Siga Siga

That was the first Greek I learnt, and it was synonymous with Cypriot culture. Slowly slowly.

1. So, had a ‘meeting’ (seminar type class type thing) at 10.30.

2. The professor casually wandered in at gone 11, disappeared, reappeared, and asked, in apparent astonishment, as to whether we were waiting for him.

3. He’d emailed us yesterday with the time and place of meeting…

4. During this wait, we’d become a tad warm (this being Cyprus), and one of the other Erasmus students had attempted to switch the air con on.

5. This was apparently a bad idea, as it cut off electricity to the entire tower block; we were instructed to wait 5 minutes whilst it got sorted.

6. Three quarters of an hour later, everything started functioning again, and he began to explain various aspects of his course.

7. Quite a strong accent meant I’m still not entirely sure of, erm, anything that he said. All I got was that we have no lectures because they’re all in Greek.

8. Halfway through a sentence, he stood up, announced he had a class to teach, told us to come back tomorrow, and left.

9. And throughout, all I could see, on the shelf behind him, was a rather suspect looking book called ‘Flesh and Wax’.

‘He’ was Charalambous Papacharalambous. ‘C-Papa-C’, I envisaged his contemporaries calling him. Not so fitting for a middle aged, diminutive legal scholar.

Such vague ‘meetings’ continued throughout the autumn semester. Which gave me an abundance of time for other things. Like fulfilling the pretentious cliché decreed by the fact I was both young and travelling: finding myself.

And find myself I did. On stretches of golden sand leading down to the clear blue sea, mostly.