International Evening... with Dance

On the evening's programme the title 'International Evening' looked innocent enough, until you cast your eyes down to the next line '...with dance'.
After my experiences with karaoke the weekend before, I really should have known better. But I heard the words 'Scottish Dancing', and felt a sudden stab of nostalgia for the hairy legs, sweaty hands, flying sporrans and Bombay Sapphire of a St Andrews ceilidh session.
When I arrived in the entrance hall they were about to Strip the Willow. One man was unfortunate enough to be standing unaccompanied by the door. His name badge specified 'Republic of Moldova'. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the fray.

We moved on to a Moldovan wedding dance, involving stepping in a circle from which men with handkerchiefs plucked likely-looking girls for a dizzying polka, followed by a kiss. Clearly designed to generate further weddings, this was the equivalent of the English reception-marquee moment where the DJ reckons on an average 10 pints (of Freixenet) per bridesmaid, and whacks on 'Especially for You'.

I had no success in scoring a Moldovan husband, and didn't have the good sense to leave the dance floor before the Spanish girls got to the CD player.

As a result, I was caught up in the Macarena, without even a paltry litre of sangria for moral support. As a British girl, I have to protest. My hips just aren't designed to move without the help of alcohol.

We proceeded to a Dashing White Sergeant, who very quickly dashed out of control, and continued to my all-time favourite, the Ukrainian Man-Snatching Dance. This is rather similar to Stripping the Willow, crossed with Oranges and Lemons: single girls sprint down the inside of the human tunnel, tearing some bemused guy away from his partner on their way. The abandoned demoiselle then has to dash to the end of the tunnel on her own man-grabbing mission.

Somehow, I managed to begin this dance as a man and end it as a woman. Methinks Tinky Winky is at play again...

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...'

This is what I hope is not coming out of my mouth on the rare occasions on which I have volunteered as an interpreter since graduation.

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.

Leibe Gott! Was machen wir jetzt...

Naturally, the morning I was to spend five and a half hours jetsetting and looking chic in departure departure lounges dahling (at least that had been the plan), I woke up shivering and aching, having developed something akin to the bubonic plague from tonsils outwards. To top it all off I managed to bang my kneecap sideways on the edge of the bathroom sink whilst reeling my way unsteadily through my morning ablutions.
[author's note- I wrote this a week ago in the redundant 'addresses' section of my diary, when sitting in said airport lounge, and my mind is boggling at the logistics of the kneecap episode. How kneecap and sink managed to be in such close proximity with the force required to produce a bang is a mystery to me. I have been trying to re-enact the scene using the radiator at work, but to no avail.].

Of course, it started to rain almost as I stepped out of the front door. What's more, I managed to buy the pastry from the very bottom of the pile at the bakery stand: the one where the creme patissiere (or Polish approximation of it) had started to look translucent and slightly crusted at the edges. Clearly this pastry had been out late last night, had a couple of beers and tottered home from a sweaty session at Prozak via ul. Starowislna, singing football songs through a mouthful of kebab.

Today, even after three months of walking to work, I was about to send my carbon footprint into the red.
Perversely, I was more excited than anything about trying out my pre-GCSE German during the two hour changeover at Munich airport. Although 'Ich bin der Grosse Muzzy' turned out not to be the greatest success at passport control. And 'Die Prinzessin leibt der Gartner?!' did very little for my departure lounge chic.

I have always been cynical about national stereotyping. I've met happy Russians, disorganised Germans, punctual Italians, and even one or two friendly French people, and I like to keep an open mind (and a stiff upper lip) about such things. However, where airports are concerned it's another story. Compared to Krakow Balice, Munich was spacious, cool, efficient [author's note: any similarity to a car brochure is entirely work-induced and not her fault]. And this to extremes: automatically retracting hand towels anyone?
Not seeing my flight displayed, I went to the next gate to find out what was going on.
-'Sorry, I have to close the flight. I can't talk to you'
I was really too sick to behave badly and feeling desperately in need of my duvet, otherwise words would have been had. I moved on to the next gate:
-'Sorry, I can't answer your question. You have to go to the service desk. (All this was in impeccable English, of course)
The service desk was upstairs. I had visions of my flight taking off with one seat painfully empty, and my unclaimed suitcase circling around and around the baggage carousel in Geneva like the coconut Quality Street on Boxing Day.

Around forty minutes later I was roused from my daydream by 'Final and urgent boarding call for flight LH6439 to Geneva, Gate 83'. I leapt up and sprinted for the bus, scattering the free international edition Financial Times in a salmon-pink paper trail behind me.

In spite of my new-found enthusiasm for the wunders of the Deutsche language, it simply hadn't occurred to me that 'Genf' and 'Geneva' were one and the same...

Karaoke

On Friday, my boss left for a business trip in France. At the same time, both flatmates were buried away somewhere respectively cramming for dear life pre-exam and passed out on a 48-hour post-exam bender. I managed to pass the whole day without speaking to anyone (apart from the security guard in the mini-market across the road, who appeared to be objecting to my computer bag. I made indignant and ungrammatical noises in bad Polish and stormed out. Later I realised that he was probably trying to offer me a basket).

At around five-thirty, one of the interpreting students called to ask if I wanted to join them in a karaoke bar to celebrate the end of exams.

-Oh that’s very kind, thanks, but I’m going away next week and I really should prepare... lots of things to do... quiet evening in...

Two hours and four Tatankas later I was bellowing something to do with ‘paradise’ and ‘ganstas’ whilst making hip-hop hand movements that would have made Richard Madeley proud, in a red-lit den hung with felt to create a hot, tent-like effect. With hindsight, it was probably a desperate attempt at soundproofing.

Now, even if I do say so myself, I sing fantastically well after a couple of drinks. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. The same applies to speaking German, R&B dancing and telling amusing anecdotes to stand-up comedians in the Sussex Club (there was only one witness to the last item, and he has since mysteriously disappeared). Add a couple of percent proof and my talents just multiply (along with my willingness to share them).

My favourite solos, ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ and ‘Thank You for the Music’ were blessedly off the menu, to the immense relief of everyone from here to Tarnow.

Circles and Triangles

Recent events (a vicious lurgy, a parental visit, lack of internet last weekend) have kept me quiet for a while. Huge sighs of relief all round. No longer! I am back, and speaking out for peace, democracy and the freedom to make an ass of myself in four different languages.

In my absence, I have managed to be responsible for destroying several acres of rainforest in the form of tissues (not to mention a lingering tang of Vick's vaporub wafting through the streets of Kazimierz), ruining the parental weight-loss diet and (almost) causing frozen turkeys to be fired into French jet engines- as opposed to defrosted seagulls. Clearly I've spent too long in Tesco, thinking of Christmas.

But you don't want to hear about any of that.

In Poland, there is a popular television programme for small children where four adults, dressed in babygros, with large false bottoms and mysterious television screens on their bellies, romp around a giant golf course. I'm sure you know the one. They live on toast and custard, speak slightly better Polish than I do, and play with oversized accessories: one has a ball, one a spotty hat, one... a handbag.
This display of sartorial elegance has caused a flurry of gender confusion across the somewhat conservative Polish government, as the handbag-wielding character in question happens to pronounce its gurgles in a rich baritone.

I would like to protest. A certain amount of gender-confusion is inevitable once you cross the language barrier and find yourself faced with the inevitable two doors on the other side of the service station forecourt. France and Italy are not too much of a problem: France is M and F and Italy (signori/signore) usually just has one door anyway, or a nice picture. German-speaking countries are slightly more problematic: H versus D. I know enough German to order ice-cream, tell people the name of my favourite pop group, and ask for the bahnhof. But not enough to prevent me from blundering through what is very quickly very obviously the wrong door, from time to time.
(Incidentally, my party-piece is: 'Leibe Gott! Ich habe mein portmonnaie im bus vergessen! Was machen wir jetzt?!' I am hoping that, exclaimed in the right tone of voice during a four-hour stop-over in Munich airport, this phrase will cause strapping young Teutonic types to rush over and buy me coffee.)

Only in Poland, however, have I stood in the corridor, totally stumped, listening helplessly to the opening credits of the film whilst trying to decide whether my feminine mystique was best identified by a circle or a triangle.

And finally:
Sticker seen on the the inside of a (unisex) cubicle door in a bar in Kazimierz:
'Ta toaleta promuje homoseksualism' - illustrated by a merrily dancing Tinky Winky.
Rather too much information, but entertaining nonetheless.

The Pharmacist

The other night I came home to find one of my flatmates spreadeagled on the couch with a tragic look on his face. 'Don't come near me!' he exclaimed. 'I don't want to make you ill too'.

Two days and a small rainforest of Kleenex later, a particularly violent sneezing fit in the Planty confirmed my fears. Fortunately this occurred on a bank holiday, and a passing military parade provided a timely cover.

The following day I popped out of work to the Apteka across the road, making sure that I had my mp3 player poised over Harry Belafonte's 'Swing Sinora' in case of pharmacy-rage.
(Luckily the nun at the front of the queue was soon finished, and left before I had a chance to disgrace myself.)

Now, when I attempt to stagger to the end of a sentence in Polish, people tend to react in one of two ways: either they simply reply in English, however broken (even in MacDonald's, which is simply embarrassing); or they break into peals of laughter (like my flatmates, and most of their friends).
However, the pharmacist smiled, asked me where I was from (following my question as to whether there was Ibuprofen, and a sort of gesticulation about which was the best type), and whether I studied (bear in mind she had to repeat it several times before I understood), and then launched into ecstasies on how well I spoke, how marvellous it was that foreigners were learning Polish, and (I think) that her daughter spoke several different languages.
I lost the rest, but didn't want to shatter her illusions by bringing out my usual 'nie rozumiem' or 'nie mowie dobrze po polsku', so I just kept smiling and nodding, adding the occasional 'dobrze', 'oszewycie' for good measure, and she seemed delighted.
I finished with a slightly stunned 'dzekuje bardzo, do widzenia' and went out blinking and smiling into the sunshine, feeling a lot more Polish-speaking than I really deserve...


I have made another discovery about the phrase, 'nie ma', so beloved of Polish kiosk owners: it takes the genitive declination.
If this means nothing to you, you are very, very fortunate.

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...