test case

a tap, a tip, a palindrome

As to the matter of the test last week, it was more trouble than I thought. It was also a great opportunity to get into trouble of a different kind, the kind you don’t really pass or fail: you just live it and assimilate it later.

The test consisted of four parts: listening, reading, writing, and speaking. (There were several additional components to the trouble, which is being discussed elsewhere.) I know Greeks like to think that their language is the richest, most complex, and most difficult language on earth to learn. I don’t know of any objective standard for such a claim, and I don’t have experience in enough languages to make meaningful comparisons, but I find the Greek language, if not the Greek people, reliably rule-based and reassuringly routine – in everyday matters, at least. I was even teaching it, until my student moved away.

Some parts of the test were easier than others. I found synonyms, completed paragraphs, took notes on dance therapy and cinema for schoolkids, discussed the principles of a proverb and the virtues of vegetarianism. I wrote a letter to a friend who wanted to run for mayor and an essay on unemployment. What I couldn’t do was distinguish the “myths of alcohol” from the realities, or correct the gaffes of Greeks (τα λεγόμενα μαργαριτάρια). I probably made a few my own (ας τις πούμε πατάτες καλύτερα). I also couldn’t keep my face from burning or my hands from fluttering, ice cold.

It may have been a mistake to take the test. I know that my perception of a good day or a bad one depends on how much Greek I get to use or have to use, and how good or bad it comes out. (Inside my head, it’s always pretty good.) That morning, that day was full of promise. But by evening, I was speaking in English, if and when I spoke at all.