why I can't speak greek -- o español

I lived for a year in Greece back in the 1970s. I have little to show for it. A few photographs. A peasant shirt I can no longer wear. And a Greek grammar book. If I look hard, I could probably find a little Greek dictionary.


The two books were my companions wherever I went. I took lessons from a beautiful young woman -- Sia was her name. I read Greek newspapers. I studied -- hard. And I was great at reading the newspaper, at translating from my grammar book, at reading almost anything in Greek.

What I could not do was speak it. In my village, an older woman ran a restaurant. She spoke no English, but she was one of the kindest souls I have ever met. I could listen to her and understand almost everything she said. But when I tried to speak Greek -- well, it was all Greek to me -- and her. (I was going to apologize for diving into that cliché temptation, but you would have all done the same.) She simply could not understand me.


I don't think I felt self-conscious -- not with her. The fear that adults have of making a mistake in the presence of another adult.


However, most Greeks and Parisians have at least one thing in common: they do not like anyone misusing their language, and, if it happens in their presence, they feel free to mock the linguistic miscreant.


I once stopped at a gas station in the afternoon and greeted the elderly Greek men from central casting that sit in front of almost every open doorway from Athens to Patras. "Kαλημέρα," said I. They stared and started laughing aloud, repeating my mistake louder with each repetition. The man I took as the ringleader fixed me with a Socratic stare and informed me that it was past noon, and I should either say "καλό απόγευμα" -- or say nothing. It was the nothing that stung.


I am reading David Sideras's latest book: When You are Engulfed in Flames. He has written several essays on his inability to learn and speak French -- even though he lives in France. He writes that he has internal conversations where he wishes that he could put together a complex sentence like: "Tell me, Jean-Claude, do you like the glaze I've applied to my shapely jug?" Instead, he writes, he will often resort to reducing anything complex into something like:

"Look at the shapely jug."
"Do you like the glaze?"
"I did that."

When I read that I literally roared in laughter. Startling the dog. I know exactly how he feels.


I have started my Spanish lessons again. I have learned all types of interesting information. I now know the doctor eats the bread. (El médico come el pan.) That the girl has a ball (La chica tiene una pelota.) That the ball is blue (La pelota es azul.)


What I want to know is how I go about getting the doctor to talk to the girl about whether John Locke had a good grasp on the intricacies of property ownership or what are the odds of a recession in Veracruz?


Of course, what I really want to do is to be able to speak Spanish with the same fluency I have in English. I may as well wait until I invent the perpetual motion machine. It just is not going to happen. My goal is to be able to talk with my neighbors in Mexico. And I know I will not gain that fluency until I actually put my few skills to practical use.


For the moment, I will put the mocking Greek grandfathers out of my mind -- and be happy for the girl and her blue ball, and that the doctor has his daily bread.