Speak out!

 

I think that Toni and I are both now officially addicts to Duolingo, the language learning app.  Not content with Italian and French as his chosen languages, he branched out today on a series of lessons in German.

     I am sticking, one might say severely sticking, to ‘only Spanish’ in an increasingly desperate attempt to get the rudiments of the language to stick, somewhere, in my brain.  Considering that I am a retired language teacher, English admittedly and usually Literature, but a language none the less, it is astonishing how little I have assimilated of either of the languages from the multitudes of native speakers who surround me.

     Don’t get me wrong.  I can find my way around and usually I am able to talk and bluff my way through most situations ranging from official business with the city hall and the notorious Iberian paper-pushers that inhabit them, to getting my car seen to by technicians who defiantly do not speak English.

     Still, my fluency in English is a constant accusation against my enforced Trappist approach to general conversation in Spanish.  Somehow or other Spanish is simply not ‘taking’ with me, and it is constantly frustrating.  There is only so much that a slight smile and a depreciating hand gesture can convey: communication needs words placed in a firm grammatical structure.  And that is something that I am still working on.

     Though, come to think of it, although I have been to Spanish (and indeed Catalan) lessons, there are still basic piece of linguistic information that slips through my brain with the accomplished ease of a Johnsonian lie.  I have not been truly serious about learning the language, and perhaps Duolingo is the sort of mechanical relentlessly repetitive emphasis on the essentials is the thing that I need to get me truly started (after all of my time in Catalonia) in acquiring proficiency in a foreign tongue.

     Both of us are well and truly caught up in the striving towards the next level and competing against named but unknown people arbitrarily placed with us in our respective leagues.

     Absurd that it might be, I was inordinately proud to have come first in the 'starting' Bronze league and to have been promoted to the Silver league where, coming in the top three I was then promoted to the Gold league.  Apart from being told that such progress is found in a fraction of the percentage of learners in the app there do not appear to be any tangible gains from such exertions, except for the kudos of being at the top.  But, by golly, Toni and I are putting in the lesson time to gain points so that we can stay in the upper reaches of our respective leagues.  So, however futile the status, there is a real gain in the amount of time put into the hard slog of repetitious learning.

     It is far too soon to know if we are going to keep the effort up.  But I have to admit that I have done more work on my Spanish over the past ten days that I have done in the past embarrassingly large number of months!

     We are both still very much in the present tense of our languages, and I like to think that I am capable of attempting past and future tenses in Spanish if the mood takes me, but there is a sort of grounded satisfaction in regressing to simplicity and convincing yourself that ‘this time things are being done thoroughly’ and ‘every little helps’ and ‘anything is better than nothing’ so that in Ruskin’s words I will be able to see whether my efforts are ‘availing to good’ – whatever that means

 

The Saga of The Christmas Meal continues, with The Family finding out that many of the suggestions that they have come up with are all fully booked!  To the surprise of no one.  However, in spite of it being late (far too late) to find anywhere decent, we (or rather they) have found a place which has dropped like Manna from Heaven, or via a cancellation and another venue has been found.

     This Wednesday, we two are going up to Terrassa to have a menu del dia to find out the worth of the place, but in late November, we do not have the luxury of being able to be picky about the place that we finally decide on.  And what can one really judge from a normal menu del dia compared with what they might offer for a significant meal like the Christmas Repast.  Still, I maintain my rigid optimism and look forward to being pleasantly surprised next week.

Next week is also my blood test as part of the preparatory work for Doing Something About My Knees.  I am not sure how much further forward knowing about the composition of my blood will advance repairing the bone of the knees, but I await medical enlightenment, that might come the week after next.

     Since Christmas is horrifyingly near, it is obvious that nothing of any import will happen until the New Year and my hobbling will have to suffice until more specific descriptions of what can be done and how long it might take.  Something, neither the waiting nor the actualité, that I consider with anything approaching equanimity.

     But, there again, all personal conflict has to be seen as grist to my literary mill.

     If nothing is done, I shall write.    

   And if something is done, I shall write.   

     Hardship is a double-edged sword to someone who writes!   

And I’m not sure that that image works.  And I do know that I don’t care.

Have phone: will learn!

 

In a desperate attempt to improve my Spanish, Toni has introduced me to the addictive delights of Duolingo, the free (though it tries its insistent best to make you part with money) app to improve your chosen language skills.

     Toni, of course, is using the app to learn French and Italian, to add to the three other languages that he already speaks, and his frenetic efforts are stimulating mine in a more structured way than heretofore.

     The basic structure of the app is fairly simple, relying as it does, on repetition and short chunks of aided learning to consolidate the lessons as you listen, write, and speak to get your way through.

     The clever bit is found in the structure around the lessons.

 

     

 

 

     As you start off you have a number (5) of hearts which are your lives.  You lose a life if you answer or respond in a faulty way, and if your lives run out, the lesson ends unless you buy (with real money) replacement lives or, you do a practice lesson which will give you a ‘free’ life and you can get another ‘free’ life if you watch an advert.

    If you want unlimited lives or advert free learning, then you can upgrade your experience of the app by paying for such delights.

     But it is constantly emphasised that you are part of a learning community, with Spanish there are (according to the app around 450,000 other learners working along with you.

     You are placed in a group and your progress as you gain crowns and gems, and points is to try and get to the top of your league so that you can be promoted to another division.  You start in Bronze, and I have worked my way up to the Silver Division and, if I keep up my work level, in the next few days, as long as I am in the top 15 people in the league, I can be promoted to the Gold Division.

     Along the way as you accrue points, or learn new words, or come top of your league, you are given bonuses, so there is a constant sense of achievement and of competition.

     I have to say that it is well worked out and, even as I recognize that I am being manipulated, I am willingly and enthusiastically accepting the stimulants that the app provides.

     There is also a certain amount of ‘heart’ in the attitude of the assessment of right and wrong, as sometimes you will be given the benefit of the doubt and be marked correct, when you have a ‘typo’ in your answer.  And, at the moment, the app does not mark you down for omitting accents, though they do point out when they are missing, and I fear that such indulgence will not last for very much longer.

     However cynical I am about the essential expectation that eventually the learner will tire of adverts and losing lives because of slip ups with tired thumbs and writing ‘an’ instead of ‘the’ in a translation, I have found myself spending more time working on my Spanish than I have in the past.

     Goodness knows how long such dedication will last, but this first free week has been, if not exactly pleasant, then at least acceptable, and the work rate in terms of time and accessibility, has been acceptable.

     I will bow before the power of one of our family sayings and agree that “Anything is better than nothing” and carry on!

 

 

“The Ten Books That Everyone Should Read” as a civilizing concept outlined by Suzanne, continues to reverberate in my mind, and I have asked a multi-lingual polymath of my acquaintance to try and write his own list of ten books.   

     I think I might extend the request to a wider group of friends and see what they come up with.  If nothing else, it could suggest a range of writers that might be worth exploring!

 

 

My poetry has stalled.  I have a number of attempts that are looking wan and broken on their sheets of A4, and it is about time that I revisited them and decided if they are worth salvaging in some way or other, or whether they should be ‘filed’ under ‘oblivion’.  Though I do find it hard to actually throw away anything on which I have spent a reasonable amount of time.  I am a great believer is the ‘there must be something lurking of worth somewhere’ in what I write, even if it doesn’t quite work out!

 

Fight the good fight!

In my own language, I am an articulate, responsive and witty speaker.  In Spanish I am enthusiastic early Tarzan and in Catalan epsilon semi-moron.  As someone who loves language and the speaking thereof, my inability in any other tongue than mine own is baffling.

     Of course, you could point to the fact that, apart from the lessons, I do virtually no other work.  My expectation that language will work by osmosis, though patently not working in my case, is still firmly a methodology to which I adhere with monomaniac fixation.  Well, it beats methodical working and revision!

     Even though I am something of a past master in blagging my way through Spanish, I have even less basic linguistic information with which to work in Catalan.  And we are now getting close to a crunch time as, in the middle of next month (which, horror of horrors, starts tomorrow) I have an examination.

     It makes no difference how many times our present teacher assures us in his class than the examination, nay, not examination, more of a test, really, is simple beyond belief – I still know that with my level of ability ANY bloody casual (let alone searching) examination of my knowledge will lead to hot-faced humiliation.

     At this point, the more incisive reader might wonder about my typing about these concerns, rather than actually doing something about them.  If so, you haven’t read the previous short paragraphs where I freely admit my lack of effort in acquiring or attempting to acquire another language.

     The one positive point about this next ‘test’ seems to be that it is vocabulary heavy with an unnatural concentration on the direction and existence of accents on individual words and, in any choice between the two, ‘vocab’ is an easier option than ‘grammar’.  So, you never know, if I play to my strengths of being able to cram discrete points of information for the duration of an exam I might even be able to scrape through.

     Though, I do admit that scraping-through in the language of the country in which I actually live is not a very inspiring (or indeed worthwhile) goal, but it is what I am working towards. 

     And you never know, now that the date of the examination has been set, it might (just might) encourage me to make a start on the tedium of vocab learning this very weekend.  There is, after all, nothing quite so self-satisfying in doing a minimal amount of work sufficient to engender the feeling of complacency in knuckling-down to something worthwhile.  Obviously.

It’s all about the far end lane.  Of the swimming pool I mean.  Of those hardy folk (or nutters depending on your point of view) who turn up at 7.00 am when the pool opens, the one thing motivating their early appearance is the claiming of an empty lane for your lonely furrow.

     There are five lanes in our pool, and they fill up quickly.  Lane one is usually taken by a sedate looking retired lady who makes stately progress up and down the pool.  Lane three or sometimes four is taken up by two ‘youngsters’ whom I call the twins who are dedicated and athletic and look as though they are training for a triathlon.  Lane four is taken up by a recent arrival to the family of a snorkeler who rushes into the pool to try and get the Crown Jewel of lanes: lane five.

     Lane five is the lane to get.  Why?  Because it is slightly obstructed by the metal access ladders.  The way the ladders slightly jut out into the pool space means that two swimmers in a lane is somewhat awkward.  Therefore people go to double-up in the other lanes before trying the end lanes.  Lane one is for the slower swimmers and the periodic exercisers; they rarely go to lane five.  So, if you bag lane five early enough you are almost guaranteed to have it to yourself for the whole duration of your swim.

     The problem with this is, no matter how early I get to the pool, even if it is before the pool has officially opened, one man, the same man, always seems to get there before me.  So I am reduced to going to one of the other three lanes (remember lane one is given over to slower others) and hoping that it remains uncluttered with extraneous swimmers for my metric mile.

     If you are an early morning swimmer then the intensity of possession in the highly charged first hour of opening is something that will not need to be explained to you; if you have not experienced the rush of claiming a lane and swimming in a savagely elegant style to keep it to yourself, then I would suggest you think about the last time you went on a train or a bus and looked for a double seat for yourself and the looks and hopes that kept people away from you as a guide to how we feel.

     This morning, for example, I was, yet again beaten to the fifth lane by my friend, but I managed to claim the fourth lane and keep it to myself until almost the end of my swim when I had to share it with another swimmer for a few lengths until my friend left the fifth lane and indicated to the other person in my lane that he could take over the vacated fifth lane.  Now that is courtesy and civility of a high order!

 

I am working on a poem at the moment which grew out of notes that I made in my pocket notebook: two days’ work; five unsatisfactory lines, no, four and a bit lines now I look at it.  I mapped out the ideas behind what I want to write in annotations of the transcription of my notes, but the working-up is taking longer than I expected

Some poems write themselves, in so far as the structure is concerned, the skeleton is roughly assembled and then the hard slog of fleshing-out takes up the real time.  In the present instance, I only have fragments of bone, meaning that my construction of meaning in my writing is more palaeontology than poetry, but it is getting there, or more accurately it will get somewhere sometime.  And there is no title yet, either.  Working on it, working on it.

The daily crash-bang-wallop of reformation in the house next door continues unabated and is now producing a steady stream of rubble which is filling bags which are taking up parking spaces on the road.  One of the (industrial sized) rubbish bags has been in situ for over two weeks.  This is not satisfactory and ‘steps will be taken’.  I have already asked about them and the workmen have shifted the blame on to the company that should have picked them up.  As I recall, there are usually by-laws about leaving household rubble on the street and on Monday I will make a trip to the city hall after my Catalan class and find out the legal situation.  I will also take photographs (they like photos) to illustrate their wicked deeds.  Our city hall is generally helpful, and I look forward to being armed with the Regulations of the Righteous to smite the rubble makers hip and thigh – if necessary with the jaw-bone of an ass.  And I wonder how many people nowadays will pick up that reference!

So, lots to do this weekend: planning, scheming, writing and lino-cutting – never a dull moment.

Reality will bite!

The twenty-somethingth of this month is going to be significant for me.  On that date I will have to take an examination in Spanish for which I am supremely unprepared.

It was not really my choice to ‘go on’ to the next level in the language at the start of the year, but my (vicious?) teacher encouraged me to progress with comforting words of specious consolation.  I had not, to be fair, ‘nailed’ the last examination – though I got a pass and a certificate that (I think) is the minimum basic level of Spanish competence that will get me nationality – as long as I pass the accompanying examinations on my knowledge of Spanish culture, politics, administration, Real Madrid and the King.

That examination I am not too worried about.  The knowledge needed is factual (though partial) and I know that I can cram for that with no problems.  The problems come with the reality of what Spanish nationality can mean.  As far as I can see, Britain and Spain do not recognize dual nationality.  Indeed, at the moment, what is the point of dual nationality when we are both part of the same EU?  But, thanks to the “lower than vermin” Conservatives and the idiot Brexit voters, that is all about to change.

In a few years time I will be effectively disenfranchised.  After 15 years residence in a foreign country I will no longer be allowed to vote in British elections.  As I am not a Spanish citizen I cannot vote in national elections in this country and, when we leave the EU, I will not be allowed to vote in local elections.  I will then be in the situation where I am taxed in both countries and allowed to exercise my democratic rights in neither.  My freedom of movement will be curtailed and, although it appears that I will have the right to stay on in Spain, I may have to apply for residence and I will certainly lose my present rights to move to and settle in any country in the EU.

After the well documented economic effects of the Brexit self-harm become a reality, it is highly likely that my pension will be further reduced.  The value of the pound has fallen since the announcement of Brexit and I expect it to fall further when Brexit becomes real.  My pension is paid in pounds sterling and is taxed at source and then transferred to my Spanish bank where the total has bought fewer and fewer euros as the disastrous chasm draws nearer.

The present state of my health necessitates regular visits to hospital for check-ups and controls.  I see my doctor regularly and I have a scheduled series of tests stretching into the summer.  I take daily medication for which I pay a token amount.  All of this could change.  At present, although I do not pay it, the real cost of my medical treatment is printed on the information that I am sent.  The treatment of EU national resident in Britain has been scandalously heartless.  The reputation of The Home Office has been comprehensively shredded as more and more examples of callous administrative indifference or active antagonism come to light.  Why shouldn’t EU countries reciprocate? 

Our Prime Minister is the shameless architect of the “hostile environment” and she is presiding over a country where voiced xenophobia is becoming mainstream.  She, and her riven, minority government are disgraceful and in no way reflect my attitudes and ethos, but she and her squabbling rabble are the public faces that the EU sees and I, and people like me, are likely to be the collateral damage from an ideology-driven Brexit that serves (some of) the Conservative Party and ignores those likely to be worst affected by it.

Which brings me back to the solution to my Brexit problems (well, at least some of them) – becoming a Spanish citizen.  As I have no intention of returning to the UK except as a visitor, it makes sense to link myself more closely to my chosen country.  We will leave to one side the question of Catalan independence, and concentrate on what is, at present, on offer.

I have zero intention of giving up my British citizenship.  Though I may be thoroughly depressed at what I observe of the present Daily Mail encouraged right wing exclusivity in the country, I take some comfort from the “This Too Will Pass” school of philosophical tranquillity and fondly believe that sense will eventually prevail and all manner of things will be well.  However, the immediate future demands action and Spanish citizenship seems one realistic way of combating some of the fall-out from the Brexit collapse.

No matter how much rumination I indulge in, there is no alternative but to cough up the readies and buy in some legal advice.  We are now in the tax return season and I do have someone who has done my tax returns and in my next meeting I will start making serious enquiries about the practicalities of citizenship and will-making and all the other little bits and pieces that make for a quiet life in a foreign country!

The necessity for speed has been emphasised by the breathlessness that I experienced on returning from a shopping visit to Aldi to get the necessary stuff for Toni’s birthday meal.  I was glad that I wasn’t alone and that the fetching and carrying was shared, but I still felt exhausted on our return.  This is not good, and such exhaustion concentrates the mind wonderfully. 

Whether that leads to action, well, that’s another question entirely!