Sunday 15 January 2012

Lost in mistranslation

Sometimes, having an accent can cause as much incomprehension as speaking another language altogether. In 1997, my grandfather married a woman from the States. One of the first times she came over to visit us in England, my brother was about four. When she said something to him, he stared up at her and said, ‘you don’t speak English, do you?’ This is an extreme example, as well as an amusing anecdote, but from the way certain Americans respond to the way I talk, you would think I was speaking another language to them.

In restaurants, you have to give your name if you order takeout, so they can call you when it’s ready. My name has only once been spelled correctly on my receipt. Most often I get called Alex, which I guess is understandable. Once it said ‘Alexx’, which is just bizarre, and I’ve even had ‘Allis’ which is not a name (I even checked online to make sure). That guy definitely had not read his Lewis Carroll. I met a man yesterday, a friend of my godfather’s, and every time he spoke to me, he confirmed my name, ‘Alice, right?’ as if he was unsure he’d understood me the first five times.

Speaking of takeout, I would never normally adopt such an Americanism in so short an amount of time, but it was deemed necessary after I have been completely misunderstood using any other way to describe it to a server. I recently called a restaurant to order some food which we were going to pick up on our way to someone’s house. The girl on the phone asked if we wanted delivery, and I said, ‘No thanks, it’s for a collection’. 
‘A what?!’ she asked. 
‘A collection,’ I replied, thinking she hadn’t heard me. 
‘Umm, what’s that?’ By this stage I am amused/bemused. 
‘Collection. As in, we will collect it.’

She put me on hold.

When she came back on the line, she asked me if we wanted delivery or takeout. I briefly considered saying collection again, but resigned to not harassing the poor girl any longer, and replied, ‘takeout’. She then asked my name. And got it wrong.

Another word which cannot seem to be understood is water. Yes, I do have an English accent, but I would still like to think that when I speak our shared language, you’d overcome the pronunciation and just get what I’m saying. I have to pronounce water with a ‘d’, as in ‘wah-der’, because pronouncing it with a ‘t’ in the middle is apparently just too perplexing!

Those who have an iPhone 4S will most likely know of the wonder that is Siri. If you haven’t heard of her, let me briefly explain: if you have the latest iPhone, you can talk to it, and ‘Siri’ will do as commanded. For example, press the button and say, ‘Siri, send Mum a text saying “Let’s skype later”’ and she will text my mum saying just that. Sounds wonderful, right? Absolutely, BUT only if you have the right accent. When I first got the phone, I asked Siri, ‘what is the best phone?’ because she is known to respond with answers such as, ‘I think you’ve already answered that question’, and ‘wait… there are other phones?!’ Well, when I asked her, she thought I said what’s the best fay, then what’s the best five, then what's the best face. I am not sure whether it is because my iPhone was bought in America, and therefore Siri has a different ‘accent chip’ than when you buy an iPhone in England, but the goddamn woman does not understand me!

In conclusion, being a Brit in America can sometimes be a trial. You'd think that since we speak the same language, being understood would not be much to ask. I guess that's what they mean by culture shock!

Slightly off the topic but here is a link to some funny mistranslations on foreign signs. Very entertaining!

My favourites include:
On the menu of a Polish hotel:
Salad a firm's own make; limpid red beet soup with cheesy dumplings in the form of a finger; roasted duck let loose; beef rashers beaten up in the country people's fashion. Sounds delicious.

From a brochure of a car rental firm in Tokyo:
When passenger of foot heave in sight, tootle the horn. Trumpet him melodiously at first, but if he still obstacles your passage then tootle him with vigor. Too funny!

Two signs from a Majorcan shop entrance:
  • English well talking.
  • Here speeching American. Sounds about right.

Thursday 5 January 2012

Welcome to the Gun Show

On Sunday, Ian and I bought two tickets to the Gun Show. And let me tell you, there wasn't a bicep in sight....


This may seem a little crazy to you, and honestly, I had no idea what to expect from what is essentially a market dedicated to weaponry, but as my good friend Gabrielle Smith would say, when in Rome!

Ian has lived in Texas for the past five years, but had never been to one of these either, so us two curious Brits drove over to Fort Worth, about 30 miles from Dallas, to come face to face with a bunch of people who chose to spend the first day of the new year perusing 1200 stalls of guns. (I appreciate that this is how Ian and I also spent the first day of the new year, but we were definitely the only ones there who weren't keen to find a bargain amongst the stands). I honestly could not believe the scale of the place. Not only was this room full of guns, knives, paraphernalia (we genuinely saw someone selling hand grenades), it was heaving with people.

I'm still actually a little bit at a loss for words. There was so much crazy stuff going on in that hall. There were stalls recruiting people for the NRA (National Rifle Association) with a sign saying: '10 Reasons to Join the NRA - #1 Barack Obama'. (Kids can join for only $15); there was knife sharpening - ("you need 7 good knives to have a complete set"); there were women advertising their special handbags as 'gun purses - the perfect way to stay safe and look good'; there was even a man selling books on how to make your own disposable silencers. Disposable home-made silencers. I mean, can you imagine walking around a place where there are enough weapons to arm roughly 25,000 people, and when you look at your neighbours, you can be certain that 95% of them would know exactly how to use them.

There were a lot of self defence stalls too, selling everything from rape alarms to tazers. There were a few things I found a bit amusing on one particular stall:


Walking weights with pepper spray. So now you can exercise and defend yourself at the same time! Or there was the mace that dyed your attacker's face blue so that it would make him easily distinguishable to the police (that is actually quite clever).



Guns are not just for men. You can make carrying a large rifle around more feminine if you store it in one of these:



And they didn't stop at selling guns as weapons. There were all sorts of gun-related accessories that you could buy, to show other people how much of a fan you are of the right to bear arms. How about a crucifix necklace, but to make it that bit more special, the cross is made from bullets. We love Jesus... and shooting things.

I know, I know, we chose to go there. And really, what else did I expect from a place that sells guns to be? I guess my point, if I have one at all, is how scary it is that guns are everyday objects here. People were there with their kids, it was a family day out. Can you imagine: "Well kids, tomorrow is Sunday, where shall we go after church? The zoo? A museum? Oh wait, the gun show is in town!" 

As we left, with me especially in a mild state of shock, we walked past a load of motorbikes parked outside. One in particular caught my eye:


Thank you Mr. Hells Angel for bringing a smile to my face and lowering my raised eyebrows to their normal position. That is the best Christmas decorated bike I've ever seen. (It's also the only Christmas decorated bike I've ever seen, but that is beside the point.)

I may be living in Texas now, but I think I've had my fair share of the Wild West side of things for a while.