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.