Mexico City: The Midwestern Wope

Ball on roof, Picacho Street, Las Cruces, NM. July 2013.

We sat at the dining room table in the guesthouse's communal sala, or living room.

Three of us English-speakers were at the table: me + two guesthouse volunteers. "Bo," of Minnesota and Wisconsin origin, was talking to another volunteer, I don't remember who.

I was probably busy eating lunch.

But my radar blipped at something Bo said to the other volunteer, which was: "Midwesterners have a special word they use: ope." He elaborated on the alleged lingustic factoid, saying that we midwesterners utter this word when we bump into something or someone or drop something or suffer some other minor spatial accident or near-accident.

My knee-jerk reaction was: "Maybe that's true in Minnesota, but that's not something we say in Missouri." (Hopefully, I didn't say this out loud, but I may have.)

LESS THAN 24 HOURS LATER, I was in the communal kitchen, at the stove, where I dropped something and I said, "Wope!"

Jesus, it hit me. We Missourians say this ALL THE TIME.

There are variations:

• Wope
• Wup
• Wip
• Woop 
• Ope

Bo, I'm sorry I doubted ye.

Mexico City: Misadventure in Translation

A very special shampoo. Mexico City. November 2018.

The delightful Rasha, the woman-who-loves from Oman, and a fellow guest at the guesthouse, speaks a lot and a little of a several languages: Arabic, of course. English, fluently. Some Swahili, some Spanish, and ... oh, let's go back to the Spanish.

Like me, Rasha had a private room with a shared bath. For convenience, fellow guests often leave some of their toiletries in the shower, such as shampoo.

Rasha loves fragrances, and sometimes will use shampoo to wash her hands because of their lovely scents. Well, there's that reason, plus in the shared baths of the guesthouse, tiny pink bars of soap may be present in one moment and gone the next, so shampoo might do in a pinch, anyway.

One day, Rasha was in the bathroom and when came the moment to wash her hands, she remembered a chubby tube of shampoo in the shower. Rasha lifted it to her nose, inhaled the scent, and liked it. Rasha read the label, yup, shampoo. Who cared that it was for men? It cleaned and it smelled good.

Rasha wetted her hands, squeezed some shampoo on same, and lathered up. Mmm, the creamy shampoo felt nice and smelled nice. She rinsed off, walked out of the bathroom, and set about the next business of her day.

...... Until not much time later when she noticed that her hands and fingers had become streaked with walnut brown stains.

Aieeee! What happened?!

Rasha dashed backed into the bathroom, snatched up the squeeze bottle of shampoo, re-read the front, and, only then, processed the full translation:

"Fades the gray" 

"Coloring shampoo"

Rasha found some real soap and vigorously scrubbed her hands and nails to remove as much colorant as possible.

It took days for all of it to disappear.

Antigua, Guatemala: Spanish Language Schools

 

My Spanish school courtyard classroom. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

There are dozens of Spanish language schools in and around Antigua.

Here are my thoughts on choosing a school, deciding on a schedule, and other considerations related to a language school.

School selection

In my not-so-humble-opinion, just about any of them will be good enough for most visitors to Antigua.

Yes, do check online reviews to weed out schools with a pattern of concerns noted by previous students.

Don't put too much weight on the number of AMAZING!!! reviews a school has from past students. There are just too many variables that contribute to such reviews, such as: 

• Rating inflation, where people believe that anything less than FIVE STARS!!! is a fail
• The desire to appreciate a teacher who was nice, notwithstanding other merits or demerits of the experience
• Lack of comparison with other language-learning experiences 

If you're going to be in Antigua for longer than a month, then I recommend that you:

1. Before arrival, weed some schools out, based on internet research; 
2. After arrival, visit five or so schools so you can eyeball the environment yourself, get a vibe from the school administrators, and ask questions that are important to you; and
3. Select a school, pay for one week, and then see if it's the school you want to stick with. If not, then move on to the next school on a short list you developed after your visits. After a week in the first school, you'll also have better questions in case you want to re-visit some others before making another decision. 

If you're going to be in Antigua less than a month: 

1. Before arrival, weed some schools out, based on internet research;
2. Before arrival, contact the school that seems to best fit your needs, and reserve a space for your first week (but do NOT send payment in advance); and
3. After arrival, give the first week at the selected school a try.  If you know after the first or second lesson, it ain't gonna work for you, then hit the streets to find a different school you can start the second week. 
4. Before paying for another week (or more) at a second school, book a sample lesson so you can make a more informed decision.

If you're going to be in Antigua only a week or two:

1. Before arrival, weed some schools out, based on internet research;
2. Before arrival, contact the school that seems to best fit your needs, and reserve a space for your first week (but do NOT send payment in advance); and
3. After arrival, give the selected school a try.  If it's "good enough," then I invite you to just go with that. You're only in Antigua for a week or two. You want to have fun, and the time in school is just one part of your being in Antigua. Why invest more time and brain energy in hunting down an AMAZING school when what you've got is good enough? Instead, invest that time and energy in asking the teacher or the administrator for what you need to make your learning experience better for you. 
4. If your first choice is unsatisfying and not fixable, then find a different school. Or consider changing your agenda and tossing out Spanish lessons altogether. Or reducing the number of class hours from what you'd originally planned.

Antigua, Guatemala - View from my school's rooftop terrace. April 2016.

Teacher selection

Actually, a school will assign you a teacher.

In my case, I appreciated my teacher's directness and we had quite a few provocative conversations that challenged both of us. When there was a time when I preferred that she share information with me in a different way, she accommodated me.

However, if I were generally satisfied with the school but not with the teacher, I'd not hesitate to ask for a different teacher. If, for some reason, that wasn't realistic, or if the school refused, then I'd simply go find a different school.

Schedule selection

For my month's stay in Antigua, I chose four hours in the morning, Monday through Friday.

If I were to do it again, I'd choose two hours in the morning, Monday through Thursday.

In theory, four hours a day of 1:1 language instruction should result in significant progress in language learning. But this theory assumes the student is vigilant about daily lesson reviews outside the classroom and is aggressive about tracking and entrapping native Spanish speakers in Spanish conversation. That student wasn't me.

Another factor in learning a language is accountability. When we're in a regular school or university, there are exams and grades and certificates awarded based on the achievement of certain levels of proficiency. In a language-school environment in which the student is the custodian of attendance, study, and progress, there is no motivating carrot such as a good grade or a certificate of proficiency.

So, for me, two hours of language instruction per day would be perfect, because every hour of instruction on top of that would provide only incremental progress.

Antigua, Guatemala - View from my school's rooftop terrace. April 2016.

Location

There are pros and cons to attending a school close to your accommodations.

My school was about a mile from my lodgings. There were a number of schools that I passed en route, one or two of them only a couple of blocks away from the airbnb.

I walked to and from school every day, although I could have taken a tuk-tuk.

The negatives to choosing a school so far from home:

1. A 40-minute round trip walking commute every day. Even though this is wonderful exercise, there are opportunity costs in lost recreation, study, or work time.
2. Daily negotiation through roads filled with school kids in the mornings and at noon. This isn't that big a deal by itself, but it does add to one's daily receipt of sensory stimulation, and this has a cumulative effect. 
3. An earlier morning rise than you might want some days. 

The positives to choosing a school so far from home: 

1. The 40-minute round trip walking commute was terrific exercise!
2. Getting up early in the morning to walk to school - the schoolkid rush in the mornings is much less than at noon - and it was a pleasure to meander through parks when there were hardly any people about. 
3. By walking every day, often varying my route, I encountered visual and audio sweets that I might not have otherwise.
4. It was very convenient for me to do my food shopping after class, as the city market and the supermarket were fairly close to my school and only the slightest bit out of my way back home. There were no such markets close to my airbnb home, only the mini-markets with very limited inventories. 

Extras

Some schools add to their lure by offering "free" presentations or tours or cultural experiences. Eh. For me, these are kind of like "free" breakfasts at many chain hotels. For one, there ain't nothing for free - if it's a good spread, then the cost is just embedded in the price of your room. And some of the "free" breakfasts are very, very sad.

When it comes to the schools, it seems that some of the experiences are available to the public, free, and the school is just piggy-backing on these events. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with this, especially if the school has only a few students the same time you're there. My message to you is: Don't get too googly-eyed by the extras in your decision-making.

Homestays

Some schools will arrange for homestays. Depending on what kinds of experience you're looking for, I suggest considering the homestays that your proposed school offers, what other homestay opportunities you can find on your own (which could be much less expensive), considering an airbnb option, or renting an apartment if you'll be in Antigua for awhile.

Going with a school-arranged homestay could be great for you. On the other hand, you may find you like your homestay family but not the school. Or the reverse. How comfortable will you be about making a change to one and not the other?


Bottom line

At the end of the day, your learning experience will be largely what you make of it.

To maximize your satisfaction, I suggest you: 

1. Define the over-arching goals for your entire trip to Antigua, not just for the language-learning portion;
2. Do some research on realistic expectations for language learning with the time constraints you have; and
3. Make an honest appraisal of the kind of student you are (not a projection of what kind of student you tell yourself you will be), including a realistic assessment of how much time and energy you will devote to language study and practice outside the classroom. 

Then hunt for a school experience that best matches up with the above.  Be clear about your desired outcomes when you talk to the schools.

Antigua, Guatemala: On My Way to School

I did three weeks of Spanish classes for four hours every morning, Monday - Friday, in Antigua. The school I chose was, I don't know, a mile or so from my airbnb lodging. My airbnb was very close to the historic San Francisco church; my school was quite a few blocks on the other side of Central Park.

Below is a pictorial story line of my typical walk to school.

I lived in a small enclave at the top of East 7th Street, at the intersection of Chipilapa Street. Looking down 7a Calle Oriente (East 7th Street) from Chipilapa, you can see San Francisco Church on the left. Not to mention a volcano.

View of San Francisco Church from top of 7a Calle Oriente, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

View of San Francisco Church from top of 7a Calle Oriente, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Much of 7a Calle Oriente is congested with vehicles and people. Noisy. The aroma of vehicular exhaust. Woe to the pedestrian walking this and some other streets when the students are arriving or leaving school or when they are out and about during lunch hour.

Traffic approaching on 7a Calle Oriente, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

In the beginning of my stay, I usually turned right onto First Avenue South next. On this road are well-known tourist businesses such as Café No Sé, Café Sky, a hostel or two, and one of the more publicized language schools, La Union. 

Intersection of 7a Calle Oriente and 1a Avenida Sur, Antigua, Guatemala. Courtyward wall to San Francisco Church is on the left. April 2016.

Cafe Sky on 1a Calle Oriente, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

When I arrived at 6a Calle Oriente, I'd hang a left and presently run into one of my favorite spots in Antigua, La Tanque de Union.  There'll be a post dedicated to La Tanque de Union later, so I'll just offer some glimpses below.

Tanque La Union, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Tanque La Union, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Birds singing at dawn at Tanque La Union:

Hospital at Tanque La Union, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Courtyard of an Antiguan museum. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Depending on whim, I might proceed north on any of these three avenues: 2nd, 3rd or 4th. If I took 3rd Avenue and went all the way to 3rd Calle (notice the important difference between Calle and Avenue!), and take a left, I'd pass Doña Luisa's restaurant, home to my favorite yogurt. Regardless of which avenue I chose, I'd end up walking through Central Park.

Parque Central, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

Once I passed through Central Park, I'd go by the CPCE, which began its life centuries ago as a Jesuit monastery.

Old Jesuit monastery, now the CPCE historical center. Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016.

At this point, I'm still about four or so blocks from school. But I'm not finding any pertinent photos to take us the rest of the way.

Sometimes I took different routes, and these scenes will show up in one way or another in future posts.

Louisiana: Neutral Ground and Buggies

Rustavi, Caucasus Georgia. View from the boulevard. September 2011.

Neutral ground

A couple of weeks ago, two acquaintances talked about Crowley and the wide expanse of its Main Street, mentioning the neutral ground. I smiled inside, feeling pleased that I actually knew what they meant when they said "neutral ground."

This is only because, back when I first moved here, a native North Louisianan had told me that the "neutral ground" is what South Louisianans (really, more specifically, perhaps folks in New Orleans) call medians. Which is what Midwesterners like me call that (often) grassy strip of grass that divides a highway or thoroughfare.

Some New Orleans people attempt to explain the history of the neutral ground below:

 

By the way, here's an old movie of downtown Crowley from 1915:

And here's what downtown looked like after a 1940 flood:

Buggies

Horse-drawn or baby-carrying, right? Or vehicles you drive over sandy hills?

True enough. But in South Louisiana, a buggy is what Midwesterners call a grocery cart or shopping cart. I didn't know anything about this until I was checking out at a Champagne's (shawm-pines) grocery store, and the cashier asked me if I needed help with my buggy.

Perplexed, I asked, "What?"

She repeated her question.

While my brain gears slowly rotated in search for meaning, she realized I wasn't from here and translated for me.

Elton, Louisiana: On My Way to the Powwow: A First Look at a Cultural Intersection

Not the usual mural in Acadiana. Elton, Louisiana, showing its Indian heritage. The hills must be an example of artistic license. June 2015.

A cultural informant told me about Elton.

A jailhouse, a train, a white picket fence, and a red something that holds something. Elton, Louisiana. June 2015.

Elton is a village on 190 between Eunice and Kinder. Which may not help most people much in visualizing its location. So let's say it's about two hours west of Baton Rouge. And it's east of ........well, hell, you'd have to go a really long way west to make it east of something most of us would recognize. So let's come at it from another direction - it's about an hour northwest of Lafayette.

Elton, Louisiana. June 2015.

Population about 1200.

Elton, Louisiana. June 2015.

My cultural informant told me that, at one time, Elton was a tiny confluence of Indian, Creole, and Cajun tribes. Even today, he said, you might find it difficult to completely follow a conversation amongst old-timey locals because of the rich, intermingled dialects. 

Elton, Louisiana. June 2015.

So when I decided to go to the Coushatta Powwow, it was a happy surprise to see that Elton was on my way there. I'd already stopped to visit the Savoy Music Jam and gawk at roseate spoonbills. The wet drizzle kept me in my car, but I saw enough to make me want to go back for a drier look-see in the future.

A train blew through while I pondered the meaning of the jailhouse and the red storage structure in the city park. Surrounded by a white picket fence.

Very nice.

Here is a bit of history on the Coushatta Tribe, which has a base on the edge of Elton. There are a couple of stories at this website, but for me, anyway, the recordings were too choppy to listen to. Don't know if the issue is on my end or the server end. There is more historical information about the Coushattas at KnowLA (Encyclopedia of Louisiana).

Louisiana: Pierre Part: Christmas Parade and Gumbo

Gumbo, Pierre Part, Louisiana

A new friend in Louisiana, originally from Belgium, and who I'll call Coline, called me one day and asked if I wanted to join her at a family gathering in Pierre Part, which is in Assumption Parish.

One of the hostesses was a former colleague of Coline's, from when Coline taught in the community's French Immersion program at Pierre Part's public school.


Anyway, my answer was hell, yes!

It was a rainy, cloud-covered, chilly day as Coline and I set out from Lafayette to Pierre Part. It was important to get to Pierre Part before noon because that's when the bridge into town would be raised (swung?) to allow boat traffic through. I think it was 11:59 when we clicked onto the bridge. Whew!

A family matriarch, one of six sisters - all present - was the titular hostess for this gathering. It was at her house, which sits on a main street in town, parallel to the bayou.  Her son, Kent*, and daughter-in-law, Monica* (my friend's former colleague), met and greeted all arrivals and handled the hustle and bustle of hosting duties.

The six sisters reigned at the large dining table, smilingly receiving guests and happy homages. 

Gumbo

Kent explained to me some of the processes that go into making a big ol' pot of gumbo. In this part of southern Louisiana, folks use okra in their gumbo. Kent said this gathering's gumbo had its start more than 24 hours before, with the making of the roux. Some ingredients (and think in many pounds):

• Sausage without its casings
• Chicken 
• Onions
• Celery
• Peppers
• Okra

Plus seasonings and flour and water.

Pot where roux was made. Pierre Part, Louisiana.

Kent was the gumbo maker and sitter. His mother and aunts conducted periodic quality control testings to ensure the seasoning was just so.

Seasonings by the gumbo pot. And beer, of course. Pierre Part, Louisiana.

The art of making good gumbo reminds me of similar virtuosity needed to make churchkhela:

There was rice to put in your bowl before ladling gumbo over it.

Primary accompaniment: potato salad. Don't know why, but this surprised me. I've since learned that this is a traditional side for gumbo. 


Christmas parade

Because of the dreary weather, both the party and the parade suffered attrition from their usual large attendance.

Nevertheless, Kent laid out a large blue tarp on the grassy area by the road in preparation for the anticipated candy bounty delivered by the parade.















You know what I loved? It was the adults, mostly, including myself, who seemed to have the most fun collecting candy.

And beads, because we are in Louisiana, after all.

Kent, Monica, and their nuclear and extended families and friends were so gracious to receive a complete stranger into their midst.

Swamp People

Monica asked me if I'd watched Swamp People yet. What? My first thought was that she was referring to a horror movie like the vintage Swamp Thing. But it occurred to me that this might not be the case, so I recovered, and said, "No, what is it?" And she explained that Swamp People is a TV series about some local folks.

Also mentioned was another series called Swamp Pawn.

I haven't watched Swamp People yet, but I'm gonna. I did watch the first episode of Swamp Pawn, and you know what? It's damn good.

Traiteurs

Another thing I heard about at the gathering are traditional healers of Acadiana, or traiteurs. People still seek out their healing gifts today.

Vermilionville, the cultural heritage site in Lafayette, has the Healer's Garden, which has medicinal plants that are or were used by traditional healers in south Louisiana.

My understanding is the traiteurs often have a healing gift for specific ailments, such as the elimination of warts.

More information to come on this tradition in the future, I hope.

Nannies

In the cajun culture, nannies are godmothers. As it was explained to me in the Pierre Part gathering, the relationship between a nanny and her godchildren is very, very special.

More on this, too, I hope, in the future.

Boats

On the way out of Pierre Part, filled with gumbo and warm hospitality, we passed a community of houseboats.

Yet another topic for the future.

Language

Pierre Part has an interesting history, not the least of which is the issue of language. An excerpt from wikipedia: 
 

Until the early- to mid-twentieth century the people almost exclusively spoke Cajun French at home. This caused the people of Pierre Part and the rest of the Cajun community to be labeled as "backwards" or "ignorant" by outsiders, and in many cases from the 1910s to the 1970s, students whose first language was French were punished corporally in school for speaking it. From the 1970s onward, extremely few children were taught Cajun French as a first language, since the previous generations were taught to be ashamed of their heritage.

In the 1990s an effort was made to reintroduce French into the school systems. This became somewhat controversial as the French taught in school was not Cajun French. Many of the teachers brought in were Belgian, French, and Canadian who taught their own dialect of French. However, there are still many who contend that the "Standard French" taught in French Immersion classes at Pierre Part Elementary School is the best chance that local Cajuns have at preserving their language and culture, since there is no written standard for teaching the Cajun dialect of the French language

I'd like to return to Pierre Part to explore more.

Louisiana: Coonass

Credit: AV8R stuff

I can't tell you how often I've heard the word "coonass" since I've moved to Lafayette.

Well, mostly it's in the Louisiana-related movies and books I've been reading.

I asked one of my cultural interpretors about the term and he said that it can be good or bad, depending on who's saying it, to whom, and why.

Which jibes with the discussion here and here. 

In a Bayou Teche Dispatches post, author Shane K. Bernard stirred up some debate when he did his own investigation into the origin of the word.

The way I view such terms is like family. If I want to call one of my siblings a chucklehead, then I get to do that. But you don't get to do that. Because you're not in my family.

So as a visitor, I don't think I'll be using the word coonass, but I get that a lot of cajuns will. 
 

Georgia: What Does It Mean?

A conversation between my colleague, Sandy, and a co-teacher, "Gwantsa":

Sandy to Gwantsa: "Ras nish navs"? What does it mean? 

Gwantsa: What does it mean?

Sandy: Yes, what does it mean?

Gwantsa: What does it mean?

Sandy: Yes, what does it mean? 

Gwantsa: What does it mean!

Sandy: No, what does it mean!?

Gwantsa: What does it mean!

Sandy: Ohhhhhh.


 

Me Ver Gavige -- I Don't Understand

I know how to say "I don't understand" in Georgian: Me ver gavige. I say it often.

My hostess speaks hardly any English; I speak hardly any Georgian. (The burden is on me to learn Georgian, so I ain't complainin', I'm just sayin.') 

Sometimes my hostess, "Nino," goes into a long, animated soliloquy in Georgian, telling me, probably in very basic Georgian, something that would be of great interest to me. Or not. The profound and the banal are equally unintelligible.

Externally, I make direct eye contact with Nino as she speaks, nod my head in empathy, and occasionally emit noncomittal noises, such as "uh huh," "hmmm," or "huh," to indicate interest. 

Internally, here is what I'm likely thinking:

"I have no idea what you're saying. I hope it stops soon so I can drop this farce of understanding, and I can sink back into the blissful oblivion accorded a piece of furniture, from which no understanding is required."

"Please don't ask me if I understand, please don't ask me if I understand, please don't ask me if I understand."


The most minute issues sometimes require the most excruciatingly painful, lengthy (and sometimes a phone call to someone with even the slightest bilingual ability, which generally offers nothing to the situation) linguistic efforts, with pathetic returns on the herculean investments of time and brain energy of at least two people. These do not bring out my noble side. No, they tend to bring out my inner, cranky toddler.

For example, I am thinking of the possibility of renting my own flat in Rustavi. I asked Nino's dear friend, "Mariami," what rent goes for in her building. Twenty minutes later, after much frustration on everyone's part - "everyone" by then including Nino, Mariami, Mariami's three children, an in-law, and me - we had made no progress except for my petulant thought, "Holy shit, how hard can this question be?!" (And it was clear from the expressions of the others that they were thinking, "Holy shit, how dense can this American be?!") I mean, really, it made no sense that someone pays rent to the flat owner at the beginning of a two- or three-year period and that at the end of that time, the renter gets all of her money back from the owner! What the hell?! Why can't I get a simple answer to a simple question?

After leaving Mariami's flat, we went to the flat belonging to a relative of Nino's. The woman here actually lives in the U.S. now, and was visiting Rustavi for a vacation. Her English is impeccable. Nino explained our language impasse to the relative, who then explained it all to me: Yes, it sometimes happens in Georgia that, in exchange for a large lump-sum payment, a property owner will let the "renter" live in the property for an agreed-upon amount of time, and at the end of that time, the property owner either repays the "renter" the lump-sum payment or the "renter" gets to keep the property. It is a risky form of borrowing/lending, but it is attractive to the desperate. Well, damn.

So here's a language lesson: Sometimes what you think you understand is correct, even if it doesn't make sense to you.

Here's another example: I was taking my customary bucket bath this morning, enjoying the pleasure of hot water. I turned on the water, wetted my washcloth, turned off the tap, did my thing, then turned on the tap to soap up the cloth, turned off the tap ... etc. Presently Nino starts talking to me outside the bathroom. It was kind of early in the morning, which meant my brain wasn't completely engaged anyway. Nino seemed to require some sort of response from me. I said, "Me ver gavige. (I don't understand)" More talk. I said, "Budishi (I'm sorry), me ver gavige." Nino said more, adding a sound that was similar to a hoarse dog barking. And I'm thinking, "I don't understand what you're saying or what you want. And I'm naked here, OK? Why are you making me talk to you while I'm standing naked in a wash basin with three inches of water in it? What do you want me to do in this moment?" But I say, "Budishi, me ver gavige. I don't understand." Eventually, my brain plucks out the word "gasi" from Nino's statements, which it puts together with the hoarse-dog-barking sound effect, and I realize Nino is talking about the gas water heater, which evidently she wants me to stop engaging when I use the hot water for my bath. So I switch to cold water only, feeling very grumpy indeed.

Once I'm out of the bathroom and getting dressed, we revisit this issue, and I come to understand that Nino didn't want me to turn the water on/off, as it kicked on the gas pilot each time, which might wake up Giorgi. Instead, I can just leave the water run. OK, now I've got it.

Language lesson learned: Sometimes a hoarse-dog-barking sound means gas, and sometimes, as it did a week or so ago, it means the sound of a hoarse dog barking, which kept Nino awake one night. It's all in the context.  

Thank God Nino doesn't seem to hold a grudge.