The sleek black donkey is called Ma

The sleek black donkey is called Marcos, and the old man who rides him is called Andreas. They appear early one morning while I am sitting outside, my back against the wall of the spitaki, a cup of tea cradled in my hands. The gate is on the other side of the house, out of immediate view. I hear hooves knock against the stones that mark the threshold of the gate. To give me warning, the old man shouts some unintelligible greeting that scares me out of my wits. spill tea on my lap.

"Kaleemera," he says gruffly, with a cautious smile. "Kaleemera," I return the greeting and reach for my dictionary He pulls his cane from its resting place in the ropes of the saddle, maneuvers Marcos to a stone, where he aims the cane, then slides off the donkey's back. His lower left leg and foot are deformed; the foot fits into a black boot cut open to accommodate its dimensions. How to describe Barba Andreas, the old shepherd? A yellow piece of cloth is wrapped around his head of white hair. He has a big white moustache, blue eyes, a dandy's flower stuck in the lapel of his green army jacket. Hands. What will I love most here, what will ! dream about years later, to return me to this place? The hands of the islanders. Their thickness, their roughness, their ugliness. Nails broken below the quick. Scars. Missing fingertips and lines of dirt.

Barba Andreas names the plants for me, pointing with his cane and leaning down to pluck off the chamomile blooms. Sitting on a milk crate, he lifts his bad leg up to rest on a stone. I remain sitting against the house in the shade. We both take in the view before us: slender Marcos, eating my melon rinds and shifting in what is, effectively my front yard: poppies; olive trees; the curved and plummeting body of the land, its shapes of green, sage-green, yellow, almond; rose and purple and gray shadow. The sky opens over everything like wide blue hands. And all around us, lassoing the entire island, the sea.

A bearish sound comes from Barba Andreas' throat. As though bored with the view -- how familiar it must be to him -- he turns back to me and says something I don't understand. He points in my direction with his cane. Is he pointing to the low table between us? I look at the table.' Is he pointing to my books on the table? I offer him a book, which he wisely refuses to touch. He pantomimes a motion, but I don't understand. Once more, he directly asks for something and pokes his finger against his chest. I don't understand. Finally, smiling but clearly frustrated, he grabs the tea-pot with one large hand, pours tea into the palm of the other, and raises it to his lips. "Ena poteeri!" he cries, and bangs his cane on the ground, demanding a cup.

Embarrassed, I jump up and go into the little house for another cup. I come out, pour tea, hand it him. He waves away my apologies. He drinks the tea in one go. How many Greek words do I know now? How many? Not enough, never enough. To learn another language one must re-acquire the greedy hunger of a child. ! want, I want, I want. Every desire begins and ends with a word. I want to ask a thousand questions. Where does the path behind the house lead and who lived here before and how do you make cheese and are the sheep in the neighboring field yours and what is this place, truly, and how do I go to the mountains behind the house? Because there is a gate closing off the field that leads to the mountains, and I am afraid to walk through it.

He understands my last, garbled question. "How do you go to the mountains?" he parrots back to me, almost shouting. It is an international assumption that when people don't hear and understand our language, we think they can't hear at all. "How do you go up to the mountains?" Now a slow laugh rumbles in his throat. "Me ta podia!" he cries. Every line of his face proclaims laughter. He slaps his knees, guffawing.

How do you go to the mountains?

Me ta podia. With your feet.

Open the gate, go through it, close it behind you. And walk to the mountains





spitaki- is the Greek word roomed shepherd's house





Karen Connelly was born in Alberta, Canada. She has published award-winning travel books such as Touch the Dragon: A Thai Journal and One Room in a Castle. She is also the author of two works of poetry.

When she is not travelling, Karen Connelly lives in Greece.

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Three Days to See

結果 (中文) 1:

光滑的黑驴叫 Marcos，和老骑着他的人叫 Andreas。他们出现一天清晨，当我坐在外面，我背靠着墙的 spitaki，一杯茶双手抱着。门是这栋房子，快速视图的另一边。我听到马蹄撞标记的大门门槛的石头。以给我警告，这位老人，喊着一些莫名其妙的问候让我害怕把我吓死。洒在我的大腿上茶。"Kaleemera，"他粗声地，说带着谨慎的微笑。"Kaleemera，"我回敬问候，伸手去拿我的字典里，他将从休息的地方，在马鞍上的绳子拉出他的拐杖，演习 Marcos 到一块石头，目的是甘蔗，在那里然后他滑掉了驴背。他的左的小腿和脚变形;脚适合在黑色的靴子，切开来容纳它的尺寸。如何描述老牧羊人巴尔 Andreas?一块黄色的布裹头的白头发。他有大白的小胡子，蓝眼睛，花花公子花困在他的军绿色夹克的翻领上。手。什么将我爱最在的这里，怎么会!梦到年后，我回到这个地方?手中岛上的居民。它们的厚度，其粗糙度，其丑。指甲快速跌破。伤疤。失踪的指尖和线的污垢。巴尔 Andreas 名称植物对我来说，用手杖指和俯身摘下洋甘菊绽放。坐在牛奶箱上，他抬起他的腿有毛病，在一块石头上休息。我仍然坐靠在树荫下殿。我们俩都坐在我们面前视图: 纤细 Marcos，吃我的瓜皮的改变什么，有效我的前院和: 罂粟;橄榄树;土地的曲线和直线下降的身体，其形状的绿色，圣人绿色、 黄色、 杏仁;玫瑰和紫色和灰色阴影。天空打开一切像广阔的蓝色的手。和所有在我们周围，套索整个岛的海。悲观的声音来自巴尔 Andreas 喉咙。好像厌倦了视图 — — 多么熟悉它必须给他 — — 他转身对我，说我不理解的东西。他用手杖指向我的方向。他指向我们之间低表吗?我看看表.'他指向我的书在桌子上吗?我给了他一本书，他明智地拒绝触碰。他哑剧，一项议案，但我不明白。再一次，他直接要求和的东西靠在他胸口戳他的手指。我不明白。他微笑但显然感到失望，最后，拿起茶壶用一只大手，倒茶等的手掌并引发到他的嘴唇。"Ena poteeri!"他哭了，和刘海手杖在地上，要求一杯。不好意思，我跳起来，走进了另一杯的小房子。我来了，端茶倒水，把它他。他挥挥手让我道歉。他一口气喝了茶。我现在知道多少希腊单词?几个？还不够，永远不够。要学习另一种语言之一必须重新获得贪婪饥饿的孩子。!想要我想。每一个愿望的开始和结束与一个字。我想问一千个问题。在后面的房子铅和谁住在这儿之前路径并如何做你制作奶酪是在相邻的字段中的羊，你和这是什么地方，真正，和如何做我到山区去房子后面吗?因为离场，导致山上，关闭一扇门，我怕走了进去。他明白我最后、 乱码的问题。"怎么你去山里吗?"他回我，几乎喊鹦鹉。这是一个国际的设想，当人们不听到并理解我们的语言，我们认为他们根本听不到。"怎么你去山?"现在慢笑隆隆地在他的喉咙。"我 ta 商业街区!"他哭。他的脸上的每一行宣告笑声。他掴他的膝盖，哄笑。你如何去山里?我 ta 商业街区。你的脚。打开这扇门，通过它，关闭它在你身后。走到山 spitaki-是希腊语单间的牧羊人的房子 凯伦 · 康奈利出生在加拿大艾伯塔省。她发表了获奖旅游书籍如触摸龙: 泰国杂志和一间一座城堡。她也是诗歌的两个作品的作者。When she is not travelling, Karen Connelly lives in Greece.录入：倪鸿顶一下(3)37.50%踩一下(5)62.50% 上一篇：（荐）文学阅读MARTIAN CHRONICLES火星纪事 下一篇：（荐）文学阅读A CHRISTMAS CAROL圣诞颂歌 收藏 挑错 推荐 打印 文章搜索 智能模糊搜索 仅搜索标题 搜索 推荐内容热点内容（荐）文学阅读：Sir Gawain and Three Days to See

結果 (中文) 3:

那光滑的黑色驴叫马科斯，骑着他的老人叫安德烈亚斯。他们似乎一天清晨，我坐在外面，我对spitaki墙，双手抱着一杯茶。门在房子的另一边，从眼前看。我听见马蹄磕碰，马克的门槛石。给我警告，老人喊着一些莫名其妙的问候，吓得我魂不附体。洒茶放在我的大腿上。

”kaleemera，”他粗声粗气地说，带着谨慎的微笑。”kaleemera，“我回答我的问候和达到我的字典他把手杖从休息的地方，在马鞍的绳索，演习马科斯石，在那里他是甘蔗，然后滑下驴背。他的左腿和脚都是变形的，脚穿成一个黑色的靴子，以适应它的尺寸。如何描述芭芭安德烈亚斯，老牧羊人？一块黄色的布包裹着他的头上的白头发。他有一个白色的大胡子，蓝色的眼睛，漂亮的花卡在他的军绿色翻领夹克。双手。我最喜欢这里的是什么！梦到多年以后，把我还到这个地方？岛民的手。它们的厚度，它们的粗糙度，它们的丑陋。指甲破了快。伤痕。失踪的污垢的指尖和线。

巴尔巴安德烈亚斯名字的植物给我，用他的手杖，弯腰掐掉洋甘菊花指向。坐在一个牛奶箱上，他把腿抬起来，在一块石头上休息。我仍然坐在树荫下的房子里。我们都走在观前我们：细长马科斯，吃我的瓜皮和什么是有效的转移，我的前院：罂粟；橄榄树；曲线和直线下降的土地，其形状的绿色，灰绿色，黄色，杏仁；玫瑰和紫灰色的阴影。天空张开了一切，如宽蓝色的手。和我们周围的一切，套索整个岛，海。

看跌的声音来自芭芭安德烈亚斯的喉咙。似乎厌倦了这一观点，他对他来说是多么的熟悉，他回头对我说了一些我不明白的话。他用手杖指着我的方向。他指的是我们之间的小桌子吗？我看表，他指的是我桌子上的书吗？我给他一本书，他明智地拒绝触摸。他表演的运动，但我不明白。一次，他直接问什么，拨开他的手指在他的胸口。我不明白。最后，他微笑着，但却清楚地感到沮丧，他用一只大手抓住了茶壶，把茶倒在手心，然后把它举到嘴边。ENA poteeri！”他哭了，刘海手杖在地上，要一杯，我感到很尴尬，我就跳了起来，进入了一个小房子，再去一杯。我出来，倒茶，交给他。他挥手向我道歉。他一个人喝了茶。我现在知道多少希腊单词？多少？不够，永远不够。要学习另一种语言，就必须重新获得一个孩子的贪婪的饥饿感。想要，我想要，我想要。每一个欲望都以一个词开始和结束。我想问一千个问题。房子后面的人和谁住在这里，你怎么做奶酪和在邻近领域的羊，你和什么是这个地方，真正的，我怎么去的山背后的房子？因为有一个门关上了通往山的田野，我害怕走到它，乱码问题。”你怎么去山上？”他鹦鹉还给我，几乎喊。这是一个国际性的假设，当人们没有听到和理解我们的语言时，我们觉得他们根本听不到。”你怎么去爬山？”现在慢慢的笑的隆隆声在他的喉咙里。”我踏足！”他哭。他脸上的每一行宣布的笑声。他拍打他的膝盖，

傻笑。你怎么去山区？我

TA足。用你的脚，打开大门，穿过它，把它关在身后。走到山上





spitaki -是希腊词间牧羊人的房子





凯伦康奈利出世在阿尔伯塔，加拿大。她曾出版过获奖的旅游书籍，如触摸龙：泰国杂志和一个房间在一个城堡。她也是诗歌的两个作品的作者。

当她不旅行，凯伦康奈利生活在希腊。

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