Guest Post: Pregnant in Greece by Anneke Kamerling

This is the last in a guest blog series written by Anneke Kamerling about her expat life in Greece. If you want to find out more about Anneke and her collection of anecdotes, take a look at Typical Greek.

It's not stomach flu after all....

Suddenly I know for sure. I'm pregnant. At first, as I was quite sick, I thought it was the stomach flu, but after visiting the toilet I just felt hungry again. I do not feel ill. So I go to the astonished pharmacist in Pythagorion for a pregnancy test and sure enough, the swab turns blue. I better not say anything yet, I think. My mind focused on guiding those taxing and very bumpy Jeep safaris and walking tours every week. Just continue for now, I decide.

After three months of secrecy, I inform the homefront in the Netherlands and Norway and also tell everyone at the office about my pregnancy. I receive plenty of congratulations and well-intended advice, too - such as; I should not sit with my legs crossed, because then my child can't breathe.

When I walk into the office later, two colleagues are waiting for me. They stand solemly behind chairs with two embroidered cushions and ask me to take a seat. Well, I want to, because I've just returned from the walking tour and feel more or less exhausted. I plop down on the first chair. Alepou nestles at my feet. "Ena agori (a boy)", they cry out enthusiastically. "What boy?" I ask. "You get a boy, a son", is the answer and once again I am warmly congratulated by all. I must get up and under the pillow where I sat, a knife is hidden. Had I known, I would have been a bit more careful. A pair of scissors is removed from under the other pillow. If I had sat there, I would have a daughter, obviously.

Photo: Feikje Meeuwsen

I've lived in Greece since I was 19 years old. From student life with its macaroni dishes, I went straight into the Greek kitchen. When I by exception want to cook something Dutch, I call my mom to guide me. But my taste is changing at the moment. Usually I love all different Greek dishes with loads of garlic, but now I cannot stand garlic anymore. Unfortunately since I am pregnant I can smell a lot better and the garlic smell is prevalent everywhere. I feel sicker and sicker. I crave a steak with spinach and potatoes! Or, yes, garden beans! Behind my house garden beans are grown and I can reap as many as I want. No sooner said than done. I pick some beans, call my mother in Holland and enjoy a typical Dutch meal. Voula my colleague raises her hands to heaven when I tell her about my delicious meal. "Garden beans?" NOT good, I understand. Myth has it, they cause a miscarriage. Now I am instructed to lie on my back on the floor with my legs on a chair. Since that is pretty comfortable, I do as I'm told. Voula rushes across the street and comes back with a blue stone on a long chain, which she puts around my neck. With every movement the stone gently touches my belly and this way my baby is well protected against the evil eye.

Unfortunately I seem to summon the evil eye on my baby myself time after time. I walk with Alepou near my house, when he suddenly is attacked by a cat. I'm so stupid to interfere and then the cat hangs with claws and teeth in my leg. It appears to be a nursing mother, because now the little ones emerge from the high grass. Exceptionally I kick like my life is depending on it and finally the cat let's go. Hissing, she disappears with her offspring back into the grass. I realize I need a tetanus shot and I go to the Dutch doctor, who does the control of my pregnancy. I ask her about the beans story. "Oh no", she says. "Beans are high in folate and that is good for you! But that steak should be cooked well done, that's best." I'm feeling reassured. I also have to have an ultrasound made at the hospital in Samos town. This is standard in Greece. I emphasize that I do not want to know which gender the baby will be and the gynaecologist almost lets the cat out of the bag. He is used to announcing the big news and I can tell he thinks I am a strange case.

I can cope better and better with my nausea. I drive across the whole island until I get home in Limnionas, run to the toilet, empty my stomach and then plunder the fridge. I hold information meetings, where I must visit the toilet during breaks, rinse my mouth and answer the questions from my guests. Breakfast consists of three sessions: A peanut butter sandwich, the toilet and another peanut butter sandwich. My stomach begins to get rounder.

When I rub my stomach at the office and sigh that I just have to have some watermelon, Voula jumps up in panic and spits at me, "ftou, ftou. You do not want your child to have a wine stain birthmark on his belly in the shape and the size of a watermelon, do you? Are you crazy?" she lectures me. "A bunch of grapes, then?" I ask teasingly and rub my sweaty neck. "No, no, stop!" is her response. Could she really believe in those myths? I wonder.

Just back from their delivery rounds...

A few months before childbirth, I leave for the Netherlands, loaded down with lots of gold, blue eyes and sachets filled with garlic and herbs against the devil's influence on my future son. And yes, it's a boy! But what do I see on his neck? A small wine stain birthmark, consisting of tiny red balls. "Oh, that will disappear soon enough", says the paediatrician. "It is a stork bite."

Stork bite, grapes, I do not know. And I don't care. My son is healthy and he is named after Dionysus!

Guest Post: Boat Trip by Anneke Kamerling

This is the second in a guest blog series written by Anneke Kamerling about her expat life in Greece. If you want to find out more about Anneke and her collection of anecdotes, take a look at Typical Greek.

Photo: Alex Ling

"Do you know that McDonalds has opened a restaurant in Athens?" my Greek colleague Irini asks me one hot August day in 1992. "Well", I say, "we should celebrate!"

No sooner said than done. The next weekend we leave on Friday with the boat 'Sappho' towards Athens. It is a whole night sailing and the next morning we drive off the ferry in Piraeus, in my from the Netherlands brought car. Irini and I drive straight to the centre of Athens. I feel right back home. Athens is my city. Here I have spent several winters, like many islanders do and by now I know the city by heart.

I park the car at Orestis' place, a friend of mine, who has a shop in Monastiraki and together with him we enjoy breakfast on a terrace in the neighbourhood. We explore the Plakka on foot and of course, we also pay a visit to the Acropolis. In the evening we join the queue, which reaches beyond the doorstep, for a Big Mac at Syntagma Square. How is it possible? I hear you thinking. And that with all that delicious Greek food everywhere? Well, that answer I won't share, but the fact is that it tastes just fine to us.

The boycott which is currently being held on all Dutch products leaves a bitter taste though. This relates to the issue of Macedonia. The Greeks don't recognize the newly proclaimed Republic of Macedonia. Everywhere there are posters with: 'Macedonia is Greek, always was and always will be!' The Greeks fear that the former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia will claim the Greek Macedonia area (and all of Greece) and they want Macedonia to change its name, constitution and flag in order to prove the contrary. The Greeks also proclaim a trade embargo against the former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia and boycott products from several other European countries, including the Netherlands.

How deep this resentment goes, I notice when I arrive at my car on Sunday morning and see how it is scratched with the text: 'Macedonia is Greek!' Two tires have been punctured as well. We are faced with a problem. I only have one spare tire. Fortunately, Orestis has a solution. We call a garage nearby. It's good with connections! This is how things work around here. The car is towed away and although it is a Sunday, two new tires are rapidly put on, so that we can drive again. We're going to visit some friends of Irini in Peristeri and have lunch with them before we are to board in Piraeus again.

We have all the time in the world, but nevertheless we call at the office of the ferry company in the port area already at 19.00. We get a surprise! Tonight there's no boat. "But we have the tickets", I say. The boat has been cancelled due to technical problems. Now what? We call the friends of Irini and they have a solution. We take a taxi to the airport and they agree to put my car the next night on the boat. The key is under the mat, the ticket in the glove box. This very evening we fly back to Chios. The car will come later.

Much later, I learn. When I enter the port of Chios on a borrowed scooter at 05.00 hours on Tuesday, I just see the 'Sappho' leaving the port rather than arriving, my car still on board. Other people arrive with stuffed bags in their hands, shouting and screaming that the boat has left too early. A few tourists look around, confused. The representative of the ferry company takes in the chaos and raises his arms again and again in a typical Greek gesture that says "so it is, no different, I also cannot help it". And so my car is on an unplanned boat trip to Kavala.

On Thursday we are reunited. I sneak myself onboard the ferry, grasp the key from under the mat and drive off quickly. In my own car with new tires and political slogan across the whole side.

Guest Post: Psonia by Anneke Kamerling

This is the second in a guest blog series written by Anneke Kamerling about her expat life in Greece. If you want to find out more about Anneke and her anecdotes, take a look at Typical Greek.


Shopping in Greece is an adventure in itself.

I like to stroll about the market, where tomatoes are uglier but sweeter than at the supermarket, the fish is fresh and free-range chickens have really been free. Hungry for chicken? Then you have to kill, pluck and slaughter it yourself. For other meat there is a separate department. Here, cows and sheep hang like brothers (or should I write sisters?) together in the open air, where flies and wasps have free play. How do I get some minced meat and where is that steak, exactly? In my poor Greek, I ask for fine (ground) meat. "All meat is fine", answers the seller proudly. "Yeah but I mean ..." I try to explain with hand gestures. "For the keftedes (meatballs)," I finally get out. Ah, now he seems to understand me. He cuts off a piece of the cow. Lets it fall into a waste well, picks it back up, wipes it off on his bloody apron and puts it in a big meat grinder, which I didn't see earlier. Otherwise I would have pointed straight at it, of course. That will have to be well-done, I think, as I stare at the waste pit. The butcher captures the mince on a piece of paper, grabs it and sets the price. Should I bargain or not? I ask if he wants to repeat. "Slowly, please." It sounds different than before. Has it got cheaper or more expensive or did I really not understand just now? I pay. "Kali órexi (enjoy your meal)," he beams at me in a friendly farewell.

Photo: Pal Csonka

In the village five kilometres below the village where I live is a mini market. Here, you can get anything! Along the walls are shelves with crates full of vegetables and fruit, cans of tomatoes, and bags of chickpeas and lentils, baby milk, toilet paper, books, and soft drinks, and on the ground here and there boxes with washing powder, detergent, diapers, oil barrels, beer crates, spirit bottles and homemade wine. The outfit also serves as a cafe. A meeting place for the men of the village who sit together all day in front of the only TV for miles, watching, no matter what is broadcasted. They sip their Greek coffee or ouzo together with a glass of water, which invariably remains untouched. But why this shop is very important to me is the fact that here not only the only TV, but also the only phone for miles around is to be found. I regularly stop here on the way home, in order to do some shopping or to call my parents. Calling is expensive and so I ask my parents to call me every Tuesday at 21.00, Greek time. I make sure I'm on time. I order a beer or a soda and join the men watching some Greek soap, until promptly at 21:00 the phone rings. The owner picks up the horn and passes it on to me. After a few weeks she doesn't pick up the phone anymore, but gives me permission to do so with a friendly nod. This way I keep my parents informed about my adventures on Corfu.

Photo: Constantin Jurcut

In Corfu town, I often use the indispensable periptero (kiosk). Anyone who has been in Greece knows exactly what I mean. In every town, village or hamlet is at least one periptero. This is a sort of Makro in mini size. Within about two square meters you can find almost everything you could get at a supermarket - from chilled beer and soft drinks, snacks, tobacco, ice, books, magazines, toys and bus tickets to drugstore products, including an extensive range of condoms and aspirins. Usually you will find a public telephone as well. Amongst all this it's never easy to locate the salesperson. Wedged in the box with everything within arm's reach he or she serves customers, day and night, through a small hatch. Whenever I walk down the street, the periptero is always open. Even during siesta time. Might the clerk literally have gotten stuck in there?

As friendly as people in the market and the shops are, so stiff are the officers and bank employees. Once a Greek takes place behind a desk, he undergoes an unprecedented transformation. Women often also seem to like to use glasses on their noses, making them look even stricter. Suddenly they no longer smile, and the jovial 'no problem' is not used anymore. "Nai?" sounds a gruff voice from behind the desk, usually protected by a glass shield, and you as a customer can start a monologue, which the clerk in question is listening to with a stoic face. No response. They would excel at poker, these officials! Sometimes they go in an agonizingly slow pace into action and you get what you came for. Often they abruptly leave you, without explanation, to discuss your private matter loudly with colleagues. Privacy is out of the question. Also because all other Greeks do not wait their turn politely lined up, but prefer to eavesdrop nearby so they won't miss any of your business. Very possibly, the clerk will nod you on to the next counter, where the entire situation can start from scratch...

Guest Post: It's All Greek to Me by Anneke Kamerling

This is the first in a series of extracts by Anneke Kamerling from her booklet called 'Typical Greek' about her experiences as an expat in Greece. You can find out more at het-boekje.nl.

Photo: Chrissi Nerantzi

I know the Greek alphabet. The word itself is Greek. I learned it from my father, before I was taught ancient Greek at school. The advantage is that I can read what is written. The disadvantage is that I do not understand what it means. I must learn Modern Greek, now that I'm established here in Greece. But learning Greek is different from learning English or German and even French is a cinch compared to this complex language.

The ancient Greek language is more than 3000 years old. It is a dead language that no longer develops. Over the centuries, Greece was often conquered and occupied. Especially during the Turkish occupation, which lasted over 400 years, the development of the Greek language virtually stopped. The population continued to speak the language though and also in the Greek music the language was kept alive, but reading and writing at that time was dominated by only a select group of scholars and clerics within the oppressed Greek Orthodox Church. In the 19th century the 'Katherevousa' was introduced. This artificial language, composed by scholars who held to the ancient Greek from ancient times, was taught in schools as the official written language.

The spoken language, which had been through a natural development, differed enormously. After the fall of the colonels the Katherevousa was abolished in 1974. The spoken language, 'Dimothiki', became also the written language. This is the language, which to this day is used in Greece. The language has kept the alphabet of the ancient Greek language, but is constantly evolving with new words like airplane, computer, etc.

I start studying Modern Greek. Some words are recognizable from the Ancient Greek, but these are mostly words that we have integrated into our language, such as psychology, pharmacy, mechanics, etc., so that doesn't help much.

It starts with the simple yes and no. Where is it heading when 'yes' is 'no' (ναι)? Most difficult for me, however, are the language's five is, the two os, the two es and the accented syllables. The accent is not only specific in the Greek language, but also important. The same word spoken with a differently positioned accent can mean something completely different. Often I pronounce words wrong. For example: I ask at a romantic dinner for a sweet prison*... I regularly go one day to the much*... I look through the mosque τζαμί (tzamí) of the window τζάμι (tzámi) and I give my kiss φιλί (filí) a girlfriend φίλη (fíli)... who by the way is also of a different race φυλή (filí). Over time I've learned the difference between children παιδάκια (pedákia) and lamb chops παïδάκια (païdákia), I read a passage χωρίο (chorío) from a book about a village χωριό (chorió) and I am πότε πότε quite upset of the word πότε, or is it ποτέ?* In the beginning I actually said soft μαλακά (malaká) when trying to call someone a wanker μαλάκα (maláka).

It gets more confusing! Not only does the accent play a role, but also the pause between two words is crucial, something the Greeks do not usually take so closely. For example if you order two large cups of tea, δύο τσάι, μεγάλα (dio tsai megála) don't forget to pause at the comma. Otherwise you will be surprised when you get two cups of tea with milk, namely δύο τσάι με γάλα (dio tsai me gála). Anyway, for English people it makes no difference.

But those vowels... That is exactly ακριβώς (akrivós) where I pay a high ακριβός (akrivós) price. The squadron ίλη (íli) bites in the dust ύλη (íli). It costs me liters λίτρα (lítra) of ransom money λύτρα (lítra).
Or even worse, the combination of vowels and stress, for example: I speak μιλώ (Miló) of an apple μήλο (mílo) or, a healthy complexion χροιά (chriá) is no necessity χρεία (chría). Besides όμως (ómos), I am beaten on my shoulder ώμος (ómos) for all that όμως (ómos) in a cruel ωμός (omós) way every time the Greeks were laughing at my blunders!

Φυλακή (filakí) = prison. Φιλάκι (filáki) = kiss
Πολύ (polí) = much. Πόλη (póli) = city
Πότε πότε (póte póte) = occasionally
Πότε (póte) = when and ποτέ (poté) = never

New Guest Post Series - Typical Greek

Anneke Kamerling

Next week a series of four blog postings will start about expat life in Greece, as told by Anneke Kamerling. Anneke is a Dutch writer (as well as an interior designer and visual artist) from Ermelo who lived for 10 years in Greece. Having written a number of travel guides for het-boekje.nl, she has now compiled a booklet from anecdotes about her life abroad in this beautiful country. She tells about everything from being pregnant in Greece and shopping for chicken to unblocking toilets and riding motorcycles. She has kindly allowed me to publish four of her tales but if you want to read more visit het-boekje.nl.

Guest Post Series: Mutton on the Move by Roberta Beach Jacobson

There are more sheep than people on the Greek isle of Karpathos. My husband Alf and I have learned much about the rhythm of our island from observing the sheep who decorate the hillsides. Sheep seem to be everywhere.

I fondly remember a lazy island day when the sun was relentless. Tourists with towels on their heads huddled under umbrellas at outdoor cafes, nursing frappes (iced coffees) or attacking chunks of watermelon with forks. It was impossible to sit at the beach, where pebbles sizzled like sausage patties on the grill.

Nobody yelled, “Action!” so it wasn't a well rehearsed movie stunt. A lone sheep appeared from around the corner of the pharmacy, staying on the brick sidewalk, darting past the fishing tackle store, picking up speed near the jewellery shop.

We heard the cloven-hoofed clatter before we saw anything woolly. By the time the sheep reached cafe alley, tourists and locals alike had jolted from near-heatstroke back to life, cameras at the ready.

No matter that Karpathos lies some three-hundred-and-ten miles distant from Marathon, where the first race was held, there was no holding back such a determined creature on the loose. None of us stayed in the chair. We clapped and cheered for the sheep as it sped past in a blur.

Alas, no Olympic medals were handed out that day, but there's no doubt who holds the distinction of being the most photographed sheep on the island.

Roberta Beach Jacobson is an expat living in Greece. For more from Roberta, visit http://www.RobertaBeachJacobson.com