Speak Greek

 

The Bear

“It’s all Greek to me,” I joked, looking at the funny letters that look like ours but don’t sound like them. We were in japan a year, and any attempts to learn the language were met with giggles and embarrassment, so why bother in Greece? It’s not like I’ll be able to get any sort of handle on the language in two weeks, and what will learning a few phrases really do?

Turns out that a few words in Greek have earned Raquel and I all sorts of goodies.

First, a disclaimer. I can’t read Greek, neither can you probably, so my translations are all just the sounds of Spanish. So think adios amigos not goodbye my friends.

We were given our first lesson in Greek from the first restaurant we went to. I asked the waiter how to say thank you, and he told us, efharisto, then spent the rest of the evening teaching us greek spelling on our table cloth. He was great. He’d write down a phrase, then vanish and let us absorb it, then as soon as we’d glance his way he’d be back at the table, checking our pronunciation. After the meal and the lesson I told him efharisto for everything. So impressed he was he brought us mastiha a sweet herb flavored digestif. It was perfect after a meal of spiced meatballs and mousaka. Raquel spent her entire time on the subway telling me how good it made her tummy feel.

The next phrase we learned was yasas, which means cheers and is good for hello or goodbye. We tried out this handy phrase in a little bakery. It earned us free sesame seed crusted pretzels and a big smile from the shopkeeper.

Of course, when learning all of this greek, you may get in over your head. This happened to us in the town of Finikas, when at a Taverna (spelled Tabepna in Greek). We ordered in greek, feta parakolo, or feta please, and the waiter proceeded to interrogate us in his mother tongue. I understood not a word, but the waiter figured this out soon enough and switched to English. Half a bottle of wine later and I was drinking tsipouro with the Frenchmen at the table next to us. Siporo is distilled white wine and I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would take something as good as greek white wine and turn it into something as repulsive as tsipouro. Fortunately the waiter noticed my distressed and brought Raquel and I rakomelo, which is the same vile liquor that’s been boiled with cinnamon and honey, and is marvelous.

After that drunken debacle I learned the next phrase. Milate Anglica? Or, you-speaka-da-english? This one earned us chocolate at a coffee shop one day and cheaper cups of coffee the next. Seriously I think they just like spoiling young Americans.

But perhaps the most powerful phrase in my limited vocabulary is roharismo parakalo. Which means simply, “check please.” If you learn anything besides yasas, I’d focus on this one. I always say it at the end of the meal and the waiters seem unable to help but bring us desert. I’ve earned us yogurt with figs and honey this way, a coconut custard that was quite tasty and two pieces of something like flan, one of which was coated in lavender syrup and the other in a pomegranate reduction. Ambrosia, and all thanks to asking for the check in Greek. I think the waiters appreciate an attempt at the language, and can’t help but feed us a little bit more.

The Babe and the Beard

But then again, I could be full of crap. The locals have told us they haven’t seen Americans here in years, and everyone might be being nice just so we’ll spread the good word. Either that or they’re trying to get at my wife. Aw well, at least they know enough to try to get me drunk while they’re doing it.

 

If you enjoyed this post, there's more! Use that Greek at a great restaurant or perhaps while you explore the island of Syros!

Taboos in Austria

“Are there any cultural taboos in Austria?” Raquel asks.

“Don’t get too drunk on the street.” “But that’s the Austrian way!” Our hosts, my cousin Anna and her husband Mateus laugh amongst themselves and Raquel and I nod to each other, happy to be travelling in a country less obsessed with manners than our year in Japan.

Our waiter brings a bottle of sparkling rose wine and pours everyone a glass.

The wine smells amazing, floral and light. I go to take a sip but Mateus gasps, “Wait! we have to brost!” Ah, of course. I had heard of this but forgotten. The first drink of the evening must always be toasted. Not a taboo, perse, but good manners. So I clinked glasses with Mateus, then Raquel then Anna and her friend while Raquel went the opposite direction.

“DON’T DO THAT!” Anna hissed. “Do you want ugly children?”

What? Of course not, no! I want curly-headed angels! What did we do wrong?

Anna explained, “In Austria, never cross arms when toasting, and always look people straight in the eye when saying brost.”

To not follow this invokes the gods of poor manners and of course curses one with hideous offspring. Yikes. So much for no taboos.

In reality there’s plenty of taboos. The Viennese are proudly unreligious, or at least the ones we met were, and to bring up this most contentious of subjects risks disaster. On Sundays, everything closes. The grocery stores, the shops, everything’s shuttered except the Turkish kebab stands. We, mistakenly, remarked on this Christian tradition, only to be rebuked.

“The businesses just always give the workers a day off!”

Yeah, they do that in Japan too, but it’s usually a Tuesday or Wednesday because they’re slower business days.

“AUSTRIA IS NOT CHRISTIAN.”

Got it. Point taken. Let’s talk about something else.

I think every culture has a right and wrong way to do things, and Austria is no different. Vienna is interesting, because there’s also a proper way to disregard the rules. We went to an amazing ice-cream spot, Tichy’s, an icecream parlor so good Vienna named a street after the owner. My cousin Karl swore it was only for the locals, and if this is indeed true, every Viennese most know of it, for there was a thick crowd. Karl said not to worry, the line moved quickly, all we had to do was queue up, and we’d have our icecream in no time.

Ten minutes later and I’m hemmed in but what feels like a thousand people. I’ve been separated from my wife by a teenage couple fondling eachother and a ten year boy who was given a fistful of cash and shoved between us by his overbearing mother. This is not as simple as waiting in line. This is war. And Raquel and are losing. Somehow Karl and his girlfriend Ranya are already at the counter. We pass our money over the crowd of people still ahead of us, and make our escape.

“I didn’t think you’d beat me,” Ranya says to Karl as they hand us our icecream safely out of the crushing throng of people.

“You never know at Tichy’s!” he says with a wink. No kidding. Its chaos there, yet the Viennese see it as sport.

Same on the trains, to wait for someone to offer you a seat is to stand the entire train ride. People wait nicely at the station, but when those pneumatic doors open, all bets are off. You got luggage? That’s your problem. A kid with you? Standing’s good for the little bastards. But, once seated, not even little old ladies look at you. You’ve earned that seat, and no one’s going to guilt you into standing.

After ten days in Vienna, Raquel summed up the climate quite nicely,

 “There’s a clean order to everything, but everyone cuts in line.”

So go there, taste the sweets, eat the meat, and remember to always, always cut in line.

If you enjoyed this post there's more! In Austria you can explore coffee or delicious meats. Perhaps you'd rather  meet the people of Greece or witness terror in Japan!