiled wild greens. I’m told it’s delicious – but even after 20 years, I prefer to take their word for it.

The real feast, however, comes the next day. Throughout the country, from early in the morning, roasting spits spring up over wood fires in gardens, yards, balconies, even the streets, ready for a goat or lamb to be skewered whole (head and all) and turned slowly for hours until it is cooked through to the bone, glistening in the spring sunlight and sending out mouth-watering meaty vapours. Unlike the kitchen duties, turning the spit is traditionally men’s work – and they can be seen gathered in gaggles around the goat, hard at work, fuelled by coffees, cigarettes, little glasses of ouzo and plates of “mezzes”.

By the time the spit-roast meat reaches the Easter platter, the table legs are heaving under the weight of an absolute cornucopia of delights, true to the opt-quoted truism “Den ftanei an perisevei” (“It’s not enough if there’s not too much). Meat galore is joined by glistening salads, hot crusty homemade pies, specially-baked aniseed-flavoured bread, countless red-dyed boiled eggs, cheeses, dips, and veritable rivers of wine and beer. Then, there’s dessert – homemade baklava dripping in honey, cream pies, aromatic sweet Easter bread.

Maybe now you understand why the Greeks aren’t big on chocolate eggs?

Easter in Greece is not for the faint-hearted (and those with weak hearts need to watch themselves too!), but, even for the most secular of us, it’s a feast for all the senses....

Minding my manners (or 'Protocol & Pitfalls')

Etiquette is not my strong suit - just ask my mother. Many's the time she was left shaking her head in despair when her happy-go-lucky but klutzy first-born bowled into social situations without a thought for the proper protocol.

It's not that I don't consider common courtesy or good manners important (I do, and I think - or hope - my son is testament to that), it's just that I've never had much patience for the 'niceties' of which order people must be seated around a dinner table, the right fork to use for the salmon mousse, who should speak or wait to be spoken to, or where exactly you're supposed to put your linen napkin (tucked into neckline where it might serve some purpose or uselessly laid across the lap?).

You can tie yourself in knots trying to work out the intricacies of correct protocol even when you spend all your days, from cradle to grave, in the same place.

Imagine then, if you will, the joys of adapting to the 'new manners' of an adopted country. I was bought up in the classic middle class English tradition of 'please' and 'thank you', removing elbows from the table, offering your seat on the bus to senior citizens, and never discussing politics, religion or money (or weight gain, for that matter).

So it was a bit of a culture shock twenty-odd years ago when I arrived in the noisy, riotous, exuberant country that is now my home, and started adjusting to Greek etiquette.

You might think that some things are universal. And indeed, getting up to let a doddery old dear or a eight-month old pregnant lady sit down on the train is acceptable good manners in both countries (just be prepared for the possiblity of the fierce offended glare of a pugnaciously proud Greek grandad who considers your implication of his frailty as an insult).

But it's not quite as clear-cut as you may expect. For years, my father-in-law and I have been having a running battle over 'please' and 'thank you'. He considers it to be a formality between relative strangers, that lacks sincerity and has no place between family members. I say I can't undo the conditioning that was drummed into to me during my Home Counties childhood - I say thanks to my mum if she makes me cup of tea, after all. And, anyway, if a tendency to say 'please' and 'thank you' too much is the worse thing he can say about his daughter-in-law then he's a lucky man indeed!

As for taboo subjects - well, there are none. Just so long as you are prepared for noisy and rumbuctuous debate on the politics of the day, how much (or little) you make, or (my own personal favourite) how fat you've got.

Then, there's kissing. This is a positive minefield. Where I grew up, we kissed relatively few people - just immediate family members, the closest of close friends... and of course, boyfriends. For immediate family it was always a dry but affectionate peck on the lips. And, naturally, men NEVER kissed one another in greeting - at most there would be an awkward, manly handshake.

In Greece, you can't move for kisses. You see an old work mate on the street - kiss, kiss. Your hubby comes across an old buddy from the army - mwah, mwah. Mums, dads, brothers, sisters, cousins - even old bosses or teachers (depending on how you did with them) - they all come into for the kissing treatment. But it's a very specific kiss - grasp the hand, pull the other person close, and deliver two dry and noisy pecks, one on either cheek. NEVER on the lips. Never EVER! Oh no.

To outside eyes, Greeks may seem far more relaxed and less bound by conventions of etiquette than the so-called buttoned-down English. But the truth is very different - as I have learned from bitter experience.

For a start, you have the whole matter of two different forms of address - the informal and friendly "sou" (you), and the polite "sas" which is supposed to be used to show respect and deference to the person you're speaking to. Not to mention those who object to being addressed in the formal manner because they think it lacks warmth ("How am I supposed to know for flip's sake?")

There are very specific standard greetings that you are supposed to deliver on certain occasions - and heaven forbid that you should fail to say them both to the person directly involved AND their immediate family. It's not enough to ring up your mate Takis and wish him "Chronia Polla" (Many Happy Returns) on his birthday or Name Day (don't worry about forgetting to send a card - Greeks generally don't DO cards). But if you want to avoid being placed of the black list of his kindly Yiayia (granny) you need to make sure you also deliver the same wishes to her, as well as Takis' mother, father, brother and pet dog too.

There are specific special greetings for all life's major events. "Kai sta dika sas" (Here's to yours) to singletons at weddings. "Na zisete" (May you live, implying happily ever after) to the bride and groom. "Kai tou chronou" (here's to the next one, next year) for birthdays and anniversaries.

It's easy enough to learn the standard responses.
Unfortunately, it's equally easy to get them mixed up.

Believe me, you do NOT want to find yourself in the position of greeting a bride and groom you barely now with a wish of "Kai tou chronou" (here's to the next one). Or worse, trying to console the grieving relatives at a funeral with a heartfelt "Kai sta dika sas" (Here's to yours).

Fortunately, I LOOK foreign. It would be hard to confuse me with a native, and most Greeks are good-natured enough. They know that you are trying and their laughter at your Size 7s firmly shoved in your mouth is anything but malicious.

So, don't worry about etiquette. Those who want to take offence will always find a reason to get the hump no matter what. And the well-meaning ones will forgive you the most horrendous faux pas.

After all, my dear old Mum probably scored more Brownie Points with my Greek family when she enthusiastically (but mistakenly) shouted out "Kalimera!" (Good morning) at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve (she should have said "Kali chronia!" - Happy New Year), than she could have in a century of correct napkin placement.

Another take on Greek 'fast' food

This weekend is going to be a long one - but in the nicest possible way.

It's the first time this year that a public holiday tacks itself neatly onto the weekend to give us THREE WHOLE DAYS free of work, school or the need to get up at 6.45am (though knowing me, my eyes will snap open at that ungodly hour even though they don't need to).

The holiday that will give us that delightful gift is what the Greeks call Kathara Devtera (Clean Monday).

Like Pancake Day back in the UK, it marks the official start of the 40-day fast before Easter - but it's on a much bigger scale, like most things related to food and religion here.

Traditionally, for the duration of Lent, God-fearing folk swear off meat, fish, eggs and dairy products (although strangely, seafood is permitted). The "Clean" part refers to the fact that housewives used to throughly scrub their kitchens and cookware to be absolutely sure that no trace of animal product creeps into their cuisine.

Now, the truth is that few Greeks observe the fast for all of Lent these days (though many do in Holy Week, in preparation for the food fest that awaits them on Easter Day).

However, on Clean Monday, after the obligatory attempt to fly a kite (another tradition of the day whose origin is a total mystery to me), most Greeks can be found gathered at a table groaning with all manner of fast-friendly food, and having a good old natter with their friends and family.

Spinach pies, rich bean stews, chickpea fritters, barbecued prawns, macaroni with octopus cooked into velvety submission in a wine sauce, steaming bowls of wild greens, fresh crisp salads, aniseed flavoured bread - it's all good yummy stuff.

As you may have gathered, religion plays no part in my life. However, it is there in the background with the Greek family I married into - and it plays an important part in the social fabric of the Greek society.

I go with the flow.
After all, it's one of the few times I'm not viewed with surprise and suspicion for not eating meat.

Now, you might think that the Lenten fast is a great way to lose weight. Think again.

Consider the joys of chips, fried squid, fried aubergines, fried courgettes, deep fried prawns (are you seeing a trend here?) etc., and you'll see that we’re looking at a truck-load of calories. And then there are all the ‘virtuous’ sweets that the fast permits, all packed with sugar and usually swimming in syrup. Or my personal favourite, ‘tahini’ (sesame paste) mixed with honey, a delicious smooth and sweet nutty concoction that I can literally devour by the jar.

Not much chance of dropping a jean size or two before Easter then.

Now I do know that it is not really that hard to eat extremely healthily and lose weight while observing the traditional fast. Trouble is, I’m a foody. I love food. I love planning it, I love cooking it and I love eating it (so long as it is well-made from good ingredients). While I don’t think I live to eat, I do consider it to be one of life’s pleasures, so a week of plain boiled cauliflower is not for me. Is that a sin?

And finally, a question for any Greek readers out there (@HonestMummy can you hear me?). Fish and eggs are forbidden during the Lenten fast, right? Why, then, is taramosalata (principal ingredient fish roe) permitted?

Not that I mind, of course.

Pass me that bit of pitta bread.

Stuck in the middle of misconceptions

Being a True Brit but living in Greece for more than two decades, I usually find myself having to fend off a flurry of misconceptions about one nation or the other. And it's not just from one side - I'm usually stuck in the middle of the mistaken ideas of the Greeks about the English, and England's equally misplaced concepts of the Greeks. Oh the joys of living the Life Bilingual.

Whenever I reconnect with an old friend through Facebook and they discover I now live in Athens, their automatic reaction always seems to be "Ooh, lucky you!" (or at least it was until the Greek economy went officially down the toilet).

In their minds, I was the lucky escapee from Colditz Britain, having fled my homeland's soggy shores for sunnier climes, probably living next to a beachside taverna, sipping ouzo and playing backgammon, surrounded by colourful locals grinning through their moustaches as they randomly yell "Opa!" and smash the crockery.

And of course, don't forget that after a heaving plate of midday souvlaki we all hit our beds for an afternoon nap before heading out for more food, drink and complicated dancing some time after midnight. (Yeah, right. A swift sarny at my laptop followed by a train ride home to a pile of ironing is closer to my reality - if I'm lucky.)

These are my same countrymen who might look on in terror whenever they witness a couple of Greeks who spot each other on the London Underground, convinced that their loud rapid-fire speech and bristling facial hair are a sure sign of blood about to be spilled. It's not, it's just the thrill of spotting a fellow Ellinas in a foreign land - and the conversation nearly always starts with an enthusiastic "Yeia sou, Patrioti!" (Rough translation: Hello! A fellow Greek - thanks to God!).

And they may be the same Brits who are shocked to find that Athens' Syntagma Square is miles from the beach, and there are no sunbeds around the Acropolis.

But, to be fair, the Greeks more than make up for those misplaced misconceptions with a huge mountain of scurrulous stereotypes about the Brits.

For a start, one of the first things you'll hear when they learn you're from the UK is always: "Well, of course, it rains constantly there, doesn't it?". True, as any Brit will tell you, we do get more than our fair share of the wet stuff but now and again the clouds do clear and a strange yellow round thing can be spotted in the sky.

My own beloved Ovver Arf, being Samos-born and Athens-bred, was convinced that he would go rusty or grow mould when visiting my family for the first time. It was November, and he was heading for England, he was bound to spend the entire six weeks in a state of constant sogginess, wasn't he? (As it turned out, it rained on just one day - my birthday - during that first visit in 1989.)

Then there is the idea that everything stops for tea in England - at 4 o'clock in the afternoon (mind you, the cucumber sandwiches cliche seems have to passed by most Greeks' radar - I'm consider a madwoman for suggesting anything between two slices of bread beyond the ubiquitous ham and cheese). Some Greeks still expect us drink our brew out of dainty porcelain cups, poured from a silver teapot polished by 'Our Man Jeeves', as we elegantly stick our little fingers out. (It must come as a horrible disappointment to them to see me plonk a Tesco's teabag in a mug and throw the resulting brew down my throat with all the poise of a hippo in a hurry.)

Then there is the idea that the Brits are cold fish who throw their young out into the cruel world the minute they recover from the first squeaks and spots of puberty. This must be the one misconception that REALLY gets to me. I don't know how typical I am, but my family is a tight-knit one, oozing with emotion. Passions run high and hearts are warm in our little clan, despite the frosty weather, and I'm probably the nearest thing to a cold fish of the lot of us (please someone, tell me it ain't so).

Yes, we generally do encourage our children to move out and make a life for themselves before they hit 30 (though that looks set to change in light of the latest news from the homeland). However, on the other hand, we do usually manage to acknowledge that our offspring are no longer infants before we are actually dribbling away in our dotage.

Not so in Greece - and believe me, I know. My mother-in-law still sometimes refers to my 44-year-old Ovver Arf as "to paidi" (the child). And at least you get to choose your own furniture when you're not still firmly tied to your mother's apron (and purse) strings.

I have to admit, however, that it's sometimes fun to play up to those misconceptions.

So, bear with me as I nibble on a digestive, drink a dainty cuppa (with pinky duly raised) and utter "Oh, I say" and "Bloody hell, Nigel!" in my best cut-glass Rodean accent (not bad for a graduate of Balcombe Road Comprehensive, eh?).

Transplanted!

My experiences as a transplanted Brit that has re-rooted in Greece make up some of the material that feeds the varied waffling that makes up this blog. I'm keen to read the experiences of other ex-pats who have settled far from home, so have connected with a few other transplantees through their blogs.

To make things easier for me (I'm know, I'm lazy), I have created a collection of some of these blogs, hosting their posts (and including links to their blogs) in a single collective site which I have called http://transplanted.collected.info

Why not pop over and take a look - and if you like what you see, go to the individual blogs featured to get in touch with the writers.

And if you have any ideas for other blogs we could or should add to the feed, let me know!

Lost in Translation

There are some who say that humour doesn't travel. Others claim that good comedy, like good wine, can travel well when handled properly.

The truth is that sometime language conspires against you. Linguistically, some jokes just cannot work in another language.

The genderisation of the definite article (to you, me and other English-speakers that means "the" is either male or female - or perhaps, in the case of Greek and German, neuter) is a case in point. Because of that, I can't use half of my best one-liners (most Greeks laugh at me for OTHER reasons).

Let me explain. The Greek for God is "O Theos" ("O" being the masculine definite article) which completely scuppers one of my favourites. I get nothing when I say it to my friends here (in Greek) - nothing except puzzled looks that say "Huh??".

So, I'm gonna try it out on you - here goes: When God made man, She was only joking.

(Geddit? Yes? No? Maybe not?)
Oh dear, seems that no-one understands me (yup, THAT old chestnut). Perhaps language isn't the problem after all?

Living the life bilingual: Part 4

There's a certain perverse pleasure to be had from being bilingual - and it's multiplied when we're talking about a relative 'minority' language like Greek.

Outside of Greece - despite the diaspora - the chances of someone eavesdropping on me and my Other Half as we chunter away merrily a la Grecque on the bus or train, and understanding what we're saying, are pretty remote.

Of course, there are ex-pat Greeks to be found virtually everywhere on the face of the earth, but the chances of one of them being in earshot of us as we rip our fellow passengers to pieces are pretty damn slim. And even if there's a Greek listening in, surely they won't take offence but are more likely to greet us with a huge grin of recognition and a heartfelt "Yeia sou, patriote!"

If we were speaking French or German, there's a good chance that EVEN THE BRITS around us will get the gist of what we're saying and - if we're engaged in our usual people-watching analysis - that could result in a smack round the chops!

The trouble is, it just doesn't work the other way round.

Virtually everyone in Greece has at least a rudimentary understanding of English so, any observations about my fellow man, woman, child or wombat have to be made in the privacy of my head, the car, our living room - or in the safe anonymity of this Blog.

So, humour me while I take advantage of my online anonymity to share some of those observations I dare not state out loud in public about the different folk we see every day:

There's the ever-so-macho male who is so confident about his superior manhood that he proves it by strutting everywhere with his paunchy chest thrust out as he puffs furiously on a fag with the vaguely uncomfortable look of a constipated hamster on his face (personally, I think the too-tight jeans with the stomach hanging over the belt may be the problem).

There's the rusty black-clad little old lady who goes to church more often than the local priest but who would think nothing of cutting you down in your prime with her walking stick to get that bargain in the 'laiki' (local market).
[Warning: Despite their frequently recited and lengthy lists of ailments, these old dears are made of stern stuff, having grown up amid the hardships of Greece in the early-to-mid 20th century. We baby-boomers are no match for them!]

There's the new generation of the 'Ekalia Mafia' in their designer clothes and big fat cars, who owe everything they take for granted to the very Greekness that they treat with utter disdain ('cos they're dead cosmopolitan, dontcha know?). They're the offspring of self-made Greek businessmen, that older generation who have literally dragged themselves out of poverty to build a rich comfortable life for their families. But the offspring weren't around to witness Dad climbing that slippery pole, spitting blood, dripping sweat and sometimes shedding ethics as he scrambled to the top - they just appeared in time to reap the benefits, attend the private school, drive the BMW/Merc/SUV and enjoy some 'trendy' hobby-career until they get bored with it.
These are ones who look at me in horror when I reveal that my son goes to a state school (Omigod!).

And of course there's always good old Mitso, the ubiquitous Athens cab driver I've mentioned here before. Often a retired mariner, Mitso has an opinion about everything and everyone, and he enjoys his God-given right to express it - loudly - amid a spray of coffee droplets, tyropita (cheese pie) crumbs and cigarette smoke as he drives you around the houses to your eventual destination.

There are many more Athens portraits I could paint - including my fellow ex-pats - and maybe one day I will.

But love 'em or hate 'em, they're all part of the rich tapestry that is Greece... ...and life would be just a little less interesting without them to gossip about behind our hands on the bus.

Living the life bilingual: Part 3

Words fail me.

Strange as it may seem, it's true at times. Those little blocks of language that have always been my allies just aren’t always there to do my bidding.

They got me through the horrors of being a seriously uncool and unsexy teenager with legs like upturned milk bottles. They got me through countless job interviews when I’ve sat there thinking ‘Any minute now they’re gonna work out that I haven’t got the faintest idea what I’m talking about’. They even got me out of a more than one beating from the scariest girl at school.

And yet, I find myself struggling to find the words that should leap unaided and elegantly to mind, but stay stubbornly buried in my subconscious.

‘What’s that thingy, you know, that - erm - machine wotsit, that um, washes? What’s the word?’, ‘You mean a washing machine?’. ‘Yes! That’s it. Well done!’.

I guess it is one of the perils of spending about 50% of your time functioning in a second language. Certain turns of phrase become second nature and the sneaky little buggers creep into your first language, cancelling out some of the simplest words and phrases.

On the one hand, you could say that being bilingual can only enrich your vocabulary – which is true. But that’s not much help when nobody has the foggiest idea what you’re waffling on about!

It can be the simplest thing, like prepositions. You can usually spot a Greek who speaks excellent English by their prepositions. Where we have ‘on, at, in’ etc., Greeks say ‘sto’ (or sta, sti, ston, etc., depending on the sex of the sentence – but that’s another story). So when you hear someone say ‘they were sitting to the table’, they probably didn’t grow up in Guildford….

Greeks simplify the act of switching things on and off by just saying ‘anigo’ (open) and ‘kleino’ (close). They open and close everything, from windows to the telly, whilst we tend just open doors or tins of beans. So I guess it's no wonder that my mum gives me one of her funny looks when I tell her to close the light.

Then, we get into the joys of phrases that defy translation (actually, it’s a good thing that literal translation is so flippin' useless – otherwise everyone would use the free online Babel Fish programmes and I would be deprived of my occasional source of pocket money).

Take a thong, for instance. Colloquially, some Greeks refer to it as a ‘kouradokofti’, or simply (and graphically) put, a ‘pooh cutter’. Wonderful image, but it would definitely be lost on the streets of Eastbourne.

And if you want to say the equivalent of the sarcastic 'big deal' in Greek you have a choice of 'siga to polyelaio' (slowly the chandelier), 'siga ta avga' (slowly the eggs) or 'siga to lachano' (slowly the cabbage). Slowly just about anything, actually....

And when you predict that uproar will ensue you say 'tha ginei tis putanas' (the prostitute will happen).

So, as you can see, literal translation is no bloody help - you've got the really live the language to get a decent grip on it.

And even if you do, some things never leave you and they actually become some of your characteristic quirks that mark you out as the 'pet Brit'.

I don't know if it is a Surrey/Sussex thing or if it's just me (could be), but I have always used the expression 'standing there like a lemon'. Dropping that into a Greek conversation always prompts a few odd sideways looks.

And if that was not enough, there are certain words from my childhood - courtesy of my too-soon-departed Dad - that have firmly established themselves in my slightly schizophrenic Anglo-Hellenic existence.

No-one else knows what the hell my son and I are talking about when we say 'ning' (quick hug) or 'grupping time' (time to get up, gerrup, grupping time - geddit?), but we do - and that's enough.

Living the Life Bilingual: Part 2

After mastering the intricacies of the Greek alphabet, one of the biggest challenges for a Brit learning Greek is getting your head around the fact that EVERYTHING has a sex.

Maybe it says something about the Mediterranean temperament versus the classical British stiff upper lip (sometimes the only stiff thing to be found on cold days) but somehow I doubt it. After all, Germans also class everything as male, female or neuter.

I just don’t know why chairs, saucepans, doors, curtains and toilets are all female. Nor why (grammatically, at least) all cats, owls, tortoises and whales are too.

Dogs, of course, are male.

OK, I guess it could be argued that cats are clearly female (mysterious, enigmatic and obsessed with cleanliness), and dogs are obviously male (love of balls and a one-track mind when on heat). But I still don’t get what makes a chair female. Or a toilet or that matter.

Though I’ve been here for 20 years, I still sometimes fall into the 'xeni' (foreign) habit of using the third, neutral gender in places where it shouldn’t go. Sometimes, it is simply ignorance or laziness on my part. Other times, however, I just cannot bring myself to refer to something as female when it so clearly is NOT.

We used to share our home with a big, ginger tom who took great pride in presenting us with an impressive pair of furry balls at every opportunity (apparently, the height of good manners among cats). Sorry, but when evidence to the contrary is so literally ‘in my face’, I just could not refer to him in the female terms of ‘gata’ or ‘gatoula’. For me, Maxi will always be a ‘gatos’ or ‘gataros’ – no matter how often my mother-in-law tries to put me right.

Another problem is knowing when to use of the plural or the singular. In English we talk about a pair of trousers or a pair of pants, but in Greek they are singular – ‘panteloni’ and ‘vraki’.

But when Greeks go to the hairdresser, they speak in the plural – ‘Prepei na kopso ta mallia mou’ (‘I must cut my hairs’). Now, maybe I am a little warped (‘No! Really?’), but that phrase always brings some wonderful images to mind involving special salons with lawn-mower type trimmers for those particularly hairy chests some Greek men specialise in.

And to add insult to injury (at least for those of us who were born BEFORE The Beatles broke up), a Birthday is not a singular either. When Greeks wish you Many Happy Returns with a cheerful ‘Haroumena Yenethlia’, they are actually saying ‘Happy Birthdays’.

So, does that mean that I've really been here 40 years and not 20?

Living the Life Bilingual: Part 1

It’s slightly surreal living in two languages. And in my case, it’s not any old second language. Oh no, I couldn’t just pop across the Channel and settle in France. I had to pick a place with a whole new alphabet.

Fortunately, most Greeks under the age of 240 can at least make themselves passably understood in English - and many under 50 speak it better than we do. So, we Little Englanders can function pretty well here even if we are too lazy or arrogant to learn the lingo. But that’s not the point, is it? It just not polite not to make the effort - and anyway you miss out on an awful lot going on around you if you don’t have a decent grasp of what’s being said.

Greeks can seem pretty intimidating when you first arrive. You get off the plane at Athens airport or the ship at Piraeus port and all around you are people waving their arms and shouting at a rate of knots. Passions run high, voices are raised, moustaches (male and female) quiver, faces turn a delicate shade of magenta. Any minute, you expect to see daggers drawn and blood spilt. And then, they roar with laughter and embrace like brothers.

It’s a powerful incentive to learn Greek. It’s only when you get at least a rudimentary grasp of the lingo and an inkling of the national character that you realise that they are not at each others’ throats – well, at least, not all the time.

I’ve been here for 20 years and have got a fair handle on the language by now (some people even occasionally pay me to translate it). There are times when I don’t know which language I am thinking in.... Unless there are swear words involved. I swear more easily in Greek than I do in English (it feels less 'naughty' and the meaty Mediterranean vowels of “malaka” and “gamoto” are far more satisfactory than their Anglo-Saxon equivalents).

I’m English, my Other Half is Greek, so our 12-year-old son is properly bilingual. He’s been hearing both languages since the moment I saw those little blue lines on the ‘Predictor’ stick. I guess it is only natural that there is a third language at play in our house – Gringlish, a strange mish-mash of Greek and English.

For instance, based on the Greek verb “pistévo” (believe), we often describe something beyond belief as “unpistévable”.

So, if you ever bump into me, please forget me if my conversation is littered with exclamations of "Ela, re", "Bravo" or "A pa pa".

They're just some of the unavoidable side-effects of living the Life Bilingual.