Day 9 was today. The weather has been moody the past few days but today it was beyond naughty, almost dirty. I went out to have my coffee. Beautiful weather. I finished my coffee, left to my room and changed. Beautiful weather. I put on my bathing suit, grabbed my stuff and went to the beach. Storm. I came back, changed my clothes, went for a walk. Beautiful weather. Ran back to get my bathing suit and my towel, got to the beach, I was happy for ten minutes then it started pouring. I went back to the hotel, the moment I stepped in the room, the sun was up. I ran back to the beach. Storm came. What a hell…I gave up and went to a taverna and had a lot of seafood. Bliss. And a bit of stomach ache but mostly bliss.
What happened in the meantime, since day 1, you may wonder.
Well, last Friday I went to a have drinks with a cute Italian. He doesn’t speak English, I don’t speak Italian. We ended up at a taverna where an Albanian waiter was serving us. He only spoke Albanian and Greek. This didn’t scare me one bit, I have a Master’s in Intercultural Communication, after all. First I had a short conversation with the Italian:
The Italian: Birra!
Then I placed the order to the waiter:
Lavinia: Two Mythos beers, please.
Waiter: Kalamari? Fries?
Lavinia: We only want drinks, please. No food.
Waiter: Ok. Pork? Fish?
Lavinia: Only beer.
Waiter: Ok, beer. Chicken? Salad? Soup?
When he finally left, I thought it was all clear, finally. But no. He came back with appetizers, five minutes later:
Waiter: Until food is ready.
Lavinia: No food, please. Just beer.
Waiter: Ok, beer. Fish? Salad?
He left us the appetizers on the house and later on he brought us the beer too, asking us of course if we wanted potatoes? rice? chicken? He was like a grandmother that simply couldn’t understand we were not hungry. He also mentioned to us the menu for the next day: Fish. Fresh fish. Small. Medium. Big.
But not only the waiter was funny. The Italian boy was funny as hell too. I felt like I was gonna die because of so much laughter, oh my God! I think who is funny, is funny in any language, even if they don’t speak the language. I don’t know if you understand what I mean. I am not even sure I understand what I mean. However…
We actually talked, you know. I told you I have a Master’s in Intercultural Communication. And no, I don’t mean I talked and he listened, no. Here is how things went on.
I can understand a little bit of Italian and he understands a little bit of Spanish. So my phrases began in Spanish, then I would remember a word or two in Italian and where no words in Spanish or Italian came to me, I would say it in English. I had no idea in what language I was speaking anymore, or if I was speaking any real language. I am pretty sure most words I said in Italian were in fact adapted from Romanian. Like, I pronounced a Romanian word with an Italian accent. Or parlando Italiano con la mano. Or something. I actually have no idea what happened there. But we talked, this is what matters.
He was speaking to me in a sort of Italian and Spanish and the waiter was speaking to us in Greek and Albanian. I didn’t miss my chance to tell the waiter the ten, twelve words I know in Greek, of course. It was Babel there already, it didn’t matter anymore. We learned that “piano piano” is “nadal nadal” in Albanian. Apparently I speak too loud even for an Italian so from time to time he would tell me: piano, piano. And the waiter would complete him: nadal, nadal.
Oh, and the Italian boy has an Egyptian friend. Useless to say I practiced my Arabic too, right? I know about twenty words in Arabic, but I know just the rights words to make me look fluent. Once, I embarrassed the hell out of an Arabic guy who pretended to be Mexican. I must tell you that story some day.