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.

Staying Mum

Sixty-five years ago today, a young girl went to bed looking forward to waking up to her 7th birthday, against a backdrop of rationing, scattered families and the sounds of the Battle of Britain in the skies over south-east England. The next morning would bring news of the D-Day landings on the northern coast of France and start of the Allies' attempt to liberate Europe.

She celebrated that birthday without her Daddy, who was away at war (she sometimes struggled to remember what he looked like), but her Mummy tried to keep things "normal" for her young daughter.

Tomorrow, that same girl celebrates another birthday - and with it the trials and triumphs of a life well-lived and well-loved. I should know: the Birthday Girl is my mother.

Until I was about ten, I thought her the most beautiful and accomplished woman on the face of the earth. I didn’t want to be an air hostess or a ballerina when I grew up. I wanted to be ‘just like Mum’ (so long I could still climb trees and I didn’t have to do the ironing).

Then puberty struck, and a snarling monster was unleashed.

Poor old Mum, almost overnight she saw me mutate from her smiley golden-locked little girl who hero-worshipped her, to a mean-spirited cynical Creature from The Black Lagoon demanding a drastic haircut. And yet she never stopped loving that teenage monster who hated to hear “You’re just like your Mother”.

By the time I hit my 20s, I’d forgiven her for giving birth to me and grudgingly admitted that I liked her. Quite a lot, actually. I even acknowledged that, throughout my Black Lagoon years, she was always there - the convenient butt of our jokes and a reliable source of practical advice, cups of tea, sisterly guidance and unconditional love.

My view of my Mum broadened and matured as I did. To my amazement, I realised she was someone in her own right - someone smart, charming, inventive, broad-minded, strong, creative and even funny at times. She was much more than just a mum!

She taught me I could do anything I set my mind to and that no-one should tell me otherwise. She showed me that most things have solution – even if we don’t always like that solution. And she taught me the value of true friendship.

It’s only the past couple of years that have really revealed how amazing she really is - a tough cookie who is 100% in touch with her emotions; a respectable pillar of the community with a wicked sense of mischief; a fount of practical wisdom who is prepared to open her mind to the possibility of another way of doing things.

She’s one of the most resilient people I’ve ever met. She still misses my dad (who died in 2006) terribly, but sitting at home feeling sorry for herself is simply not her style. Even after major knee surgery last year, her determination to make a quick recovery and get back to her busy life left doctors and physiotherapists agape with admiration.

So, I could certainly do worse than be “just like Mum”. Looks like I've come full circle, after all.

Happy Birthday, Mum!

Inconvenient allergy

When I was a teenager I was diagnosed as being allergic to – among other things – paper dust. A touch inconvenient for a book addict who started her working life in an dusty, musty, old-school newsroom.

But as I’ve grown, and my working environment has become more sterile and allergen-free, I realised that I am suffering from a far more debilitating affliction: an allergy to red tape.

That’s a problem in Greece - a big one.

Every single move you make here seems to be wrapped up to strangulation point in red tape. It’s no mistake that the Greek for bureaucracy is ‘grafeokratia’ (the marriage of ‘grafeo’=office/writing & ‘kratia’=rule).

Opening a bank account, renting an apartment, buying a car, taking maternity leave, getting a phone line, probably even sneezing in public – they all require inordinate amounts of paperwork extracted (and I use the word advisedly, as in ‘painfully extracted’) from a variety of public offices staffed by bored, indifferent public servants who can never be fired. And that means you have to take the morning off work to achieve anything.

While you agonise about the work piling up on your desk in your absence you have to wait patiently and uncomplaining as civil servants get their morning coffee, file their nails, take an age to open their computer (although all paperwork still seems to be done painstakingly by hand, before being sent to the other end of the building for an official stamp after which you have to come back to where you started for another signature and rubber stamp), and sigh heavily before they turn their sloth-like attention to you… …I could go on, but I don’t want to risk my chances next time I have to deal with the Greek civil service.

If you live here, you’ll know what I mean. If you don’t, count your blessings.

As a foreigner, I feel at a distinct disadvantage when dealing with bureaucrats. Although my Greek is pretty good, there’s no ‘Campaign for Plain Speech’ here, so most official documents might as well be written in Swahili for all the sense I can make of them. It’s complete goobledygook and I suspect there is many a Greek as much in the dark as I am, but reluctant to admit it.

It’s all very well for politicians and others to talk about creating a user-friendly, accessible society where the citizen is empowered, but frankly it’s all talk. To actually put those words into action would mean taking the kind of radical measures that no politician hoping to get re-elected would ever risk. So Stalemate continues to rule – yet again.

Meanwhile, my red tape allergy has morphed into that worse of personal monsters - a phobia. The very thought of filling out official forms scares the bejeezus out of me. And the prospect of completing the annual tax return brings me out in a cold sweat: I’m petrified of getting something wrong and paying through the nose for it from here to eternity.

But aversion therapy doesn’t work, and the tax man won’t go away – even if I do bury my head in the sand. So I have to get my finger out, fill in the tax form (in triplicate), dutifully staple all the supporting bits of paper to it and then get myself down to the tax office before it’s too late.

Like they say, death & taxes, death & taxes...

Times, they are a changin': Take Two

As a species, we humans really are remarkably adaptable. Just two short decades ago, most of us hardly dared touch a computer's "On" button. The few that did were those isolated but dedicated geeks (you know, those Spotty 'Erberts we branded losers at school but who are now looking at early retirement on the proceeds of their pioneering software designs).

Yet now, most of us are at least computer-literate - and some are even venturing out into the outer reaches of cyber-space.

To be fair, the whole computer scene has changed beyond recognition since then. In those days, pressing the "On" button produced a little luminous green square flashing ominously in the top-left corner of the black screen. You had to have a working knowledge of some mysterious secret language called "Machine Code" (or whatever it was) to take the next step (hence the rise of the Spotty 'Erberts).

As for the computer itself, it could almost fill the Albert Hall, had a screen the size of a Mars bar and the phenomenal storage capacity of about 3 kilobytes (even Bill Gates, back in 1995, said he couldn't conceive that anyone would ever need more than 640 k on their PC).

Now, every Tom, Dick & Harriet has a lap-top, palm-tops and Blackberries are a bit past it, and I'm pretty sure that we'll move on to finger-tops or direct input soon enough (if only we can downsize our fingers to match the pesky keyboards).

The pace at which technology has progressed in the space of a few years, months, weeks or days frankly takes your breath away. But even more breath-taking is the ease with which we have adapted to those changes (even to the point of forgetting how we ever functioned before mobile phones, online banking, e-mail and the like).

That's what makes my generation - that disparate band of baby-boomers born some time between the mid-50s and early 1970s - unique and (though I say it myself) rather special. We are perhaps the only generation to have a foot planted firmly in two distinct eras: Pro-Internet (P.I.) and Meta-Internet (M.I.).

We are also, perhaps, the last generation to enjoy a number of clear-cut certainties that don't seem to exist any more. During my formative teenage years in the '80s, things were crystal clear. In South Africa, apartheid still ruled and Nelson Mandela was still languishing in a prison cell on Robben Island. American missiles still sat - patiently waiting to nuke Moscow - in a bunker at Greenham Common. The Berlin Wall still stood strong and impenetrable. UK unemployment was at an all-time high (3 million!). Coal mines were being closed down across the north while Yuppies lived it up with conspicuous greed in The City. And in politics, Right was right, Left was left, and never the 'twain would meet.

In short, we knew where we stood. Our battle lines were firmly etched in granite - it was just a matter of deciding which side to stand on. It's no surprise that the post-Punk era in the UK produced such a politicised generation - we had something tangible to kick against.

Now it's a different story. Battle lines are vaguely doodled in the shifting sands of popularity contests and reality shows, and Right and Left alike have moved so close to the middle ground that they are now virtually indistinguishable (so much for the democracy of choice!). If you don't believe me, you should see the incredulous look on the faces of many Greeks when I inform them that the current UK Government (for now, at least) is in the hands of the Labour (as in Socialist) Party. Many assume that Blair & Brown are Margaret Thatcher's political offspring.

At least with Maggie, you knew where you stood.

This may all be getting a little too political for comfort, and that's not my intent. I am simply trying to show that the world we grew up in is very different from the one in which we are trying to raise our kids. And yet, we function just as well Now as we did Then.

The post-war Baby Boom produced some remarkable talents and visionaries in all fields. I'm not just thinking of the likes of Bill Gates, but also of Bob Geldof, Bono et al, who saw something wrong with the world and decided to use their fame, fortune or even egos to bang on about it until we wake up and do something about it.

Though the battle lines are only faintly drawn for our children's generation, there are some fights that should always be fought. Poverty and injustice have not gone away and despite the changes we have seen - for better and for worse - there's another world out there where thousands of children still go to bed hungry and frightened every single night.

I hope we will continue to adapt to the changes we face, and not let disillusionment push us into indifference (thus risking handing the reigns of power to a bunch of extremists riding high on the current wave of disgust at the current state of politics).

So, if you are reading this from the UK, please DO vote today and - wherever you choose to put your mark - please be guided by hope, not hate....

Ode to my Other Half

Today, my Other Half and I will celebrate his birthday together for the 21st time.

Yes, "It was 20 years ago today...." that I first wished him Many Happy Returns and all that. Mind-boggling.

Now, I think that even my Other Half would admit that he is not perfect, though there's plenty of things he is: smart; funny; frustrating; demanding; laid-back; quixotic; loyal; confusing; inventive; creative; complicated; generous; cynical; excitable; cool; infuriating; ingenious; original; kind-hearted; quick-tempered; borderline manic depressive; idealistic; capricious; fun; warm; sexy; cuddly; charismatic; abrupt; neurotic; clever; charming; hard working; lazy; talented; a challenge.

In short, yet another flippin' Gemini in my life (I'm clearly a glutton for punishment!), even though I don't really believe in all that astrology tosh.

He is Hubby No.2 for me - and it seems that I got it right second time round, even if I did have to cross a continent to find him.

My Other Half aint perfect - but he's perfect for me.

Happy Birthday, my love. I look forward to celebrating many more with you.

Athens Portraits: Touristas Gormless

There's a certain kind of visitor to Greece that seems to be under the impression that a brain is not essential for travel.

There's no mistaking them as they mill around the shops in Plaka or the slopes of the hill on which the Acropolis stands.

Often found in herds, they are clearly distinguishable from the native species due to the bright scarlet markings on the head shoulders and arms. They seek out pools of blazing sunlight while the resident species hide in the shade, and (when in large packs) have a distinctive braying cry that resembles that of a pack of stranded sealions. Some varieties also carry multiple cans of luke-warm beer, in preference to the plastic bottles of water favoured by the locals.

Their scientific name is Touristas Gormless, and though there are many sub-species, there is one characteristic they all share. For some reason that remains a mystery to science, they are totally clueless.

In their native habitat, they may be highly accomplished businessmen, educators, professionals or self-made men (and women). But once they set foot on Greek soil, a mystifying transformation takes place. The eyes glaze over, and the thought processes are disengaged, as they switch from 'real life rat-race' to 'holiday stand-by' mode. Their plumage changes from sombre neutrals to brightly coloured shorts, vests and (in extreme cases) straps of fabric that sadly leave little to the imagination. Footwear varies from sandals with socks to fragile strappy high-heels that snap easier than a dry twig in the Attica sun.

What experts believe is behind this strange metamorphosis is the effects of anticipation, fuelled by stereotypical images they have been force-fed by the media in their homeland that depict Greece as a Land That Time Forgot - a place populated by charming but slightly inferior locals, where everyone spends the afternoon on the beach or sipping ouzo at a seaside bar, and transport still relies largely on donkeys and carts.

Hence their surprise (and shock) when they arrive at Athens International Airport (much shinier, newer and – dare I say it? – more efficient than Heathrow, Gatwick or Luton). More shocks await as they arrive in the city centre to see thousands of brand new cars whizzing around the streets, and a network of (mostly clean) Underground stations to get them around. Disappointment often follows with the realisation that there is no beach next to the Acropolis and there aren’t any sunbeds for hire in Syntagma Square.

They've heard all the warnings about the dangers of the sun, and obey the instructions religiously in their natural habitat. But on foreign soil, it is all forgotten as they believe that 'drink plenty of water' equates to 'have a cup of tea followed by a couple of lagers'. And while some start off their fortnight slapping on Factor 60, after a couple of days many are down to Factor 2 or even straight Baby Oil and are proudly showing off their 'tan' while the locals wince at the sight of their raw, red shoulders and rapidly peeling nose.

Normal common sense, like keeping an eye on their wallets or not letting their young play in the middle of the street, go out of the window once in Greece. But if anything goes wrong, like sunstroke, theft or an accident, they rant and rave about “the bloody Greeks” and swear that they will never set foot in the country again (well, not til next year’s bargain break, anyway).

But they're not alone. Along with the flocks of Touristas Gormless that arrive every summer, increasing numbers of Touristas Sensibilas have been witnessed over the past few years.

Unlike their fellow travelers, this species has done a little homework and actually packed its brain along with tickets, passports, money and sun screen. It has already sampled Greek fare at restaurants back home and is eager to try the real thing. Some have read about the places they will visit and dress and act appropriately. Some are even repeat visitors who have formed firm friendships with the native species and have learned the basics of the local lingo.

Yet despite the rise of Touristas Sensibilas, its gormless cousin is in no danger of extinction.

Just take a look around next time you visit any of Greece's tourist hot-spots. See that sweaty red-faced one with the baggy shorts and vest sitting at a table in the full glare of the midday sun as he chugs down a cold beer and tries to work out which end of the souvlaki to start with? He’s a classic male of the species. And you can be sure that his mate will be found somewhere nearby, flitting from shop to shop, in search of a trophy to take back to their nest.

But by October, the last of the breed will have disappeared from the Greek coasts and countryside, leaving it once again to a few foreign culture vultures and the many colourful native species.

Bosom buddies

One of the down-sides of being a girl is that every now and then you have to make a foray to Marks & Sparks for 'the perfect bra'. Not just the perfect bra (and the perfect fit) for our own individual assets but also the perfect bra for every outfit, every occasion, every season, every mood.

In the summer, that usually means strapless.
And that means wading through a series of contraptions that make you look like you've got a pair of padded pyramids, ice cream cones or a couple of ballistic missiles strapped to your chest.

Though I am a well-rounded lass in every sense of the word, my boobs are among the better-behaved parts of my body. Still relatively pert, they're a lot closer to my chin than my waist. I'm just not used to being particularly busty. They're definitely there, of course, but not in any high-profile in-your-face sort of way.

These days, I find the ever-growing array of FFs & GGGs et al (you know, the ones that look more like crash helmets for Siamese twins than underwear) frankly a little scary. I don't recall there being so many of them when I first started shopping for something more than just moral support, but now the frillies section of your local M&S is swamped with the things in a variety of shapes, colours and a titillating selection of designs that bear no relation to the 'sensible' support we were urged to opt for way back then (good news for naturally well-endowed girls, of course).

And can anyone tell me whose boobs most of the moulded cups are modelled on? I was under the impression that most breasts were round-ish (mine certainly are). So why, oh why, do so many bras seems to have ambitions in the conical direction? Most off-putting.

Whether you are super-sized or a bog-standard C-cup, it can come as a bit of a shock to my system to look down when wearing one of those shaped, padded bustenhalters and nearly poke your eye out on one of your own boobs!

If you're not used to it, it's very weird to feel like your breasts enter the room 5 minutes before you do. You feel like your body has been invaded by Jessica Rabbit or you've morphed into a reincarnation of Jayne Mansfield.

Of course, you could just slap on the strapless, get dressed, walk out the door and get on with your life without a second thought. And, believe me, that's what I try to do - until I catch a fleeting glimpse of myself in a mirror or a shop window, and then it’s like "What the...? Where did they...? How the hell did that happen!?"

Mind you, there are advantages. On those days when you just don't have enough hands to do everything at once, you can simply wedge your frappe (iced coffee) glass into your heaving cleavage (bbrrr!), add a long straw - and hey presto! You're free to get on with things and enjoy your caffeine-kick at the same time. Look Mum, no hands!

Like it or not, summer is now here (at least here in Greece - he, he, he!), and with it the strapless, backless etc. tops that let the warm breeze tickle your pasty flesh after the long winter under wraps.

But let's face it, most of us girls need all the support we can get.

So, bring on the bustenhalters, girls, so we can shout, loud and proud: June is busting out all over!