A couple of weeks ago, while road-tripping the Peloponnese, I came to the startling realization that “Mycenae” is not pronounced “My-Sen-A” or “My-See-Nee” as I had up-to-then believed, but something closer to “Mee-Ken-Ee” or “Moo-Kay-Nye.” When “C” is used in a transliterated Greek word, think “K,” not “S.” So the “Cyclades” are the “Kee-Kla-Thes,” not the “Sye-Kla-Des.” And Macedonia is not “Ma-Seh-Doe-Nee-Uh,” but “Ma-Ke-Tho-Nee-Uh.”

What’s frustrating is that, at least for English speakers, “C” is an ambiguous letter, whereas “K” and “S” are not. So why on Earth would “C” ever be used to transliterate? Isn’t the whole point to make the word more readable to those not well versed in the native language? Of course the answer may be that the letters were well-chosen for Latin, which I would assume was the original transliterating language, and that the Cs are retained for consistency’s sake. Which may also perhaps explain why β is off-puttingly rewritten as a “b,” rather than a more appropriate “v.” Or why δ’s aspirated “th” sound is frustratingly often written as a “d.” Is that right? Is English all fuggered up vis-a-vis Latin? Or are the folks that mucked up Latinized Greek cut from the same cloth as the irritatingly academic Yalies that wrote “Beijing” as “Peking” all those years ago with special marks and expected everyone to notice the special marks?


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