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REGULAR PROGRAM STARTS

We would like to inform you that on the 6th of October 2008 we will start with a Regular Program (8 weeks, 72 hours, 749€) for elementary level (maximum 6 students). The lessons will take place three times per week, in the afternoon. In case that you are interested in, do not hesitate to contact us.

A long-term love affair with Greece takes a new turn when ANDREA MARECHAL decides it's time to learn the language.
It would, of course, have been different if I'd gone to Spain or France year in, year out for my summer fix of sun. By now, I'd have a phrase book of sentences at the ready that would enable me to order the day's special in the local restaurant, and maybe even barter a bit in the street market. But its Greece's shores that have drawn me repeatedly on my annual holiday, and the Greek language that is one of the toughest nuts to crack. Which explains why, despite regular visits, I've only managed to glean a hard core of well-worn phrases - thank you, good morning, please, how are you. On the rare occasions someone is fooled into thinking I can speak Greek and tries to start a conversation, I can’t understand a word. It is, as they say, all Greek to me.
But this year, I decide it's time to up the ante. And so I head to Chania, an old port in western Crete, to take a week's course in Greek. As it's morning school only, there should be plenty of time to fit in some sunbathing - if I don't come back fluent in Greek, at least I'll have acquired a tan.
When I set off for my first day in the classroom at the Alexander the Great Hellenic Language School, I expect the grandiose name to be matched by a bearded old don and a dilapidated 18th-century building with crumbling yellow walls and rusty window grilles Not a bit of it. The school turns out to be modem, with my teacher Eleni as young and contemporary as the premises. What's more, the only other student is so much more advanced than me that we each end up having private lessons.
On day one, Eleni starts me with the absolute basics. The Greek alphabet has 24 characters, which are very beautiful to write but rather confusing because for some reason, H is E, B is V and P is R. And that's before we get to the five Es. But after just two hours, these indecipherable hieroglyphics turn into recognisable words - I can now make sense of some street signs, and, frankly, it seems nothing short of a miracle.
Practice makes Perfect

Reading the signs is something Eleni and I do later when we head out for some retail therapy. I'm delighted to find that the school is close to Chania's lovely market, the Agora, in a warren of old, narrow streets where the shops sell impressively cheap clothes.
School is officially out at 1pm and, armed with a map, I walk back to the house of a local woman, Mrs Saridaki, who is putting me up so I can get a dose of total immersion. Of course, I get lost, and am forced to try my first unassisted Greek sentence. Stopping at a kiosk, I peer inside, point at my map and ask in my best Greek: 'Where am I?' The gnarled old man inside shrugs with indifference. I move on.
After lunch, Mrs S drives me to a beach not far from the centre. There's a compound with a couple of old ladies in black cardigans and fat Greek men wearing swimwear rather like codpieces as they pat tennis balls with bats. A ticket seller who looks like a pirate robs us of eight euros for the sun-loungers. Mrs S is scandalised.
Going to the beach isn't the only trip that's possible when schools out. If students decide to stay in a hotel, rather than with a family, there's a whole programme of excursions to local landmarks and sights. At weekends, when there are no classes, the teachers take those who are fit enough for a five-hour walk to the famous Samaria Gorge in the southwest - a national park with deer, lakes and cascades. The 18km trail leads down through the deep crevasse of the gorge to a small beach.
Another popular outing, which Mrs S takes me on the following afternoon, is to the monasteries of Agia Triada and Gouvernetou on the Akrotiri peninsula. They were built some 400 years ago by two Italian brothers, and the larger has a small museum with delicate icons and fine old embroidered chasubles. On the way home, we stop at the cemetery of local hero Eleftherios Venezelos, the man who unified Crete with Greece.
I slip easily into a routine. The day starts when Mrs S greets me with an unintelligible jumble of sounds, which I deduce to be something to do with breakfast. I can only stumble out: 'Uhm, ne - Nescafe.' She plies me with cheese, bread rolls, orange juice and words. Then, satchel on back, I join the children in the street going to school where Eleni and I launch back into verbs. Echo, ehis, ehe... The words are a pleasure to roll around the mouth, like gargling with language.
Eleni says many students want to learn Greek because they find it so beautiful. But after my initial glee, I struggle to understand anything, which interferes with the aesthetics of my lessons. I am exhausted and get angry. 'You are doing well,' Eleni soothes. 'Don't worry. Some students give up on the first day. They say it is too difficult. Some are Greeks who have lived in America all their lives.'
One night, we dine at the harbour. Two gypsy girls dance and play music coins while the coloured from the tavernas sparkle on the Abandoning attempts to learn more vocabulary, I down three glasses of raki, egged on by Mrs S. Of course, the next day, I regret it, finding the after-effects of the alcohol hindering me as 1 sit at a small white formica table trying to workout my irregular verbs. Cunningly, in Greek, I suggest a walk as a way to get some fresh air. 'Polipoliorea!' cries Eleni, which roughly translated means: 'Jolly, jolly good,' and off we go to the market. As we explore, Eleni listens to me stuttering through phrases that probably only she can understand. 'Polipoliorea!' she beams, while shoppers turn to stare.
Midway through the week, I think I am making headway. Until, that is, I go home, get lost again and ask three schoolgirls: 'Where am I?' They collapse in fits of giggles. So much for progress. I turn to the TV for inspiration. There's the Greek version of Fame Academy, which at least is easy to get the gist of. As I watch teenage wannabeeir dreams shattered, I wonder if I haven't been over-optimistic about learning Greek. Although I can read a bit now, I find the tendency the Greeks have of joining everything up when they speak difficult to work out - where does one word stop and another start? I spend another night in front of a 1950s Greek film, trying to chop up the words. A young girl is leaning against a tree, staring passionately into the eyes of her handsome boyfriend: '0 Phillipos... you are ... I must ... very bad water.' Eh? I must have missed something.
The news is full of Olympic preparations, with reports of foreign journalists turning up to ask if the stadium will be ready for August 13. The minister of sport says: 'Give us a break on television, No, my Greek doesn't suddenly improve - I'm watching the BBC. School continues, more often at the market than not. 'Parakalo thetas napalmed sting Agora,' I say to Eleni, which roughly translated means 'Let's hop it to the market as soon as I get to school. And off we go because it's a great way to learn the words you really need in life. On my last evening, there's a chance to shine with MY newly acquired skill when
I meet an old Greek friend for dinner. Meze arrive in abundance, the wine flows, as does the conversation in English. My microscopic Greek vocabulary shrivels up like a snail doused in salt. Never mind, I think, as with the Olympics, it's not winning that matters but taking part. At least, that’s what I tell myself on my way home, weighed down with gifts from Mrs S and determined to return for another weeks course later on in the year.
And then, at Athens airport, I see a small girl sitting in her mother's lap and ask in Greek: 'How old is she?'
The mother turns to me and says: 'Oh, you speak Greek.' Which is when I really understand the meaning of at least one Greek word euphoria.
For more information, log on to www.cactuslanguage.com or call 01273 725200.