Greek Exam, part one

I've been trying to think of the comic aspects of my Greek exam, but there aren't many. I don't know how I manage to get myself into these situations, nor why I deal with them so badly.

Fine, so I'm told to go first, because I'm the Erasmus student. We enter a tiny airless office, and I'm given a chair in direct sunlight. The professor and his assistant sit opposite me, and I realise that - as per the lessons - I can barely understand my professor. I don't know why; I don't think it's his accent. Perhaps it's something about his phrasing. He also seems to swallow his words. This means that I fail to answer basic questions about where I'm from. Not a good start.

So we begin, and it immediately goes wrong. I'm asked to say something about Homer's poetry, but I don't understand. In the context of what? Does he want me to talk about the epic tradition, or the way other poets used his work? About the Homeric identity thing? I make a fish impression, and ask him to repeat the question. "This is really basic, you know." He snaps, and asks me about Milman Parry. So I mumble something about analysing traditional Slavic poetry and comparative studies. He looks very unimpressed.

At this point, I realise that I wasn't supposed to read the sixth book of the Iliad, but the sixth book of the Iliad in the schools' commentary he'd written. "So, have you read this book? Why not? I can't believe you'd come to the exam without reading the book..." My level of shame and embarrassment is about as high as I think it can go - but then we arrive at metre. This doesn't go well. Reading in metre at sight doesn't come naturally to me, and even with practise I'm hesitant.  By now the assistant is making gestures behind the professor's head, trying to indicate where the feminine caesura goes. I'm just embarrassed by this, but eventually give in and repeat the information he mimes at me. This just goes on, and on. I translate the passage I've read, badly, and then I get grilled on the grammar. The assistant is trying to be helpful, and reassuring, but I get completely stuck. I don't know, and all the explanation of what it looks like in Attic is just making it worse. I don't know.

Anyway, it's around this point that the feelings of panic actually turn into silent tears. My god, I thought this would stop at the age of six. The professor sighs profusely, tells me that it's obvious I haven't studied at all and exclaims a little more about my ineptitude. We keep going, until it gets to the point were I'm obviously too upset to say a word. The assistant gets me a glass of water, and they stare intently at me. I make an attempt to pull myself together, so when they ask me "well, what else have you prepared?", we keep going with the ninth book of the Iliad.

This goes a little better, but it doesn't help that the professor barely understands a word I say - the assistant keeps on translating my Italian for him. The assistant is assisting me more than him. More metre, more translation, more grammar.

Anyway, after an hour and a half, I leave. The assistant waves goodbye cheerily, and asks me if my name is Welsh. The professor informs me that I'll have to return on the 13th to take the rest of the exam, and looks like he hopes I'll get hit by a truck in the progress. The feeling is almost mutual.