Latin for all

One evening, going home from the Institute, I picked up an old copy of Omnibus, magazine for teachers and students of Latin and Greek, to read after dinner. Omnibus is a curious word: being the dative plural of Latin omnis, all, everyone, literally it means 'for all'. By the way, the English bus derives, via French, from omnibus.

My acquaintance with the word comes not only from Latin lessons, but from a funny Latvian song about omnibuss that destroys kitchen gardens with all the vegetables -- I like the song but have no idea about its deep meaning. (The final double s in omnibuss is not a typo: in Latvian, all masculine nouns have to end on s, even if they are foreign borrowings that already have one s. In this case, you just add another s. For example, James Bond becomes Dzeimss Bonds.)

In my copy of Omnibus, a tiny article caught my attention. It contained excerpts from a Latin glossary, allegedly composed by Vatican authorities to help Latin speakers to cope with essential modern phenomena. I cannot help but reproduce some of its entries here. Lambrusco: acre vinum Aemilianum. Merlot: vinum rubrum Burdigalense. Sangria: potio mixta Hispanica. Scotch: vischium Scoticum. Vodka: valida potio Slavica. It made me smile, and think how an ordinary wine list becomes, by a mere fact of being translated into a different language, a source of laughter.

Deformation professionelle

I discovered blogs in spring 2006. More precisely, I discovered food blogs, which I was reading for months on end before realising that there existed blogs about things other than food. Anyway, the very first was Chocolate & Zucchini, which has remained a favourite ever since, for its recipes, its pictures, its design, its sense of purpose, its skillful marketing, and bien sur for the beautiful English of its author, Clotilde Dusoulier.

Last Tuesday, I had a chance to meet Clotidle en personne at the launch of her book at the French Institute in London. When I walked in, I saw the following picture: the publisher with a pile of volumes to sell; the author busy signing her books; technical guys fiddling with microphones; two tables with cakes and other edibles; and lots of rather lost-looking English people who did not quite know what to do. Were they allowed to taste the food? Was it appropriate to talk? Was it possible to talk in English? The worst of all, however, was the completely abandoned, unmanned tables with zucchini carpaccio, and slices of bread, and two savoury cakes, and some cheese biscuits, to which not many people were paying any attention at all.

Being an events organiser, this is a situation in which I cannot stand still: I walked in, went behind the table, and began offering the food and explaining about it. The food was delicious, I was having interesting conversations, and on the whole having wonderful time. 'Thank you so much for organising the event', someone said, assuming I was a part of the crew. 'Oh, not at all. I am just helping out', I replied. 'I am a professional events organiser, you see. ' 'What do you mean?' 'Well, I saw they needed some organisation, and I stepped in. Deformation professionelle.' I have no idea how to say it in English, though. It is such an un-English thing to do.

Boutique

I am always impressed when people who have known me only for a short time say something insightful about me. I warmed up to my once-boss, a super successful businessman from Russia, when he observed that I was more a boutique than a supermarket person. Not an obvious thing to say: I routinely buy all my basics in supermarkets, am known for my love for bargain, particularly two-for-the-price-of-one type, and find shops full of latest fashion and arrogant assistants unbearably boring. Something exclusive, specialised, trendy, expensive, and luxurious, particularly when used as an adjective - a boutique hotel or a boutique recruitment agency - is what the word boutique implies in English (and in the languages that have borrowed it from English, as in Russian butik.)

But in French, where the word comes from, it is a completely different story: boutique is just a small specialist shop. (On my first visit to France I was amused to find boutiques SNCF.) The word's etymology reveals its humble origins -- in Ancient Greek apotheke means storehouse, depository -- and its family connection. Spanish small shop bodega and Italian bottega, (one day, I hope to become a regular customer of one), are boutique's sisters, and Apotheke / apteka, drugstores in German and Russian, and certainly in other languages, are distant cousins.

In this meaning of a small useful shops, yes, I am a boutique girl. I prefer buying my supply of cheese from my favourite small shop. If it were in London, I am sure it would have been called Boutique Cheese Shop Le Fromage something, but as it is in Paris, this time, it is just a fromagerie.

A pig for James Bond

Do you remember when in The World is Not Enough James Bond together with a cute nerd Christmas are travelling inside the pipeline in a sort of a shuttle? In real life, the device exists under the name of pig, which has nothing to do with a domestic animal, but stands for Pipeline Inspection Gauge. I learned the term last week and find it amusing. First, because it sounds funny. Second, because the devise is aptly named: originally, the pig was used to collect dirt from the inside of the pipeline, and real pigs are traditionally considered as not particularly hygienic animals. (Although it is not quite true, say zoologists.) And third, because even such an insipidly named movie you can serve as a source of useful terms. I should go and see Goldfinger or Octopussy immediately!

The most useful phrase I learned last year

People who learn a foreign language to use it (unlike those who are engaged in learning a language in perpetuo), know the importance of mastering useful set phrases from early days. Phrases like Sorry I do not speak X well, Do you speak English, or I would like to ... should be learned at the very first lesson. It does not matter that you do not understand the construction, which might include the subjunctive: thanks to theses little phrases, you will be able to conduct a polite and meaningful conversation. You can not come up with those phrases yourself: they exist, it is up to you to discover them and to make them part of your vocabulary. They convey the meaning precisely and much better than anything you, a non-native speaker, can come up with. Unfortunately, teachers and schoolbooks often neglect this principle.

In the early years of my acquaintance with English, the phrase that came most useful was I beg your pardon?. If I am not mistaken, textbooks do not mention it often enough -- in any case, I learned it when I landed in the UK -- but this phrase is a little gem. It is short, it sounds better than 'I am sorry could you repeat what you just said?', and it is idiomatic, that is, it does mark you as an insider.

Last year, the most useful phrase I learned came from the Brazen Careerist blog. The phrase it Do you have any reservations about hiring me?, coming from the post about turning an interview into a job. I learned it by heart and used at all my job interviews, and, as if by magic, it landed me two jobs. (The first job turned out to be a lemon, but this comes from ignoring the first advice Penelope gives: research the company).

Un peu ronde, gironde

I was reading the second book of Mireille Guiliano about French women and their art of living for pleasure when I come across this expression: un peu ronde, translated by the author as a tad overweight. Usually, I like the way she translates French concepts into English (she was trained in one of the best translating schools in Paris and had a career as a translator for international institutions before moving into corporate world). But this time, I was quite uncomfortable with the tad overweight. It was correct by any account, but whereas I would happily and routinely describe myself as un peu ronde, I would never identify with the English phrasing: it implies that something is wrong. But then I thought, how would I say it in English? Probably, I would be happiest with a bit round, the calque from French. Curvy is not bad, although it describes the outline rather than the shape. Curvacious, voluptious, and even juicy are all correct, but they appear to be rather emotional and intimate.

In French, however, I once learned another great word. Several years ago at a conference in Spoleto , in a mixed French and Italian company, the conversation turned to the Italian word formosa, meaning shapely and beautiful. (We were discussing Roman statues, let me reassure you.) A professor from Brussels mentioned that there was a good old French equivalent, gironde. Its etymology is uncertain (I have checked), but I still remember the definition given by the professor. 'Gironde, he said, 'come Sophia Loren in tutto il suo splendore!'

Peu ou prou

Last Saturday, I went to the French Institute to listen to Philippe Thureau-Dangin, editor of Courrier international. I have been reading Courrier international for years: I like the concept, I like the broad international coverage, the way it presents different points of view, and even its use of advertisements. I really like the rubric Le livre, which introduces new authors and new books, often from places far away from obvious.

And I admire its use of French. The translations -- most of its articles are translated from articles in journals and magazines around the world -- are not only flawless and idiomatic, but often improve on the original in terms of clarity, logic, and conciseness, which are, in my opinion, the essential characteristics of a good writing. Once I compared several of its translations with English originals (all taken from reputable sources like the Guardian and the Independent) and could not but admit the superior skill of the CI journalists.

In real talk, the editor-in-chief did not disappont, and I who is always looking for new expressions, wrote down several. Peu ou prou was one of these. It means a little or a lot, more or less. Its unusual part prou originates, via old French, I learned, from the late Latin prode, meaning profitable. It is curious that the same Latin word resulted, again via old French, in proud in English. If Anglo-Saxon pride is something that makes you tick (not me), you can read about its carnival of the etymologies here.

Garden flat

I heard about euphemisms in English from my university teacher more than 15 years ago. She was doing research on their role in British culture, an important role, she said. She gave us some Classical examples, mostly used by the Victorian ladies. I have not forgot this discussion, but was never quite sure what she meant, apart from the obvious stereotypes about the Victorians.

It dawned on me this year, when I was looking for accommodation in London and had to deal with estate agents' newspeak. (After the HR, my second least favourite group of people.)

May I ask you what the words garden flat evoke for you? For me, they bring to mind greenery, space, luxury -- a flat overlooking the garden, that is. Oh no: in the London housing market, it denotes a basement flat embellished with flower pots in the windows or with flower pots down on the stairs.

It defies me why people in London enjoy living in the underground holes likes troglodytes, but it least I understand what my university teacher meant.

Hands down

Sometimes, in a flow of familiar words and expressions, you hear something new, something you are sure you have never heard before, yet something so appropriate, so fitting, that, after marvelling for a while at the beauty of the word, you immediately adopt it.

Last week, I was listening to Dick Fleming, one of the most seasoned interpreters working for the European Commission, interpreting a conference about interpreting. He was interpreting from German, a language which I understand enough to get the main idea and to appreciate the main structures, but not enough to follow a complex argument.

The speaker was describing main qualities necessary to train the aspiring interpreters and also to train the trainers of these aspiring interpreters (which is known as training of trainers). These qualities are not the same, the argument went, that you need to do philology, literature, linguistics, and other related subjects. For example, the trainers in Central and Eastern European Universities are often much better prepared and far more advanced in these purely theoretical subjects, the speaker said in three or so German sentences.

'In linguistics', interpreted Dick into English, 'they beat us hands down.' I had never heard the expression before, but the meaning was obvious: easily, without efforts. Of course, later I asked Dick about the expression and also looked it up in my biggest English dictionary. Hands down comes from horse racing, as you will find in the Mavens' Word of the Day.

They say that a good interpretation improves the original, and it was exactly what Dick's did. It was short, elegant, to the point. And, as they say it in German, it was der passende Ausdruck.

Bronze horsemen

I am an avid reader of The Economist: I like that I can fit its reading into my schedule on a weekly basis, I like its topics, sections, and special reports, and most of all I like its mastery of English. (No, I do not work for the journal. Yes, I would not mind receiving an offer).

In particularly, its artistry of titles has long been an object of my admiration. Last week, I was reading an article about recent events in the neighbouring Estonia. It is called Bronze Meddling and the title works on several levels.

Phonetically, bronze meddling echoes bronze melting, which reflects the topic of the article, melting down or removing former Soviet monuments. Etymologically, English meddle derives ultimately from Latin miscere, to mix, thus juxtaposing mixing (of metals) and interfering (into internal affairs).

Historically, for all of us who come from the space where Russian has been lingua franca, bronze brings to mind the Bronze Horseman, a monument in St.Petersburg to Peter the Great and an eponymous poem by Alexander Pushkin about the tzar and his 'window into Europe'. It was Peter the Great who first added Baltic territories to the Russian empire. All the subsequent colonising powers left behind their statues and monuments, landmarks still too loaded emotionally for both sides of the conflict.

Me Tarzan you Jane

I have a friend whom I have known for ages, and he has been looking for a wife all this time. He is pretty determined about it, too: to say, he had embraced the art of on-line dating at the time when the rest of us were struggling with our first emails, managed by pine. And, I must say, he has had an amazing array of candidates, which is not surprising, given his charms, talents, and good looks. He is still unmarried, though, and the problem is: he has high standards.

The bride-to-be should come from the same city (which makes sense), she should be blonde (de gustibus non disputandum), younger than he (a bit old-fashioned but fine), and be approved by his mother as well (utterly ridiculous, if you ask me.)

She should also have good grammar. 'Can you just imagine, he would complain to me about a new candidate, she cannot spell? She just wrote 'restaurant' without a 't'?!' This one, I used to laugh about: if you like the girl, does it matter that her grammar is shaky?

Here in London, I am not so sure any longer. 'I have been living in London for 2 years but I haven't got improve my English. I would like to meet people, practice English, and enjoy with them', an anonymous admirer wrote to me. 'I would like to get to know you better and share a bit about our cultures, dancing and languages together', wrote another. 'If you are interesting you can write me.'

Yes, I can surely write you off and suggest you enjoy with an English dictionary.

Accent

'So, where does your accent come from?' The question would pop up inevitably in any conversation I conduct in English, even now.

When I first came to the UK , I used to be ashamed about my accent and rather upset that I could not manage to get rid of it. And I tried. I asked for advice. One friend said 'Just try talking without opening your mouth'. Another said 'What is wrong with your accent, I understand you perfectly all right'. But it was not what I wanted. I wanted to sound - if not exactly like the HM the Queen, but at least in a way that would not discredit what I was saying. Also, I disliked that I could be pigeon-holed based on my oh-so-foreign accent.

Until one day, an acquaintance said to me 'I like it that you have decided to keep your accent'. 'I beg you pardon?' I said. 'Well, with your linguistics skills, surely you could speak without any accent, if you want, he said. 'I like that you keep it as a part of your identity'.

And this it was. Ten years on, I still speak English with an accent -- but I do it by choice. Besides, and this is something I always knew, foreign accents are sooo sexy!