Living Between Worlds
Considering life in another country carries a complex emotional weight. On one hand, there’s the thrill of adventure—which is very real. On the other, it’s a strange experience to find yourself in one of the most beautiful places you’ve ever seen, immersed in a culture rich with authenticity, warmth, and safety, and still feel… isolated.
This feeling stems largely from the language barrier. Even mapping reveals the complications. We’re in Greece, and we don’t speak—or read—Greek. I expected this would pose some limitations, but now that I’m here, I can more clearly articulate the nuances of those limitations.
We often don’t realize how much we absorb from our surroundings just by reading signs and posters. Because Greek uses a different alphabet and has no linguistic overlap with English to use as a guide, we’re often in the dark. We can’t tell if we’re standing in front of a law office or a dental practice. Bakeries and supermarkets are more obvious, and in truth, I rather enjoy shopping at Greek supermarkets. There’s something comforting about the universality of oranges, frozen lasagna, and bags of peas. These are the small wins—recognizable, translatable experiences.
But on the streets, it’s different. I don’t know if I’m driving past a preschool or a pawn shop. And while there’s an abundance of seaside cafés, tavernas, and restaurants, I can’t read the signs well enough to understand what else surrounds us.
The isolation deepens in the absence of conversation. We don’t know what people are talking about, because we can’t talk with them. I have so many questions! Why are yoga studios so rare? Where are the record stores, bookstores, live music venues, art galleries, and museums? In Nafplio, we shared a wonderful evening with a new friend from Belgium. English wasn’t his first language, but he was fluent enough that we easily connected—sharing books we’d both read, podcasts we both loved. We agreed, in advance, to dive into politics (a wise move!) and found ourselves completely aligned. We promised to reconnect in Greece. Ahhh. Since that night with John, we’ve found ourselves wondering: is the lack of art galleries tied to the economic landscape? Does art require discretionary income?
In Preveza, we’ll be meeting with a Greek man who, like me, is an initiate in the Inayatiyya Sufi Order. His English is fairly strong, and he’s lived in Preveza for many years. I hope he’s ready for a barrage of questions!
If we do move to Greece, learning Greek—a language that isn’t easy—is an absolute must. And yet, how strange to have to postpone the experience of true connection with Greeks until we’re fluent. I was surprised by how emotional I felt about this: being among warm and open people, yet unable to access their world in a personal way. This barrier to intimacy—this pause in the potential for shared stories—is deeply felt.
