On my front patio in Greece, there are chair cushions with seemingly random words printed on them. They are lined up front ways and sideways, in block letters of differing sizes, on lime green canvas. They creep up on you. You don’t feel their lunacy immediately.
“Good.”
“Goodbye.”
“Anything.” Followed, curiously, by “Thing.” (Anything? Thing.)
There is no punctuation, save for a few periods placed here and there. Just enough to hint at sanity and order, but keep you off kilter.
There is a repeated longer conversation printed in the middle, one you might find in an instructional textbook, an exchange that leaves you feeling like a language robot. (Has AI taken over lawn furniture?)
“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
“I’d like a T please.”
“Do you like this one?”
“No. I don’t like that colour. Have you got a red one.”
When I have to look away from the sea, mountains and white buildings (because you can only stare at beauty so long before it seems to lose its meaning, become almost upsetting to an American used to looking at strip malls and Starbucks) I find myself reading my green chair cushions. Just words, printed for the visual effect. Existing for the vague acknowledgement that there are different languages, and you too can learn how to speak them! And once you have these words in your head, courtesy of subversive osmosis, you can communicate!
I’m not so sure about that. I’ve resorted to using my hands abroad, giving the thumbs up when I agree and waving at every person I see to make sure they know: I’m stupid, but I’m friendly.
It’s my first international trip. First Paris, then Athens, then a little Greek island for swimming and total relaxation. (And here I am on my laptop, which feels like relaxation failure, but I am who I am.)
My first time in Greece, I’m just learning how to say hello and order a coffee. (Although most people here speak English, I feel compelled to say something to them in their language.)
I was surprised to learn that the word for yes in Greek is nai. The word for no is no. Saying yes to something by saying nai feels strange. Like saying, “no, no, no” when someone offers to help with the dishes. You’re really saying yes.
I’m not an etymologist, but as someone who labors over words, trying to find just the right ones (the shortest ones, the lyrical ones, the ones that make you feel something at just the right time), I started thinking about different languages and the ways they say yes and no.
Here are a few for yes:
Greek – nai (as I mentioned)
German – ja
Spanish – si
French – oui
Italian – si
Portuguese – sim
Swedish – ja
Turkish – evet
Polish – tak
Dutch – ja
Ja is apparently the winner, given that the Germans, Swedish and Dutch all agree those two little letters say – well, yes, I would like some fries with that. Yes, I’ll go to coffee with you. Yes, you understand me.
The words for no are more comforting. Many start with the letter n. Many are, in fact, the word no.
The Greeks, Spanish, English and Italians all say no. The others seem to be also intuitively no, even if they are slightly different.
Here are some examples of no:
German – nien
French – non
Portuguese – nao (there is an accent over the “a” that I can’t seem to locate on my laptop; a squiggly line called a “diacritic” or a “tilde”… just imagine it there please)
Swedish – nej
Turkisn – nayir
Polish – nie
Dutch – nee
My friend, an experienced traveler who is serving as my guide, is looking for an English translation of The Iliad. He wants to find a certain translator that he has read before, to make sure the intention of the writing isn’t lost. He wants the feeling of the ancient Greek without the Greek. He knows a few languages and sometimes reads books in French or Spanish. He speaks English mostly, even though it is not his native language.
I had nothing to reply to this noble quest except, “hey, did you know Molly Ringwald translates French books into English?”
He shrugged, giving me that bland look of pity that only the French can pull off. He grew up in France and doesn’t know who Molly Ringwald is.
“Sixteen Candles?” I asked. “Breakfast Club?”
Still no (nien, nayir, nee).
Words don’t just need good translation, they need context. Like nostalgia for an American actress from the 80s who also translates books.
Looking at my patio chair cushions, I think – yes (ja, tak, oui): words can’t stand alone. They need someone arranging them, wrangling meaning from them.
What does this have to do with writing? Do I know?
Nie. I’m on vacation.
I’ll think about it and get back to you.