When traveling, one of my favorite activities is to visit a city’s supermarket. Seeing what junk food people eat, what soaps they use, and how much they pay for their groceries is a nice way to discover a place. The less obvious reason I like supermarkets in other countries is their anonymity. For example, I will never again have to see the cashier who rang up an embarrassing amount of bamba and aloe-chunk water in Israel.
Nevertheless, my loyalty to the virtues of the supermarket is no match for my laziness. Down the hill from my house in Athens is a kiosk—not just any kiosk, mind you, but an executive kiosk. What makes it executive, I’m not entirely sure.
While teaching food vocabulary in Greek class, my teacher asked us to provide some examples of food that one might find at a kiosk, or περíπτερο. She seemed horrified to learn that I buy eggs, bread, and even feta cheese at my local kiosk. I further admitted that the kiosk down the hill serves as my primary source of sustenance. Luckily, I was prepared for the look of judgment that was to exude from her face.
After all, I had been looked upon with that same expression many times by my friendly περιπτερας (kiosk keeper), Vassilis, or Bill. Bill has many a time grimaced at the sight of me bringing up my dinner provisions of a liter of Diet Coke, eggs, and a can of Pringles to his counter. Bill is always there when I return home after a late night of tutoring students, when all I want is a bottle of 1.5% milk. He is also always there to ask me, “Where are your friends?”
I tried in many ways to explain to him that I do indeed have friends—that I live with five other Americans, that I’m even making Greek friends, that he just happens to see me when I’m returning home alone from work. I would even point out to him my friends as I walked by with them. “Look, Bill I have friends!” But to no end, the teasing question persisted. “Where are your friends?”
Eventually I gave up trying to prove my popularity, and my response became, “They are sleeping. How much for the Coke Zero?” But then that response got boring so I learned how to say they are sleeping in Greek, «κοιμουνται». And so arrived my Greek lessons with Bill. Κοιμαμαι was the first of the “amai” verbs (a breed only slightly distinct from and, therefore easily confused with, the “omai” verbs), I learned. Now, when conjugating an "omai" or "amai" verb, I always go back to κοιμουνται so that I don’t mess up the third person plural. It’s a long and convoluted thought process, but I always feel better knowing that taking sixty seconds to remember how to say “they sit” is less embarrassing than most of my kiosk purchases from Bill.