Last week I did two things I haven't done for a little while.
No, not that. If only.
Hidden deep in the bowels of the conference centre are three music rooms. Not so far from the interpreting booths actually - the old disused ones that look out onto nowhere.
There's a lovely black Bechstein piano and a dog-eared copy of Bach's Woll-Temperierte Klavier as well as some Schubert impromptus on fragile leaves and as your fingers stumble over the keys all the chatter clears from your mind and you can really think finally.
You might think, for example, that you found and that you played from exactly the same ragged fragments of music last year and that this year it is somehow more difficult: the memory of the music moves your hands but in some way they are less agile, less accustomed to the exercise - they trip and falter under the sheer emotion of the melody and you cannot fill the notes with the expressive quality that you would like.
This week I bit the bullet and recorded myself in the booth. I won't go into details but - if I could forget just for one second that it was me speaking and pretend that it was some complete stranger - the comedy value would be immense.
As with the piano, I want to express the idea elegantly, I want it to sound smooth and pretty and legato but I am out of condition and it's more staccato, rubato and generally agitato with the odd note of vibrato where more than a hint of a doubt starts to creep in.
Why is it that choosing one way means missing out on something else?
I love living in Kraków, and I value the experiences of the past two years, but I wonder what I have missed by being here. Could I have lived for two years in Paris instead, spending Sundays at the market near Bastille or daydreaming around the Butte de Montmartre? If in two years I managed to learn enough Polish to stagger through a conversation in the back room of Kolory, imagine how much I could have improved and perfected my French instead! I could have travelled to Italy, lived in Florence, taught English and finally Learnt to Appreciate Art! Or moved into London and worked in a suit in the City.
Can't you hear the doors slamming shut all around you?
So you make choices and you travel and you run after one thing and neglect another. You forget that you are a musician, or a writer, or a lover, and you chase something else that you have never been.
Eventually you flit from place to place, trying to catch up with whatever essential intangible thing it is that you are missing. You avoid commitment to one home as you avoid attachment to one person. When you want to daydream, well, you take out old memories like photographs, blow the dust off them, and leaf through them, soothed by the fact that they are closed history and that you can just as easily slip them back into the album where they belong.
So what now?
Showing posts with label Interpreting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Interpreting. Show all posts
Friday, 17 July 2009
Friday, 20 February 2009
Language post
*Attention* Language geek post follows.
Every so often there are a spate of articles in the British press about how bad we are at learning foreign languages. These are usually in opinion columns and usually take the form of a sort of nagging warning: 'uh... look, guys... we might be missing something'.
I've noticed a couple in the past few days (ok, people have sent me links. although naturally I read ALL the papers in four languages every day like a good little linguist. Including the finance sections. it's true, honest it is).
Article 1: Foreigners translating into English because we're not clever enough to do it ourselves; the Times, Feb 16:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/leading_article/article5741122.ece
Article 2: Not enough native English interpreters in the EU; BBC News, Feb 19:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7900276.stm
This leads me to the conclusion that I might be in the only profession in the current world climate in which there is actually a real demand*.
Saints preserve us, I may actually have made a good career choice!
I would write my own article, but I have a plane to catch. I anticipate No Problems At All getting to Balice airport in the snow thank you.
Oh yes and the fun stuff?
Tłusty Cwartek**: Four at last count (although cheated by eating leftover two for breakfast the next morning). I scored one free doughnut in 'Pisanie/Słuchanie' class at school; my flatmate scored two from her workplace and one at salsa class (I really have to sign up to salsa dancing).
The police protest: A police protest against the removal of their right to retire after 15 years. Lots of big bangs which the other dog would not have liked. Also, they were in my way on the way home. Last time I protested about anything was as a student in Paris. I think that's the only way to do it really.
NATO summit: lots of helicopters over the town centre and security guards on the Rynek. Very exciting... in any case, anything loud enough to interrupt classes is naturally a plus.
School: Six hours so far, including gramatyka, mowienie, słownictwo... I'm discovering I may have been hasty in my judgements of my fellow students: not everyone is of Polish origin and not everyone is engaged to a Polish girl. And did you know there is an excellent Polonistyka department at the University of Tokyo?
We have just spent the morning learning how to apologise and to forgive people in Polish (przepraszanie and wybaczenie). This will be extremely useful given my propensity to pharmacy and tram rage. Particular emphasis was placed on the right expression and accent.
Notably, our repertoire now includes przepraszanie:
z lekceważeniem
ze złością
niegrzecznie
arogancko
z drwiną
And now I really must go and put these into practice in the queue for check-in...
*apart from useful things like teachers, doctors, reality tv show stars, etc.
** Polish pancake day but the Thursday before - start of the last week of carnival, only with doughnuts instead of pancakes. Just a light snack then.
Every so often there are a spate of articles in the British press about how bad we are at learning foreign languages. These are usually in opinion columns and usually take the form of a sort of nagging warning: 'uh... look, guys... we might be missing something'.
I've noticed a couple in the past few days (ok, people have sent me links. although naturally I read ALL the papers in four languages every day like a good little linguist. Including the finance sections. it's true, honest it is).
Article 1: Foreigners translating into English because we're not clever enough to do it ourselves; the Times, Feb 16:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/leading_article/article5741122.ece
Article 2: Not enough native English interpreters in the EU; BBC News, Feb 19:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7900276.stm
This leads me to the conclusion that I might be in the only profession in the current world climate in which there is actually a real demand*.
Saints preserve us, I may actually have made a good career choice!
I would write my own article, but I have a plane to catch. I anticipate No Problems At All getting to Balice airport in the snow thank you.
Oh yes and the fun stuff?
Tłusty Cwartek**: Four at last count (although cheated by eating leftover two for breakfast the next morning). I scored one free doughnut in 'Pisanie/Słuchanie' class at school; my flatmate scored two from her workplace and one at salsa class (I really have to sign up to salsa dancing).
The police protest: A police protest against the removal of their right to retire after 15 years. Lots of big bangs which the other dog would not have liked. Also, they were in my way on the way home. Last time I protested about anything was as a student in Paris. I think that's the only way to do it really.
NATO summit: lots of helicopters over the town centre and security guards on the Rynek. Very exciting... in any case, anything loud enough to interrupt classes is naturally a plus.
School: Six hours so far, including gramatyka, mowienie, słownictwo... I'm discovering I may have been hasty in my judgements of my fellow students: not everyone is of Polish origin and not everyone is engaged to a Polish girl. And did you know there is an excellent Polonistyka department at the University of Tokyo?
We have just spent the morning learning how to apologise and to forgive people in Polish (przepraszanie and wybaczenie). This will be extremely useful given my propensity to pharmacy and tram rage. Particular emphasis was placed on the right expression and accent.
Notably, our repertoire now includes przepraszanie:
z lekceważeniem
ze złością
niegrzecznie
arogancko
z drwiną
And now I really must go and put these into practice in the queue for check-in...
*apart from useful things like teachers, doctors, reality tv show stars, etc.
** Polish pancake day but the Thursday before - start of the last week of carnival, only with doughnuts instead of pancakes. Just a light snack then.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Tuesday, 15 July 2008
Bees
- We're still waiting for one or two people...
began the speaker (in French) .. so I'll tell you an amusing little anecdote to get the interpreters warmed up.
Uh oh.
- I'm a farmer, I live in the country, and one day a woman from the city came to visit us. "You'll never guess what I just read in the papers" she said. "There's been an exciting new discovery for beekeepers. It's so clever. They've taught the bees to make the honey... in jars!"
There was a pause.
Silence in the hall.
The speaker stared hard at the tinted glass of my booth.* Why weren't they laughing? Was she broken?
He gave me another puzzled look and continued.
- My nephew - himself a beekeeper - was also sitting nearby. "That's nothing." he replied. "My bees have been doing that for years. Better still: my bees make honey in jars ...
... and they put the lids on!"
I held my breath and willed the sleepy audience to have just a little giggle.
Faint mirth. Not enough though. The speaker sent a Very Pointed Look in my direction.
- Now I will speak in English.
he said.
- to test the French interpretation...
*It's just me actually - times are hard and English interpreters can put away an awful lot of free food...
began the speaker (in French) .. so I'll tell you an amusing little anecdote to get the interpreters warmed up.
Uh oh.
- I'm a farmer, I live in the country, and one day a woman from the city came to visit us. "You'll never guess what I just read in the papers" she said. "There's been an exciting new discovery for beekeepers. It's so clever. They've taught the bees to make the honey... in jars!"
There was a pause.
Silence in the hall.
The speaker stared hard at the tinted glass of my booth.* Why weren't they laughing? Was she broken?
He gave me another puzzled look and continued.
- My nephew - himself a beekeeper - was also sitting nearby. "That's nothing." he replied. "My bees have been doing that for years. Better still: my bees make honey in jars ...
... and they put the lids on!"
I held my breath and willed the sleepy audience to have just a little giggle.
Faint mirth. Not enough though. The speaker sent a Very Pointed Look in my direction.
- Now I will speak in English.
he said.
- to test the French interpretation...
*It's just me actually - times are hard and English interpreters can put away an awful lot of free food...
Sunday, 29 June 2008
Ramifications
- My colleague has started behaving in an unusual way-
said my friend, Brussels Girl;
- she bought a copy of The Economist and starting underlining good words and expressions.
- uh... I do that... I admitted sheepishly*
- No but she hates The Economist - replied BG. - Only... last week, I used the word 'ramifications' at work and I think it caught her off-guard. What's more, the other day she used 'ramifications' too.
- Oh. I replied. - I'm not sure that I've ever used the word 'ramifications' actually: not even in casual conversation.
Now I'm starting to worry about my own use of English. Maybe I should try and drop in a few ramifications at unexpected moments.
At breakfast: 'If I were to eat a croissant with jam instead of Weetabix, what do suppose would be the the potential digestive ramifications?'
Crossing the road: 'In contact with that lorry I foresee significant bodily ramifications!'
On the cafe terrace: 'One more gin and tonic and tomorrow morning will be coloured by serious ramifications'...
Uxbridge English dictionary definition: 'Ramifications: i) fortifications involving a battering ram. ii) cardinal sin for sheep.'
Must think of some more good words... any ideas??
*Also Le Point, Repubblica and the bilingual airport magazines you get at Krakow Balice.
said my friend, Brussels Girl;
- she bought a copy of The Economist and starting underlining good words and expressions.
- uh... I do that... I admitted sheepishly*
- No but she hates The Economist - replied BG. - Only... last week, I used the word 'ramifications' at work and I think it caught her off-guard. What's more, the other day she used 'ramifications' too.
- Oh. I replied. - I'm not sure that I've ever used the word 'ramifications' actually: not even in casual conversation.
Now I'm starting to worry about my own use of English. Maybe I should try and drop in a few ramifications at unexpected moments.
At breakfast: 'If I were to eat a croissant with jam instead of Weetabix, what do suppose would be the the potential digestive ramifications?'
Crossing the road: 'In contact with that lorry I foresee significant bodily ramifications!'
On the cafe terrace: 'One more gin and tonic and tomorrow morning will be coloured by serious ramifications'...
Uxbridge English dictionary definition: 'Ramifications: i) fortifications involving a battering ram. ii) cardinal sin for sheep.'
Must think of some more good words... any ideas??
*Also Le Point, Repubblica and the bilingual airport magazines you get at Krakow Balice.
Sunday, 11 May 2008
The Dealer
Within the hallowed halls of the interpreting school in Kraków, an undercover market is thriving.
Saturday morning. The corridor, painted a light duck-egg blue,* exudes light and space. The brand-new po remoncie linoleum gleams wryly, like threadbare satin. You couldn't ask for a more innocent setting.
As the wall clock ticks its inexorable way through ten minutes to nine, the lift doors zwoosh open and the first students begin to trickle in. With a weary 'click', the long hand shifts its weight over the hour and a gaggle of girls, freshly tumbled off the Warsaw express, burst rucksack-laden through the fire doors and stagger into the airy blue of the corridor.
But wait - something is happening...
One girl hauls the burdensome load off her shoulders.
Immediately, several other students, until this point slouching listlessly along the walls of the hall and dreaming of last night's excesses, flock around her, scrabbling for wallets and purses. Coins chink together and fresh cash crackles.
She pulls open the backpack, diving deep and rummaging blindly within its depths.
Her waiting colleagues hold their collective breath.
Moments pass - signifying hours for the fix-starved addicts in the corridor.
Finally, the dealer's head emerges from the rucksack, and then, slowly, she draws out her precious cargo.
The other students take a step back and there is a respectful pause before the distribution of goods and exchange of money begins.
Our Varsovian supplier, a visitor from the civilised world, begins to hand out...
... hard-backed, spiral bound reporter's notebooks.
Impossible to find anywhere in Poland.
Along with applicator tampons and pre-packaged sandwiches, this is one essential product that is virtually unheard-of here...
*Incidentally, Jilly Cooper's favourite colour. It's so true. Read any two or three of her novels in quick succession (guilty) and it will jump out at you.
Saturday morning. The corridor, painted a light duck-egg blue,* exudes light and space. The brand-new po remoncie linoleum gleams wryly, like threadbare satin. You couldn't ask for a more innocent setting.
As the wall clock ticks its inexorable way through ten minutes to nine, the lift doors zwoosh open and the first students begin to trickle in. With a weary 'click', the long hand shifts its weight over the hour and a gaggle of girls, freshly tumbled off the Warsaw express, burst rucksack-laden through the fire doors and stagger into the airy blue of the corridor.
But wait - something is happening...
One girl hauls the burdensome load off her shoulders.
Immediately, several other students, until this point slouching listlessly along the walls of the hall and dreaming of last night's excesses, flock around her, scrabbling for wallets and purses. Coins chink together and fresh cash crackles.
She pulls open the backpack, diving deep and rummaging blindly within its depths.
Her waiting colleagues hold their collective breath.
Moments pass - signifying hours for the fix-starved addicts in the corridor.
Finally, the dealer's head emerges from the rucksack, and then, slowly, she draws out her precious cargo.
The other students take a step back and there is a respectful pause before the distribution of goods and exchange of money begins.
Our Varsovian supplier, a visitor from the civilised world, begins to hand out...
... hard-backed, spiral bound reporter's notebooks.
Impossible to find anywhere in Poland.
Along with applicator tampons and pre-packaged sandwiches, this is one essential product that is virtually unheard-of here...
*Incidentally, Jilly Cooper's favourite colour. It's so true. Read any two or three of her novels in quick succession (guilty) and it will jump out at you.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Random acts of Tourist Rescue before Breakfast
This morning the muesli tasted even more sourly, dustily revolting than Mr Nestle's usual efforts, and a second mouthful confirmed my suspicions.
The milk was off.
Had my flatmates been leaving the fridge door open? We're talking about two blonde art students in their (very) early twenties* who possess some cosmic ability to de-magnetize cupboard/fridge/oven door catches, leaving a trail of swinging portals in their respective wakes.
I spend my life banging my shins on chipboard.
[Now's not the time, but don't let me forget to write a post on the mysteries of young Polish girls from the country. They're not like us. For example, shortly after my old flatmates moved out and the new ones moved in, filmy twee curtains, which wouldn't look out of place in my Granny's flat, appeared over all the windows...I've heard these are called 'firanki'...]
I skipped the coffee and muesli and decided to brave the bad obwarzanki ladies that brood in the underpass by Galeria Krakowska. After short deliberation and much stooping (can anyone tell me why the hatch is always positioned around upper stomach/lower boob height? It is particularly hard to bend yourself down to this level and then try to catch the attention of the squat being glowering on the other side) I emerged bearing my plum pastry prize and made to go to the office.
Near the kiosk stood a young couple, both red-haired, and clearly not Polish. They were looking doubtfully at the pastries on display. The guy made a tentative attempt on the soft drinks fridge.
- Usually they do it for you.
I offered.
- Do you want a hand?
They looked at each other and then nodded why not.
Yes! My first Random Act of Tourist Rescue. From here it's just a short step to booth interpretation. Today the bakery, tomorrow the Council of Europe.
- Right, what do you want? I asked, briskly
- uh... I guess two croissants...
- Do you know what's in them? I reckon it's chocolate... hang on...
'Prosze Pani czy rogaliki są z czekoladą?
The woman assented impatiently.
- How many: two? Two.
- And... said the guy carefully ... 'An Ob-var-zhan-ek'
- Oooh well done! Dwa razy obwarzanek (i think actually they only wanted one. ah well). Nie nie, uhh... jeszcze kurosant.
- Would you get a bloody move on there's a queue building up!
Said the Bad Obwarzanki Lady crossly. Or something like that anyway.
- Przepraszam Panią ale...
- (to the guy): did you want water?
- yes, duzy woda, said the guy, who was getting into the spirit of things.
The lady behind the glass looked as though she might erupt at any moment.
- Eight zloty thirty; I said 'uhh Bon appetit'
and beat a hasty retreat.
Next I made for the newsagent's to get some fruit juice**. There was a young Indian guy at the counter trying to buy a tram ticket.
- Normalny, said the lady behind the counter: 'nor-mal'.
The guy nodded, looked embarassed, and handed over the cash.
Only then the lady launched into a huge spiel in Polish about where exactly to go, how to exit the underpass (not as simple as you'd think... it's under a crossroads by the station and there are at least four exits), where to cross the road i tak dalej ad infinitum.
Her victim reached for his phrasebook.
- She's telling you where the tram stop is. I butted in, starting to feel over-confident. 'Do you know it?'
- Yeah yeah, said the guy, and legged it while the going was good.
I paid for the juice and decided it was probably time to go to work after all.
*And yet we can't get anyone to fix the boiler.
**Blackcurrant actually. It's brilliant. Nice and sour. If you slip a shot of vodka into it you can get someone wasted and they'll never notice a thing.
The milk was off.
Had my flatmates been leaving the fridge door open? We're talking about two blonde art students in their (very) early twenties* who possess some cosmic ability to de-magnetize cupboard/fridge/oven door catches, leaving a trail of swinging portals in their respective wakes.
I spend my life banging my shins on chipboard.
[Now's not the time, but don't let me forget to write a post on the mysteries of young Polish girls from the country. They're not like us. For example, shortly after my old flatmates moved out and the new ones moved in, filmy twee curtains, which wouldn't look out of place in my Granny's flat, appeared over all the windows...I've heard these are called 'firanki'...]
I skipped the coffee and muesli and decided to brave the bad obwarzanki ladies that brood in the underpass by Galeria Krakowska. After short deliberation and much stooping (can anyone tell me why the hatch is always positioned around upper stomach/lower boob height? It is particularly hard to bend yourself down to this level and then try to catch the attention of the squat being glowering on the other side) I emerged bearing my plum pastry prize and made to go to the office.
Near the kiosk stood a young couple, both red-haired, and clearly not Polish. They were looking doubtfully at the pastries on display. The guy made a tentative attempt on the soft drinks fridge.
- Usually they do it for you.
I offered.
- Do you want a hand?
They looked at each other and then nodded why not.
Yes! My first Random Act of Tourist Rescue. From here it's just a short step to booth interpretation. Today the bakery, tomorrow the Council of Europe.
- Right, what do you want? I asked, briskly
- uh... I guess two croissants...
- Do you know what's in them? I reckon it's chocolate... hang on...
'Prosze Pani czy rogaliki są z czekoladą?
The woman assented impatiently.
- How many: two? Two.
- And... said the guy carefully ... 'An Ob-var-zhan-ek'
- Oooh well done! Dwa razy obwarzanek (i think actually they only wanted one. ah well). Nie nie, uhh... jeszcze kurosant.
- Would you get a bloody move on there's a queue building up!
Said the Bad Obwarzanki Lady crossly. Or something like that anyway.
- Przepraszam Panią ale...
- (to the guy): did you want water?
- yes, duzy woda, said the guy, who was getting into the spirit of things.
The lady behind the glass looked as though she might erupt at any moment.
- Eight zloty thirty; I said 'uhh Bon appetit'
and beat a hasty retreat.
Next I made for the newsagent's to get some fruit juice**. There was a young Indian guy at the counter trying to buy a tram ticket.
- Normalny, said the lady behind the counter: 'nor-mal'.
The guy nodded, looked embarassed, and handed over the cash.
Only then the lady launched into a huge spiel in Polish about where exactly to go, how to exit the underpass (not as simple as you'd think... it's under a crossroads by the station and there are at least four exits), where to cross the road i tak dalej ad infinitum.
Her victim reached for his phrasebook.
- She's telling you where the tram stop is. I butted in, starting to feel over-confident. 'Do you know it?'
- Yeah yeah, said the guy, and legged it while the going was good.
I paid for the juice and decided it was probably time to go to work after all.
*And yet we can't get anyone to fix the boiler.
**Blackcurrant actually. It's brilliant. Nice and sour. If you slip a shot of vodka into it you can get someone wasted and they'll never notice a thing.
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Super powers
Everyone has a special super power. My special power is punctuality. I am able to deflect the forces of punctuality. If it's really really important, I'll be there on time, but, then again, I've never really got over that extreme reluctance to get on the school bus in the morning (not to mention duvet separation anxiety).
But I have a perfectly good excuse. I'm actually using a Hermione Grainger-style time machine to fit in all the super-woman tasks and studying that I do. It's hardly surprising there's a little glitch every so often. Plus there's always a drowning squirrel to be rescued at the last minute. Nothing to do with the fact that I have to check my bag twice or three times to make sure that I remembered both mobile phone and cash card. Nor that I may be known on occasion to run back into the flat and check that I really did turn the gas off ...
Car guy's special power is communication with motorized vehicles. When, for example, I go back to the car to fetch a book I left on the passenger seat, I take the key, disable the alarm, unlock the passenger door, take the book, shut the door and lock it and reset the alarm. Not a peep. When Car Guy so much as raises an eyebrow at the vehicle, the alarm goes off and the entire neighbourhood is roused. Dogs start to howl at the moon. Babies wake up and begin to bawl. In Sri Lanka. Tremors start at the San Andreas fault line.
I think it likes him.
On Saturday I had the dream-like (koszmar would be an appropriate lexeme in this context) experience of interpreting from Polish... I trotted along to French class at the school only to find, to my horror, that they were going to interpret into French. Not from English then? No.
- Actually it's really good practice to interpret from a language you don't understand; said Car Guy, sort of crumbling my confidence in the entire profession in one fell swoop.
When I was at uni in the UK, we were taught to wait until you understand something before starting to speak. I waited. I waited a little longer. Finally I snatched up one or two words I understood and made up what I hoped was a plausible sentence around them.
This kind of improvisational power will be invaluable to me if I ever fall into the hands of the Colombian police or qualify as a barrister.
But I have a perfectly good excuse. I'm actually using a Hermione Grainger-style time machine to fit in all the super-woman tasks and studying that I do. It's hardly surprising there's a little glitch every so often. Plus there's always a drowning squirrel to be rescued at the last minute. Nothing to do with the fact that I have to check my bag twice or three times to make sure that I remembered both mobile phone and cash card. Nor that I may be known on occasion to run back into the flat and check that I really did turn the gas off ...
Car guy's special power is communication with motorized vehicles. When, for example, I go back to the car to fetch a book I left on the passenger seat, I take the key, disable the alarm, unlock the passenger door, take the book, shut the door and lock it and reset the alarm. Not a peep. When Car Guy so much as raises an eyebrow at the vehicle, the alarm goes off and the entire neighbourhood is roused. Dogs start to howl at the moon. Babies wake up and begin to bawl. In Sri Lanka. Tremors start at the San Andreas fault line.
I think it likes him.
On Saturday I had the dream-like (koszmar would be an appropriate lexeme in this context) experience of interpreting from Polish... I trotted along to French class at the school only to find, to my horror, that they were going to interpret into French. Not from English then? No.
- Actually it's really good practice to interpret from a language you don't understand; said Car Guy, sort of crumbling my confidence in the entire profession in one fell swoop.
When I was at uni in the UK, we were taught to wait until you understand something before starting to speak. I waited. I waited a little longer. Finally I snatched up one or two words I understood and made up what I hoped was a plausible sentence around them.
This kind of improvisational power will be invaluable to me if I ever fall into the hands of the Colombian police or qualify as a barrister.
Thursday, 29 November 2007
Honestly I really really haven't a clue...
I've been trotting along to the interpreting school in Kraków every Saturday on the grounds that I'm a native speaker and I'm free so it's ok for me to eavesdrop on their classes alongside the paying students. Plus I'm not exactly participating: I can barely understand the language let alone interpret from it.
At least I thought I wasn't participating.
The students are currently exercising their memories and improving their analytical skills by playing silly games like you get on Radio 4 at 6.30pm.
To my horror, one teacher invited me to join in. They were playing that snowball game- you know the one- where each person has to add another sentence, like 'I went to the supermarket and in my shopping basket I had...'
Only with Polish politics.
It was mystifying.
Halfway through I had to suppress the urge to call 'Mornington Crescent'*.
And of course guess who was at the end of the line and very nearly had to recite the whole darn thing.
uh... twelve party members... eleven nurses striking... ten nuns a-sieging... nine vetting procedures... eight mohair berets... seven students singing...
Anyone got a good idea for Five Goooold Rings???
*It would have been a super move but possibly a contravention of the rules. I'll have to write to Humphrey Littleton.
At least I thought I wasn't participating.
The students are currently exercising their memories and improving their analytical skills by playing silly games like you get on Radio 4 at 6.30pm.
To my horror, one teacher invited me to join in. They were playing that snowball game- you know the one- where each person has to add another sentence, like 'I went to the supermarket and in my shopping basket I had...'
Only with Polish politics.
It was mystifying.
Halfway through I had to suppress the urge to call 'Mornington Crescent'*.
And of course guess who was at the end of the line and very nearly had to recite the whole darn thing.
uh... twelve party members... eleven nurses striking... ten nuns a-sieging... nine vetting procedures... eight mohair berets... seven students singing...
Anyone got a good idea for Five Goooold Rings???
*It would have been a super move but possibly a contravention of the rules. I'll have to write to Humphrey Littleton.
Saturday, 10 November 2007
First snow
This morning, as usual, I leapt out of bed at 7.30am, made coffee and scurried along bright-eyed and enthusiastic to French class at the interpreting school. Oh all right, it wasn't exactly like that.
Last Saturday, when I went through this same routine, I scrambled up the stairs at the university to discover all the lights switched off on the second floor. I switched them on, thinking they must be saving energy (the only institution in Poland to think of doing so) and marched over to the classroom door. It was locked. They all were.
I went back down the stairs and tiptoed over to the porter's desk at the front door.
- Is the UNESCO school closed today?
- Yup. Rector's day.
(n.b. for me a 'rector's day' in a university context involves dragging Clement Freud around all 32 pubs in St Andrews' three main streets on a chariot. I do hope there's a wikipedia article for that because it's a long long story...)
At least this weekend the lights were on. There was a class going on, but it certainly wasn't French consecutive interpreting. I made a hasty exit, and wondered what to do with the morning stretching unexpectedly out before me. I thought I would walk over to the language labs and check the class hadn't moved there, and then maybe get coffee and go rollerblading.
The weather, as usual, had other ideas.
To travel between the two university buildings takes about five minutes on foot. Unless of course it starts snowing on the way.
Around fifteen minutes (and ok, three or four photos) later I was battling my way along the Aleja, head down into the wind, the front of my duffle coat caked in icy white fluff.
I'm beginning to wonder whether this stubborn attitude was a little misplaced. Surely quick thinking and a good turn of phrase are more useful in the booth than resistance to precipitation? As far as I know, the European Commission are not going to bundle you into a rain booth* if you get through the first two rounds of consec to test how quickly you get soggy...
I'm beginning to wonder whether this stubborn attitude was a little misplaced. Surely quick thinking and a good turn of phrase are more useful in the booth than resistance to precipitation? As far as I know, the European Commission are not going to bundle you into a rain booth* if you get through the first two rounds of consec to test how quickly you get soggy...
In any case, the lab was firmly locked. I dripped puddles all the way up to the ninth floor and then got back in the lift and made my way down again (not without first taking in the impressive view of the blizzard-stricken city from the top floor window).
If you ever find yourself in Kraków in the snow, I recommend hot chocolate at Prowincja. Or Nowa Prowincja, two doors down. Warning: you may have to eat it with a knife and fork.
* cabine douche in French. Brought to you by Auto-Terminology of the Day...
Here are the photos:
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Tips for language acquisition... (ensure tongue remains firmly in cheek at all times) part I.
There's this brilliant website for student/trainee interpreters which is full of advice for practising etc. By far the best time to consult it is last thing at night, so you can go to bed and dream about all the great things you're going to do tomorrow.
[Here's the link: http://interpreters.free.fr/language/dekalog.htm]
So, with all due respect and a great deal of humility, I have compiled my own ten observations on how to eat, sleep and breathe foreign vocab (Don't inhale. It might go to your head). These are strictly aimed at former pre-exam crammers who only limped through their A-levels by burning vocabulary onto their retinas in the half hour before the doors opened and consequently have a short term memory with a strict "one in, one out" on-the-door policy within any twenty-four hour period.
Here are numbers one to five:
1/ Alcohol. Ok, so it's stating the obvious. But anyone who's tried to speak French will know how a ballon de rouge or four can turn you into Proust with beer-goggles (also known to improve singing ability, even in the most hopeless cases). Although in the case of Polish it may simply increase your confidence to the extent that you start adding -owac and -owany to the end of English words and conjugating everything in the genitive just to hedge your bets.*
If all else fails, you can always sit and translate the label on the back of the bottle (for 'translate', read 'bug your Polish friends for translations of...').
Warning: any vocabulary gleaned in this manner will almost certainly be forgotten the next morning.
2/ Biology. Remember those girls who came back from their Erasmus semester with a photo of some sloe-eyed Sicilian in their purses and a fluent command of the Italian idiom? Fraternizing with the natives is a long-established method for acquiring vocabulary without trying too hard, and you may even enjoy yourself. For fairly logical biological reasons, this works much better for girls than for guys. The irony therein is that Polish women, without exception, all look like supermodels**, while the guys look, well, pretty similar to British guys (socks under sandals, terrible haircuts and so on).
Caution should be exercised when using vocabulary acquired in this manner in a professional context.
3/ Crime. Have something stolen. As yet (touch wood) this method remains untested in Poland, but was experienced in a bizarre way involving a rented bike in Italy (bizarre because said bike was returned three days later when the end-of-term party season finished. Northerners are Weird). Following the theft you are compelled to go down to the local nick and attempt to communicate. You then have to pretend not to hear the Entire Station giggling like big girls because your driving licence ID gives your first name as 'Miss'- which, everywhere in Europe except the UK, designates a beauty pageant entrant.
You will never, ever forget the Italian word for a bike lock.
4/ Babcia. Rent a sofa from someone's grandmother in Nowa Huta. This may also be a direct consequence of quarter-life-crisis financial angst. There is No Chance that she'll be speaking any English to you, and you'll have to pick up one or two Polish words otherwise you won't get any dinner. As an interesting side effect, you will learn how to interpret the babcia growl, commonly uttered in queues if you complain that they may have pushed in front of you. Equally common on the tram: if accompanied by brandished umbrella, relinquish your seat Immediately.
5/ Sport. Go jogging in shorts. Very quickly pick up rude things to shout at lorry drivers.
Again, this is generally one for the girls, although you'd be surprised.
And see cautionary note to no. 2.
Interestingly, if you want to steal something on the Bvd de Clichy, this is probably a good way to get away with it.
To be continued...
1/ Alcohol. Ok, so it's stating the obvious. But anyone who's tried to speak French will know how a ballon de rouge or four can turn you into Proust with beer-goggles (also known to improve singing ability, even in the most hopeless cases). Although in the case of Polish it may simply increase your confidence to the extent that you start adding -owac and -owany to the end of English words and conjugating everything in the genitive just to hedge your bets.*
If all else fails, you can always sit and translate the label on the back of the bottle (for 'translate', read 'bug your Polish friends for translations of...').
Warning: any vocabulary gleaned in this manner will almost certainly be forgotten the next morning.
2/ Biology. Remember those girls who came back from their Erasmus semester with a photo of some sloe-eyed Sicilian in their purses and a fluent command of the Italian idiom? Fraternizing with the natives is a long-established method for acquiring vocabulary without trying too hard, and you may even enjoy yourself. For fairly logical biological reasons, this works much better for girls than for guys. The irony therein is that Polish women, without exception, all look like supermodels**, while the guys look, well, pretty similar to British guys (socks under sandals, terrible haircuts and so on).
Caution should be exercised when using vocabulary acquired in this manner in a professional context.
3/ Crime. Have something stolen. As yet (touch wood) this method remains untested in Poland, but was experienced in a bizarre way involving a rented bike in Italy (bizarre because said bike was returned three days later when the end-of-term party season finished. Northerners are Weird). Following the theft you are compelled to go down to the local nick and attempt to communicate. You then have to pretend not to hear the Entire Station giggling like big girls because your driving licence ID gives your first name as 'Miss'- which, everywhere in Europe except the UK, designates a beauty pageant entrant.
You will never, ever forget the Italian word for a bike lock.
4/ Babcia. Rent a sofa from someone's grandmother in Nowa Huta. This may also be a direct consequence of quarter-life-crisis financial angst. There is No Chance that she'll be speaking any English to you, and you'll have to pick up one or two Polish words otherwise you won't get any dinner. As an interesting side effect, you will learn how to interpret the babcia growl, commonly uttered in queues if you complain that they may have pushed in front of you. Equally common on the tram: if accompanied by brandished umbrella, relinquish your seat Immediately.
5/ Sport. Go jogging in shorts. Very quickly pick up rude things to shout at lorry drivers.
Again, this is generally one for the girls, although you'd be surprised.
And see cautionary note to no. 2.
Interestingly, if you want to steal something on the Bvd de Clichy, this is probably a good way to get away with it.
To be continued...
**Although she will spend the next fifty years metamorphosing into a fierce babcia with a vicious umbrella- see point 4/. Is there any section of the Polish demographic I haven't managed to offend yet?
Friday, 13 July 2007
Interpreting, part II
'Ladles and Gelatin,
I am extremely grapefruit for the warm red-setter I always receive here and I hope as the days collapse we will have the misfortune to make one another's aquarium, but first I would like to begin with an amusing antelope...'
The reason for my foray into the world of departure lounges, German and the international Financial Times was to spend a week volunteering in a gigantic fairy-tale castle perched on top of a mountain overlooking Lake Geneva. The building is a former hotel, unchanged since F. Scott Fitzgerald, where you feel you ought really to spend your evenings flitting aesthetically between the arches of the stone balconies in a wispy dress, sipping a gin fizz, or tripping a waltz underneath the chandelier in the great hall, whilst waiting for the 1930s to come crashing in. I half expected to have to dress for dinner.
Or to find a body in a remote linen closet at the far end of the east wing on the fifth floor. I am sure I spotted M'sieur Poirot at breakfast on Sunday morning, examining the relative thickness of brioche slices ('Eh bien, Mademoiselle, your command of ze French it is Most Excellent').
This last comment sadly betrayed by my liaison performance:
- 'Une minute! Une!'
hissed my colleague, demonstrating narrow-minded French conformity to gender stereotypes. Clearly the Academie Francaise is in need of a few sessions with Tinky Winky et al.
German tactfully has a neuter gender, as I was reminded in a German workshop run by a tiny yet terrifying intern who turned out to be achtzehn jahre alt. Most importantly, I learnt 'Wie geht es dir?'- 'how's it going, dear?'.
On the final night there was a talent show, which I got to watch since it was all in either English or Russian (neither of which I understand).
Out of all the acts, the hits were:
- A dignitary from a local NGO being a thoroughly Good Sport and miming the Theory and Practice of sewing on a button (incidentally, somebody miming the action of sewing their trouserleg to their sleeve is not at all dissimilar to someone trying to re-enact the action of banging their kneecap on the bathroom sink using the office radiator...)
- A part boy-band - part folk group improvising on the Titanic theme tune, complete with nerdy Japanese boy on the piano, dishy South American boy on the recorder and re-enactment of the 'I'm flying!' scene on the dais under the chandelier.
- Ukrainian 'Miss Universe' in drag: three strapping Slav chaps with cheekbones you could spread butter on, wearing their girlfriends' sarongs over their jeans. Extracts from the relay from the Russian booth: 'No, Kostya, you went first... in... the sauna this morning...' and: 'There is no swimsuit round. This is an intellectual competition.'
Near misses were any songs that were reminiscent of the karaoke on ul. Grodzka...
N.B. the author of this blog would like it to be known that she is Thoroughly Professional in all her linguistic undertakings and is well aware of the difference between male and female. Except in that club in Leicester once: that was really confusing. And occasionally when reading Jeanette Winterson.
Monday, 4 June 2007
Piknik!
The language school I attend is really very good at ensuring that the misguided bunch of foreigners attempting to limp through their Polish courses have at least some form of social life. The last event involved oversized cheesy wotsits and 'wystko w porzadku'. This time, it was a special Polish picnic, to celebrate the beginning of summer with grilled kielbasa (smoky sausage) and gallons of polskie piwo, in the garden of one of the teachers, out in a suburb called Pokocim.
Together with two other Brits (actually ex-students of the school, either because they already know all there is to know about Polish, or because they despair of ever knowing it), we planned our trip out to the suburbs, charting tram times and line numbers and generally preparing for the journey into the unknown.
At least that was the plan. Polish weather, showing an uncharacteristically British streak, had other ideas.
Earlier that afternoon, the storm broke. I was high and dry on the ninth floor of the (slightly swaying) university languages building, sitting with headphones on while eight Polish interpreting students interpreted a speech about Ukrainian independence into Polish. There was an almighty explosion. I just managed to stop myself from bursting into 'Grandola, Vila morena' (the only revolutionary song I know the tune to), while the oblivious students continued talking until the end of the tape (exams are coming up, and people have priorities).
Rushing to the window, we saw that it was neither a new Chernobyl nor the Orange Revolution, but worse: torrential rain.
Determined to have my kielbasa and eat it, five twenty five (I can say this in Polish now, but it will take me half an hour to work out the conjugation, thus defeating the object somewhat) saw me standing at the arranged meeting place by the tram stop at the Theatre Bagatela.
We had only been on the tram for twenty minutes when the message arrived that the picnic had been cancelled due to poor weather.
- Now what?
- Should we get off the tram?
- I think it's stopping again soon
- Is it?
- Quick, get off, get off!
(Cue much scrambling and falling down steps).
Upon our return from this festive little joy-ride, we decided to go for sausage in Plac Nowy (and, in my case, a gherkin- I seem to be the only British person in the whole of central Europe who can stomach things that have been pickled in vinegar), and several beers, a more than adequate compensation for the lack of suburban barbecue. A date has yet to be set for the re-match: perhaps this time we can creep up on the weather and surprise it...
Together with two other Brits (actually ex-students of the school, either because they already know all there is to know about Polish, or because they despair of ever knowing it), we planned our trip out to the suburbs, charting tram times and line numbers and generally preparing for the journey into the unknown.
At least that was the plan. Polish weather, showing an uncharacteristically British streak, had other ideas.
Earlier that afternoon, the storm broke. I was high and dry on the ninth floor of the (slightly swaying) university languages building, sitting with headphones on while eight Polish interpreting students interpreted a speech about Ukrainian independence into Polish. There was an almighty explosion. I just managed to stop myself from bursting into 'Grandola, Vila morena' (the only revolutionary song I know the tune to), while the oblivious students continued talking until the end of the tape (exams are coming up, and people have priorities).
Rushing to the window, we saw that it was neither a new Chernobyl nor the Orange Revolution, but worse: torrential rain.
Determined to have my kielbasa and eat it, five twenty five (I can say this in Polish now, but it will take me half an hour to work out the conjugation, thus defeating the object somewhat) saw me standing at the arranged meeting place by the tram stop at the Theatre Bagatela.
We had only been on the tram for twenty minutes when the message arrived that the picnic had been cancelled due to poor weather.
- Now what?
- Should we get off the tram?
- I think it's stopping again soon
- Is it?
- Quick, get off, get off!
(Cue much scrambling and falling down steps).
Upon our return from this festive little joy-ride, we decided to go for sausage in Plac Nowy (and, in my case, a gherkin- I seem to be the only British person in the whole of central Europe who can stomach things that have been pickled in vinegar), and several beers, a more than adequate compensation for the lack of suburban barbecue. A date has yet to be set for the re-match: perhaps this time we can creep up on the weather and surprise it...
Monday, 28 May 2007
Pentecost
I have inadvertently managed to become the organist at Krakow's American Catholic church, in spite of being neither American nor a Catholic (nor- in truth- an organist: I'm a pianist who went through an "organ phase" in my final year at St Andrews, rather than just using caffeine to get through the exams like everyone else).
It happened entirely by accident on my part: in fact, since moving to Krakow my life has taken on an aleatorical slant, so that I am constantly surprised by things not turning out quite as I might have expected. I think this is due to a combination of culture shock, and the fact that the Polish language and I do not entirely understand each other yet.
My life is like practicing tennis against a slightly uneven wall and never being quite sure which way the ball is going to bounce back.
In any case, one week, when there was no organ music in church, I offered to stand in occasionally when the regular accompanist couldn't make it: only it turns out that there is no regular accompanist. I talk too much, this is my problem. Just go around, opening my big mouth, getting myself into trouble.
So this is how I found myself sitting in the organ loft with the number one best view during the sermon on Pentecost Sunday.
Now, apart from an embarassing habit (inherited from my mother- thanks Mum) of occasionally bursting into tears during particularly rousing hymns or church services, I tend to be fairly down-to-earth about religion (editor's note: for 'down-to-earth', read 'spends a lot of time in the pub at Walsingham'). However, last Sunday, I was really struck by Pentecost and the disciples 'speaking in tongues'. Perfect, I thought, finally the Bible talks about the responsibility of linguists:
“Are not all these people who are speaking Galileans?
Then how does each of us hear them in his native language?
And yet they don't even mention the poor interpreter sweating it away in the Mesopotamian booth...
It happened entirely by accident on my part: in fact, since moving to Krakow my life has taken on an aleatorical slant, so that I am constantly surprised by things not turning out quite as I might have expected. I think this is due to a combination of culture shock, and the fact that the Polish language and I do not entirely understand each other yet.
My life is like practicing tennis against a slightly uneven wall and never being quite sure which way the ball is going to bounce back.
In any case, one week, when there was no organ music in church, I offered to stand in occasionally when the regular accompanist couldn't make it: only it turns out that there is no regular accompanist. I talk too much, this is my problem. Just go around, opening my big mouth, getting myself into trouble.
So this is how I found myself sitting in the organ loft with the number one best view during the sermon on Pentecost Sunday.
Now, apart from an embarassing habit (inherited from my mother- thanks Mum) of occasionally bursting into tears during particularly rousing hymns or church services, I tend to be fairly down-to-earth about religion (editor's note: for 'down-to-earth', read 'spends a lot of time in the pub at Walsingham'). However, last Sunday, I was really struck by Pentecost and the disciples 'speaking in tongues'. Perfect, I thought, finally the Bible talks about the responsibility of linguists:
“Are not all these people who are speaking Galileans?
Then how does each of us hear them in his native language?
And yet they don't even mention the poor interpreter sweating it away in the Mesopotamian booth...
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