Foreign Feelings

Piraeus is the second-busiest passenger port in the world, but it’s not a tourist town. The millions of tourists who board the ferries and cruise ships here are on their way to other places: there’s not a lot to gawp at in Piraeus. Outside of the port area the town comprises a mass of residential five-story blocks - except for the hill overlooking the ancient fishing harbour on the opposite side of the peninsula, where the steeply winding streets accommodate smart-looking houses and villas. The fact that the population is not at all diverse (I haven’t seen one Chinese or Indian restaurant) makes this a good location for a couple of weeks of experiencing a habitat different from one’s own - which is what we’ve been doing. Think of our sojourn here as an exercise in questioning assumptions of the way we live and the habits we have fallen into back at home. Think of it also as an opportunity to reflect upon what it is to be English – as opposed to, say, Greek.

There have been some desultory attempts lately - prompted by the question of immigrant integration into British society - to pin down a definition of British - or English - values. But it’s a slippery concept: the often bitterly contested differences between our main political parties should be enough to demonstrate that there is no absolute consensus when it comes to defining national values. But there is another, less conscious and more subtle level on which national cultural characteristics are acquired: by absorption rather than consent. Consider these lines from a novel by Zia Haider Rahman (a second generation immigrant educated at Oxford) where he is describing a stranger: “His body was that tiny bit removed from stillness that is the mark of a kind of Englishness”. No, I don’t quite know what he means either, but I do know what he’s getting at: there are some very subtle cultural tics that distinguish one society from another.

So here we are in Piraeus, an in-between existence, living among locals but not of the locality; some days taking the Metro to the nearby tourist honeypot of Athens, other days staying put;  lingering in the laid-back coffee bars and buying supplies at the family-run shops which pepper the streets of these densely populated few square kilometres. It’s very enjoyable but, with each passing day, I become more uneasy about just one thing: my ignorance of the Greek language. It’s all very well in central Athens where the tables are turned: English is the lingua franca of the omnipresent tourism industry and any Greek operative refusing to use it would be committing commercial suicide. But here, in the sanctuary of their homeland so to speak, it feels disrespectful to assume that the same applies.

Of course I have learned a few words – whole phrases even – but the application of them is problematic. Building up confidence to use them for the first time is one thing but the real difficulty begins when, after having executed a flawless salutation, such as kalimera, it becomes immediately apparent to all present that there is no more. I then look sheepish, smile a lot and start to babble apologies - in English - for my lack of competence. More often than not I have been rescued from embarrassment by the natives who either speak English themselves or can summon a person who does. In the family-run shops, for example, parents serving at counters call their children from the back rooms to translate - then listen carefully to see whether the money they spent on their education has been well-invested.

Soon it will be time to scuttle back home. I’m reluctant to leave but I am looking forward to being in a place where I can feel more comfortable about being, well, English.