Lost in Language

Living in a land where everything is conducted in a language that's not my birth tongue gives me very different sensitivities. It's harder to pick up on subtleties and details. I have to ask a lot more questions or just be content with not completely knowing. Sometimes I realize that I don't know the rules of certain types of conversations. I find myself wondering things like, "Would it be more appropriate to continue expressing some sort of sympathy right now or should I just be quiet?" "Was that supposed to be funny? And if so, why? Should I be amused or saddened?" Also, while I can't shut off my ability to process English, if I accidentally (or not-so-accidentally, for example, when I'm on the bus) space out, Portuguese words can become like background noise.

On another level, I am so much more sensitive to emotions. Operating in a language that's not my own makes me more vulnerable. And if I switch "on" and really listen to what people are saying, which I try to do most of the time, I sometimes "feel" what they are saying even more easily than I can pick apart individual words. And when I'm in this space of "feeling," everything hits me deeper.

Recently I was in an interview with a boy, deeply addicted to drugs. He was uttering something like, "I've tried to stop, but I can't." Exactly what he uttered evaporated for me after I heard it, but the meaning behind the words felt like a physical punch, especially as they crossed the table and hit the boy's mother, who was trying, trying, trying to contain her own sea of emotions.

It's as though I'm watching the words acting on the people saying them and receiving them. And hours after the meeting, the feelings stick to me and become something I must ponder and untangle and make some sort of sense of before I can free myself from them.

And, when I am tired, Spanish words sometimes come to mind quicker than Portuguese ones. This is funny to me because right now, with both languages rattling around in my brain, speaking Spanish is difficult. When I'm tired it's hard to pronounce Portuguese without sounding like I'm swallowing words. Sometimes I do really feel like the words are fighting me, trying to jump down my throat exactly as I'm trying to push them out of my mouth. I'm certain that my vocabulary has improved since I've gotten here, that I'm speaking less Portuñol and more actual Portuguese. But I also feel less confident at times, wondering if perhaps it's because I realize how much more there is to learn, how much more there is to understand of this beautiful, melodic language.

I think that we exercise different parts of ourselves with each language that we speak. I'm curious to pay more attention to how I am when I'm speaking English vs. Portuguese vs. Spanish. Right now I seem to enjoy it most, after long days in Portuguese, when I'm talking with A. and our conversations weave in between Portuguese and English, with Spanish sprinkled in every once and a while. Perhaps that's why Spanglish has always felt so comforting. Maybe I just don't like to choose between one thing and the other but to mix it all together into an interesting, ever-changing concoction.

So, a Tire Walks Into a Bar....

Borracharia
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

It's true that Spanish and Portuguese have a lot in common. But as this photograph illustrates, they are definitely not the same.

This Brazilian tire is advertising a Borracharia:
Borracha [tire/rubber] + ria [an ending put on to a word to convey some sort of speciality store] = a store that will change your tires

So, why am I getting into all of this?

Well, because every single time that I see a borracharia, usually when I'm on the bus, I laugh. Sometimes out loud. Yup, that's me, the easily amused foreigner, chuckling to herself as she looks out the window.

You see in Spanish, borracha does not mean tire.

Borracha (or borracho, depending on gender) means drunk.

So in Spanish, which follows the same ria = speciality store logic as Portuguese, a borracharia would be something like a "drunk-ery", ie a place to go get drunk. I kind of like the frankness of the statement. Why go to a bar when you can get straight to the point and go to a drunkery?

My goodness, there are a lot of drunkeries all over Brazil...or conversely, one could imagine that when the bars close in Spanish-speaking countries, there are quite a few tipsy tires rolling through the streets.

Yes, this is the kind of thing that I spend my time musing over...

A Case of the Second-Market Days

Segunda-Feira
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

It was raining when I went to bed last night and rain woke me this morning, tapping against the window panes. The electricity went on and off until the early afternoon.

The day was gray and wet. I watched people outside as they dashed across puddle-filled intersections, hiding underneath umbrellas. It was a good day to study, which is what I mostly did.

It felt like a Monday. Or I guess, segunda-feira, as they say in Portuguese.

Which leads me to a question of the language of days. In Spanish learning the days of the week was a snap. But, in Portuguese - even years later - it's a different story.

The days of the week are as follows:

Monday = Segunda-Feira [Translating literally to second-fair/market - essentially second market day]
Tuesday = Terça-Feira [Third market day]
Wednesday = Quarta-Feira [Fourth market day]
Thursday = Quinta-Feira [Fifth market day]
Friday = Sexta-Feira [Sixth market day]
Saturday = Sábado
Sunday = Domingo

The weekends I get. No big deal. (Besides, they're the same in Spanish, so I'm really covered there).

However...when some is saying to me, for example, "Let's meet on Fourth-Market day," I truly have to take a few seconds to count through the days in my head to arrive at what day that might actually be, "The second day is Monday, the third day is Tuesday then so ah, right, Quarta-Feira would have to be Wednesday. Got it!" Sometimes I have the desire to start counting the days on my fingers.

I always feel a little worried in the back of my mind that I'm going to mix up the days and show up on the wrong day for something because these days of the week just don't stick in my head.

The problem - according to The-Man-Who-Came-From-Italia (who counts Spanish as his favorite language) is that these numbered days could be perfectly acceptable, but why, why, why did they have to begin on the second day?!

I would assume that Sunday is/was a day for God and so, clearly not a day for going to the market. Hence it doesn't have feira in its name. Even if you want to believe that Sunday starts the week, it doesn't count in the numbering of market days.

And, it's not just foreigners (Italians, Salvadoreños and Americans at least) who take umbrage at Monday being a Second-Market day. I was pleased to discover in the poetry of Mario Quintana, that he too, in all his Brazilian-ness, might also be sometimes taken aback by Mondays. As he wrote in his poem titled, "To Awaken the Imagination" (Para Despertar a Fantasia):

"O pior da segunda-feira é que a gente sempre chega atrasado: "Meu Deus! como é que eu fui a perder a primeira feira?!"

"The worst of all about second market day (Monday) is that we always arrive late: "My God! How is that I went and missed the first market day?!"

I now feel properly vindicated in my slowness to understand the movement of the days of the week.

Wishing a wonderful whatever-you-want-to-call-this-day to you all!

Weather Report

Toxic Rainbow
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

The guy who works the early morning shift at the hostel is from Uruguay. We usually exchange greetings in a kind of Portuñol whenever I'm passing through and either picking up or handing him my room key.

"Everything good?" I'll ask in Portuguese.

"Everything's good," he'll respond in Spanish.

I always enjoy talking with him because I know that if I unintentionally throw some Spanish words into the mix he'll still understand what I'm trying to say.
The other day it was overcast when I was leaving. I was carrying my laptop in my bag and didn't want it to get wet. So I asked him, "Do you know if it's supposed to rain?"

"Hmmm," he said, "The answer is always here in this newspaper. Let's take a look."

He flipped through the paper, glanced at a map of Brazil dotted with suns and clouds over different cities.

"Nope," he said, "It's definitely not going to rain today."

"Good" I said, "Because I'm carrying enough stuff as it is. But you know how it goes, if I don't bring my umbrella it will rain. If I do, it won't."

"Funny how they call umbrella guarda-chuvas in Portuguese, isn't it?" he said, "I mean 'hold-water'? Hopefully, it doesn't do that!"

I went to the computer lab at the university and typed away at something until lunchtime. Then I looked out the window and saw that the streets were wet.

It was raining.

I started laughing. The hostel was in the opposite direction of where I was going, but still it was worth it to go back and grab my umbrella.

As I neared the hostel, I saw the Uruguayan walking down the street heading in my direction. When he saw me he pretended to hide from me, to pull his shirt up over his face.

"I wanted to avoid you," he said, "You probably want to kill me don't you!...Luckily, you're not that wet yet."

"Just watch," I replied, "Now that I'm going to get the umbrella, it's going to stop raining."

And of course I was right. It stopped raining 10 minutes later.

Now every morning when I greet the Uruguayan we have a good conversation about the weather. "You better bring your umbrella, just in case" he warns, "I don't want it to be my fault if it rains on you."

Swimming in Jell-O

Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

Yesterday evening I went into the hostel kitchen to look for a napkin to clean up some tea I'd spilled.

There was a guy in there washing some dishes and he looked up at me expectantly. I wanted to say, "I'm just looking for a napkin," but my mind went completely blank and I couldn't for the life of me remember the word. So, I looked around the room -- with him continuing to stare at me. I didn't see what I was looking for and left without saying anything, laughing at my own awkwardness.

I've been reading the blogs of my classmates who are also interning in non-English speaking countries and by comparison, my situation is pretty tame. I mean, at least I can read the script that the street signs are written in. Not only that, but I speak and read Portuguese pretty well. It's not where I'd like it to be, but it'll get there. Besides, people generally understand me when I'm speaking and I generally understand them. And we can have really interesting conversations about all sorts of things. It's fun and exciting and sometimes I catch myself purely enjoying the different sounds I get to make in this language. The different words I get to form and the different meanings I get to express.

Still, it does feel a bit like swimming in jello. It's a bit of a struggle but it can be done though it's harder and much less elegant than in water. At the same time it can be fun and silly if I can just laugh at myself.

Sometimes I find myself listening to a person, understanding at least the sentiment of what they're saying, but realizing that if I stop paying attention for just one second, I will be totally lost, floundering, unable to pick up the thread of the conversation. It reminds me how in my native tongue, I probably spend a lot of time only partially listening to people. I'm listening but I'm thinking my own thoughts at the same time, perhaps making a grocery list in my head. It's not that I'm intentionally being rude, it's just that because I don't have to try, I don't always put all my energy into every conversation that I have.

But here, I have to. I have to pay complete attention. Perhaps this actually helps in the friend-making process because people can feel that I am very present in the moment with them, trying my damnedest to understand what they are saying.

It also becomes funny though when I am left without the details. When the word just isn't there and I don't know how to explain something simple. When I forget how to say 'napkin' or that my throat feels 'sensitive.' Or when someone standing next to me at the bank or in the elevator tries to make small talk. They say something, usually in slang or too quickly for me to understand, and I stand there trying to contemplate if this "thing" that they said was supposed to something funny? Was it a joke? Was it a question they were asking me? How do I respond? Should I just smile knowingly and nod my head? But, what if they were saying something serious and then they think I'm being rude? And then I have usually taken so much time in this contemplation that saying anything back to them is kind of like laughing at a joke three minutes later...Do I pretend I didn't hear them? Do they think I'm ignoring them? Ai, yai, yai.

Yesterday when I was walking back to the hostel a woman came up to me asking me questions. Perhaps it was about the construction nearby. Perhaps it was about directions to some place? I didn't know. She looked at me plaintively.

"I don't know," I said quite truthfully in Portuguese. She looked at me without speaking. I looked at her. I think she understood my cluelessness. She moved on.

Ahhh, swimming in jello.

Oi!

Oi!
Originally uploaded by Blue Dragonfly Girl

The language immersion has been a good one so far. I tend to throw in a liberal dose of Spanish words and am lucky that A. will usually gracefully let me know that perhaps I could say, "enquanto" instead of the Spanish equivalent "mientras" (the English equivalent is "while")...

I managed to communicate with pharmacists about the un-fun allergies I've been experiencing. There was a lot of gesturing on my part and they were amused with me, but kind. I could understand their questions but didn't always have the vocabulary to respond. When asked if I had throat pain, I couldn't for the life of me recall the word for "tender" (it seems that "sensível" or "dolorido" would have been appropriate) and acting that word out Charades-style seemed beyond my capacity. Though, goshdarnit, I tried. Still, they gave me some pills and I am trustingly taking them. Hoping, hoping, for some relief.

The most interesting communication experience however, has been trying to obtain a cell phone.

I first went to the Vivo store armed with my boyfriend's old cell phone. He'd used it successfully abroad, but the SIM card they tried out didn't work. It's too bad because the phone looks a bit beat up and I doubt anyone would possibly want to steal it from me if I were to use it on the street. The guy helping me was super nice. But, I was amused to realize during our conversation that he was speaking verrrry slowly and just a notch louder than usual. "Wow!" I thought, actually a little touched, "He's totally using a foreigner-voice on me to make sure that I understand."

I went back to the store the following day ready to shell out $100 Brazilian reais to buy a phone and then pay more for some phone minutes...I thought this would be easy. I wasn't going for some fancy phone plan. It was a different guy helping me and he was equally nice...I had only brought my license (and translated international license) because I don't like to carry my passport all the time. I figured it would just be useful to have this for ID when I used my credit card.

The guy consulted with his supervisor, showing him what I had. Nope, they weren't good enough. "Well, I can go home and get my passport. What time are y'all open until?"

"Until 7," the guy said, "But I'm only here until 6...but the thing is what you really need is a CPF? Didn't they give you that?"

"Huh?" I said, "I don't know what you mean. I can show you a passport, with a visa. Is that good enough?"

Apparently not.

I had him write down what it was I needed: Registro de Estrangeiro - Certidão de Pessoa Fisica (CPF)...

"How about if I come next time with a Brazilian person?" I asked, "Will that help?"

He looked visibly relieved. "That would be even better," he said, "You know a Brazilian?"

Later A. told me that a CPF is practically the equivalent of an American Green Card. Clearly something I don't have. Apparently they're tightening cell phone requirements in an attempt to make it harder for incarcerated folks to get access to cell phones in prison, and as a result, harder for regular folks to get access too.

And so, this afternoon will be cell phone attempt #3. I'll arrive at the store with a passport AND a Brazilian and knock on wood that this will work. My guess is that having a cell phone will make communication that much easier, even if no one will be able to see my theatrical hand gestures over the phone.

Traveling to Brazil via the Azores

In a rather roundabout way, I'm going to Porto Alegre in January because of my granny. Her parents both emigrated to New England from the Azores at the turn of the century. As for my Azorean background, my granny was always telling my cousins and I to "senta-se" (sit down) when we were running wild around the house. Of course to me that sounded like she was talking about Santa Claus and I was vaguely confused and amused, though I understood the sentiment. I also recall going to a Portuguese Festival held in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Provincetown was a beautiful mix of kitschy tourist shops amidst leather stores. I don't remember the Portuguese part. My granny, great aunt and I sat on a park bench and watched statuesque drag queens walk by.

And so, while backpacking around Europe in my late teens, when I ended up in Portugal, my curiosity was piqued. The Azores islands were hundreds of miles away from Portugal, but I was closer to them then I'd ever been. The Portuguese did not react well to my attempts to address them in Spanish. I had to revert to English mixed with words picked from the Portuguese-English dictionary. I had no idea how to pronounce them and the more I listened to it, the more I was fascinated. According to a friend of mine, Portuguese sounds something like, "Bej mej maj neej baaj neej maaj." Like running your fingers across velvet.

Upon return to college in Rhode Island, I signed up for an intensive Portuguese class. My professors were all Brazilian. I thought Brazilian Portuguese was the most beautiful language I'd heard and I started to fall in love with the language, the music, the cultures, and took all the relevant classes I could fit into my schedule. After graduation when I was back home gardening, I made friends with a Brazilian teenager that I met in the town library. We took long walks on the beach in middle of winter and he patiently let me stumble through Portuguese sentences. Later, teaching English at the community school, my most vocal and fun students were Brazilians. I gardened for my day job and a number of them were house painters. Every once and a while we'd run into each other at job sites and greet each other with a joyful mixture of broken English and Portuguese.

Unfortunately, my Portuguese fell out of use when I moved to Texas, although my Spanish of course gets daily use. When I found out about the opportunity to intern in southern Brazil, I jumped at the chance.

The truth is that I didn't know much about Porto Alegre. As many have confirmed, it's not the first place you think of when you imagine Brazil. And so imagine my bemused surprise when I first googled the city and read (on Wikipedia) that: Porto Alegre was founded by Azoreans. Of course that's where I had to go! What better way to start to make a story come full circle? And beautifully, around the same time I'll be in Brazil, my granny will be returning to the Azores with her grown children and their spouses.