I wish I had a reason to be at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, like, every day. I've seen on Twitter Jason Isaacs appears to be using it as a layover place (place of laying over?), at least while he shoots DIG (on USA!) in New Mexico. It is the busiest airport on the planet, I hear. Quite frankly, I think he or his manager or whoever bravely books Lucius Malfoy onto flights has good taste, sending him to us. I'm unashamedly biased, because it's the airport I've come to know the best--I've been in it, through it, and outside it thousands of times. It's got its quirks, for sure. But every time I'm there, I feel like I'm home. Is that weird? Our airport has a very "Atlanta feel" to it. For lack of a better term on account of it's after 9 PM and I've tested small children's brains to death all week and so mine is now fried, too. (For all its quirks, Atlanta has wormed its way permanently into my heart; I love this big ol' smoggy, too-much-damn-country-music, traffic jammed up city of Tea Party Republicans.)
Anyway, he's tweeted about weirdos on Atlanta-bound planes asking for selfies at inappropriate moments (we do draw eccentrics like magnets, Jason), and people have posted pictures of him in Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, graciously taking selfies with them. He always seems very good-natured and kind in regards to this...I'd be very: only if my make up and hair are okay and I'm not having a fat day, okay? about it. (In fact, if I ever run into Jason Isaacs and he asks if I want a selfie, this is exactly what I will say to him.)
Hey, remember when you could walk your loved ones right up to a departing gate and hang out with them until the plane boarded? Those were the days, right? Now travelers have to go through a labyrinth of security and they herd the non-travelers picking up the travelers into an airport version of a cattle pen at a slaughterhouse for humans. Everyone waits in one large crowd together, mooing aimlessly, and then there's a stampede as the travelers slowly come up and off the 5000 foot incline/escalator. I refuse to participate in this--if you're coming in, and I'm picking you up, Hartsfield-Jackson has a very nice cell phone parking lot for me to sit in the quiet comfort and privacy of my car whilst enjoying Damien Rice songs and waiting for you to ride the train, the escalator, deal with baggage claim, and walk out the front doors into the wilds of Atlanta. Call me once your bags are in your hand and I'll swing around and get you. And then we'll go sit in a nice, smoggy traffic jam and I'll school you on why you sound like a big, uncool nerd every time you call it HOTlanta.
(Stop calling us that, everybody. First off, we're STEAMYlanta or SMOGGYlanta or OVERCROWDEDlanta or THESESTREETLAYOUTSMAKENOFUCKINGSENSElanta. Second, if you must go for cutesy, then might I suggest something more fitting like CocaColaville? Or Peachtreewannabe Town? Although A-Town works nicely if you'd like to sound like a rapper, or try "The ATL" if you feel you're more hip hop.)
One time? At Hartsfield-Jackson when I was headed to Phoenix, my brother and I got to watch a barefoot, 400-pound woman wearing a mini-mini-micro-skirt and way too small thong underwear bend over repeatedly to pick up peanuts she dropped on the floor. And since I can hear your brain thinking it: YES. Yes, she DID eat them. Slowly and deliberately. I'm horrified just remembering it. (I am also shuddering at the many memories I have of negotiating O'Hare International Airport, which is exactly what you do from the moment you step off a plane there: negotiate. For all its quirks, I think if you have to go through O'Hare more than ten times, you really come to appreciate a place like Hartsfield-Jackson.)
Nowadays, everyone has to practically strip AND take their shoes off AND taste any breast milk they brought with them AND go through those x-ray machines where questionably educated strangers can see you completely naked. What I'm saying is, thanks, you stupid airplane terrorists. You've turned us all into barefoot, 400 lb women who bend over repeatedly and eat peanuts off the floor. Hope you're happy now.
Speaking of traveling: I'm traveling tomorrow! And not by plane--woo! This time tomorrow, my feet will be in the sand, and an adult beverage will be at my side. I am taking some good books, this laptop, and my ghost hunter skillz (I don't have ghost hunter skillz). The cabin we are renting has bits and pieces of Ft. Skivner in it, and it was built at the turn of the century. I am certain there will be plenty of things to write about. And several opportunities for one bad poetry jam.
More important than all of that? Magic Mike XXL is being filmed ON Tybee Island! Which is where I shall be plunking my sandy feet. It's true! People magazine had a picture of a shirtless Joe Manganiello tossing a ball on Tybee Island. I suppose he could have been tossing a ball in Destin, Florida or Atlantic City, New Jersey or Malibu, California. But it was in People. And if People magazine says it's true, well then. ....Y'all! My friends and I could be extras! I could be in a real dang movie! Everyone has to get their start somewhere. (As long as my make up and hair are okay and I'm not having a fat day.)
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
10.23.2014
9.27.2014
social media writing platform.
I found an interesting writer/reader place called Wattpad. I discovered it back in July, via the television show DIG (on USA!), which I've been totally slacking off on promoting (I'm sorry, Jason Isaacs! I'm so sorry--I've been in inundated with teacher crap). It's been moved to premiere in 2015, by the way. Moved from Jerusalem to Croatia because of war, moved premiere dates because of...television producer guy stuff (I'm just making that up--I actually don't know why). Television is a tricky medium.
Also, according to Jason Isaacs, Dubrovnik smells like pizza. This location/smell thing reminds me of two stories:
Story 1: I once had a South African friend with whom I went on a road trip to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. All along the way, she'd scream out in delight, noting things like: "Oh my god! This looks just like the French countryside!" and "Oh, this could be Namibia!" or "Oh my goodness! This is exactly what Switzerland looks like!"
This leads me to believe that, should push come to shove, I really don't HAVE to leave the United States if I can't scrape enough cash together to globe trot--Dubrovnik, Croatia looks like Jerusalem...The Red Band Society is filming in Atlanta and totally making it look like Los Angeles. Places can look like other places, and I just need to go to different areas not even close to the places I actually want to be but use my imagination. Planetary location scouting, if you will.
Story 2: When I was in high school, some friends and I went to New York City for Spring Break. (Some kids go to the beach for fun...nerds go to expensive, overcrowded cities.) So we went to NYC, and every morning, we'd step out of our hotel and one of my friends would suck air into his lungs and declare, "AH! Hot dogs and piss! The smell of New York!"
This leads me to believe that every city has its own smell. New York City smells like urine and hot dogs, Dubrovnik like pizza. I'm not sure what Atlanta smells like because I've lived here so long my nose is used to it now, but my guess is rancid smog in the summer and burnt tires in the winter (I know I'm not selling it very well--I'm sorry, Atlanta). (On Sunday mornings, my house smells like bacon--you could come there if you'd like a better Atlanta smell.)
In conclusion: I'd never thought of placing Dubrovnik, Croatia on my travel bucket list...until I saw Jason Isaacs' tweets about its pizza smell and how well it substitutes for Jerusalem. Sold! Dubrovnik's now a place I want to visit. That, or I'll find some place in America that looks just like it, and I'll eat at Pizza Hut day and night to recreate its smell.
Okay. Let's return to my original point (I did have one):
Wattpad. I found this website because someone was hired to write a prequel leading up to the premiere of DIG (on USA!), and Jason Isaacs demanded, on Twitter, I take a look, and I will always do what Jason Isaacs demands, on Twitter, that I do (unless it's to beat up someone) (okay, actually, I'd seriously consider it, depending on who Jason Isaacs wanted me punch--maybe he and I would like to punch some of the same people) (sadly, I don't know how to punch, so nobody would actually be hurt). It's a very outside-the-box concept for a television show: give people in the know (that's me! that's me! I'm finally in the know about something!) information before they get to actually see the show. Make them feel special (me again!) and in-the-know (me me!) beforehand. Information that people who find the show via just channel surfing won't know about the show. This feels like an exclusive club, and as someone who's a former sorority reject, I like that feeling.
I will admit, though, I was all kinds of I don't know! What do I DO? about this, because this is a mystery/action/conspiracy adventure story, and I hate it when my mystery/action/conspiracy adventure stories get ruined by too much prior information. But I went and read anyway, nothing got ruined at all, and plus I learned: Lands. I could never ever work for the CIA or the FBI. But God bless those who do.
At any rate, the concept of Wattpad--what an intriguing writer-y concept. You publish stories, you build an audience that will hang on your every word, you get discovered by Random House, sell world-wide millions of copies of your novel based on a Wattpad series you wrote, it gets optioned by Hollywood, the splendid Viola Davis [who I've finally forgiven for being in Won't Back Down] and quirky/fun Robert Downey, Jr. star in it, Golden Globes and Oscars are won, and bam! You own a 500-acre chateau in the south of France and your very own island in the Mediterranean and Oprah interviews you multiple times and invites you to tour the world with her. (What? What?? That's my plan, okay? Get your own and don't be so judge-y.)
I think Wattpad is actually an app, but my phone's out of memory and won't let me download it, so I just read online. And I haven't written anything for it to build an audience/start prepping for my chateau and here's why: most of the stuff I've seen on Wattpad is stunningly BAD. The website is amazing, the concept is awesome. Just...from what I've seen, some of what is published there is stunningly BAD. Which seems to be a problem with a lot of sites like this on the internet: people just dicking around.
Plus, I can't tell you how many One Direction fans have begged me to read and follow them on this place. God bless them--I don't want to be an a-hole and discourage people from writing, because when I was in 6th grade, that's what I did: I wrote stories about Michael Jackson falling in love with me and making up dance moves with my name on them. And later, stories about Charlie Rivera Masso of Menudo meeting me at a library (the only place I ever went in 8th grade because I was such a wild child) and taking me on dates to the movies. And so I really get fan fiction writers, as well as the One Direction story artistes. Once upon a time, this was my tribe.
But nowadays, in my 40s, there are two things in the world I'm supremely disinterested in writing about; fan fiction is one and One Direction is the other. I'm not judging fan fiction writers--everyone has their niche, that one's just not for me. I am judging the One Directioners--that band has infiltrated my life quite enough lately, thanks. (Miss M is obsessed, suddenly, with member Harry Stiles. I don't know if that's how you spell his surname, and I'm sorry Directioners, I'm not looking it up. Go ahead, threaten my life--I know that's what you do. I've seen your tweets and I don't care. I've better things to do than worry about whether a teenager in Bismark is really going to cut me. Miss M threatens to cut me all the time, too, and I am not worried about her, either.)
At any rate, I've been holding off on writing there, because much of what I've seen just by poking around is sort of hokey and so...what kind of audience would I build there? Please know: I'm not trying to sound like a snob when I ask that--I really don't know what kind of an audience I'd build there (or if I could even build an audience there...since I wouldn't be writing One Direction stories). Yet, apparently, it can be a very useful social media tool for writers.
And y'all know how addicted I can be when it comes to social media and its various tools.
But also (and mostly) I'm incredibly short on time these days--Life is hectic, and I have a lot of things in the writing oven: my new ghost story, I'm still working on the TV show script (put the word working inside " " because when I say "working," what I really mean is: "thinking up ideas for"), and I have a couple of short stories I need to clean up and start thinking about where to send out. In other words, do I have time? (I never have time.)
But I'm glad I know about this Internet place of writing! And I will most likely, eventually, add it to my social media tool box and use it, because the articles I'm reading from established writers who love it are intriguing and inspiring. And now you know about it, too, and so maybe you'll discover really awesome writers to follow there. And some sweet One Direction stories that will completely rock your world.
I can't believe I connected a post involving DIG (on USA!) to One Direction. I'm sorry, so so sorry, Jason, Anne Heche, and all the cast/crew of DIG (on USA!). When the actual premiere date gets closer, I'll make it up to you by promoting your show in obnoxious ways on my private Facebook page and my public Twitter account. I have about 200 Facebook connections and over 100 Twitter followers now! That's totally going to put you guys over the top in the ratings, I just know it.
Here, I'll start making it up to the people of DIG by directing you all to this interview about it by Carol Barbee (writer) and SJ Clarkson (director) talking about it and making it sound very exciting and fascinating (and can I just also note how intensely impressed I am by both of them AND impressed by the fact women are so involved in the making of this show? I dig that.) (Heh. See what I just did there? I dig DIG.) Never mind. Just go watch this interview--you'll understand:
Also, according to Jason Isaacs, Dubrovnik smells like pizza. This location/smell thing reminds me of two stories:
Story 1: I once had a South African friend with whom I went on a road trip to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. All along the way, she'd scream out in delight, noting things like: "Oh my god! This looks just like the French countryside!" and "Oh, this could be Namibia!" or "Oh my goodness! This is exactly what Switzerland looks like!"
This leads me to believe that, should push come to shove, I really don't HAVE to leave the United States if I can't scrape enough cash together to globe trot--Dubrovnik, Croatia looks like Jerusalem...The Red Band Society is filming in Atlanta and totally making it look like Los Angeles. Places can look like other places, and I just need to go to different areas not even close to the places I actually want to be but use my imagination. Planetary location scouting, if you will.
Story 2: When I was in high school, some friends and I went to New York City for Spring Break. (Some kids go to the beach for fun...nerds go to expensive, overcrowded cities.) So we went to NYC, and every morning, we'd step out of our hotel and one of my friends would suck air into his lungs and declare, "AH! Hot dogs and piss! The smell of New York!"
This leads me to believe that every city has its own smell. New York City smells like urine and hot dogs, Dubrovnik like pizza. I'm not sure what Atlanta smells like because I've lived here so long my nose is used to it now, but my guess is rancid smog in the summer and burnt tires in the winter (I know I'm not selling it very well--I'm sorry, Atlanta). (On Sunday mornings, my house smells like bacon--you could come there if you'd like a better Atlanta smell.)
In conclusion: I'd never thought of placing Dubrovnik, Croatia on my travel bucket list...until I saw Jason Isaacs' tweets about its pizza smell and how well it substitutes for Jerusalem. Sold! Dubrovnik's now a place I want to visit. That, or I'll find some place in America that looks just like it, and I'll eat at Pizza Hut day and night to recreate its smell.
Okay. Let's return to my original point (I did have one):
Wattpad. I found this website because someone was hired to write a prequel leading up to the premiere of DIG (on USA!), and Jason Isaacs demanded, on Twitter, I take a look, and I will always do what Jason Isaacs demands, on Twitter, that I do (unless it's to beat up someone) (okay, actually, I'd seriously consider it, depending on who Jason Isaacs wanted me punch--maybe he and I would like to punch some of the same people) (sadly, I don't know how to punch, so nobody would actually be hurt). It's a very outside-the-box concept for a television show: give people in the know (that's me! that's me! I'm finally in the know about something!) information before they get to actually see the show. Make them feel special (me again!) and in-the-know (me me!) beforehand. Information that people who find the show via just channel surfing won't know about the show. This feels like an exclusive club, and as someone who's a former sorority reject, I like that feeling.
I will admit, though, I was all kinds of I don't know! What do I DO? about this, because this is a mystery/action/conspiracy adventure story, and I hate it when my mystery/action/conspiracy adventure stories get ruined by too much prior information. But I went and read anyway, nothing got ruined at all, and plus I learned: Lands. I could never ever work for the CIA or the FBI. But God bless those who do.
At any rate, the concept of Wattpad--what an intriguing writer-y concept. You publish stories, you build an audience that will hang on your every word, you get discovered by Random House, sell world-wide millions of copies of your novel based on a Wattpad series you wrote, it gets optioned by Hollywood, the splendid Viola Davis [who I've finally forgiven for being in Won't Back Down] and quirky/fun Robert Downey, Jr. star in it, Golden Globes and Oscars are won, and bam! You own a 500-acre chateau in the south of France and your very own island in the Mediterranean and Oprah interviews you multiple times and invites you to tour the world with her. (What? What?? That's my plan, okay? Get your own and don't be so judge-y.)
I think Wattpad is actually an app, but my phone's out of memory and won't let me download it, so I just read online. And I haven't written anything for it to build an audience/start prepping for my chateau and here's why: most of the stuff I've seen on Wattpad is stunningly BAD. The website is amazing, the concept is awesome. Just...from what I've seen, some of what is published there is stunningly BAD. Which seems to be a problem with a lot of sites like this on the internet: people just dicking around.
Plus, I can't tell you how many One Direction fans have begged me to read and follow them on this place. God bless them--I don't want to be an a-hole and discourage people from writing, because when I was in 6th grade, that's what I did: I wrote stories about Michael Jackson falling in love with me and making up dance moves with my name on them. And later, stories about Charlie Rivera Masso of Menudo meeting me at a library (the only place I ever went in 8th grade because I was such a wild child) and taking me on dates to the movies. And so I really get fan fiction writers, as well as the One Direction story artistes. Once upon a time, this was my tribe.
But nowadays, in my 40s, there are two things in the world I'm supremely disinterested in writing about; fan fiction is one and One Direction is the other. I'm not judging fan fiction writers--everyone has their niche, that one's just not for me. I am judging the One Directioners--that band has infiltrated my life quite enough lately, thanks. (Miss M is obsessed, suddenly, with member Harry Stiles. I don't know if that's how you spell his surname, and I'm sorry Directioners, I'm not looking it up. Go ahead, threaten my life--I know that's what you do. I've seen your tweets and I don't care. I've better things to do than worry about whether a teenager in Bismark is really going to cut me. Miss M threatens to cut me all the time, too, and I am not worried about her, either.)
At any rate, I've been holding off on writing there, because much of what I've seen just by poking around is sort of hokey and so...what kind of audience would I build there? Please know: I'm not trying to sound like a snob when I ask that--I really don't know what kind of an audience I'd build there (or if I could even build an audience there...since I wouldn't be writing One Direction stories). Yet, apparently, it can be a very useful social media tool for writers.
And y'all know how addicted I can be when it comes to social media and its various tools.
But also (and mostly) I'm incredibly short on time these days--Life is hectic, and I have a lot of things in the writing oven: my new ghost story, I'm still working on the TV show script (put the word working inside " " because when I say "working," what I really mean is: "thinking up ideas for"), and I have a couple of short stories I need to clean up and start thinking about where to send out. In other words, do I have time? (I never have time.)
But I'm glad I know about this Internet place of writing! And I will most likely, eventually, add it to my social media tool box and use it, because the articles I'm reading from established writers who love it are intriguing and inspiring. And now you know about it, too, and so maybe you'll discover really awesome writers to follow there. And some sweet One Direction stories that will completely rock your world.
I can't believe I connected a post involving DIG (on USA!) to One Direction. I'm sorry, so so sorry, Jason, Anne Heche, and all the cast/crew of DIG (on USA!). When the actual premiere date gets closer, I'll make it up to you by promoting your show in obnoxious ways on my private Facebook page and my public Twitter account. I have about 200 Facebook connections and over 100 Twitter followers now! That's totally going to put you guys over the top in the ratings, I just know it.
Here, I'll start making it up to the people of DIG by directing you all to this interview about it by Carol Barbee (writer) and SJ Clarkson (director) talking about it and making it sound very exciting and fascinating (and can I just also note how intensely impressed I am by both of them AND impressed by the fact women are so involved in the making of this show? I dig that.) (Heh. See what I just did there? I dig DIG.) Never mind. Just go watch this interview--you'll understand:
9.19.2014
international stories in spanish
I had a long week, Internet. Three whole mornings of testing, and then today was stupendously bad (on the student behavior front). Half the class of wayward children got put in study hall all of their recess, while being reprimanded to think about appropriate school choices vs. inappropriate. I hate being mean. I want to dance and sing and throw glitter around and have FUN! But I have to have an agreement from my small charges that they'll bring it back to center once the glitter is on the ground so we can also do the stupid grunt work society is currently expecting us to do. And I hate taking away recess--in public school it's really their only time during the day to just be kids and do the work children are truly meant to do which is learn how to grow up successfully; nobody ever fared well from having their creativity and sense of playfulness smashed down. I think Orwell's 1984 was really about people who get drilled like little machines with curriculum content.
Fortunately, it did end on two happy notes:
1-Coworkers who are ridiculous. I'm so happy I work with ridiculous people who recognize this is all so ridiculous. Their sense of humor is sarcastic and sardonic, if it's possible to be that at once. Since those are synonyms.
2a-A parent-teacher conference in which the mom told me I'm really awesome at speaking Spanish. And we had a (in Spanish) conversation about how I can speak Spanish pretty fluently, but can't understand jack, and she can understand English pretty fluently but can't speak jack. And that's jacked up. (I have no idea how to say that in Spanish, so I'll just throw this lovely tidbit out there for you: mierda. Yeah. I said it. Google it.
2b-Also, we had a long conversation (in Spanish) about my last name and The Bible. She likes that her child was put in my class because my name is so biblical and by the way, do I read The Bible? I told her I have read The Bible, but it's not a book I read every day. To which she said I should read it every day and invited me to their church. To which I said thank you, but we have a church we're pretty happy with right now. (It's called Our Lady of St. Sleeping In on Sundays.) (But I always appreciate the effort to save my soul.)
Here's why I learned Spanish: when I was 13, I had a crush on Menudo, the Puerto Rican boy band. Specifically, I had a crush on Charlie Rivera Masso from Menudo. Ricky "Livin' la Vida Loca" Martin was a member for a time (I did have a big crush on Ricky "Copa de la Vida" Martin for awhile, but only after he manned up and before he came out of the closet--when I liked Menudo, Ricky & I were the same age, and I did NOT want a 13 year old boy. I was desperate for Charlie, who was 16 and could DRIVE. Because 16 is almost a full grown man and also and more importantly he could DRIVE. And I had a little picture I cut out of Charlie from Tiger Beat magazine in which he and his Menudo bandmates were in a Cadillac with the top down, and Charlie was behind the wheel, and he was LOVE. I would stare at this picture for hours on end, sighing big sighs, and begging God to convince Charlie to drive the Cadillac to me and take me on a date to the movies. All I wanted was a date to the movies. With a swarthy older boy from Puerto Rico.) (Nothing's changed.)
So, of course I was going to marry Charlie Rivera and move to Puerto Rico, and I'd need to know Spanish. So when I started high school a year later, I no longer cared about Menudo at all because I'd moved on to man band Norwegian pop sensation a-ha. (I wasn't shallow or fickle at ALL as a teenager, no not at all.) (Nothing's changed there, either.) But I remembered how much I'd really wanted to know what Menudo had been saying in the straight-to-VHS feature film Una Aventura Llamada Menudo.
Four years of high school Spanish, 2 years of college + 1 minor in Spanish on my Bachelor's degree, and 3 years of teaching on the Mexico/Arizona border? I am totally able to have Google Translate do all my note translating needs, and I conduct my own parent-teacher conferences that, were you a fluent Spanish speaker listening in, would sound something like this to you (please read my parts in a heavy Russian accent):
Something like that. Is what I imagine I must sound like in translation.
I've tried to watch telenovelas on Univision and Telemundo to get better at comprehension and increase my vocabulary, but quite frankly? They're ridiculous, these telenovelas. They're mini-novels on tv is what they are, and they have a perfect story arc with a beginning, middle, and ending so you'd think they'd be right up my alley. But nobody dresses like this in reality, nobody just...happens to have a gun in her purse for no reason except to shoot the lover who's been found to be sleeping with her neighbor who's actually her long lost cousin who's really her sister but she doesn't know it yet. And nobody could survive a gun shot to the head and an 18 story fall out of a skyscraper. I'm sorry, this wouldn't happen, and I have a hard time with it. In spite of the ham acting, which I normally do love. No puedo hacerlo, telenovelas. Lo siento mucho. Yo no puedo.
So I was thinking on the drive to work today that maybe what I should do is find somewhere this summer to immerse myself in Spanish for 2-3 weeks. At first, I thought: somewhere in the Mexican Riviera, but then I remember when my family and I went to Cancun when I was in college, everybody in Cancun spoke English. Such a let down, but more for my dad than me (I'm about to tell you a side story. Get some popcorn. Ready?):
When we got off the plane in Cancun, we were attacked by taxi drivers, desperate to take us to town. They were all speaking English, but my dad wasn't buying it. My dad, who spent the entirety of the plane ride to Mexico turning around to my brother and me seated behind him to say really awesome things like: "When we get there, the first thing I'm going to say is: DONDAY ESTAY EL BAAAANO, SEEENYORAYS." Because that's not gringo at all--totally sophisticated world-wide traveler.
Before we'd left home, my father informed me that since I'd had 4 years of Advanced Placement Spanish in high school and 1 whole college-level Spanish Literature class under my belt, I was to be the family's sole means of communicating to the good people of Mexico, and that all of our needs and safety concerns would be resting on my shoulders, our family's well-being would be in my hands, my absolute responsibility, so don't chingado it up. So we're all in the Cancun airport, hot and tired and thirsty and dusty and confused and a long way from an American consulate, being attacked by taxi drivers begging us to pick them! pick them! for a ride to our hotel. In English, they're begging us. They're walking up to my dad, palms out, frantically pointing to their taxi and saying things like, "Senor, I take you to the hotel? You pay $10." In total, complete English, but my dad was convinced it was Spanish because this was Mexico dammit, and look them--they're from Mexico and this is a land of all Spanish. So when I tried to explain to him that these taxi drivers were all speaking English and just needed an English Yes or No from him (or gringo Spanish Yes/No with a bathroom request or whatever), my dad freaked his freak and I ended up translating English to English that day and every day we were in Cancun.
Not a single moment of Spanish. We went to McDonald's for lunch one day, and the cashier asked, "Do you want cheese on that Quarter Pounder?" in American accent English, clear as sunshine, and my dad looked at me with that expectant look of Well, GO ON, so I sighed and said to him in American accent English: "She wants to know if you want cheese on your burger." And he smiled all knowingly and went, "Ah. I understand now. Tell her I said, SI. Yes. I would like CHEESE ON MY BURGER." Because when you yell at people who don't speak your language they can magically understand you. And then I sighed, turned back to the cashier and said, "Yes please. Cheese."
I did that, in between running interference for my mom, who would go to restaurants and say things like: THIS ISN'T MEXICAN WATER, IS IT? I CAN'T DRINK MEXICAN WATER. While my brother and I looked around nervously for banditos who might want to kill some ugly Americans that day.
Oh, and neither one of them could pronounce the hotel, which was called Las Palmeras, my father being the worst offender. Every time they directed a taxi driver to it, it was Los Palaramas. Or El Palama. Or Las Palaciamos. Somehow the drivers always knew where they meant and managed to get us to the correct place. Though I wonder how many of them said things like mierda under their breath and seriously considered how much trouble it would be to sell us all into slavery or something. (Amy's tip of the Day: Don't travel internationally with your mom and dad, kids.) (That's for American kids only; European kids, you live with international borders and so I'm assuming you know how to comport yourselves when abroad from the age of zygote. We don't have that here--this country is too large, and the one above us sounds too much like us when they speak English. And the one below us is our big whipping boy, our scapegoat. So it's not going well.)
Speaking of international travel, did you know Scotland almost left the United Kingdom?! They voted and decided not to after all, but not before severely damaging some deep trust that I'm sure will take years of expensive talk therapy to fix and upsetting the children. I'm so surprised Queen Elizabeth didn't send Prince Harry and the RAF up there to rough them up a bit, let them know who's still in charge. King Edward I would have.
Still: thank you, Scotland! Thank you. I hope Texas was watching and maybe got some good ideas. Maybe Rick Perry is hatching some plans right now. I think Kansas would love to mediate those proceedings. I'll help Texas move. (I'm sorry, Texas. I'm just picking on you. I'd suggest Florida leave too, except they have all the nice beaches. You have Austin. The End.)
One last (non-international) thing before I go: if you have a moment this weekend or week, would you please send prayers, light, and/or love to a little girl in Georgia? She has terminal cancer, and her family is spending as much time with her as they can now, creating as many memories as they can fit in over the next few months; they've exhausted all their options and they're choosing love and hospice now as the final part of their fight. She's a cute little girl with a beautiful heart who's been karate chopping cancer since Kindergarten. I'm a firm believer in the power of thought and light altering the very make up of ourselves and our existence here, so if you could send some light & love and good vibes to sweet Lizzie and some really strong love for strength and courage to her mom and dad, that'd be so swell of you. And, if you're so inclined, you can help Lizzie's family enjoy the last sweet moments they have together. CLICK HERE to do that.
You can do it in Spanish with a Scottish accent if you'd like.
Fortunately, it did end on two happy notes:
1-Coworkers who are ridiculous. I'm so happy I work with ridiculous people who recognize this is all so ridiculous. Their sense of humor is sarcastic and sardonic, if it's possible to be that at once. Since those are synonyms.
2a-A parent-teacher conference in which the mom told me I'm really awesome at speaking Spanish. And we had a (in Spanish) conversation about how I can speak Spanish pretty fluently, but can't understand jack, and she can understand English pretty fluently but can't speak jack. And that's jacked up. (I have no idea how to say that in Spanish, so I'll just throw this lovely tidbit out there for you: mierda. Yeah. I said it. Google it.
2b-Also, we had a long conversation (in Spanish) about my last name and The Bible. She likes that her child was put in my class because my name is so biblical and by the way, do I read The Bible? I told her I have read The Bible, but it's not a book I read every day. To which she said I should read it every day and invited me to their church. To which I said thank you, but we have a church we're pretty happy with right now. (It's called Our Lady of St. Sleeping In on Sundays.) (But I always appreciate the effort to save my soul.)
Here's why I learned Spanish: when I was 13, I had a crush on Menudo, the Puerto Rican boy band. Specifically, I had a crush on Charlie Rivera Masso from Menudo. Ricky "Livin' la Vida Loca" Martin was a member for a time (I did have a big crush on Ricky "Copa de la Vida" Martin for awhile, but only after he manned up and before he came out of the closet--when I liked Menudo, Ricky & I were the same age, and I did NOT want a 13 year old boy. I was desperate for Charlie, who was 16 and could DRIVE. Because 16 is almost a full grown man and also and more importantly he could DRIVE. And I had a little picture I cut out of Charlie from Tiger Beat magazine in which he and his Menudo bandmates were in a Cadillac with the top down, and Charlie was behind the wheel, and he was LOVE. I would stare at this picture for hours on end, sighing big sighs, and begging God to convince Charlie to drive the Cadillac to me and take me on a date to the movies. All I wanted was a date to the movies. With a swarthy older boy from Puerto Rico.) (Nothing's changed.)
So, of course I was going to marry Charlie Rivera and move to Puerto Rico, and I'd need to know Spanish. So when I started high school a year later, I no longer cared about Menudo at all because I'd moved on to man band Norwegian pop sensation a-ha. (I wasn't shallow or fickle at ALL as a teenager, no not at all.) (Nothing's changed there, either.) But I remembered how much I'd really wanted to know what Menudo had been saying in the straight-to-VHS feature film Una Aventura Llamada Menudo.
 |
| He's not driving, but he's wearing yellow, and STILL looking at me with Come Hither eyes...28 years later. |
Four years of high school Spanish, 2 years of college + 1 minor in Spanish on my Bachelor's degree, and 3 years of teaching on the Mexico/Arizona border? I am totally able to have Google Translate do all my note translating needs, and I conduct my own parent-teacher conferences that, were you a fluent Spanish speaker listening in, would sound something like this to you (please read my parts in a heavy Russian accent):
PARENT: Is my child doing well in your classroom?
ME: Yes. For most part. At times, he to do much talking very very loud. But yes. For most part.
PARENT: How does he behave for you?
ME: Ah, yes. He do good behavior almost always. At times, too much play, but always such a good, good boy. Is good I have your boy is with me.
Something like that. Is what I imagine I must sound like in translation.
I've tried to watch telenovelas on Univision and Telemundo to get better at comprehension and increase my vocabulary, but quite frankly? They're ridiculous, these telenovelas. They're mini-novels on tv is what they are, and they have a perfect story arc with a beginning, middle, and ending so you'd think they'd be right up my alley. But nobody dresses like this in reality, nobody just...happens to have a gun in her purse for no reason except to shoot the lover who's been found to be sleeping with her neighbor who's actually her long lost cousin who's really her sister but she doesn't know it yet. And nobody could survive a gun shot to the head and an 18 story fall out of a skyscraper. I'm sorry, this wouldn't happen, and I have a hard time with it. In spite of the ham acting, which I normally do love. No puedo hacerlo, telenovelas. Lo siento mucho. Yo no puedo.
So I was thinking on the drive to work today that maybe what I should do is find somewhere this summer to immerse myself in Spanish for 2-3 weeks. At first, I thought: somewhere in the Mexican Riviera, but then I remember when my family and I went to Cancun when I was in college, everybody in Cancun spoke English. Such a let down, but more for my dad than me (I'm about to tell you a side story. Get some popcorn. Ready?):
When we got off the plane in Cancun, we were attacked by taxi drivers, desperate to take us to town. They were all speaking English, but my dad wasn't buying it. My dad, who spent the entirety of the plane ride to Mexico turning around to my brother and me seated behind him to say really awesome things like: "When we get there, the first thing I'm going to say is: DONDAY ESTAY EL BAAAANO, SEEENYORAYS." Because that's not gringo at all--totally sophisticated world-wide traveler.
Before we'd left home, my father informed me that since I'd had 4 years of Advanced Placement Spanish in high school and 1 whole college-level Spanish Literature class under my belt, I was to be the family's sole means of communicating to the good people of Mexico, and that all of our needs and safety concerns would be resting on my shoulders, our family's well-being would be in my hands, my absolute responsibility, so don't chingado it up. So we're all in the Cancun airport, hot and tired and thirsty and dusty and confused and a long way from an American consulate, being attacked by taxi drivers begging us to pick them! pick them! for a ride to our hotel. In English, they're begging us. They're walking up to my dad, palms out, frantically pointing to their taxi and saying things like, "Senor, I take you to the hotel? You pay $10." In total, complete English, but my dad was convinced it was Spanish because this was Mexico dammit, and look them--they're from Mexico and this is a land of all Spanish. So when I tried to explain to him that these taxi drivers were all speaking English and just needed an English Yes or No from him (or gringo Spanish Yes/No with a bathroom request or whatever), my dad freaked his freak and I ended up translating English to English that day and every day we were in Cancun.
Not a single moment of Spanish. We went to McDonald's for lunch one day, and the cashier asked, "Do you want cheese on that Quarter Pounder?" in American accent English, clear as sunshine, and my dad looked at me with that expectant look of Well, GO ON, so I sighed and said to him in American accent English: "She wants to know if you want cheese on your burger." And he smiled all knowingly and went, "Ah. I understand now. Tell her I said, SI. Yes. I would like CHEESE ON MY BURGER." Because when you yell at people who don't speak your language they can magically understand you. And then I sighed, turned back to the cashier and said, "Yes please. Cheese."
I did that, in between running interference for my mom, who would go to restaurants and say things like: THIS ISN'T MEXICAN WATER, IS IT? I CAN'T DRINK MEXICAN WATER. While my brother and I looked around nervously for banditos who might want to kill some ugly Americans that day.
Oh, and neither one of them could pronounce the hotel, which was called Las Palmeras, my father being the worst offender. Every time they directed a taxi driver to it, it was Los Palaramas. Or El Palama. Or Las Palaciamos. Somehow the drivers always knew where they meant and managed to get us to the correct place. Though I wonder how many of them said things like mierda under their breath and seriously considered how much trouble it would be to sell us all into slavery or something. (Amy's tip of the Day: Don't travel internationally with your mom and dad, kids.) (That's for American kids only; European kids, you live with international borders and so I'm assuming you know how to comport yourselves when abroad from the age of zygote. We don't have that here--this country is too large, and the one above us sounds too much like us when they speak English. And the one below us is our big whipping boy, our scapegoat. So it's not going well.)
Speaking of international travel, did you know Scotland almost left the United Kingdom?! They voted and decided not to after all, but not before severely damaging some deep trust that I'm sure will take years of expensive talk therapy to fix and upsetting the children. I'm so surprised Queen Elizabeth didn't send Prince Harry and the RAF up there to rough them up a bit, let them know who's still in charge. King Edward I would have.
Still: thank you, Scotland! Thank you. I hope Texas was watching and maybe got some good ideas. Maybe Rick Perry is hatching some plans right now. I think Kansas would love to mediate those proceedings. I'll help Texas move. (I'm sorry, Texas. I'm just picking on you. I'd suggest Florida leave too, except they have all the nice beaches. You have Austin. The End.)
One last (non-international) thing before I go: if you have a moment this weekend or week, would you please send prayers, light, and/or love to a little girl in Georgia? She has terminal cancer, and her family is spending as much time with her as they can now, creating as many memories as they can fit in over the next few months; they've exhausted all their options and they're choosing love and hospice now as the final part of their fight. She's a cute little girl with a beautiful heart who's been karate chopping cancer since Kindergarten. I'm a firm believer in the power of thought and light altering the very make up of ourselves and our existence here, so if you could send some light & love and good vibes to sweet Lizzie and some really strong love for strength and courage to her mom and dad, that'd be so swell of you. And, if you're so inclined, you can help Lizzie's family enjoy the last sweet moments they have together. CLICK HERE to do that.
You can do it in Spanish with a Scottish accent if you'd like.
4.05.2014
magic travel writer (with Javier Bardem)
In a perfect world, we could all just quit our jobs and walk right on in to our dream jobs. Or whatever we think, at that moment, are our dream jobs, because maybe once you're in your dream job you find it's not so dreamy after all and then you're off to search for the next dream job. And after you become disillusioned with that dream job, you'll be off to search for your next dream job. And maybe a good therapist, because it sounds like job satisfaction isn't really your problem as much as a healthy sense of self is.
Which is why years (and years!) of therapy have led me to be sure that my dream job would combine my passion (writing) and travel, which I have only done in fits and spurts and never outside the U.S. borders and I find that a complete travesty. I think I'd make a great traveler, and should be hired immediately as United States Official Travel Representative so I can reverse the damage done by all the douche bag American travelers who've given this great nation the global impression we're all a bunch of douche bags. We are not. We are not. (Maybe just the vast majority of Missississississississippi, because nobody can ever figure out how to spell that damn state and I'm certain that's why they're the fattest and 2nd-to-last least educated. Having to write one too many s's can just totally eff up your brain. I say. I mean, look at how hard it was just now for ME, and I have a master's degree.)
At any rate. Here's my travel writer idea:
One of my favorite books is Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Eye roll all you want and say what you will about the self-indulgery of it all, but her worldview is en pointe and her writing is much like her--likable, sweet, and relatable. If you aren't familiar with this book (and movie--please please please promise me you'll just read the book and completely avoid the movie, even though Javier Bardem is in it and is very very magical...oh okay, fine. Please promise me you'll read the book first THEN watch the movie, but only for the Javier Bardem parts).
Where was I? Oh, right: If you aren't familiar with this book, the premise is that Elizabeth Gilbert, a writer, has made a humongous life change in an effort to be more authentic and true to herself. She sucks at living her life, and yet somehow convinces her publisher to just...give...her enough money to live on so she can travel to 3 different countries for 4 months a piece for 1 entire year. She lives in Italy for 4 months and eats her way out of a deep, spirally depression. She lives in India for 4 months and rediscovers her spiritual core. She lives in Bali for 4 months and sleeps with Javier Bardem. No, ha! Just kidding--she meets her (now) husband, a lovely, sensuous Brazilian man (all Brazilians are sensuous, by the way: Americans are fat, stupid, terrible travelers and Brazilians are lovely and seductive--I plan to register a formal complaint with the Nationality Stereotyping Commission about this). And then she wrote a really funny, relatable, irreverent travel memoir about her experiences abroad, finding herself.
That's basically my premise/idea for my dream job--if I could walk off my job tomorrow, this is the job I'd walk right into:
*Travel to anywhere in the world, but just one country at a time.
*Live and travel in that one country for 1-2 months.
*Write an irreverent, relatable travel book/memoir about it. There would be none of this: go to this restaurant, stay in this hotel, do this activity, a la Fodor's and whatnot. Each book would simply be a compilation of my experiences and stories about people I get to meet and know (as a really super NICE and POLITE American traveler) in that particular country.
*And because I sense somebody, somewhere, out there may read this at one point and get all snarky and roll their eyes and go "Yeah, uh, guess what? Lonely Planet already did that, Amy. BORE-ing!", let me just pitch that as an added incentive to my plan, I'm also thinking of trying to convince Javier Bardem to accompany me on all my travels. Has Lonely Planet done THAT? No! They have NOT.
So the first country I have picked out for this endeavor is England. Just England. Not Scotland, Ireland, or Wales; those will have to be different travel books. And the reason I've picked England as my first destination is simply because I already have a title (and also because: Clive Owen. Thank you, England!). Before I tell you my first travel book's title, I have to give you background scaffolding to it:
Background Scaffolding Exhibit A:
THIS VIDEO
People who can do that are magic. And really, really fun to have at parties, I bet.
Background Scaffolding Exhibit B:
Way back many moons ago, I met several UK ex-pats via a friend transplanted here via London, and I was introduced to the concept of what I like to call "accent magic (TM)." British people can tell not only which region someone is from in their country, but also socioeconomic level. It's a thing that's unique, apparently, to the English, and years after I met these UK ex-pats, I read an interview with one of my favorite British actors, Jason Isaacs, and he confirmed it.
Here's what they do: I was wowed and amazed one afternoon several years ago at a meetup.com get together for UK ex-pats. All the English people were standing around, talking to one another (with one eavesdropping American listening in, drinking in their exotic accents) and they just seemed to know instantly where someone was from without them ever having to say it. They all spoke some sort of weird, Tolkien-like shorthand with one another and I felt completely left out. So I thought the English people just all knew each other from previous meetups, but no! Turns out, almost everyone was new to everyone else at that little shindig, and they just all magically "know" each others backgrounds, like some kind of psychic, instinctive thing, totally based on speech patterns. Which in and of itself is mind blowing, but we probably do that here in America to some extent--I can tell if someone's from the South vs. the North vs. the Midwest and so forth. But what rocked my whole world and confirmed, yet again, that we are simply not using enough of our entire brains as a species, is that they could tell you sort of the exact area they were from in that geographic region and the socioeconomic level. Friends, that is one cool party trick! I walked out of that party going, "OMG. The British are MAGIC!"
And that is what I plan to title my first travel book of irreverent personal essays: The British are Magic.
Which is why I can only do England first. I don't know what I'll call Scotland's book (The Scottish Can Be Slightly Incoherent?). Or Ireland's (The Irish Are Often Irate I Hope They Don't Bomb Me For Saying That?) Or Wales (The Welsh Have a Weird Language?) (and nobody from Wales can get mad at me for that, because I can totally say that on account of being half Welsh).
And! The beauty of this whole job idea? IT NEVER ENDS. It just goes on and on, my friends. Once I've traveled the globe, I can come back to America and start in on each of the 50 states plus Puerto Rico and Guam and the U.S. Virgin Islands. In case you're wondering: I'll start with the U.S. Virgin Islands first. Idaho will be last. I'm not sure what's in Idaho, but I think that's where all the Ted Nugent loving, KKK, American terrorist militia are from. (I may go into hiding after titling that book.) (If I make it out of Idaho alive.)
Which is why years (and years!) of therapy have led me to be sure that my dream job would combine my passion (writing) and travel, which I have only done in fits and spurts and never outside the U.S. borders and I find that a complete travesty. I think I'd make a great traveler, and should be hired immediately as United States Official Travel Representative so I can reverse the damage done by all the douche bag American travelers who've given this great nation the global impression we're all a bunch of douche bags. We are not. We are not. (Maybe just the vast majority of Missississississississippi, because nobody can ever figure out how to spell that damn state and I'm certain that's why they're the fattest and 2nd-to-last least educated. Having to write one too many s's can just totally eff up your brain. I say. I mean, look at how hard it was just now for ME, and I have a master's degree.)
At any rate. Here's my travel writer idea:
One of my favorite books is Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Eye roll all you want and say what you will about the self-indulgery of it all, but her worldview is en pointe and her writing is much like her--likable, sweet, and relatable. If you aren't familiar with this book (and movie--please please please promise me you'll just read the book and completely avoid the movie, even though Javier Bardem is in it and is very very magical...oh okay, fine. Please promise me you'll read the book first THEN watch the movie, but only for the Javier Bardem parts).
Where was I? Oh, right: If you aren't familiar with this book, the premise is that Elizabeth Gilbert, a writer, has made a humongous life change in an effort to be more authentic and true to herself. She sucks at living her life, and yet somehow convinces her publisher to just...give...her enough money to live on so she can travel to 3 different countries for 4 months a piece for 1 entire year. She lives in Italy for 4 months and eats her way out of a deep, spirally depression. She lives in India for 4 months and rediscovers her spiritual core. She lives in Bali for 4 months and sleeps with Javier Bardem. No, ha! Just kidding--she meets her (now) husband, a lovely, sensuous Brazilian man (all Brazilians are sensuous, by the way: Americans are fat, stupid, terrible travelers and Brazilians are lovely and seductive--I plan to register a formal complaint with the Nationality Stereotyping Commission about this). And then she wrote a really funny, relatable, irreverent travel memoir about her experiences abroad, finding herself.
That's basically my premise/idea for my dream job--if I could walk off my job tomorrow, this is the job I'd walk right into:
*Travel to anywhere in the world, but just one country at a time.
*Live and travel in that one country for 1-2 months.
*Write an irreverent, relatable travel book/memoir about it. There would be none of this: go to this restaurant, stay in this hotel, do this activity, a la Fodor's and whatnot. Each book would simply be a compilation of my experiences and stories about people I get to meet and know (as a really super NICE and POLITE American traveler) in that particular country.
*And because I sense somebody, somewhere, out there may read this at one point and get all snarky and roll their eyes and go "Yeah, uh, guess what? Lonely Planet already did that, Amy. BORE-ing!", let me just pitch that as an added incentive to my plan, I'm also thinking of trying to convince Javier Bardem to accompany me on all my travels. Has Lonely Planet done THAT? No! They have NOT.
So the first country I have picked out for this endeavor is England. Just England. Not Scotland, Ireland, or Wales; those will have to be different travel books. And the reason I've picked England as my first destination is simply because I already have a title (and also because: Clive Owen. Thank you, England!). Before I tell you my first travel book's title, I have to give you background scaffolding to it:
Background Scaffolding Exhibit A:
THIS VIDEO
People who can do that are magic. And really, really fun to have at parties, I bet.
Background Scaffolding Exhibit B:
Way back many moons ago, I met several UK ex-pats via a friend transplanted here via London, and I was introduced to the concept of what I like to call "accent magic (TM)." British people can tell not only which region someone is from in their country, but also socioeconomic level. It's a thing that's unique, apparently, to the English, and years after I met these UK ex-pats, I read an interview with one of my favorite British actors, Jason Isaacs, and he confirmed it.
Here's what they do: I was wowed and amazed one afternoon several years ago at a meetup.com get together for UK ex-pats. All the English people were standing around, talking to one another (with one eavesdropping American listening in, drinking in their exotic accents) and they just seemed to know instantly where someone was from without them ever having to say it. They all spoke some sort of weird, Tolkien-like shorthand with one another and I felt completely left out. So I thought the English people just all knew each other from previous meetups, but no! Turns out, almost everyone was new to everyone else at that little shindig, and they just all magically "know" each others backgrounds, like some kind of psychic, instinctive thing, totally based on speech patterns. Which in and of itself is mind blowing, but we probably do that here in America to some extent--I can tell if someone's from the South vs. the North vs. the Midwest and so forth. But what rocked my whole world and confirmed, yet again, that we are simply not using enough of our entire brains as a species, is that they could tell you sort of the exact area they were from in that geographic region and the socioeconomic level. Friends, that is one cool party trick! I walked out of that party going, "OMG. The British are MAGIC!"
And that is what I plan to title my first travel book of irreverent personal essays: The British are Magic.
Which is why I can only do England first. I don't know what I'll call Scotland's book (The Scottish Can Be Slightly Incoherent?). Or Ireland's (The Irish Are Often Irate I Hope They Don't Bomb Me For Saying That?) Or Wales (The Welsh Have a Weird Language?) (and nobody from Wales can get mad at me for that, because I can totally say that on account of being half Welsh).
And! The beauty of this whole job idea? IT NEVER ENDS. It just goes on and on, my friends. Once I've traveled the globe, I can come back to America and start in on each of the 50 states plus Puerto Rico and Guam and the U.S. Virgin Islands. In case you're wondering: I'll start with the U.S. Virgin Islands first. Idaho will be last. I'm not sure what's in Idaho, but I think that's where all the Ted Nugent loving, KKK, American terrorist militia are from. (I may go into hiding after titling that book.) (If I make it out of Idaho alive.)
The thing about British people is that we judge people within two syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly, everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is very precisely attuned to it. - See more at: http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf
The
thing about British people is that we judge people within two
syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly,
everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where
they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and
how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is
very precisely attuned to it. - See more at:
http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf
The
thing about British people is that we judge people within two
syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly,
everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where
they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and
how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is
very precisely attuned to it. - See more at:
http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf
The
thing about British people is that we judge people within two
syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly,
everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where
they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and
how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is
very precisely attuned to it. - See more at:
http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpuf
The
thing about British people is that we judge people within two
syllables. When someone opens their mouth in England certainly,
everybody can tell not just where they’re from geographically, but where
they’re from socioeconomically and what kind of education they had and
how they aspire to be perceived. You can hear all that and everybody is
very precisely attuned to it. - See more at:
http://www.hobotrashcan.com/2012/03/29/one-on-one-with-jason-isaacs/#sthash.EnnSomVy.dpu The thing about British people is we can judge people within two syllables
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