This morning I discovered that I am apparently old enough for newspapers to start explaining my vocabulary to the next Greek generation.
The headline was:
«Βέρος»: Μια σπάνια ελληνική λέξη που αξίζει να γνωρίζουμε.
“Veros: A rare Greek word worth knowing.”
Rare?
This was news to me.
Mostly because I have been using the word for approximately my entire life.
Βέρος — veros.
Genuine. Authentic. The real thing.
When used about where someone comes from, it means more than simply living there. It carries the sense of being genuinely from the place — native, rooted, the real article.
You might say:
Βέρος Αθηναίος — veros Athinaios.
A true Athenian.
Or:
Βέρος Κηφισιώτης — veros Kifissiotis.
A genuine Kifissiotis.
Not someone who moved to Athens three years ago and has already developed strong opinions about parking.
Born there. Raised there. Family roots there. Knows which streets flood, which bakery is actually good, and what used to be on that corner before half the neighborhood was born.
Veros.
Perfectly normal Greek.
Or so I thought.
Because I have now tried the word on younger Greeks.
“Veros.”
Blank stare.
“Vera?”
No.
Veros.
“Vera? Like a wedding ring?”
Ah.
Now we have a problem.
Because:
Βέρα — vera.
A wedding ring.
That is indeed a perfectly ordinary Greek word.
But that is not what I mean.
I mean veros.
As in veros Athinaios.
Simple.
Except this is Greek.
So naturally it is not simple.
Because veros is also an adjective.
Masculine:
Βέρος — veros.
Feminine:
Βέρα — vera.
Neuter:
Βέρο — vero.
Yes.
Vera.
The exact word I have just been insisting is not the word I mean.
Except sometimes it is.
Welcome to Greek.
So:
Veros Athinaios.
A true Athenian man.
But:
Vera Athinaia.
A true Athenian woman.
And no, she has not suddenly become a wedding ring.
Context is expected to sort this out.
Apparently Greek feels that is sufficient.
I feel Greek has lost the right to complain if anyone gets confused.
And veros can reach beyond geography too.
A veros Kritikos is Cretan through and through.
A veros Maniatis is a true Maniot.
A veros Salonikios is Thessalonian to the bone.
The word can also describe someone who completely embodies what they are.
Βέρα γιατρός — vera giatros.
To me: vera giatrina.
A doctor through and through.
Or a veros rocker.
Not someone who owns one Led Zeppelin album.
Someone for whom the music, black T-shirts, guitars and questionable hearing have become a complete way of life.
That is what veros does.
And that is why I was slightly startled to discover it being presented as a rare Greek word worth rediscovering.
The article itself describes it as one of those words that used to be heard more often and have faded with time.
Apparently I have reached the age when I can use perfectly ordinary Greek and younger Greeks look at me as if I have just quoted Homer.
I have become old Greek.
Not Ancient Greek.
That would at least have dignity.
Just old Greek.
And then I remembered Karen and our son.
A while back she used the word switchboard.
Our son looked at her like a deer in headlights.
“Switchboard?”
Karen repeated it.
You know.
A switchboard.
The thing where calls came in and someone connected you to the person you were trying to reach.
To Karen, this was not some antique term from a telecommunications museum.
It was simply a word.
A perfectly ordinary noun that had been sitting quietly in her vocabulary for decades, causing no trouble.
And suddenly her own child was looking at her as if she had said:
“After lunch I shall summon the telegraph operator.”
That is a very specific moment in life.
You know you are getting older.
You see the birthdays.
You see the gray hair.
You notice that people in positions of enormous responsibility increasingly appear to be twelve.
But nobody warns you about the vocabulary.
One minute a word is completely ordinary.
The next minute it is a historical artifact.
And you are apparently its curator.
Maybe my relationship with veros is especially strange because I left Greece for thirty years.
When I came home, I brought the Greek I had left with.
Most of it still works perfectly well.
But every so often I use a word that was entirely ordinary when I left and discover that Greece has apparently moved on without informing me.
The article gives veros a lovely meaning: not simply someone who comes from a place, but someone who carries that place within them its roots, memories and history.
I like that.
Maybe that is why the word never sounded old to me.
I carried it with me.
So yes.
Veros Athinaios.
Veros Kifissiotis.
The genuine article.
And if we’re talking about a woman?
Vera.
Yes.
Vera.
Like the wedding ring.
So after all that, the young people were not entirely wrong.
Which is irritating.
And if this keeps up, Karen and I may have to start carrying a switchboard around just to complete the look.
