The Trickery of English

I recently found a poem which I really liked, called ‘English Pronunciation’ by G. Nolst Trenité (actually not even a native speaker; a Dutchman, although they are renowned to be excellent at English). It demonstrates how difficult English is to learn as regards pronunciation. I’ve given it a go, and to be honest I’m surprised we ever learn to read as children…poor things!

Some of the words I wasn’t even sure of; I think either many are dated or not common in everyday usage. The majority, however, are; and I found it a huge challenge to read aloud! I wanted to do it though, to show learners that even English speakers can be baffled by their own language.

And here’s the poem if you want to read along:

Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you, Suzy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it’s written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.
Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.
Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation’s OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.
Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Fe0ffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.
Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.
Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.
Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.
Pronunciation (think of Psyche!)
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won’t it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It’s a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.
Finally, which rhymes with enough,
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!

Just Your Average Brit

I’ve been sick for a while recently, what with a root canal and needing three fillings, topped off with a throat infection, and then finally a standard season-change cold. I then finally fell prey to what La Rambla is famous for here (pickpockets), and had my phone stolen, although I’m not really surprised, as I’ve been pretty lucky to keep all personal possessions in check for almost two years now. For this, I haven’t felt too inspired recently, even though there have been a few things I’ve wanted to write about. So, finally, when it’s a beautiful, sunny day off for me, I’m going to sit inside my stuffy room and write rather than go and enjoy those rays. What in the Spanish has got into me?

Our school has had a different sort of week, what with the bank holiday in the middle of it; normally if there’s a bank holiday set at that time, people don’t come to classes the day after, so they were all cancelled, and instead we ran some different activities. Seminars, and the purpose of my writing; conversation classes. Running from the lower levels to the higher, and separated into two, we casually chatted with students rather than being in our usual positions behind a high table. Time and time again people clamour for conversational English; really wanting to practice. We were provided with certain topics to discuss, and certain ones to avoid (Catalan independence being a big no-no, for example). Time and time again, we diverted from the original topics to differences between our two nations.

You simply can’t avoid it. We try and try to find common ground, and whilst on the surface we’re all the same, and just people all in a society together, the basic differences and the subtle cultural changes always crop up. From living here for over a year now, I think I’ve managed to gauge an idea of what the Spanish see as the typical Brit. Now, it’s not scientific, nor do I pretend to be highly accurate, or intend on offending anyone, but my findings are as follows:

 

1. People in the United Kingdom have no idea what a vegetable is.

You may think I am exaggerating this point for humour. Please think again. This is almost a direct quote from a student yesterday, who told me that supermarkets in London did not contain vegetables. I’d really like to know a) which supermarkets she went to and b) if she visited each supermarket in the Greater London area. Naturally, I disputed this idea, but after being asked where I was from (the North of England), it was decided by general consensus that I was not the authority on London, despite having a brother living there, and having visited there multiple times more than they all had.

Stock this, please, Spain.

I am so sick of the idea that we don’t have any clue about cooking, and that the Mediterranean diet is the best in the world. I love the food here. But it can’t hold a candle to a good Indian dish. I’m hoping as immigration increases here, so will awareness of other food and cultural delicacies. I can’t find a great deal of stuff that I use to cook with in the UK, which is such a pity as I really think a nation which prides itself on its food should be more accepting of importing other foodstuffs rather than sticking with the staples. I call on you, Spain, to start selling more than one type of cream, proper fresh milk as standard, have more variety of winter fruits, and have the bog standard ingredients for a chicken korma on hand in the supermarkets. Then tell me the English don’t know cooking.

2. British people have no concept of a life of sun and believe that Spain is practically The Caribbean in comparison to their own dreary climate.

The average day in London. I thought the Houses of Parliament were a watery blur for years, until I finally went to London.

As it rains in Britain every day of the year (except for maybe one day in August, and that memorable time at twelve o’clock last Saturday), Brits are impervious to rain. We mustn’t notice it. It is just like white noise for us. We should probably be out gallivanting in the streets the moment a downpour shows itself. I hate rain. Everybody hates rain. It makes my shoes wet. It makes me look like a crazy Einstein with a finger in a socket. My washing doesn’t dry. I have the same feelings as the Spaniards about this weather…but no, no, no; when it’s raining I can’t complain; when it’s cold I can’t shiver, because I should be ‘accustomed’ to it.

It’s actually colder in winter here than it is at home…

3. People in the United Kingdom are incredibly polite and friendly (when on their own turf).

True. Next.

4. We drink an awful lot and are lairy, loud, and irritating when on holiday.

I am inclined to agree. When drinking with Spaniards, I pace myself much more. I went out recently and lined up the shot of Jaeger with a glass next to it, dash of Red Bull at the ready. In I dropped the alcohol, and one, two, three, down the hatch. One go. My companions, on the other hand, struggled to do it in one. More like in three. I’m not saying this is a bad thing, by the way. I don’t class it as a talent to down-in-one one part Jaeger two parts Red Bull. This said, it’s something most university students, and indeed twenty-somethings, have down pat. The culture here is much more relaxed as regards drinking. I genuinely think they drink more than we do; the difference is the speed. Your average holidaymaker here drinks in the space of an hour what a native here drinks over five hours, or the whole evening. No wonder the seaside resorts are full of idiots hurling themselves into pools from balconies, and getting tattoos on their bum cheeks. No wonder the residents have this idea of us.

5. We look like lobsters the minute we step onto a beach.

100% true. Even worse for the Irish.

6. British women wear a lot of make up and wear very little clothing.

7. We’re all fat. 

Again, I’m going to find it hard to dispute this one. Well, I don’t really want to. Obesity rates in the UK are shocking, and I’d really rather this stereotype wasn’t true, but it is. However, I would like to say that it isn’t because we cook everything in butter (because we don’t…I like my vegetable oil, thanks). I think it has more to do with our more commercial-centred and less family-orientated society, and availability of fast food, plus abject laziness.

We’re in the dark; but as you can see, the rest of Europe is following closely behind.

I’m worried for Spain, though – the amount of sugar they eat here surprises me, especially for such a ‘healthy’ country. Having lived with families of the country for a while, I saw it was commonplace for a child to have hot chocolate (like Nesquik) every single morning. To me, that’s already too much. But then, I wouldn’t give my kids the standard UHT milk they get here, it tastes far too synthetic and horrible. I’d have to spend more and get the fresh milk, which you can find here, but it’s not so common. Hot chocolate is often drunk with cereal in, and many children have biscuits for breakfast, which I find absolutely ridiculous and not at all a substitute for a healthy brekky. People who give their children biscuits for breakfast in the UK, are to the best of my knowledge, not seen as the shining examples of parenting. The sugar levels must make these kids, who already have to study absolutely ridiculous amounts, go completely berserk by 9:30am. The morning break usually consists of a croissant, or more biscuits, and in some cases a sandwich (which I’m sure would make a better breakfast, but what do I know…). A yoghurt can’t be eaten without ten spoons of sugar added to it. What happened to the nice, fresh taste of natural yoghurt? I’m shunned like a leper when I tell people I really don’t want extra sugar, or, in fact, any, thanks.

 

 

I sound like I’m being incredibly rude about a country where I’ve chosen to go and live, and has been very good to me so far. I’m not; I promise. There are so many good things here. I just want to defend a few points that are so often said about us and our silly little nation; mostly for the purposes of humour, and to see if any of my fellow countrymen will nod their heads along with what I say, as may some foreigners.

I’ve said many a time why I love it here, and I promise I’ll sing Catalonia’s praises next time; providing no more pickpockets take advantage of me, and illness doesn’t plague me any longer, so I can start to go out and enjoy the wonderful weather.

Hearts Divided

Five years ago, my parents upped and left England, choosing to move to France, in the house they had bought a few years previously. At the time, I felt quite angry about it, as many eighteen year olds probably would, not fully understanding the decision and feeling a little left behind, abandoned, that sort of thing. Five years on, here I am living abroad myself, and I feel like I can completely understand the urge to up sticks and go. 

Living in a country which is not your own is a little strange. I truly believe most countries and people, at least those in Europe, are more or less the same aside from language issues, and a person can get down to it and cope living wherever they may choose. Speaking English has a wide range of advantages, and as I’ve said before, we’re lucky to have the world at our feet with it as our mother tongue. You have to adapt to a way of living you’re completely unaccustomed to; you have to learn another language and struggle speaking it as soon as you leave your house; you can’t buy the same things or have the same things available that you’re used to, and you of course have to make yourself new friends.

I miss greenery such as this, the striking Yorkshire Dales

Naturally, you become a little homesick. I go through periods of it, sometimes feeling myself melancholy for no reason and longing to see open green fields, be greeted as ‘love’ or ‘petal’ by shopkeepers, and being but a stone’s throw away from rolling hills and sparkling streams. I long to be understood by other people, wishing they were able to converse with me without it being massive effort on my part, or theirs, depending on which language we are speaking in. 

Then, I go through periods of jubilation, so happy to be here in my new, more fulfilling life. I sit on the train, looking through the window, and I can see the immense blue of the sea stretching out in front of me; craggy rock faces, and wiry shrubs poking from them, making for some spectacular viewing. I listen in to conversations, understanding the sing-song of Catalan, the up-and-down manner the Spanish speak in, tuning in to either language with ease and feeling proud because I can do so. I walk the streets of Gracia, and fall in love with it more each time, shady streets and pokey corners, teeming with life and trendy people sipping their coffees or beers. The sun brightens the open placa we reside in, children giggling, elderly nattering, and parents discussing. I feel at home. 

Views like this can’t be found in the UK (i.e with sun)

It is a strange feeling to be from one country and belong in another. I am lucky enough to have two homes, and I feel slightly like I am formed by two separate personalities. When I go back to England, I settle into routine easily, happy that I can buy what I want with ease, I can speak to whoever I like, and make polite conversation with people wherever I like, without having to think too hard. I love where I’m from; I miss Yorkshire and its friendly, open people, heck, I even miss the rain at times. However, when I’m there, I find myself aching to return to Barcelona, as I’ve become so used to my life here. I want to stroll down sunny streets and stand still on an escalator, amble wherever I want, loving the laid back attitude to life people have here. I want to sit with my head down in a verb conjugation book, stand behind a lectern and wave around like a ninny at people who might have no idea what I’m trying to teach them. 

I suppose it becomes easier with time; a transition that doesn’t come at once, but comes with patience and gradual realisation that your country isn’t going anywhere, especially with air fare being what it is these days. I never thought I’d be here forever; I always counted on returning home at some point. What if this is going to be the place I call home for the rest of my life? We as people are so capable of change, so adaptable: it can’t be too difficult. At the moment I’m slowly trying to get out of the habit of making comparisons left, right, and centre, trying to remember it’s a whole other country, and we all have differences. I feel like I will always hold England as the example, the way everything should be run; which I know isn’t right to do, but I spent twenty-two years there, and it’s only natural that I should be doing that. 

I would urge anyone to live abroad for a period of time in their life; I think it opens your mind, you can learn so much, and potentially another language which should be important to any sort of person. You meet new people, experience another culture, and grow as a person. Perhaps, like me, you will even have the good fortune to make your future the way you want it in your new-found homeland. 

 

Eats and treats

I’ve been here for a year and a half, more or less, and I’ve realised I haven’t really advertised a lot of Barcelona’s little hidden greats, or cutesy cafés in pokey streets, sunny squares for ‘taking’ your coffee, and so on. I know when I look to go on holiday, sometimes it’s better to know some lesser-known, off the beaten track areas, so you’re not prey to crowds and tourism.

I live in Gracia, which I fell in love with the moment I strolled through the tiny rows of perfectly square streets and surprisingly placed placas – there seems to be one on every corner, full of hip and happening Catalans sipping beer and smoking, laughing carefree and giving no sign that the country is facing a particularly difficult time at the moment. The streets are lined with orange trees, tiny tiendas and boutiques, and because the buildings aren’t so high here as in the centre, you have the feeling that you’re just visiting a local town. If you have a spare day after visiting all the usual Gaudi and wandering around beautiful Barri Gotico, I’d highly recommend a stroll through my local area. Some of my favourite haunts I’ve stumbled across in my neighbourhood are as follows:

Placa de la Vila de Gracia

This large square houses a beautiful tall tower, striking in the sunlight, and pleasant to look at as you dine or drink in the local bars in the area. There is a particularly good café here called Bo, of which there are two in Gracia, although the dessert prices at five euros a pop leave something to be desired. This said, they have excellent tapas at better prices, and it’s nice to sit in the square, especially when the resident clarinet player is tooting away. After school hours, kids play football in front of the powder-blue town hall building, the square really bustling with life.

Enjoy a peaceful lunch in a sunny square

Carrer Verdi

In the maze of Gracia, there is a long street called Carrer Verdi, which has oodles of little boutiques and interesting shops placed along it. You can find a few restaurants with cuisine from further afield around this area, which I sometimes find lacking in Barcelona (the idea that Spanish food is the best in the world seems to be upheld by everyone at all costs, as I keep hearing from students in lessons). There are nice little delis which sell yummy olives, jamon, and the typical food from the surrounding areas. Gracia being a little upon the hippy side, there are many organic shops selling carrot croquettes and lentil dishes, a staple part of Catalan cuisine.

Humana

Humana doesn’t just exist in Gracia – it’s one of Spain’s only charity shop chains, and sells clothes only. There are several scattered over Barcelona, with an eclectic mix of pattered old shirts and clown-print trousers, with certain diamonds in the rough if you search hard enough. On certain days and weeks it has ‘sales’, in which every article is under 2 or 3 euros, which means the shop is cleaned out, and is packed to the brim with people. Normally, clothes are around the 6-10 euro mark, which is still quite bargainous, and some vintage clobber can be found with ease; whilst we do our good bit for the earth and give some back to those who need more than we do. The shop accepts donations too.

Hoy todo 1 euro – today everything one euro; bargain!

Granel

Close to the Mercat de l’Abecería Central, which is also worth a look (there is a little egg shop inside selling ostrich eggs, of all things), there is an organic food shop called Granel, which sells all kinds of things in a serve-yourself manner. Large tubes are suspended from the wall, and you can amuse yourself twisting the knobs to get the paella mix or red lentils packaged away in your little bags. It’s one of the only places I’ve found a large range of spices at good prices, including sweet dried chillies, a rarity here, among other things such as delicious loose leaf tea from a variety of flavours – from oolong to chocolate and orange infused. The prices are good and it’s nice to support the local businesses: important in these times.

Food tubes for self-service in eco shop Granel

La Lola

What looks like a bog standard restaurant/café (call it a diner, Spanish style), is a delicious surprise on Carrer Escorial. The food is cheap, good, and just like (Catalan) mummy made it. Croquetas, pimientos del padron, and nice home-made pizzas, with a wide range of fish and meat thrown in, washed down with some bravas and beer, make for a good hangover cure, I’ve found. A meal for five can come out at as little as thirty-five euros, which really is nothing to be sneered at. Whilst it’s never going to earn Michelin stars, I’d recommend it for a traditional tapas evening with good service and jolly waiters (depending on the time).

Some other places I like, whilst not in Gracia, are equally worth a visit, especially as they’re more central…

Caj Chai

Ranging from crammed to the brim with people clamouring for a good cuppa, to deathly empty and eerie, Caj Chai sells what looks like thousands of different varieties of tea, including inventive mixtures with coffee, steamed milk, and other delights. I’ve been a few times, but I still get lost every time I look for it, as it’s situated in Barri Gotico, where to me most of the streets are similar and rather confusing. It’s worth the search, though, and because of its location, is less likely to be full of map-reading head-scratching lost tourists.

Find it on Carrer Sant Domènec del Call, 12, for a cuppa chai

Juicy Jones

If you’re sick of fried food, as nice as it is, take a jaunt to Juicy Jones, a vegan café just off La Rambla, which also makes reasonably priced fresh juices, either from the menu or to your taste. The menu del día, a snip at 8.50 a pop, offers two courses and a dessert (which to be frank, is always a bit weird as it’s never remotely what you think it’s going to be – I’ve never seen halva that looks like jelly). It does a very nice thali, with good spice levels, and the starters include the biggest bowl of hummus you’ve seen in your life, so value for money is definitely noted, particularly in an area which is the rip-off zone of Barcelona.

Eclectic interior of Juicy Jones

Rosa del Raval

Now, the food here is nowt to write home about, but with cheap margaritas and a range of frozen cocktails, I found I enjoyed it more than I expected to (Mexican isn’t as good or popular here). The atmosphere is jovial and relaxed, and occasionally a free frozen shot of strawberry daiquiri may be thrown in if you play your cards right. Sounds of mariachi bands pipe over the sound system, and the lurid tableclothes really give you a feel of Mexico – bright, enjoyable, and a popular spot both for eating and downing a few drinks.

Bright and captivating, and some tasty mojitos help

All this is just a taste of some of the great places I’ve discovered during my stay here: come here and find out for yourselves!

 

Les Comparses

You’d be forgiven for thinking you’d stepped into one of Willy Wonka’s eclectic dreams should you visit the seaside town of Vilanova i la Geltrú come Carnaval weekend. Late afternoon and forgotten sweet wrappers litter the floor, men dance around in traditional hats that wouldn’t look out of place on a garden gnome, and women wave shawls above their head, shouting in jubilation. What’s this all about?

 

Les Comparses, of uncertain history, perhaps originated in Italy, but nobody’s really sure; and I can’t unearth anything myself. This Sunday festival is the pinnacle of Carnival celebration in Catalonia; it’s completely unique, and an utter spectacle to see. You must be invited to attend, as it is a couples’ celebration, and all must be in ‘parells’ (pairs). All couples gather in various bands throughout the town, each belonging to their own group which sports a specific colour, pattern, or design, for the men’s traditional costume. Men wear suit-jackets and a ‘barretina’, which is the aforementioned hat, traditional throughout Catalonia. Men also carry a large square of cloth, fashioned into a bag, which holds a large quantity of brightly coloured sweets (we’ll get to that later). Most of the women are dressed similarly, in a flowered shawl and skirt. They wear a flower in their hair which may also correspond to the individual group’s colour scheme. Some 8,000 people take part in the celebration, and come 9AM in the morning, all couples are gathered in their meeting-places, sipping the first beer can of the morning, and getting into the festive spirit.

Getting ready to leave, dressed to the nines.

I was lucky enough to be invited this year, and I’m so glad to have been part; watching from the sidelines, as many tourists and locals alike do, just wouldn’t have been the same. We gathered outside the bar, our meeting point, ready for the ‘bandera’ (flag) to lead our procession, waving it through the small streets of the town. As the flag leaves, the flag-bearer following the designated route, the couples link arms and skip along the streets, most clinging onto a can of Estrella or San Miguel as well as their partner. The procession weaves into squares and small streets, and out come those sweets, being thrown at passers-by, onlookers on balconies, and members of other parading bands (or just your partner’s face and friends, even if it is forbidden to throw them into ‘la cara’). Skipping through the streets continues throughout most of the day, stopping at participating bars to grab more beer, or something stronger, and the bands continue on, growing merrier and merrier as the day passes.

I’m not altogether sure why the sweets are thrown, but as more and more tiny weapons are hurled into the air, the floor becomes a sticky mess of wrappers and trodden-in caramels or bonbons. A sugary film covers the tiles in the plazas, and the participants’ shoes become sweetie high-heels, papers and big lumps of sticky boiled God-knows-whats attached to the bottom. The more you drink, the less disgusting it feels, and you begin to forget. It’s all part of the fun, anyway, and it’s worth launching mini-missiles for a few hours of feet discomfort.

Coloured sweets are bright in the air

The processions finally lead their way to the Placa de la Vila, where the anticipated event takes to place: the big sweet war. Here, we wait patiently, crammed into each other, accompanied with the sounds of the marching bands that have played along with us all day, and loud shouts of ‘In-de-pen-den-cia’, which often, understandably at Catalan celebrations, is heard at large gatherings. Finally, the great event commences, and we all proceed into the square, circling it, skipping together still, the girls swinging their shawls, and the boys clinging on to their remaining sweetie-stash. A countdown is begun, and a grand roar goes up upon zero, as the girls run to the side of the square, desperately covering their faces and heads with their shawls, huddling together, and the boys lob sweets at each other, high in the sky, until their bag is empty. It’s quite a spectacle to be seen. After all the sweets are thrown, the groups dance and celebrate in the square, drinking, continuing the merriment, and posing for pictures.

Dancing in the square commences

I had seen pictures and videos beforehand of the event, but it’s true that it really didn’t prepare me for this rare experience, that comes but once a year. I’m lucky to have taken part, and hope I’m fortunate enough to be able to participate again in the future. I would suggest to anyone to go and see this utter spectacle; you really won’t be able to believe your eyes, as my words can’t capture this beautiful tradition as well as the experience can.

Girls cover themselves with shawls as boys hurl sweets into each other’s faces

Stuff that just doesn’t exist

Teaching adults English and teaching children English have obvious differences. I’ve enjoyed making the progression much more than I thought I would have done and actually find it rather satisfying, and much less exhausting. Adults don’t tend to run into the classroom and natter on at me in million mile an hour Catalan about how Joan hit them in the playground.

One thing I’m enjoying is discussing different vocabulary in our two (or three) languages – both differences and similarities. Obviously we know that both languages describe things in different ways and manners, and what may be ridiculously simple in English may become incredibly complex in Spanish, and vice versa. One thing I like with English is how many onomatopoeic words we have – I haven’t found so many in Spanish. A horse, for example, has the verb ‘relinchar’, which doesn’t sound remotely like a sound our hoofed friends make. To clap can be two things (commonly); ‘aplaudir’ (obviously the same as ‘applaud’) and ‘dar palmadas’, which literally means to give palms.

Here are some other words which either don’t quite translate in the same way or don’t have any direct translation whatsoever…

‘Hop, skip, jump’.

The Triple Jump is the same in Spanish, but everybody I’ve asked about the three separate steps has given me a befuddled look and simply informed me they’re all jumps. Er, not for us. I already knew they didn’t have a word for ‘hop’, they simply jump on one leg, and I’m really not sure still how they go about skipping in P.E – to skip with a rope is to jump, too; ‘saltar a la cuerda’, similar to the American ‘jumprope’, but to skip gaily is another matter…do they just run slowly? I decided to give a demonstration of the three different verbs, which was quite an amusing sight, only to be met with a blank look and told I was just jumping in three different ways. Technically, I suppose that’s right, but they feel like very different things to me!

The three steps of the triple jump: jump, jump, jump.

‘Enchufado’

In literal translation, this means ‘plugged’ in English. What it describes is a person who has got their job or got to the place they are by social connections rather than hard-work; it has negative connotations. I was asked by the students how to say this in English and was racking my brain for a rather long time. I don’t know if I just have a bad memory or if we don’t have a specific word for this in English at all. I know we can give someone a ‘leg-up’, but I really can’t think of how to describe someone who has been bumped up to the top of the pack having done no work of their own, with just one simple word.

‘Ser/estar’

Yes, we have this verb. It’s the verb ‘to be’. Generally it’s pretty easy, as one is permanent (‘ser’) and one is non-permanent (‘estar’). For example, you say, ‘soy alta’ – I’m tall. That makes perfect sense. You are permanently a tall person. You say ‘estoy feliz’ – I’m happy, which also makes perfect sense, as you’re hardly going to be happy as Larry for the entirety of your existence. One thing I really struggled with when learning how to use these verbs is how they describe being dead, and where a country or place is. Let me elaborate. When you say someone is dead in Spanish, you say ‘está muerto’. Er, what? So he’s dead, but it’s not permanent? I suppose this relates to the idea of a state of being, but then I would argue that being tall probably counts as a state of being too, so learning this confused me rather a lot. Perhaps the language is very superstitious or believes in zombies/ghosts. We also use ‘estar’ with countries and places, which to me, again, is very odd. If you want to say ‘Scotland is near England’, you say ‘Escocia está cerca de Inglaterra’, again with non-permanence. Er, where are they going? Will they have one day decided they’ve had enough and ship themselves off? I know how to use the verbs now, but learning that part was a bit of a headache to say the least.

‘Mimoso’

Last year one of the teachers at school described one of the kids to me as this, and asked me how to say it in English. I grabbed the dictionary and came up with the word ‘cuddly’, which really doesn’t describe what she was trying to put across. This word describes someone who loves to be made a fuss of and needs a lot of attention (i.e the human equivalent of a dog). They love to be pampered and need to be the apple of everyone’s eye.

‘Shallow’

What’s the opposite of deep? For a Spaniard, it’s probably ‘not very deep’. When using this word to describe a sea/lake and so on, rather than a personality trait, you usually just describe it as ‘little deep’.

‘Stuff’

Such a brilliant word, covering all manner of things. This isn’t just specific to Spanish, it doesn’t generally exist in other languages, or so I’m told. ‘Stuff’ comes up in a higher level book in the school where I work, and at first people put it down to be translated as ‘cosas’ (things), but I don’t think this really adequately covers the meaning of stuff. I think we could substitute ‘things’ for ‘stuff’ in the majority of sentences, but it just isn’t the same, when we mean ‘a collection of things’, i.e ‘he knows his stuff’…I’d never say ‘he knows his things’, as I’d be wondering what kind of things he knew, whereas with stuff, for some reason it’s quite apparent what he knows.

‘Tengo ganas’

This phrase (in Spanish, it’s not quite the same in Catalan) is used the same as ‘I feel like…’. I like it much better in Spanish. I had a student ask me about the meaning of ‘I feel like a cup of coffee’, because to him it was very strange to use language in that way. He read it very literally and probably thought I was suffering from some kind of medical condition. In Spanish they can’t have this double meaning from the phrase, so to me it makes more sense.

This double entendre cannot be made with the Spanish phrase.

The many different ways we describe ‘rain’.

Obviously Spanish have different words for rain, but I think we have more…because it rains more, so we need other ways to describe it; for example, ‘it’s spitting’. ‘Sleet’ is ‘watery snow’, and ‘raining cats and dogs’ is ‘llueve a cántaros’ which is ‘raining pitchers’, similar to our ‘bucketing it down’.

Seems a bit silly when you look at it this way.

I’m sure there are many more concepts which linguistically don’t exist in both languages…I’d be interested to know more, but these are just some I’ve come across both in the classroom and in day-to-day life. Sometimes I find I can express what I want to say in such an easy way in Spanish, when it’s more difficult for me to do in English, and vice versa. Perhaps Spanglish is the future when it comes to the art of conversation!

Angst amongst Elections

Living here over the past year, I’ve come to meet many people who wish to fight for Catalan independence and proclaim proudly they are Catalan, through and through. Quite understandable from a state with a rich history, and a background of oppression from the Spanish, whom many do not wish to consider themselves affiliated with any longer. Before coming here, I hadn’t quite realised how extensive the language and patriotism was – how there are genuinely people who struggle speaking Spanish, who don’t even like doing it, and who feel completely separated from a nation they are still part of.

Catalonia, specifically Barcelona, is interesting, as you seem to get a split down the middle between Catalans who want independence, and those who really don’t mind one bit and would rather stay part of Spain. Everybody agrees that the cuts and the taxes are extortionate, but that’s what richer parts of countries do – pay more tax. I can see it’s frustrating, but to me it seems the politicians have jumped on the public’s unrest and become deadly serious about Catalans becoming independent. I myself have no opinion on whether they should or shouldn’t – it’s not my place and I don’t wish to rock the boat with people by talking about it. It makes for awkward moments in class when it is brought up as in a lesson of around eight people, you’re likely to have them split down the middle in their opinion, and quite honestly they’re venting to the wrong crowd – I’m an English teacher: I’m there to teach them how to contract and pronounce properly, not to preside over a debate.

Artur Mas, the Catalan president, called a vote two years early, expecting that the public would once again vote him in, in a majority. Whilst they did vote for him again, he lost a number of seats, something I’m sure he wasn’t expecting. During his time as president, he’s brought in austerity measures, and asked for extra cash…something I think the public resents, naturally. La Vaga, held recently, meaning ‘strike’ in Catalan, was mostly down to lack of work and cuts, but I felt the undertone, as we all did in the city: the deep-down message for independence which is plastered all over the city walls at the moment. Bright yellow posters proclaiming now is the hour for the people to rise up and shout for their independence. Walking the streets on Vaga day was eerie. Most shops and banks were scrawled over with the words ‘tancat per la vaga’ (closed for the strike). Placa Catalunya, normally teeming, was unusually quiet, like the calm before the storm, when I walked into town around midday. At night, from our flat, we could hear the horns, the shouts of protest, and the whistles; a cacophony of disgruntled Catalans, and Spanish, alike.

Catalunya has a large economy, worth more combined than Portugal and Andorra, which for a region of 7.5 million people is pretty good going. This said, if they leave Spain, they’ll have to re-enter the EU, which sounds pretty difficult to me. What if they can’t? Do they go back to the peseta, which surely would be devastating? The region exports mostly to Spain and the EU, which means they must keep a good business relationship with their neighbour. I understand why they want independence, and part of me sees the appeal, too. A vibrant cultural history, very different from Spain, would be celebrated and recognised alone. I think sometimes we need to look at a much bigger picture, though, even bigger than just Spain, and just recognise we are all part of the same world. To me, I’d rather be part of something larger than separate myself and become smaller, but I haven’t grown up in a country like this, and don’t know what it feels like to want my own cultural identity, as I have a rather strong one myself.

We could all debate about this until the cows come home, but I wonder what’s in the future for this region. Watch this space, and until then, stop debating about it in English class…you’re making the poor foreigner uncomfortable.

Artur Mas…Catalan style. The equivalent here of Bremner, Bird, and Fortune.