Oh, culture shock…you have found me and transformed me into a raving lunatic. Luckily your symptoms aren’t chronic and your infection is short lived. It’s like a pot simmering inside my gut and every little annoyance (justified or not) slowly cranks the heat a little bit hotter-until I explode Bruce Bannister style.
Living in a country where your knowledge of the language is severely limited can be one of the most mentally exhausting experience, and in my case, cause of culture shock. (Mind you, most people in the city speak or understand English, which everyday I praise them for.) When having conversations with friends who all speak English, we could all be laughing and having a great time when all of the sudden I’m out of the joke as they naturally slip into Greek. When the joke has passed and they realize I’m confused as hell, they are always apologetic and explain to me what was said but I’m still left feeling incompetent. Kind of like a kid who will ‘understand someday’. All this stress on my inability to communicate erupted in a way that I’m pretty embarrassed to admit. My victim of attack? Poor speechless Shiyanthi. After a long day of shopping (I know, life is hard), I took a seat by a fountain while Shiyanthi made a trip into Zara (that store is everywhere) for some shoes. Thinking that I could be a big girl and look after myself for a little bit, she took her time perusing the store. While I sat and waited, I was approached on two separate occasions by men asking me something in Greek. I tired to explain on both occasions that I didn’t understand. The first guy didn’t understand that I didn’t understand and continued to (what I considered then) rant at me. Frustrated I got up and moved away. The second fellow just picked the wrong girl, on the wrong day. Like the previous assailant, he also didn’t seem to understand my lack of comprehension. So I figure, I’ll just get up and migrate to another shady place and he’ll get the point. Or not. As I stood to leave he took my arm and tried to pull me with him. Enter the green eyed monster. I threw my arms up into the air and started screeching (like a banshee) something along the lines of ‘Get your hands of me! Don’t touch me! Don’t talk to me- Don’t come near me!’ It was a scene. An over reaction. And a current embarrassment. Oh, but I’m not done ranting yet. By the time Shiyanthi made it back, I was raving like a mad woman. In all my crazy ranting I spewed out what is now one of the longest running jokes amongst my Greek friends (who all later got to hear the story of my mental lapse). What was it that I was screaming? Ready for this? “Stupid Greeks and their stupid little folk language!!” Yep. I called one of the oldest, not to mention beautiful languages that I have ever heard... a folk language. Wow…hateful AND ignorant. Aren’t I awesome? If were gonna talk about folk languages, how about the fact that I speak Acadian for god sake. Someone should have slapped me, but I think Shiyanthi was too much in shock.
As horrifyingly embarrassing as this moment was/is, it served two purposes. First, it was a release of the suppressed frustration that had been building like a shaky Jenga stack. But more importantly, it forced me to realize the source of my frustrations- feeling incompetent- which in turn made me able to deal with it. Solution? Get over it. The people here, friends and complete strangers alike, are constantly trying so hard to help me understand and feel included. The least I can do is show some appreciation (and how about some respect?) and tell my pride to scram.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Eco Greeko?
Greek ingenuity, culture, art and invention are a relished source of pride in Greece. There isn’t a single Greek who would pass up the opportunity to deliver a brief history lesson on their accomplishments: both ancient and present. A recent conversation with a friend (one of the many Costas) lead to one of such informative learning sessions. He was impressing me with the great accomplishes of his forefathers: poetry, democracy, language, philosophy, religion. Not meaning to offend him, I joked: ‘All that and they didn’t put recycling on the to-do list?’
It’s true that Athens is a beautiful city. You’d have to be blind not to be left in awe of the not so subtle mesh of ancient and modern while sipping a latte from Starbucks whilst the Acropolis looms overhead. However, mixed amongst the Byzantine churches and ancient ruins, you have over 3 million people packed into a relatively small capital. That’s about 25% of the countries population. And, where there are people in mass, there is mess. After a month or so living here you shake off the initial awe and amazement and notice the alarming lack of environmental concern. It’s not so much the mess on the streets and lack of recycling (although it’s aggravating) that gets to me. For me, it’s looking up at night and thinking ‘Am I on some celestial plain where stars don’t exist?’. The smog and pollution invade the air, with some days causing government warnings to stay inside due to poor air quality. On such days, I sound like a 60 year old veteran smoker of 45 years, hacking up half a lung. Very attractive. But Athens has made moves in the right direction. The welcoming of the world eye for the 2004 Olympics caused this main push. Athens attempted to clean up its act, littering every street corner with recycling and garbage bins. However, as the attention disappeared with the passing of the Olympics, so did most of the recycling bins.
What does give me hope for an eco turn around in Greece comes from speaking with students who peg environmental issues at the top of their political concerns. Many student groups are gaining a voice on the issue. Good. With any luck, this will be top list importance for Athens and she’ll catch the green bug. If not, I’m afraid that my view of the Acropolis looming above from a café will be lost in the mist… er…smog.
It’s true that Athens is a beautiful city. You’d have to be blind not to be left in awe of the not so subtle mesh of ancient and modern while sipping a latte from Starbucks whilst the Acropolis looms overhead. However, mixed amongst the Byzantine churches and ancient ruins, you have over 3 million people packed into a relatively small capital. That’s about 25% of the countries population. And, where there are people in mass, there is mess. After a month or so living here you shake off the initial awe and amazement and notice the alarming lack of environmental concern. It’s not so much the mess on the streets and lack of recycling (although it’s aggravating) that gets to me. For me, it’s looking up at night and thinking ‘Am I on some celestial plain where stars don’t exist?’. The smog and pollution invade the air, with some days causing government warnings to stay inside due to poor air quality. On such days, I sound like a 60 year old veteran smoker of 45 years, hacking up half a lung. Very attractive. But Athens has made moves in the right direction. The welcoming of the world eye for the 2004 Olympics caused this main push. Athens attempted to clean up its act, littering every street corner with recycling and garbage bins. However, as the attention disappeared with the passing of the Olympics, so did most of the recycling bins.
What does give me hope for an eco turn around in Greece comes from speaking with students who peg environmental issues at the top of their political concerns. Many student groups are gaining a voice on the issue. Good. With any luck, this will be top list importance for Athens and she’ll catch the green bug. If not, I’m afraid that my view of the Acropolis looming above from a café will be lost in the mist… er…smog.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Flying solo
I’ve never really had a problem with long haul treks, whether it be by car, boat or plane. I’m a strong believer that getting there is half the fun. All the little bumps and grinds make for, if anything, a more memorable trip. I’ll never forget a family road trip to Toronto when we stayed on the 18th floor of a lovely hotel in the heart of the city…during a heat wave… and a three day citywide black out. Although miserable at the time to be without running water or power and sustaining ourselves off of streetmeat, looking back on it brings about priceless memories and laughs.
But what happens when a travelling experience goes horribly wrong and you’re flying solo?
Any Transatlantic flight is bound to have its ups and downs. Little sleep, screaming babies, thunder snores, and soggy breakfast are all apart of the charm. So, as to be expected, when my overnight flight from Halifax finally landed in Heathrow, I felt like I was walking into the twilight zone where night/sleep didn’t exist. Somehow morning and somehow coherent, I made my way through the nonsensical London airport to the first of two connector flights to Athens.
This is when my travels go from the usual pains of jetlag and airplane food to a debacle of insult and injury.
The staff on board my Lufthansa flight to Munich seemed generally unimpressed with us meagre passengers, not like the usual bubbly Air Canada flight attendants I’ve, up until now have taken for granite. After being grounded for roughly an hour, we took off and lunch was served. Now, having a rather long list of allergies, I tend to quadruple check what I’m being served before I chow down. This time is no exception. I asked one very angry flight attendant what it was that they had served us. Chicken. Good, I can eat chicken. No problem. But as much as I wanted to trust this man, I decided to make positively sure that it was chicken. I asked very specifically “Are you sure it’s not scallops?”. I have never heard the word “Chicken!” said with such venom in my whole life.
So it’s chicken. And I start to eat. Half way through a female attendant quietly sneaks up behind me and tries to steal away my plate. I grab the other end of the tray and we have a brief tug-of-war as I try to explain that I’m not finished. She puts both hands on the tray, snatches it from me and says “Don’t eat that. Not chicken, scallops”. I didn’t know if I should cry, scream or sue. Within twenty minutes my fingers, cheeks and throat had started to swell. My stomach was turning over like an industrial sized washing machine on the spin cycle. Those sitting around me didn’t bother to hide their repulsion as they shifted away from me. I luckily had enough pepto and benadryl to sedate a small horse.
Since the flight coming out of London had been grounded, I was rushing like a disjoined duck to make it to my final connecting flight. I just barely made it. Within a few minutes we were in the air and lunch was being served. A man who had witnessed my metamorphoses on the previous flight, announced on my behalf to the attendants that I was not to be given any kind of seafood (his generosity was derived from the fact that he would be sitting beside me for the next two hours). But even with all his efforts, all that was left to be served by the time they made it to us was salmon with shaved scallops. I opted for the bread.
Finally arriving in Athens, I made my way to the baggage carousel. I waited. No bags. Waited some more. No bags. Finally a man pointed to a counter saying lost baggage. I got the hint. Feeling like I might keel over and die at any moment, I waited in the longest line I’ve been in since the Dumbo ride at Disney. When I reached the counter the lady asked me my name. I told her. She asked me to say it again. So I told her again. This time she followed with a fit of laughter and struggled to catch her breath. More confused and exhausted I have ever been in my whole life, I asked her why she was laughing at me. Apparently, my name, when pronounced in Greek has a very sexual definition. Perfect. They’ve lost my luggage, tried to kill me, and now they are mocking me. I haven’t been in the country for more than 2 hours and I’m already wondering when the next flight back to Nova Scotia leaves.
After a goodnights sleep and a hearty meal, my mood was lifted. And, as the jetlag and allergic reaction dwindled, I was able to appreciate the magnitude of my experience in Greece. Like many places, Greece has a very thick façade of what is to be shared with outsiders. And, as I begin to shake my tourist status, more and more of this unique country of antiquity and modernity is being revealed. All of the lovely visions I had of the Mediterranean lifestyle; good people, food and wine, to name a few, were all too varying degrees accurate. But all of that is based on what I’m suppose to experience as a foreigner. I feel so unqualified to discuss what this country is like because there are already a million different factors and we’ve only seen parts of the southern peninsula.
What I can say for sure is that Greece has already found a snug little place in my heart, where I will hold on to it for dear life.
My rocky beginnings, although tragic for me at the time, have made their way into a humorous anecdote. And, although I experienced it alone, it will be good to conjure up for a laugh for years.
But what happens when a travelling experience goes horribly wrong and you’re flying solo?
Any Transatlantic flight is bound to have its ups and downs. Little sleep, screaming babies, thunder snores, and soggy breakfast are all apart of the charm. So, as to be expected, when my overnight flight from Halifax finally landed in Heathrow, I felt like I was walking into the twilight zone where night/sleep didn’t exist. Somehow morning and somehow coherent, I made my way through the nonsensical London airport to the first of two connector flights to Athens.
This is when my travels go from the usual pains of jetlag and airplane food to a debacle of insult and injury.
The staff on board my Lufthansa flight to Munich seemed generally unimpressed with us meagre passengers, not like the usual bubbly Air Canada flight attendants I’ve, up until now have taken for granite. After being grounded for roughly an hour, we took off and lunch was served. Now, having a rather long list of allergies, I tend to quadruple check what I’m being served before I chow down. This time is no exception. I asked one very angry flight attendant what it was that they had served us. Chicken. Good, I can eat chicken. No problem. But as much as I wanted to trust this man, I decided to make positively sure that it was chicken. I asked very specifically “Are you sure it’s not scallops?”. I have never heard the word “Chicken!” said with such venom in my whole life.
So it’s chicken. And I start to eat. Half way through a female attendant quietly sneaks up behind me and tries to steal away my plate. I grab the other end of the tray and we have a brief tug-of-war as I try to explain that I’m not finished. She puts both hands on the tray, snatches it from me and says “Don’t eat that. Not chicken, scallops”. I didn’t know if I should cry, scream or sue. Within twenty minutes my fingers, cheeks and throat had started to swell. My stomach was turning over like an industrial sized washing machine on the spin cycle. Those sitting around me didn’t bother to hide their repulsion as they shifted away from me. I luckily had enough pepto and benadryl to sedate a small horse.
Since the flight coming out of London had been grounded, I was rushing like a disjoined duck to make it to my final connecting flight. I just barely made it. Within a few minutes we were in the air and lunch was being served. A man who had witnessed my metamorphoses on the previous flight, announced on my behalf to the attendants that I was not to be given any kind of seafood (his generosity was derived from the fact that he would be sitting beside me for the next two hours). But even with all his efforts, all that was left to be served by the time they made it to us was salmon with shaved scallops. I opted for the bread.
Finally arriving in Athens, I made my way to the baggage carousel. I waited. No bags. Waited some more. No bags. Finally a man pointed to a counter saying lost baggage. I got the hint. Feeling like I might keel over and die at any moment, I waited in the longest line I’ve been in since the Dumbo ride at Disney. When I reached the counter the lady asked me my name. I told her. She asked me to say it again. So I told her again. This time she followed with a fit of laughter and struggled to catch her breath. More confused and exhausted I have ever been in my whole life, I asked her why she was laughing at me. Apparently, my name, when pronounced in Greek has a very sexual definition. Perfect. They’ve lost my luggage, tried to kill me, and now they are mocking me. I haven’t been in the country for more than 2 hours and I’m already wondering when the next flight back to Nova Scotia leaves.
After a goodnights sleep and a hearty meal, my mood was lifted. And, as the jetlag and allergic reaction dwindled, I was able to appreciate the magnitude of my experience in Greece. Like many places, Greece has a very thick façade of what is to be shared with outsiders. And, as I begin to shake my tourist status, more and more of this unique country of antiquity and modernity is being revealed. All of the lovely visions I had of the Mediterranean lifestyle; good people, food and wine, to name a few, were all too varying degrees accurate. But all of that is based on what I’m suppose to experience as a foreigner. I feel so unqualified to discuss what this country is like because there are already a million different factors and we’ve only seen parts of the southern peninsula.
What I can say for sure is that Greece has already found a snug little place in my heart, where I will hold on to it for dear life.
My rocky beginnings, although tragic for me at the time, have made their way into a humorous anecdote. And, although I experienced it alone, it will be good to conjure up for a laugh for years.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Defining my culture:
“If everybody is looking for it, then nobody is finding it. If we were cultured, we would not be conscious of lacking culture. We would regard it as something natural and would not make so much fuss about it. And if we knew the real value of this word we would be cultured enough not to give it so much importance.” –Picasso
Culture is just one of those things. We can put neat little definitions on it, but that rarely gets us any closer to understanding it. Luckily, I’m not being asked to define culture in an in-depth analysis of globalization, trans-nationality, etc. I’m simply being asked to define my own culture.
Easier said than done.
It’s not that I can’t attempt to give an explanation as to what my culture is, it’s just that I’m afraid I’ll leave something out. For me, my culture is all the little bits and pieces that make up my daily life. And as I go through each new day, those pieces are introduced to new things that shift and adapt my own personal culture.
I think people can share cultural experiences, distinctions, traditions, and labels, but I feel that culture is distinct to the individual. At least it is in my own definition, which is only one of the many.
My culture then, is something that I have been developing since the day I was born. So in order to define it, it seems I’d have to discuss who I am.
I apologize if this seems self-indulgent. I’ll summarize.
I am a Canadian, an Irish-Canadian, an East Coaster, a Nova Scotian, an Acadian, a woman, a student, a young adult, an animal lover etc... All of which only begins to scratch the surface of who I am and what my culture is.
As I change, my culture changes. I’m sure you can make generalizations in order to define a culture, but if you want to understand the culture of an individual person, you’re better off just asking them to write an autobiography.
Culture is just one of those things. We can put neat little definitions on it, but that rarely gets us any closer to understanding it. Luckily, I’m not being asked to define culture in an in-depth analysis of globalization, trans-nationality, etc. I’m simply being asked to define my own culture.
Easier said than done.
It’s not that I can’t attempt to give an explanation as to what my culture is, it’s just that I’m afraid I’ll leave something out. For me, my culture is all the little bits and pieces that make up my daily life. And as I go through each new day, those pieces are introduced to new things that shift and adapt my own personal culture.
I think people can share cultural experiences, distinctions, traditions, and labels, but I feel that culture is distinct to the individual. At least it is in my own definition, which is only one of the many.
My culture then, is something that I have been developing since the day I was born. So in order to define it, it seems I’d have to discuss who I am.
I apologize if this seems self-indulgent. I’ll summarize.
I am a Canadian, an Irish-Canadian, an East Coaster, a Nova Scotian, an Acadian, a woman, a student, a young adult, an animal lover etc... All of which only begins to scratch the surface of who I am and what my culture is.
As I change, my culture changes. I’m sure you can make generalizations in order to define a culture, but if you want to understand the culture of an individual person, you’re better off just asking them to write an autobiography.
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