more blunders

Remember when we talked about severe (and hilarious) mistranslations? Well, here's a short article documenting some of the worst blunders cross-culturally. Some of my favorites:

-a sign in a Japanese hotel: “You are invited to take advantage of the chambermaid"

-a laundromat in Rome: “Ladies, leave your clothes here and spend the afternoon having a good time"

-the Coors beer campaign “Get Loose with Coors" translating into “Get the runs with Coors" in Spanish

-Coke's “Coke adds life" campaign translating to “Coke brings your ancestors back from the dead" in Japanese

Check out the article here to see them all--it's only a page long, no fear. 

some fun with semantics

Here's another fun post that has been circulating the web. I'm not sure of the original source since it's all over the place, but enjoy reading it here until I am forced to take this blog down for improper citing!

“No English dictionary has been able to adequately explain the difference between COMPLETE and FINISHED. However, in a recent linguistic conference held in London, England, and attended by some of the best linguists in the world, Samsundar Balgobin, a Guyanese, was the clear winner.

His final challenge was this: Some say there is no difference between COMPLETE and FINISHED. Please explain the difference between COMPLETE and FINISHED in a way that is easy to understand.

Here is his astute answer: “When you marry the right woman, you are COMPLETE. But, when you marry the wrong woman, you are FINISHED, and when the right one catches you with the wrong one, you are COMPLETELY FINISHED!”

His answer was received with a standing ovation lasting over 5 minutes and it entitled him to receive an invitation to dine with the Queen. He won a trip to travel around the world and a case of 25 year old Eldorado rum for his answer.”

(Just for fun, I entered complete and finished into dictionary.com, and here are the results: 

complete: finished, ended, concluded

finished: ended or completed

Looks like Samsundar Balgobin really did deserve such high praise.)

cracking up

Here's my favorite meme that's been circulating since Election Day:

ryanair

My friend Luc preparing for our flight to Sweden

Dreading my surely imminent demise

During my year abroad, I took the budget airline Ryanair all over Europe. Besides being a great way to get places cheaply, it was just about the worst thing ever. Pretzel crumbs in my seat because they were too stingy to clean up the cabin between flights; no complimentary cups of water; no seat trays or even seat-back pockets; ads blasting throughout the entire flight; hidden fees at every turn; flight attendants that looked like they would rather break the windows and suffocate at 30,000 feet than help you secure your carry-on luggage in the overhead bins. So here are some hilarious quotes by the very outspoken CEO of Ryanair, Michael O'Leary, a man whose life goal is to make a Ryanair appear under Webster's definition of “utter crap.” He has voiced intentions to abolish the last 10 rows of seats to have standing room only (thus cramming in more passengers); to get rid of two out of the three bathrooms in order to add six more seats; and to charge passengers to use the bathroom on board. This man makes my frugal parents seem like reckless spenders in comparison, and after reading these quotes I'm just grateful that I made it through all my travels on Ryanair alive. 

“Seatbelts don't matter.”

A woman who complained about having to pay a steep fee for printing her boarding pass at the airport “should pay a 60 euro fee for being so stupid.” 

Last year, commenting in his idea for in-flight porn, O'Leary said: “I'm not talking about having it on screens on the back of seats for everyone to see. It would be on handheld devices.”

“An airline is nothing more than a bus with wings on.” 

On service: “Our flights are noisy, full and we are always trying to sell you something.”

“No we shouldn't give you a bloody cup of coffee. We only charge 19 Euro for the ticket.”

(All quotes from this San Francisco Chronicle article.)

dirty minds

It's confirmed: college students are no more mature than pre-teens. When my Phonetics professor showed us all a picture of human vocal chords, the class broke out in muffled giggles and squeamish squeals. Everyone's mind is in the gutter.....literally everyone's.

(Yours is too, isn't it???)

victory

             I voted for the winning team in my first-ever presidential election! Although Obama's first election was amazingly exciting and historic, I felt even more thrilled about this time around because I could actually participate. And what's more, it seems like California voters actually made a difference, since we helped Obama clinch the popular vote! 

            I can finally let out a huge sigh of relief, and can at least temporarily postpone the desperate attempt to find and marry a European man for citizenship. 

lost in translation: literally

             Lost in translation, although a nice title for this series, is sometimes literally what happens upon changing text between two languages. When my family visited the torture museum in Santillana del Mar (what…there was nothing else to do in that tiny town), a plaque explained in English that a particularly menacing torture device was used for the “annihilation of stubboons and protestants.” Stubboons, perhaps a particularly ornery breed of anarchists. As this isn't even close to a Spanish cognate, I can only guess that an attempt to spell stubborns went awry, although that itself isn't even a word in English. The translators went 0 for 2 on that one.

Another disturbing mechanism clamped onto a miscreant woman’s chest, destroying her parts so much that she could no longer “give breast milk to her creatures,” a practice made all the more visually disturbing by the incorrect translation. In Spanish, criaturas means babies, but the mistaken translation to English makes me picture a woman breastfeeding hungry goblins.

In my Contrastive Linguistics class, my professor warned us of such mistakes. He said that he once visited a restaurant with the typical Spanish plate “rape a la marinera,” a kind of fish with red sauce. In the English menu, the writers kept the type of fish—rape—the same, but detailed how it was prepared, so the dish was translated “Rape sailor style.” I’ll venture to say it wasn’t a favorite among the British tourists.

These mistranslations go both ways, though. We English-speakers are just as guilty of mistakes, like an ad for an airline’s first-class seating that tried to translate too literally the phrase “Fly in Leather.” The direct translation, “volar en cueros,” just happens to include a Spanish idiom, “en cueros,” which means naked. So instead of suggesting that people fly in luxury, the airline suggested that people take trips in the nude. It would be interesting to see if ticket sales went up after the advertising campaign—perhaps the idea of a little freedom while flying really attracted people. 

Stubboons, beware

linguistic relativism: keys and bridges

           I'm doing an honor's project for my Semantics class, and am researching the hypothesis that the languages you speak shape how you see the world (also referred to as the Whorf Hypothesis, or linguistic relativism). This hypothesis was widely refuted a few decades ago, but it is making a comeback with recent experiments, such as the one I just read about by Stanford psychologist Lara Boroditsky:
          In order to check if languages with grammatical gender affect thought, she rounded up a group of native German and Spanish speakers. German has three gender agreements: masculine, feminine, and neuter--der, die, and das--(which, incidentally, are giving me quite the headache on my vocabulary quizzes), and Spanish has two: masculine and feminine, el and la. These speakers were asked to describe the word key in English, which is grammatically masculine in German but feminine in Spanish. The results? The native German speakers overwhelmingly described a key with such words as "jagged, rough, hard, heavy, metal, serrated, useful," while the Spanish speakers said a key was "golden, intricate, little, shiny, tiny, lovely." (Experiment aside, would you ever describe a key as lovely? Were these participants high?)
          Next up was the word for bridge, which is feminine in German and masculine in Spanish. The results were consistent! German speakers described a bridge (in English) with adjectives like  "beautiful, elegant, fragile, peaceful, pretty, slender," all words that usually personify females. Spanish speakers came up with "big, dangerous, long, strong, sturdy, towering," much more stereotypical of male attributes.
          Do you think language shapes thought? How would you describe these words? I am a native English speaker, a fluent Spanish speaker, and a painfully slow learner of German, and the first word that pops into my head for "key" would be rusty. But then again, my Isla Vista landlord has probably been recycling these house keys since Reagan was president.

Tell me these findings are not the most fascinating thing you've read on a blog all day.

(Oh wait, Cupcakes and Cashmere says that this Fall, wool dresses are in. I stand corrected.)

lost in translation: forgetting English

Yowza I have not posted a Lost in Translation piece in a while! Remember what they are even about? (Hint: My experience learning Spanish abroad.)

Once I got into a steady rhythm of speaking Spanish everyday, sometimes my English would come out muddled. Since Spanish has a much smaller vocabulary than English, many times the words that stuck in its lexicon happen to be cognates of English’s fancier word bank. This means that at times I sounded like a very classy Brit when I would directly translate back from Spanish into English. “I’m enchanted to meet you,” “Would you like to take a coffee on the terrace?” “I’m going to pass a small while reading now,” or, “I’m absolutely enamored of this Zara top.”

I always took this as a great sign—my foreign language was conquering my native one!—but sometimes my backwards translations would have consequences, like when I exclaimed to my friend Luc one day, “Professor Antonio just assigned us a 20-page-paper due in a week. He molests me so much sometimes!” 

schnappi

           Many people (mostly science and math majors, ahem) are surprised when I say I actually enjoy learning languages. When you have an affinity or genuine interest in it, languages are so much fun, just as I can only imagine that an affinity for learning the Periodic Table could lead to a real hoot in Organic Chemistry. I tutor Spanish to a girl who is not, shall we say, the most adept in languages, and she asks me every session how I could possibly enjoy studying Spanish, and what in God's name has motivated me to pick up another language, German. I suppose the most simple and conscise response to her would be this: Schnappi, the Number #1 hit song in Germany, which we watch and recite in language class and earn college credit while doing so. Schnappi is such an irresistible little crocodile that anyone in their right mind should want to learn German just to figure out what he is saying in this delightful Youtube video.
           (Can I reiterate here....this song was a NUMBER ONE HIT in Germany! My Professor put it best: "I think the situation here is that as Germans, we tend to be a sort of serious people, and so we simply go crazy for a little sass like Schnappi." The only logical reason, I must agree.)

faking status

           I have quite the travel bug after a year in Spain, but unfortunately I am low on both funds and free time. So Erin and I used this Saturday to have a fake luxurious get-away. We pretended that we were throwing a bachelorette party for our friend and toured the Montecito Four Seasons and Bacara resorts, checking out their facilities, suites, pools and bar, and of course helping ourselves to their complimentary refreshments in the lobby as well as their SPF 15 lotion by the pool. So this is what it feels like to be rich--free sunscreen!
          We dressed up to make the occasion feel special (and believable), read bridal magazines as we lounged on the comfy chairs by the spa, and were driven around the enormous grounds in a golf cart at the Bacara. To feel really classy we ordered a beer at the pool at sunset (the mixed drinks were far beyond our budget, and even the beer was stretching it, but sometimes one must splurge to achieve social status), and admired the amazing view of the Pacific Ocean. We were wistful that this was all an unattainable reality, until Erin pointed out that the view looked exactly like the bluffs next to the dorms on campus, and so we rejoiced that we attend the most beautiful college in the U.S.
         Everything was going great until the bartender took the liberty of keeping the change from my beer, so I would "only have to deal with bills." While actual wealthy people might be relieved that they wouldn't be weighed  down with coins, I was bitter that he pocketed the very quarters I was going to use for my coin-operated laundry machine. The majority of the guests at the Bacara haven't done their own laundry since dry cleaning was invented, but us real folks still use quarters and rusty washing machines. With that we snapped back to reality, snuck another refill of ice tea from the lobby on the way out, picked up Erin's weathered Jetta from the valet service (pretending that our BMW was in the shop), and returned to the student ghetto of Isla Vista, where the juxtaposition of gorgeous ocean views and littered Coors Light cans reminded us that one can live luxuriously and filthily at the same time.
       

genius college essay

Let's round out to an even three what has seemed to become a theme here on A Thing for Wor(l)ds--college applications. (And then enough! No more talk about the subject, at least for a while :) For many people the college admissions process was a dark and treacherous time that they wish to surpress completely, and all I can say is that this essay, written by an applicant to NYU, will in all likelihood make you further regret your own submission. The piece you wrote on how your high school volleyball team shaped your leadership skills, or growing up as the shortest and fattest kid made you an excellent judge of character, or how you hope to instill the same tradition of family dinners in your future kids that your parents so wisely instilled in you, will probably sound like utter clichés after reading this essay. (By the way, I vaguely remember my Spanish teacher in 7th grade telling our class about this "genius essay." Was competition for college really on our minds in 7th grade??)

Read the essay here. You've been warned that you'll wish you were more creative back in the day.

more white girl problems

Continuing this theme of college admissions and White Girl Problems (we still love you, Maddy!) is today's post about Abigail Fischer, a white 22-year-old who didn't get into the school of her dreams (University of Texas) and is now taking her case to the Supreme Court, saying she was discriminated against because of her majority race. (See New York Times story here.)

Affirmative Action has long been the source of debate in this country, and even I find myself floundering on the issue at times (but then my dad, as per usual, says some strikingly convincing argument and sets me straight). But enough is enough. Is it possible that little Miss Abigail was rejected because--and I don't want to make any ground-breaking assumptions here--she just wasn't qualified? Maybe her SAT scores fell short, maybe she didn't found a shelter for abandoned kittens, or perhaps she wrote that her greatest adversity in life was taking the bus to school? But sometimes, instead of accepting our flaws, we must blame it on the underdogs, and then take up valuable time and tax dollars having our complaints heard at a federal level. Although there are many situations where I would cry out, "Props to you! This is democracy in action!" and further encourage a challenge to the justice system, Miss Abigail's case isn't one of these times.

Her headlining quote particularly irks me: "I probably would have gotten a better job had I gone to UT." Let's discuss the facts, Abigail:
1. You still got into, and can afford, a college, which is more than many people, especially the ones you are pitting your problems against, can say.
2. We could all hypothetically have "better" jobs; Sophomore year, for example, I could have been writing freelance for The New Yorker instead of being paid $8.50 an hour to clean work-out equipment and watch guys drink muscle milk while bench-pressing. The point is you have a job upon graduation, which is not a guaranteed reality these days.
3. We all must face rejection. I am not suing UCLA for rejecting me. In fact, I am now rejoicing the fact that they did so because UCSB allows me an ocean view from my balcony.

So learn from these tough times and know that, perhaps if you had spent less time on the bowling team at Louisiana State and more time pursuing internships and club leadership positions, then even you, poor little White Girl, could have strong prospects in the future.


(Any thoughts? Especially if you disagree, I'd love to hear opinions.)

Maddy's struggles

My dear roommate Maddy was cleaning out her things yesterday when she stumbled upon her college application essays. After thirty minutes of my begging her to let me read them, she finally capitulated. This little gem appeared in her “additional comments” section:

“I have attended Loretto High School in Sacramento for the last four years. However, I have lived in Auburn, a town in the Sierra Nevada foothills nearly an hour’s drive away from Sacramento all the while. The classes I have taken at Loretto have been challenging and stimulating, but having a two-hour long commute everyday has strengthened me the most as a person. For the first three years, I would try to find a comfortable position to either to my homework or doze off. Besides suffering through “the bus years” as I call them, I have had to wake up an hour and a half earlier than my peers living in Sacramento, after arriving home an hour later than them the day before (and even later during tennis season). As a result of this strain, I have developed fortitude. Waking up before the sun has been the greatest test of my character, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, because I am all the more prepared for college because of it.”

It is now undeniably clear why Maddy was admitted with honors and scholarships to UC Santa Barbara. What incredible adversity she has overcome! What White Girl Problems she has triumphed over! Not only did she “suffer through the bus years,” but she survived them--a tell-tale sign that she would do great at any top-ranking university! She didn't fall asleep every night to the sound of gun shots; she didn't raise her younger siblings single-handedly while her Pa was out drinking. Instead, her “strain” was internal, a true battle to figure out what to do with herself during an hour's ride. Maddy, you inspire us every day. Keep hurdling those obstacles and developing that fortitude; you're a better person for it. 

(P.S. Maddy gave permission for this post, as she hopes that her story will inspire others.)

lost in translation: an odd shop

In Granada, and in Spanish-speaking places in general, they have lots of “rías.”

There’s the panadería, the bread shop.

            The frutería, the fruit shop.

            The carnicería, the meat shop.

            The ferretería, the hardware shop.

            The peluquería, the barber shop.

But the most famous neighborhood in Cordoba, with its winding cobblestone streets and historic monuments, is called the judería.

      ….the Jew shop?

Judería in Cordoba

first day of school

             Yesterday was my last first day of school (hypothetical grad school excluded) and the first time in a UCSB classroom in 15 months. The highlight of the day was German 1 (remember when I decided to sign up for it?), where I learned such phrases as "My name is Jenny. What is yours?" and then promptly forgot them. I haven't been in a very beginning language class since 7th grade, and it was such a rush! I can hardly believe I'm getting university credit to play call-and-response games with the teacher and line up in alphabetical order according to last names. My roommates are all biology or computer engineering majors, and while they are slaving away in 4-hour night labs and impossible organic chemistry exams, I'll be learning to count to ten. Life is sweet as a linguistics nerd!

            On a sadder note, my textbook for the class was $164 without tax, and it's not even bound, just a pile of three-whole-punched pages! Although that's a cheaper way to learn German than, say, buying a plane ticket to Germany, it's definitely less fun, and almost kind of corrupt....

Yelp reviews

Yelp restaurant reviews absolutely crack me up. Many people bust out SAT words that most of us don't apply to college essays, let alone a critique of a drive-thru. It seems like saying, "I would recommend the chicken; it was moist and delicious," no longer conveys enough meaning. Instead, restaurant-goers now feel a deep need to express every aspect of the dining experience in minute detail: "The succulent breast of chicken was dripping with a rich sauce that can only be likened to liquid gold; with each bite I felt like I was truly having an out-of-body experience."

Looking up these restaurants also leads me to question my own astuteness in setting up a blog--I could have just gotten my writing fix on Yelp! It seems like some people have skipped the hassle of creating domain names and layouts, and merely used Yelp as a convenient place to display their writing samples. If an employer asks for past writing projects, they could just be directed to the site, as some of these reviews could be full book chapters. I recently wanted a recommendation for Mediterranean food in Santa Barbara, and stumbled upon this shockingly detailed and, at times, horrifyingly insensitive account of an experience at Zaytoon (which, incidentally, we ended up trying and LOVING--no dying men in wheelchairs or any "lacking amount of fowl" in sight):

**disclaimer: long review but worth the while

lost in translation: is cussing a grammatical category?

          There came a moment during my stay in Spain, probably around January or so, when I realized I knew 20 different ways to cuss somebody out but was still gesturing to mops and frying pans with a meager “esto” (‘this’). At times it would be valuable to consider a home-stay with a kosher working mother rather than learning Spanish from your college-age roommates, who seem to think that “coño” is an acceptable replacement for any sort of personal pronoun. 

subliminal messaging

         My roommate Maddy and I were finally reunited this week after over a year apart. Needless to say, it was a glorious reunion, and we decided to celebrate with our age-old tradition: a Rite-Aid Run, or a Tripfty.
        Let me explain.
        Rite-Aid is home to the world's best combination of amazingly delicious and cheap ice-cream, called Thrifty ice cream. It's only $1.69 for a scoop bigger than my fist. Probably bigger than Hagrid's fist. So Maddy and I had an alarming habit of making a "tripfty" all-too-often last summer, and of course it was the only logical way of celebrating my homecoming.
       This time, though, I noticed something peculiar. While we were busy licking away at the creamy goodness, I focused for the first time ever more on the cone rather than the ice cream. And there, ever so lightly engraved into the cone's outer rim, were the words "Eat It All." Could this be? Maybe Maddy and I are not just slaves to our impulses, intent on doing a Rite-Aid Run every time our cravings flare up. Maybe this subliminal message to eat it all has worked its way into our subconscious, convincing us that we cannot resist the ice cream, that it's better to eat up than to miss out.
       I underestimated Rite-Aid. There's more too that place than cheap sweets. There are masterminds behind that operation, that much is certain.

no offense: it's just my pragmatics

It’s high time we talked about some pragmatics in this nerdy linguistics blog!! Pragmatics is the study of how context contributes to the meaning of language, a.k.a. the interesting side of things, a world away from spelling and grammar. The pragmatics of language varies greatly across cultures, and even the pragmatics of Spanish in Spain is different from that of Latin America (just as Brits use English in different ways than we do).

Our housecleaner Myra is from El Salvador, and ever since I got back home we’ve had many a conversation, each more thrilling than the next, all shockingly revealing in the pragmatics of Central-American Spanish. Whereas Spaniards made every effort to compliment even single words that I attempted in their language, Myra greeted my vastly improved Spanish (after years of trying to chat with her with broken sentences and awkward misunderstandings) with: “Ooh wowwwww.” (At this point I’m thinking, here it comes! Let the compliments rain!). She follows that exasperation with: “You’re accent is so…..Spanish.” Ahem? Yes, that would make sense, seeing as I just came from Spain. At least I have an accent from a Spanish-speaking country, right? Isn’t that better than speaking some Americanized version of Spanish? Nope. Turns out Myra, and, according to her, everyone else from Central and South America, despise the Spanish accent, find it laughable and pretentious and a jumble of other derogatory adjectives. Noted.

The next week she comes and finds my sister and I sitting at the dining room table. I happen to be eating a bagel, and Katie is reading. Myra absolutely swoons at the chance to speak to us both, one big happy family, because she’s been with us for over a decade and has watched us grow up, and now occurrences where the whole family is in the same place are becoming a rarity. Of course, the first thing out of her mouth is, “Jenny, you are so much bigger than Katie now!!! I can’t believe Katie is older, she is such a skinny little thing, and then there’s you!” Whereas in Spain people take a leaf out of Hollywood’s book, apparently the pragmatics of this hemisphere dictate that bluntly voicing any opinion at all about someone’s figure is acceptable, and noting someone’s “bigger” size is actually a compliment, since it signifies that you have the monetary means to, um, gorge. Also duly noted, although harder to take this one with no offense.

(As a side note, a few days ago I come home from a run, sweaty and panting and overall looking terrible, since I’m so fair that my face stays beet-red for about half an hour after I finish even the shortest of jogs. Myra this time points out, “You’ve lost weight, eh!” Another very adept comment on my figure, although I would hardly think any change on the scale could be visually noted within a week. Maybe her comments are dictated more by the setting in which she makes them? When I’m eating a bagel next to my tiny sister I’m the gluttonous one, yet when I’m dressed in running spandex and looking particularly over-exerted, I’m suddenly much lighter.)

The last time I see her, right before I move back down to college, we continue our frequent chats. I’ve grown used to her blunt honesty, so it comes as no surprise when she spurts out, “You’ve been getting a lot of pimples lately!” Much like the previous encounters, however, I’m not quite sure how to respond. My Spanish fails me a little bit, since it’s easier to communicate when my mind is at ease, not being constantly struck by off-putting comments. But then I realize that I must place these conversations in a different pragmatic background. Myra uses Spanish (El Salvadorian) pragmatics in an American cultural setting. Since English has different views on what constitutes politeness, these statements may come as a shock. But Myra views it as mere conversation, a type of bond that can be shared over small talk and similar experiences. By pointing out my pimples (ugh!) she wants to help me, as she later goes on to recommend a facial cream. We’re buds! We’re chit-chatting! We’re discussing creams! Latin America’s pragmatics for politeness revolves around establishing common ground. The relation between language and culture is truly fascinating. 

(However, I will admit that despite my recognition of these cultural differences, it might be nice if Myra could adhere to English pragmatics once in a while and say a little white lie! We native English speakers can be prone to over-politeness, but at least we don’t go pointing out acne and love handles to people’s faces!) .

The Great Typo Hunt

            I just finished reading the book “The Great Typo Hunt,” in which two guys take a three-month road trip all over the U.S. in order to correct any typo they saw, both on public and private property. The book shouldn’t win a Pulitzer Prize but it was pretty entertaining; plus I think the idea is so outrageously kooky and brilliant. Don’t we all secretly hate when there’s a blatant, glaring typo in a message that could otherwise be truly profound? Or when a restaurant invests so much time and money in their ambiance, and then makes a simple spelling mistake. For years it used to bug me when I walked by a delicious burger restaurant in my town, Phyllis’ Giant Burgers. Their window proudly displayed their name but then the awning misplaced the apostrophe, so it read “Phylli’s Giant Burgers.” It was like a tic; I wanted to whip out the White-Out every time I walked by. Then one Winter Break I came home from college and it was blessedly fixed—a Christmas miracle, and a serious point of empathy for these crazy guys who quit their jobs and social lives to hunt down and correct typos.  

lost in translation: hassling

Spain’s got a more relaxed take on sexual harassment. Catcalls are as common as cigarette smoke there (which one is more unpleasant?), and sometimes wearing heels out is more uncomfortable due to the ensuing comments than the physical pain. (I’ve even received catcalls from women as I’ve passed by, which is not to illustrate that I was looking particularly well-groomed that day but rather that anything goes.) Ninety-five percent of the time you want to bury your face or shout at these hasslers, “You misogynist pig! In the U.S. you could be sued!” But then there’s that five percent, usually on those mornings when you return from the discoteca at 8 a.m. with beer on your dress and hair that’s less than prom-day perfect. It’s those times, when you still get an “ehhh, guapa!” (hey, pretty girl) that the only reasonable reaction that comes to mind is, “Bless his little heart.”

the ultimate linguistic challenge!!

            This past June while visiting my friend Kaila in Germany, we played a fun linguistic experiment while cooking dinner. Kaila is half German and half Norwegian; Miles, her roommate, is half German and half Greek; and I am full American but a wanna-be Spaniard. So we decided to cook stuffed tomatoes while only speaking in each others’  non-intelligible languages, a.k.a. Norwegian, Greek, and Spanish. (Also, the recipe was in Greek so we couldn’t cheat! Only Miles held the secrets.) It involved lots of gestures and repetition of words in alarmingly high voices, but the tomatoes turned out to be a success! Here’s Miles with them:

If you and any friends speak other languages, I highly recommend this little challenge. I also recommend making Greek stuffed tomatoes, yummmm. 

lost in translation: compliments

Literally every Spaniard I met during my year abroad, and this is no exaggeration, complimented my Spanish.

Wait, don’t roll your eyes and stop reading! Hear me out!

At first I was elated. I thought, after two weeks of being in that country, “Dayummm, I’m on fire here!” But then I started picking up on something. These comments didn’t follow long conversations that exhibited my skilled control over verb conjugations or the subjunctive tense (which, at that time, was not skilled at all, but more like a guessing game). More often than not they didn’t even follow what can be considered conversations at all! Here are some scenarios that exemplify my point:

            #1: In the dining hall, asking the chef for more coffee. “Más café, por favor.” Más is probably learned in the first week of Spanish class, right after sí, no, and me llamo Jenny. Café is a cognate. And if you travel to Spain without knowing how to say “por favor,” your manners and upbringing will be questioned. But the chef overlooked all these tid-bits and expressed his amazement at my masterful handle on the language.

            #2. Madrid bus station, 2 hours after arriving in Spain. Me: “Uno a Granada, por favor.” Attendant: “You speak really great Spanish!” He must have brushed aside the fact that he could have understood the destination of my desired ticket merely from the name of the city. (Looking back, I don’t know if I should be more shocked that he complimented this juvenile level of Spanish or that he smiled and made a compliment at all. Customer Service in Spain is not the warmest).

#3. My all-time favorite, buying sheets at a department store. This is when I knew that this complimentary trend was more automatic than heartfelt. I say one word, one tiny four-letter word, and accompany it with a gesture: “¿Pago?” I ask as I point to the cash register. The salesman explodes with a massive grin and a whopping, “WOW! You speak such great Spanish! How long have you been in Granada?!?”

It was then that I shed my false ego and realized that if someone would compliment my language level after hearing only one word, they were clearly overdoing the praise and most likely just trying to flatter me into buying more sheets. 

eat my taco

My friend Cati had this drawing posted on her fridge. She said she got it from a Mexican restaurant that was handing out these pictures for kids to color in. Talk about a double entendre.

What?!? When I was a kid we never got anything so inappropriately amazing (or amazingly inappropriate) to color. So jealous! And so shocked that Child Services hasn't paid a visit. Seeing this poster makes me want to eat at good-humored Mexican restaurants every day (as if I didn't crave burritos enough already).

gear talk

This week I went camping with REI employees in Yosemite. It was really funny being the only one who did not work for the outdoor equipment store. Most of their conversations revolved around high-tech gear which I could only dream of affording or knowing how to use, and to the untrained ear the employees’ exchanges sounded highly ridiculous.

A: Is that the new Marmot sleeping bag?

B: Ya, I Pro-Dealed it last week and so far I’m loving it.

A: I’m not surprised, it’s a basic 15 but it’s got great loft. 

B: Very true. I was going to test out Big Agnes but the Marmot’s vertical baffles really sold me. 

On every prior camping trip I’ve ever taken, we’ve struggled for close to an hour to pitch the tent and subsisted on PB&Js when we failed to light the camping stove. Camping with people in the know is my new favorite thing. 

airline miles

One of my newest pastimes involves doing everything short of murder to receive airline miles. I just found out that you can receive retroactive credit for flights taken within the last year (what?? An airline doing something magnanimous??), and since I recently unearthed my MileagePlus number, it’s like payday. I’ve racked up points from two transatlantic flights and I’m 2/3 of the way to receiving a round-trip ticket to Europe! 

I was recently on the phone with United to see if my flight from Spain to Germany in June would count. Sometimes customer service representatives make you want to tear out your own eyeballs so you have something to plug your ears with. But Suzy from Denver made me feel so valued. With every request for information she would thank me profusely. I told her my username and heard, “Ok ma’am, thank you so much for providing that.” With my pin number: “Thanks so much again for that information, ma’am.” When I supplied my old flight numbers I thought she was going to propose over the phone. 

Normally I roll my eyes at such flowery treatment. It can make me feel uncomfortably superior—after all, why is she thanking me when she is essentially giving me a free ticket? It should be the other way around. But Suzy can say whatever she wants, however she wants, if she helps me to reach those 60,000 miles. 

yosemite!

          Tonight I'm leaving for a 3-day camping trip to Yosemite! I'm going with my great friend Cati who works for REI, and this is their company-sponsored trip. Can you imagine a better way to camp for a barbie pilgrim? Probably the only time in my life I'll be fully and properly equipped for an outdoor adventure. I keep thinking about the group dinners they will make for us. . . . I'm looking forward to making s'mores, seeing cute animals in nature, and maybe even conquering my fear of heights enough to climb Half Dome, although those handrails look pretty harrowing.

On second thought. . . . 

I go with excited anticipation and high hopes of avoiding the Hantavirus.

lost in translation: journal romance

Many times in Granada I would sit by myself and read or people-watch in my favorite plaza. It was always full of Granadino families, the kids racing around while their parents shared a beer. Most times I sat close enough to the bar tables to shamelessly eavesdrop—anything in the name of learning Spanish! On one particular day I was reading some notes for school when two little kids ran up and started playing right next to me. I pretended to keep reading but was really listening to them the whole time, which they might have picked up on since I didn’t turn a single page for a full fifteen minutes.

I remember this conversation so vividly because it was a perfect snapshot of childhood, no matter what culture. The little boy and girl were playing tag and teasing each other, and then sat neatly on the bench so the boy could explain to the girl a present she had just received, but didn’t know how to use: a journal. The boy said, in the cutest little Andalucian accent, “It’s a diary, Ana. It’s for writing down all your secrets. See, this is where you write what day it is, always at the top. And then this is where you write everything that you’re thinking.”

The girl looked up and said mischievously, “I can write about you in there!” (Leave it to a five-year-old to tell the truth about love.) They immediately both shrieked with laughter, cackling like crazy people, and then the girl threw down the diary and they resumed chasing each other around the plaza. Enough romance, it was tag time again.

I looked around to see if all this was actually being filmed for a childhood flashback scene in a rom-com, but it was a truly organic exchange. I hope these kids marry each other in 20 years and I can come eavesdrop on their wedding vows. 

Plaza Bib-Rambla, where the magic happens.

(Photo: aloasis.com)

hesitation

Sometimes I’m convinced that I want to move back to Europe the minute I graduate and grow old there, mostly because it has places like this:

Tübingen, Germany

Stockholm, Sweden

Bruges, Belgium

Cudillero, Spain

But then I drive 20 minutes and see places like this

 And I get a little hesitant. 

Going Out Glasses

          I was cleaning out my room the other day, as my mom basically jumps on me to do every few summers or so, and found one of my favorite cards that I had long forgotten about. I used to work at the Fairfax Movie Theater when I was fifteen, and one day an elderly woman came in asking if we had found a pair of glasses she’d left behind. We checked all over the theater to no avail, but later received this extremely earnest and oddly descriptive note in the mail:

“Dear Theater Staff:

Thank you so much for helping us search for my husband’s “Going Out” Glasses. The mystery was solved today when we drove our other car (16-year-old Volvo wagon) which needed gas—and there were the G.O.G. How happy we are! We drove his 12-year-old Camry to your theater and I thought he’d taken the specs then. Sorry I have wasted your time.

Merry Christmas, Season’s Greetings and Best Wishes for a Happy New Year,

Robin and Diane”

Did I keep the note because it’s so heartwarming? Or because it contains hilariously detailed references to cars and a proper noun (and acronym!) for a pair of spectacles? I’ll let you be the judge of that :) 

funny money

If you’re begging for money, I’ll be more likely to give it to you if you please me linguistically. Yesterday I took a long walk on the Embarcadero in San Francisco and heard some creative requests. My two favorites: “Can you help me on a down payment for a cheeseburger?” and “Donations for THC research.”

            Sadly I had to hold onto my coins for the ride home (why do city buses require EXACT change??), but next time I want a lesson in effective persuasive language maybe I’ll visit the Tenderloin.

Then I found this amazing website in my quest for more wit. Check it out! I had no idea vulgarity was so in! I like the one “Obama’s not the only one who wants change” and “amature gynocolgist [sic].” Which sign would you be most inclined to tip?

(Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing funny about these people’s situation, only the humorous ways they confront it.)

legitimate b.s.

Speaking of language, sometimes words are used in some pretty appalling ways. Normally by politicians, to nobody's surprise. By now you might be familiar with Missouri Congressman Todd Akin's comments about “legitimate rape.” This is one of those instances when you shouldn't use a qualifying adjective if it's not a direct synonym of “tragic” or “detestable.” A referee can announce a “legitimate goal,” a judge can deem a homicide a “legitimate defense,” Bush can even try to claim that 2000 was a “legitimate election.” But Akin is legitimate proof that men should not call the shots for women.

Like I said, maybe you heard about that story, since it's blowing up the news right now. But did you hear about VP candidate Paul Ryan's reaction? Euphemisms can be really warm and fuzzy and welcomed, like when people tell you you're “more womanly” after Spain instead of saying, “How many tapas did you EAT???” or when we used to suggest to my dog that he “do his business” instead of demanding, “Please shit now!” But to use a euphemism like “method of conception” for “rape,” as Ryan did, is legitimate BS.

(check out this funny political cartoon)

lost in translation: she's probably not a cougar

When I first got to Granada I noticed a startling phenomenon. People were saying “tío” and “tía” in almost every sentence, which I learned in school to mean “uncle” and “aunt.” I thought to myself, what is wrong with this country? Why is everyone interrelated? I know they say Latin families tend to be large, but this is verging on ridiculous….

Turns out “tío” means dude, mate, or guy. So if you travel to Spain, keep in mind that one ten-year-old boy calling another “tío” does not necessarily imply that his father’s sister likes them young.  

lost in translation: biggest regret

Bear with me while I kick off this series on a somber note: my biggest regret.

           My biggest regret in my language learning process was that I didn’t record myself speaking Spanish before I first moved to Spain. I had taken seven years of Spanish and had lived in Nicaragua with a family for one month, but by no means was I fluent. During my time in Spain it was difficult to notice if I was improving my Spanish, because day-to-day conversations blend together and I was learning at such a gradual and consistent pace. Sort of the way you don’t realize you’re putting on weight, but then your friends, who haven’t seen you in a really long time, take one look at you and are like, That girl really let loose, eh? Anyway the same goes for learning a language. Which is why my biggest recommendation to anyone going abroad is: take a before-and-after shot. Or, in this case, recording. That way you can hear yourself talking in a hybrid valley-girl/Spanish accent or confusing gender and referring to yourself as a man. It will be very hilarious and oh-so-gratifying to look back on your progress. 

lost in translation

As I’ve alluded to before, the idea for this blog grew out of the many entertaining moments in my quest for fluency during my year in Spain. I’m going to start this Lost in Translation series that will cover all my favorite anecdotes throughout the process. Enjoy!

lexically inept

I would really like to be a writer, maybe for magazines or newspapers or press releases or even books, but I often get discouraged by what I perceive to be my small vocabulary. Maybe it’s because I re-read Harry Potter too many times instead of moving on to more challenging literature, but sometimes I feel flat out embarrassed when I ask for definitions. But is it really my fault that the English lexicon is composed of over one million words? Am I supposed to know them all? This is one reason why I love Spanish: it has 1/3 the lexicon of English, and so one word becomes very versatile. A typical example would be the adjective pesado, which can mean: heavy, ponderous, massive, deep, profound, troublesome, injurious, gloomy, violent, cumbersome, tedious, tiresome, dull, offensive, oppressive, lazy, clumsy, fat, gross, mischievous, and annoying. In one quick swoop Spanish encapsulates more than 20 meanings in one. What an efficient language!

Often times while speaking Spanish I would try to translate directly from English and would get tripped up because Spanish simply doesn’t have an equivalent. For example, one day I was wracking my brain for the word shallow, the opposite of deep. A simple concept, right? Yet I could not for the life of me remember how to say it. Turns out they don’t. There’s profundo (deep) and there’s poco profundo (not deep). If only life in English were a matter of simple opposites.

My suffering self-esteem in the lexical arena is not helped by my parents, who drop impressive vocabulary in casual conversations as though they were wiping with word-a-day toilet paper. I know they’re not doing this to sound pretentious, but sometimes when I hear my mom form sentences that include magnanimous and reticent I wonder if the meaning could not have just as easily been evoked by using the layperson’s speech: generous and shy. Not all of us majored in English, Mom, so please throw us a bone here.

There are three possible conclusions to this tale:

1. The English language, thanks to cheap TV and movies for the masses, is becoming diluted and one-dimensional.

2. My mom has a superhuman vocabulary.

3. I am linguistically challenged. 

Shall we blame it on the first two? Or does anyone have a pleasing alternative?

the veggie life

               This week I became a vegetarian. I didn’t do it the conventional way, with a grand Last Supper with all my favorite meat dishes. If I had done that, it most likely would have been a table laden with chicken burritos from every Mexican restaurant in a 10-mile radius. Instead it happened more by accident. I woke up on Thursday and thought, “It’s about time I stop eating meat.” Then I realized that I didn’t happen to eat any meat the day before, so Bam!, it was official, I would just keep the clean slate going. 

               In reality, though, it was a long and pensive process, fueled mainly by my participation in UCSB’s environmental club. The number one thing people can do to reduce their carbon footprint is eat less meat (read this article and watch this movie), and after an entire year of pretty consistent long-distance bus and plane travel, I thought my footprint was becoming a bit too pronounced. Also I ate about a small ranch’s equivalent of ham while in Spain, and figured it was about time to give back to the Pork community by sparing their sister and brother and cousin pigs for at least a temporary while (although I will still allow myself some occasional fish).

               So far I’ve had hardly any meat cravings, although I must say that from now on I will be avoiding the “mixed vegetable” burrito at Grilly’s. It’s one thing to cut out meat from a burrito, but it’s a whole new level of atrocity to add broccoli, carrots, and squash to the mix. That, my friends, goes by the separate name of wrap, and it’s to be sold at Good Earth and Whole Foods, not at any self-respecting greasy taquería. 

majors

I first came to UCSB as a declared Global Studies major. It’s sort of a broad major—you know, studying the globe and all—but generally encompassed the fields of international relations, political science, sociology, anthropology, environmental studies….In theory the major would be perfect for me, since I am interested in other countries, languages, and grew up with some very politically-charged family members. However, I soon came to realize how truly depressing it could be to study global affairs day in and day out. Every Powerpoint slide in the Intro classes touched upon some new atrocity the U.S. government had committed in the past week, some new war we were about to enter, some new famine hitting Africa that was producing hoards of round-bellied children. It was simply too much. Instead of instilling me with hope and motivation to do something, I started feeling like it was best to start making funeral arrangements, should the next terrorist attack or natural disaster strike much closer to home.

During this time I took an Intro to Linguistics class, since the use of languages had always interested me. And I discovered an odd and foreign feeling. There is nothing depressing about the way our mouth produces sounds, or the way certain words are constructed, or how different cultures use language differently. The saddest theme that class managed to touch upon was the fact that some remote languages in the far corners of the earth are disappearing—sobering indeed, but a far cry from the tragedies of nuclear warfare and infanticide. After that first class I went on to explore the social side of linguistics—how language is used in social settings and across cultures—and since that day I haven’t looked back. Certainly there are aspects that I don’t find thrilling about the field—namely, syntax, which should come as no great shock—but overall I love what I study, and thoroughly loved applying a linguistic vantage point to learning a new language in Spain (which is the basis for this blog, in fact).

hi there!

I started to have a quarter-life (or hopefully one-fifth-life) crisis today, now that I’m back from my year abroad and facing the reality that I only have one more year of college left before I enter The Real World. Many of my friends have already graduated, and although a substantial number of them are doing really Grown-Up things at impressive companies, there are others who don’t know what to do or, as would be expected in this economy, can’t find work. Which really gets me thinking, that’s going to be me next year. Studying Linguistics is great and all, but what in the world do I do with it? I don’t want to do more schooling, at least for a while. I don’t want to work in a 9-5 desk job and I don’t want to do an unpaid internship (sorry, but it’s America’s euphemism for slave labor). And I really  don’t want to move home after college. (Maybe I should have put future security over true passions and studied Business, afterall.).

            So before sinking into despair, I thought maybe I should focus on some do’s. 

            I do like languages. I do like traveling. And I do love to write.

So just as those who can’t teach, teach gym (School of Rock), those who can’t pass the LSATs or encode computer software for a living, blog. And thus A Thing for Wor(l)ds is born, my space to blab about linguistics (not the boring kind!), jet-setting, and just about anything that strikes my fancy. Because the lead-up to unemployment will be more fun if it’s shared.