The Eye of a Foreign Language

Greece

“You’re going to Cyprus so you need to learn Greek.” So began my relationship with the Hellenic world and a stint in each of two very different places. The piney, pebbly shores of Patras with the delightfully disinterested Androutsellis family; and the gun-toting, bandit island of Crete in the house of moustachioed Savas Papadakis the window maker and his kind wife Katarina.

Greece

In Crete I was taught the language at Hania university by a thirty-something single mum who was funny, witty, and an ardent, chain-smoking communist. She spent each morning critiquing British imperialism and batting aside my childishly constructed counter-arguments.

At the weekends I borrowed Savas’ battered old Renault and drove round the island with two Spanish girls I met on Campus, listening to Joni Mitchell and drinking Kotsifali red wine. We played Blue on repeat and even found the beach and the caves she lived in while writing the album.

Needless to say my Spanish would have been better than my Greek by the time I got back to London to take the language exam if it hadn’t been for Katarina persevering with me day after day. “You are going home a true son of Crete.”

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Costa Rica

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