Stephanie is dead.
(In case you haven't been keeping up, Stephanie was the gecko who lived in my bathroom.)
We hadn't seen her for a few days and we figured she'd found some new hiding places.
Husband was cleaning the bathroom yesterday and he found her curled up under some shelves. He did the only thing he could do. He poked her to make sure (though it was pretty obvious), scooped her up in a Kleenex, and threw her into the trash.
We don't know if this means our bathroom didn't contain enough bugs (not likely--I've seen some ugly specimens in that bathroom), if our cleaning products were slowly poisoning her, or if it was just....her time to go.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
ambition
What have I been doing that's so important it prevented me from posting to this blog? Where have I been?
I've been staring at this.
I love that sweater. I have been reading the pattern, thinking, "I could do that." I've been planning to buy lots of yarn when we're in the U.S. next month. I've been thinking about which size to make, and what colors I'll use. Picturing myself wearing it, imagining the looks of wonder on people's faces when they ask me "Wherever did you get that fabulous sweater?" and I reply, "Oh, this? I made it."
What stands in my way? Several things.
First, this.
I've been working on, actually, two of these. The first, knit with leftover yarn from a shawl I made and affectionately known as the "test penguin," was supposed to be the one in which I could make my mistakes so that the second one, knit with special fuzzy yarn I bought the last time we were in Singapore, could be just right and incredibly cute.
Ah, to dream the impossible dream.
I finished the knitting for the test penguin. Not so hard! It involved several techniques I've never used before, but all was well. I followed the directions and lo and behold, I had a penguin in pieces. All that was left was to sew it together.
Yeah, "all that was left." Suffice it to say that I've got a sad dismembered flat test penguin, parts of which are gruesomely partially attached with ugly Frankenstein stitches that don't line up.
There must be a right way to sew pieces of a penguin together, but I don't know what it is. And therein lies the first obstacle to making that gorgeous sweater: if I can't sew together a freakin' tiny little penguin, imagine the agony of not being able to sew together the pieces of a sweater that will have taken me MUCH longer to knit. I would have to put the sad sleeves, the sad front, the sad back, the sad sash, and the sad collar in a box and admit defeat.
I'm considering staples.
The second obstacle to making that sweater is guilt. Since being in Thailand I have knitted a shawl, a challah cover, a long skinny piece of lace (because I wanted to learn how to do lace), a mouthpiece cover, a REALLY TOO BIG useless first attempt at a mouthpiece cover, and NOT an afghan for Brother and Sister-in-law. The afghan languishes for want of yarn (and I'll admit, for the undesirability of knitting something so big it has to drape over my lap, when it's so hot out) but it's not far from my thoughts. By rights it should be my next project.
The guilt doesn't stop there. Husband, who has bemusedly watched me progress from pot holders to a shapeless, unwearable scarf; thence to a quite serviceable shawl and to a fancy if extraordinarily ugly challah cover, has noted my mastery of the rectangle and the triangle. He has asked me to knit him a cardigan. It will, I think, help him to feel like an academic. So after the afghan I really ought to knit a sweater for him, not for myself.
And yet...
And yet...
But alas, it's all moot, because I don't know how to sew the freakin' pieces together.
I've been staring at this.
I love that sweater. I have been reading the pattern, thinking, "I could do that." I've been planning to buy lots of yarn when we're in the U.S. next month. I've been thinking about which size to make, and what colors I'll use. Picturing myself wearing it, imagining the looks of wonder on people's faces when they ask me "Wherever did you get that fabulous sweater?" and I reply, "Oh, this? I made it."
What stands in my way? Several things.
First, this.
I've been working on, actually, two of these. The first, knit with leftover yarn from a shawl I made and affectionately known as the "test penguin," was supposed to be the one in which I could make my mistakes so that the second one, knit with special fuzzy yarn I bought the last time we were in Singapore, could be just right and incredibly cute.
Ah, to dream the impossible dream.
I finished the knitting for the test penguin. Not so hard! It involved several techniques I've never used before, but all was well. I followed the directions and lo and behold, I had a penguin in pieces. All that was left was to sew it together.
Yeah, "all that was left." Suffice it to say that I've got a sad dismembered flat test penguin, parts of which are gruesomely partially attached with ugly Frankenstein stitches that don't line up.
There must be a right way to sew pieces of a penguin together, but I don't know what it is. And therein lies the first obstacle to making that gorgeous sweater: if I can't sew together a freakin' tiny little penguin, imagine the agony of not being able to sew together the pieces of a sweater that will have taken me MUCH longer to knit. I would have to put the sad sleeves, the sad front, the sad back, the sad sash, and the sad collar in a box and admit defeat.
I'm considering staples.
The second obstacle to making that sweater is guilt. Since being in Thailand I have knitted a shawl, a challah cover, a long skinny piece of lace (because I wanted to learn how to do lace), a mouthpiece cover, a REALLY TOO BIG useless first attempt at a mouthpiece cover, and NOT an afghan for Brother and Sister-in-law. The afghan languishes for want of yarn (and I'll admit, for the undesirability of knitting something so big it has to drape over my lap, when it's so hot out) but it's not far from my thoughts. By rights it should be my next project.
The guilt doesn't stop there. Husband, who has bemusedly watched me progress from pot holders to a shapeless, unwearable scarf; thence to a quite serviceable shawl and to a fancy if extraordinarily ugly challah cover, has noted my mastery of the rectangle and the triangle. He has asked me to knit him a cardigan. It will, I think, help him to feel like an academic. So after the afghan I really ought to knit a sweater for him, not for myself.
And yet...
And yet...
But alas, it's all moot, because I don't know how to sew the freakin' pieces together.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Monday, February 20, 2006
hat trick
The stars were aligned today. Three phenomena intersected. It can only be an omen.
Each of these things happens regularly at the university, but never before have they coincided.
Each of these things happens regularly at the university, but never before have they coincided.
- The computer network was down. No internet, no email, not even Microsoft Word.
- The air conditioning was off.
- The water was not running. That means the toilets weren't flushing. Then, after using the non-flushing toilet, I couldn't wash my hands. What came out of the tap was either nothing, or a liquid of a color that can only be described as "chocolate."
Sunday, February 19, 2006
this is the life
Husband and I just got back from the movies. We saw Munich; neither of us was particularly impressed. Too much blood, not enough nuance. Last week we saw Syriana. Much better.
What made tonight's excursion memorable was that the regular theater's starting time was too late for us, so we went (drumroll, please) Gold Class.
In Thailand you have two options when buying a movie ticket: a regular theater, or (drumroll, please) Gold Class. Gold Class costs a bit more, but is still about the price of a matinee back in the United States. It's a regular-sized theater with about two dozen seats in it. Each seat is a gigantic plush La-Z-Boy type recliner with a pillow and blanket. Before going into the theater you can order drinks and snacks, which are brought to you by waitresses during the movie. Totally posh, totally self-indulgent and unnecessary, and really a lot of fun. The chairs are REALLY comfortable and the theater doesn't get noisy.
What made tonight's excursion memorable was that the regular theater's starting time was too late for us, so we went (drumroll, please) Gold Class.
In Thailand you have two options when buying a movie ticket: a regular theater, or (drumroll, please) Gold Class. Gold Class costs a bit more, but is still about the price of a matinee back in the United States. It's a regular-sized theater with about two dozen seats in it. Each seat is a gigantic plush La-Z-Boy type recliner with a pillow and blanket. Before going into the theater you can order drinks and snacks, which are brought to you by waitresses during the movie. Totally posh, totally self-indulgent and unnecessary, and really a lot of fun. The chairs are REALLY comfortable and the theater doesn't get noisy.
the wai-by
All right, class, we've all read Shogun and we know that in Japan people bow to each other. Low, obsequious bows; tiny, imperious bows; and, if James Clavell is to be believed, doing it correctly is a very big deal. (I'm reading another of his books now, Gai-Jin, and I think it will be the last. He's just not that good a writer.)
In Thailand there is a very particular kind of bow-like greeting called the wai. It's ubiquitous--used between friends, from student to teacher, and in almost every other social situation.
How to wai:
If you're wai-ing someone with equal status (like a friend), your hands are placed lower and the bow becomes a head-nod with a slight, rocking inclination of the shoulders.
If you're wai-ing someone with lower status than you (like a student), you may dispense with the hands altogether or place them quite low. You must wait for the lower-status person to wai first, and then you return the wai. You should incline your head very slightly.
This gesture is used with greetings, in place of "thank you," and with farewells. (And probably a lot of other times too.) It's the greetings and farewells that have led Husband to coin a new term: the wai-by. So far he's used it in two contexts.
The first type of wai-by is what happens in the lunch area at the university when one student arrives at, gets up from, or walks by a table that's already filled with his or her friends. Whether sitting down, leaving, or just walking by, the student in motion must exchange wais individually with each seated friend. This would be time-consuming, except that the students are so practiced at it. A student can do 15 or 20 wais, each directed at an individual and returned by that individual, in the space of less than 10 seconds. It's especially impressive when the student is neither arriving nor leaving, but only walking by, in which case this entire maneuver is carried out without stopping.
The second type of wai-by happened to us just yesterday. We were standing outside chatting with some other farang teachers, when a car packed with students drove by and noticed us. Immediately all of the students (INCLUDING THE DRIVER!!!) turned to us, grinned, and wai-ed. Without stopping the car.
In Thailand there is a very particular kind of bow-like greeting called the wai. It's ubiquitous--used between friends, from student to teacher, and in almost every other social situation.
How to wai:
- Place your palms together, fingers pointing up.
- Smile.
- Nod your head.
If you're wai-ing someone with equal status (like a friend), your hands are placed lower and the bow becomes a head-nod with a slight, rocking inclination of the shoulders.
If you're wai-ing someone with lower status than you (like a student), you may dispense with the hands altogether or place them quite low. You must wait for the lower-status person to wai first, and then you return the wai. You should incline your head very slightly.
This gesture is used with greetings, in place of "thank you," and with farewells. (And probably a lot of other times too.) It's the greetings and farewells that have led Husband to coin a new term: the wai-by. So far he's used it in two contexts.
The first type of wai-by is what happens in the lunch area at the university when one student arrives at, gets up from, or walks by a table that's already filled with his or her friends. Whether sitting down, leaving, or just walking by, the student in motion must exchange wais individually with each seated friend. This would be time-consuming, except that the students are so practiced at it. A student can do 15 or 20 wais, each directed at an individual and returned by that individual, in the space of less than 10 seconds. It's especially impressive when the student is neither arriving nor leaving, but only walking by, in which case this entire maneuver is carried out without stopping.
The second type of wai-by happened to us just yesterday. We were standing outside chatting with some other farang teachers, when a car packed with students drove by and noticed us. Immediately all of the students (INCLUDING THE DRIVER!!!) turned to us, grinned, and wai-ed. Without stopping the car.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
am i really that funny-looking?
Dear Thai People,
OK, I get it. I'm huge. My hair is a bizarre color and it looks really fuzzy (and VERTICAL) after I get a haircut. I'm lumpy in places you didn't think people could (or should) be lumpy. I wear funny clothes. I talk funny. I don't know the simplest things (like what I'm actually supposed to do when I'm on my bike and there are 3 cars, 4 other bikes, and a clot of several dozen pedestrians all converging on the space where I am).
Really, I get it.
But after 9 months I'm sorta starting to get a complex.
I know why you stare at me, but do you actually have to point and say "farang?" Believe it or not, I can hear you.
I know why you think I'm funny-looking, but does my very presence have to be occasion for loud and boisterous hilarity?
Sincerely,
The Great Big Farang Lady
OK, I get it. I'm huge. My hair is a bizarre color and it looks really fuzzy (and VERTICAL) after I get a haircut. I'm lumpy in places you didn't think people could (or should) be lumpy. I wear funny clothes. I talk funny. I don't know the simplest things (like what I'm actually supposed to do when I'm on my bike and there are 3 cars, 4 other bikes, and a clot of several dozen pedestrians all converging on the space where I am).
Really, I get it.
But after 9 months I'm sorta starting to get a complex.
I know why you stare at me, but do you actually have to point and say "farang?" Believe it or not, I can hear you.
I know why you think I'm funny-looking, but does my very presence have to be occasion for loud and boisterous hilarity?
Sincerely,
The Great Big Farang Lady
farang tax
In Thailand very few prices are fixed. Sure, if you go shopping at the Bangkok malls selling designer clothes and Starbucks coffee, you've pretty much got to pay what's on the price tag. But just about everywhere else (markets large and small; street vendors; motorcycle taxis; some restaurants; even the rents on apartments and houses), prices are negotiable. The seller sizes up the buyer and makes an opening gambit; the buyer responds with a look of shock and a much lower counteroffer. Back and forth, back and forth, till an agreement is reached or the buyer decides to pass. It's actually sort of fun.
However, being giant, pasty, and round does have its disadvantages.
Not only are we less adept at bargaining (when was the last time you told the clerk at Target "$5.00 is too expensive for that T-shirt; I'll give you a buck fifty, and you can throw in a pack of Skittles"?) than the people who've grown up with it, but salespeople of all stripes routinely charge us more for the same merchandise or service.
We call it the farang tax.
It really doesn't bother me at all--it's not my country, I'm big and funny-looking and an easy mark, and the person I'm dealing with does have to decipher my rotten Thai, which in itself ought to be worth a little extra cash. And if someone won't come down to the price I want, I've always got the option of walking away. For instance, if the tuk-tuk driver wants to charge me 800 baht for a distance I could cover on the BTS Skytrain for 40 baht, is it really worth getting upset about it? Nah. I'll just take the train. If a ba-mee nahm (noodle soup) vendor insists on charging me 25 baht instead of the 20 that's clearly marked on his stall, well, I can either pay it or I can trouble myself to eat somewhere else. This is not a problem. And if I'm shopping for something less essential (let's say, another poorly constructed but oh-so-cute top from the outdoor market, which I'm going to wear a grand total of three times before it tears, unravels, or shrinks beyond all logical comprehension), I just set a budget in my mind and if the vendor doesn't want to be reasonable, then I do without whatever it is. I even get to feel a little superior ("I'm not a sucker like those tourists, ha ha ha"), however unfounded in reality that feeling might turn out to be.
However, being giant, pasty, and round does have its disadvantages.
Not only are we less adept at bargaining (when was the last time you told the clerk at Target "$5.00 is too expensive for that T-shirt; I'll give you a buck fifty, and you can throw in a pack of Skittles"?) than the people who've grown up with it, but salespeople of all stripes routinely charge us more for the same merchandise or service.
We call it the farang tax.
It really doesn't bother me at all--it's not my country, I'm big and funny-looking and an easy mark, and the person I'm dealing with does have to decipher my rotten Thai, which in itself ought to be worth a little extra cash. And if someone won't come down to the price I want, I've always got the option of walking away. For instance, if the tuk-tuk driver wants to charge me 800 baht for a distance I could cover on the BTS Skytrain for 40 baht, is it really worth getting upset about it? Nah. I'll just take the train. If a ba-mee nahm (noodle soup) vendor insists on charging me 25 baht instead of the 20 that's clearly marked on his stall, well, I can either pay it or I can trouble myself to eat somewhere else. This is not a problem. And if I'm shopping for something less essential (let's say, another poorly constructed but oh-so-cute top from the outdoor market, which I'm going to wear a grand total of three times before it tears, unravels, or shrinks beyond all logical comprehension), I just set a budget in my mind and if the vendor doesn't want to be reasonable, then I do without whatever it is. I even get to feel a little superior ("I'm not a sucker like those tourists, ha ha ha"), however unfounded in reality that feeling might turn out to be.
Friday, February 17, 2006
zam zam
While in Singapore last week, Husband and I went to the Arab Street area for some tasty Mediterranean food. Fattoush...tabbouli....hommus....yum.
As in Bangkok and other parts of Singapore (dare I extrapolate and make the unfounded claim that this happens all over Asia?), when people (especially a person with "tourist" stamped on their foreheads in sparkly letters) walks past a row of restaurants, the proprietors rush outside to try to entice them to eat there. Generally they will shout things like "Best food!" "Very good, very cheap!" or a list of their special dishes. Sometimes they will shove a menu under your nose.
One man on Singapore's Arab Street dared to be different. He didn't waste his time naming foods. He didn't waste his breath cajoling us. He didn't say a word about his prices. No, he took a more direct approach.
He stood directly in front of me and repeated the name of his restaurant over and over while pointing at its sign. "Zam Zam! Zam Zam! Zam Zam!" Each repetition grew louder and more insistent. It was a bold statement.
OK, I guess you had to be there.
As in Bangkok and other parts of Singapore (dare I extrapolate and make the unfounded claim that this happens all over Asia?), when people (especially a person with "tourist" stamped on their foreheads in sparkly letters) walks past a row of restaurants, the proprietors rush outside to try to entice them to eat there. Generally they will shout things like "Best food!" "Very good, very cheap!" or a list of their special dishes. Sometimes they will shove a menu under your nose.
One man on Singapore's Arab Street dared to be different. He didn't waste his time naming foods. He didn't waste his breath cajoling us. He didn't say a word about his prices. No, he took a more direct approach.
He stood directly in front of me and repeated the name of his restaurant over and over while pointing at its sign. "Zam Zam! Zam Zam! Zam Zam!" Each repetition grew louder and more insistent. It was a bold statement.
OK, I guess you had to be there.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
grinding to a halt
The semester is coming to an end. I have a list of events on my office door as a reminder to my students, and each time one is accomplished I have to make a real effort not to take a big black marker and cross it off the list. I did enjoy looking at it this morning and realizing that more than half of the events were in the past.
Tonight was the final concert for the chamber groups I've been coaching. That means my schedule gets notably lighter from now till the end of the term (a glorious week and a half from now), as I won't have any more coachings with those groups. The concert went well, I think. I spent the evening backstage herding my students.
"Where's the quartet? You're next! Have you tuned?"
"I count eleven. Who's missing? TER!!!"
One student even asked me to tie his tie for him. Not a skill I've acquired, I have to say. Husband thinks I should learn. I'm not sure why.
Tonight was the final concert for the chamber groups I've been coaching. That means my schedule gets notably lighter from now till the end of the term (a glorious week and a half from now), as I won't have any more coachings with those groups. The concert went well, I think. I spent the evening backstage herding my students.
"Where's the quartet? You're next! Have you tuned?"
"I count eleven. Who's missing? TER!!!"
One student even asked me to tie his tie for him. Not a skill I've acquired, I have to say. Husband thinks I should learn. I'm not sure why.
legal once again
We're back from Singapore. We've got new visas. All is well in immigration land.
Father-in-Law sent us a really scary online news item about people who have visa problems in the U.S. Evidently we had it easy.
While on the trip I was able to get a little work coaching Singaporean secondary school students who play in their school bands. It's not my favorite kind of work, but I think it was OK. I am never sure what, exactly, is expected of me at these events. At one of them I had 31 students of widely varying skill levels, and 2 vast hours of time in which to impart my wisdom. The way I see it, I've got three options:
I actually tried to vary things as much as I could, and to couch things in language that could help everyone. It's not for nothing that I learned what a "spiral curriculum" is. I don't have any idea how well I succeeded. I guess I'll find out when I get asked back...or not.
The only thing that I'm sure went well was the performing I did. I played some very modern music (3 pieces, all composed in the 1990s) by pomo (are we in po-pomo yet? 'cause that's what I'd really like to call them) composers who are trying to combine two musical traditions. This is quite a hobbyhorse for me and I think I explain it well. The only question is, does it matter? Do the students hear anything besides "danger, Will Robinson! Weird music!"
Anyway, Singapore was great as always, although our attempts at tourism were notably less successful than last time. A few highlights:
Our map of Singapore showed a public aquarium. We arrived at where it should be and found nothing. Eventually we learned it was torn down over 10 years ago. We wound up getting drenched, as the rain (which, in its imminence, was the reason we decided on an indoor activity in the first place) really got going.
I remember going to a botanical garden or orchid garden that was really interesting and beautiful. We went to what we thought was the place, and...not so much. I have to think we were at some other orchid garden that's trying to capitalize on dumb tourists like us who think they're the big public one. This was essentially a big nursery that charges $3.00 for the privilege of coming in and shopping for plants. Fabulous.
Father-in-Law sent us a really scary online news item about people who have visa problems in the U.S. Evidently we had it easy.
While on the trip I was able to get a little work coaching Singaporean secondary school students who play in their school bands. It's not my favorite kind of work, but I think it was OK. I am never sure what, exactly, is expected of me at these events. At one of them I had 31 students of widely varying skill levels, and 2 vast hours of time in which to impart my wisdom. The way I see it, I've got three options:
- Start from the beginning (the correct way to put your instrument together without breaking it). This would engage the beginners and bore the high achievers.
- Focus on the advanced students, teaching them good finger technique, embouchure skills, and efficient practicing models. This does the opposite, leaving the beginners in the dust.
- Teach to the imaginary middle: too advanced for the beginners, too easy for the advanced students. This alienates everyone.
I actually tried to vary things as much as I could, and to couch things in language that could help everyone. It's not for nothing that I learned what a "spiral curriculum" is. I don't have any idea how well I succeeded. I guess I'll find out when I get asked back...or not.
The only thing that I'm sure went well was the performing I did. I played some very modern music (3 pieces, all composed in the 1990s) by pomo (are we in po-pomo yet? 'cause that's what I'd really like to call them) composers who are trying to combine two musical traditions. This is quite a hobbyhorse for me and I think I explain it well. The only question is, does it matter? Do the students hear anything besides "danger, Will Robinson! Weird music!"
Anyway, Singapore was great as always, although our attempts at tourism were notably less successful than last time. A few highlights:
Our map of Singapore showed a public aquarium. We arrived at where it should be and found nothing. Eventually we learned it was torn down over 10 years ago. We wound up getting drenched, as the rain (which, in its imminence, was the reason we decided on an indoor activity in the first place) really got going.
I remember going to a botanical garden or orchid garden that was really interesting and beautiful. We went to what we thought was the place, and...not so much. I have to think we were at some other orchid garden that's trying to capitalize on dumb tourists like us who think they're the big public one. This was essentially a big nursery that charges $3.00 for the privilege of coming in and shopping for plants. Fabulous.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Sunday, February 05, 2006
nicknames
All Thai people have three names: the first name ("cheu"), the last name ("nam sagoon"), and the nickname (don't know the Thai for this one). The last name is rarely used and is only really necessary for official documents. This is true among professionals and people of all walks of life. That means my students refer to me as Ajarn Hermione (for instance), not Ajarn Granger.
The nickname is the really interesting one. In America a nickname is generally a diminutive form of a first name--Mike for Michael or Beth for Elizabeth. Other, more descriptive nicknames (think "Shorty" or "Big Larry") are generally reserved only for the most casual situations.
Not so in Thailand. First of all, everyone has a nickname. While some of them are derived from one's "cheu," most are not. People are given their nicknames by their parents, in infancy or childhood, and the nicknames stay with them throughout their lives. Some of them have obvious descriptive Thai meanings, some of them refer to animals (and never in a derogatory way--a person can be a "pig" here with no negative connotations at all), some are actually English words, and some are English or American names chosen for their sound.
Your nickname, whether descriptive or not, is used by anyone who knows you more than slightly. Your family, your friends, and your business acquaintances may call you by your nickname. When I first arrived everyone wanted to know my nickname and all were very surprised when I told them I didn't have one. I suspect they were a little disappointed also, as my name is both difficult for Thai people to pronounce and not really amenable to shortening.
Here are some of the nicknames of people (students, teachers, and staff) at the university. (I do love a bulleted list.)
The nickname is the really interesting one. In America a nickname is generally a diminutive form of a first name--Mike for Michael or Beth for Elizabeth. Other, more descriptive nicknames (think "Shorty" or "Big Larry") are generally reserved only for the most casual situations.
Not so in Thailand. First of all, everyone has a nickname. While some of them are derived from one's "cheu," most are not. People are given their nicknames by their parents, in infancy or childhood, and the nicknames stay with them throughout their lives. Some of them have obvious descriptive Thai meanings, some of them refer to animals (and never in a derogatory way--a person can be a "pig" here with no negative connotations at all), some are actually English words, and some are English or American names chosen for their sound.
Your nickname, whether descriptive or not, is used by anyone who knows you more than slightly. Your family, your friends, and your business acquaintances may call you by your nickname. When I first arrived everyone wanted to know my nickname and all were very surprised when I told them I didn't have one. I suspect they were a little disappointed also, as my name is both difficult for Thai people to pronounce and not really amenable to shortening.
Here are some of the nicknames of people (students, teachers, and staff) at the university. (I do love a bulleted list.)
- Lek (Thai for "small")
- Neung (Thai for "one"--a common nickname for a firstborn)
- Khai (Thai for "egg"--he tells me it refers to the shape of his head)
- Nok (Thai for "bird")
- Moo (Thai for "pig)
- Bpoo (Thai for "crab")
- Bank (the English word "bank"--bestowed by one's parents in the hope of prosperity)
- Josh (the English name)
- Nancy (the English name)
- Woody (an Anglicized version of a shortening of the given name)
- Bowling (yeah, like the game)
mk
The best part about going shopping at Lotus is talking Husband into eating at MK.
MK is a chain restaurant that Thai people say is Chinese. The food tastes pretty Thai to me, but OK. I guess they have dim sum and roast duck in addition to the usual Thai stuff.
Mom tells me that there are restaurants like this in America, but I've never been to one. It's sort of like fondue, in that the food you order comes to the table raw, but instead of frying it one piece at a time you throw everything into a put of broth, and eat it all together like soup. You can get all sorts of vegetables, which is one of the reasons I like it so much, but as usual most of the menu is devoted to meat. Pages and pages of meat. Pieces of beef, pork, fish, shrimp, crab, and various processed meats. Livers. Kidneys. Hearts. Stomachs. All with pictures, which is another reason why I like to eat there--unlike at most other places, where I have to rely on the small number of dishes that I already know how to ask for and can reasonably expect any cook to know how to make, at MK I can point at a picture of what I want and know exactly what I'm getting.
Illiteracy. The Thai written language remains as incomprehensible to me as it was when I first arrived. I can't read official documents, university memos, menus, street signs, or warning labels. I can't even write my own name. I have been reading in English for almost my entire life; I can't remember being unable to read. I'm experiencing it now, and it's humbling, frustrating, and humiliating. The obvious answer, of course, is to learn. That has been my approach to everything else in my life. Knowledge is power, right? It's always worked for me so far (I was in school for how many years?), but I think I've run up against a firm barrier this time. It may not be true that I cannot learn to read Thai, but it is certainly true that I cannot learn it while continuing to devote most of my time to my job. I am illiterate and will remain that way for the foreseeable future.
MK is a chain restaurant that Thai people say is Chinese. The food tastes pretty Thai to me, but OK. I guess they have dim sum and roast duck in addition to the usual Thai stuff.
Mom tells me that there are restaurants like this in America, but I've never been to one. It's sort of like fondue, in that the food you order comes to the table raw, but instead of frying it one piece at a time you throw everything into a put of broth, and eat it all together like soup. You can get all sorts of vegetables, which is one of the reasons I like it so much, but as usual most of the menu is devoted to meat. Pages and pages of meat. Pieces of beef, pork, fish, shrimp, crab, and various processed meats. Livers. Kidneys. Hearts. Stomachs. All with pictures, which is another reason why I like to eat there--unlike at most other places, where I have to rely on the small number of dishes that I already know how to ask for and can reasonably expect any cook to know how to make, at MK I can point at a picture of what I want and know exactly what I'm getting.
Illiteracy. The Thai written language remains as incomprehensible to me as it was when I first arrived. I can't read official documents, university memos, menus, street signs, or warning labels. I can't even write my own name. I have been reading in English for almost my entire life; I can't remember being unable to read. I'm experiencing it now, and it's humbling, frustrating, and humiliating. The obvious answer, of course, is to learn. That has been my approach to everything else in my life. Knowledge is power, right? It's always worked for me so far (I was in school for how many years?), but I think I've run up against a firm barrier this time. It may not be true that I cannot learn to read Thai, but it is certainly true that I cannot learn it while continuing to devote most of my time to my job. I am illiterate and will remain that way for the foreseeable future.
padme
The Buddhist mantra "Om mani padme hung" has to do with the lotus (you can breathe that sigh of relief you've been saving up--I don't remember exactly what the mantra means and I'm not going to try to make something up). Yogis sit in padmasana, or lotus pose, for meditation. We also revere the lotus, in our way.
Tesco Lotus, that is.
Tesco Lotus is one of two chains of big-box department stores (the other is Big C) around Bangkok. It's as close as Thailand gets to Target. We have bought everything from particle board furniture to bedsheets to banana muffins at Lotus. Every couple of weeks we take a taxi to the nearest Lotus and stock up on toiletries, snacks, and whatever else we need.
Today we got into the taxi and told the driver "Lotac Bangyai" as usual ("Lotac" is the Thai pronunciation for "Lotus," and Bangyai is the town in which said Lotus is blossoming). However, instead of continuing down the main street of the town to the expressway, which is the normal route we take, this driver turned down a side street.
Husband and I raised our eyebrows--where were we going? We decided to wait and see--we were going in the correct compass direction, after all.
As it turned out, the driver knew a shortcut. A real one, that was both shorter and faster than the expressway. It was a meandering, narrow road with one lane in each direction...theoretically. The driver, however, preferred to drive on the right, or incorrect, side of the road. Rules, schmules! When he saw a motorcycle coming towards him (you know, going the direction that one should be going on that side of the road), our taxi driver did not pull over. He did not slow down. He did not get over into the correct lane. No, our driver actually honked his horn at the other, law-abiding driver! Now that's chutzpah.
Anyway, this shortcut was actually very enjoyable. We saw a part of the area that we'd never seen before. Farms, isolated houses, people in wide-brimmed straw hats and loose blue clothes actually working in the fields (think back to the travel books on Thailand you've seen--there is a picture like this in all of them, but as a tourist you're never going to see anything of the kind). Best of all, several extremely ornate temples. We were only driving past, of course, but they were still spectacular.
Tesco Lotus, that is.
Tesco Lotus is one of two chains of big-box department stores (the other is Big C) around Bangkok. It's as close as Thailand gets to Target. We have bought everything from particle board furniture to bedsheets to banana muffins at Lotus. Every couple of weeks we take a taxi to the nearest Lotus and stock up on toiletries, snacks, and whatever else we need.
Today we got into the taxi and told the driver "Lotac Bangyai" as usual ("Lotac" is the Thai pronunciation for "Lotus," and Bangyai is the town in which said Lotus is blossoming). However, instead of continuing down the main street of the town to the expressway, which is the normal route we take, this driver turned down a side street.
Husband and I raised our eyebrows--where were we going? We decided to wait and see--we were going in the correct compass direction, after all.
As it turned out, the driver knew a shortcut. A real one, that was both shorter and faster than the expressway. It was a meandering, narrow road with one lane in each direction...theoretically. The driver, however, preferred to drive on the right, or incorrect, side of the road. Rules, schmules! When he saw a motorcycle coming towards him (you know, going the direction that one should be going on that side of the road), our taxi driver did not pull over. He did not slow down. He did not get over into the correct lane. No, our driver actually honked his horn at the other, law-abiding driver! Now that's chutzpah.
Anyway, this shortcut was actually very enjoyable. We saw a part of the area that we'd never seen before. Farms, isolated houses, people in wide-brimmed straw hats and loose blue clothes actually working in the fields (think back to the travel books on Thailand you've seen--there is a picture like this in all of them, but as a tourist you're never going to see anything of the kind). Best of all, several extremely ornate temples. We were only driving past, of course, but they were still spectacular.
bike in a tree
It's a bike.In a tree.
This is a common sight around the university. I'm convinced it's a prank played on people by their buddies; Husband thinks people put their own bikes in trees to keep them from being stolen.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
thainglish
My students' English is better than my Thai. So much better, in fact, that I am constantly humbled by their ability to converse with me. Some students who couldn't even say "hello" six months ago are now able to have conversations with me. They are even starting to learn Italian and French musical terms. (German, for some reason, is proving to be more difficult.)
While my Thai skills are languishing, I am becoming more adept at understanding what my students really mean when they say certain things in English.
For instance:
"Not sure" means "Absolutely not, but I will never answer my teacher in the negative."
"OK" often means "I have no idea what you just said, but you are clearly waiting for some kind of response." (Sometimes it actually means "OK.")
They are also becoming more adept at predicting my (perhaps too formulaic?) responses to their playing. They will often try to beat me to the punch, saying what they think I'm about to say.
For instance:
"Again please." I never have to say this anymore. They say it for me. I think it's become some kind of an inside joke among them.
Often when they come in for their lessons, after the hellos and how-are-yous, I ask "Are you ready?" Now, sometimes a student will come in and the first thing out of his mouth is "I am ready."
They know that lessons always start with scales. Call me rigid, call me doctrinaire, and Betty when you call me you can call me Al....oh wait, sorry. Where was I? Lessons always start with scales. Several of my students will come in, put their music on the stand, and announce, "Scale." What's interesting about this is that the Thai pronunciation of the word "scale" has three syllables. "Sah-cay-un."
Then there is the other side of the coin: I do know enough Thai that sometimes it's easier for me to get my point across by using Thai words. I often find myself saying things like these sparkling linguistic jewels:
"Crescendo nit-noy."
While my Thai skills are languishing, I am becoming more adept at understanding what my students really mean when they say certain things in English.
For instance:
"Not sure" means "Absolutely not, but I will never answer my teacher in the negative."
"OK" often means "I have no idea what you just said, but you are clearly waiting for some kind of response." (Sometimes it actually means "OK.")
They are also becoming more adept at predicting my (perhaps too formulaic?) responses to their playing. They will often try to beat me to the punch, saying what they think I'm about to say.
For instance:
"Again please." I never have to say this anymore. They say it for me. I think it's become some kind of an inside joke among them.
Often when they come in for their lessons, after the hellos and how-are-yous, I ask "Are you ready?" Now, sometimes a student will come in and the first thing out of his mouth is "I am ready."
They know that lessons always start with scales. Call me rigid, call me doctrinaire, and Betty when you call me you can call me Al....oh wait, sorry. Where was I? Lessons always start with scales. Several of my students will come in, put their music on the stand, and announce, "Scale." What's interesting about this is that the Thai pronunciation of the word "scale" has three syllables. "Sah-cay-un."
Then there is the other side of the coin: I do know enough Thai that sometimes it's easier for me to get my point across by using Thai words. I often find myself saying things like these sparkling linguistic jewels:
"Crescendo nit-noy."
- crescendo: Italian musical term for "get louder"
- nit-noy: Thai for "a little bit"
- mai chai: Thai for "is not"
- A major and F# minor: two tonalities that have the same key signature
- mee: Thai for "have"
- E#: the note that is a dead giveaway for F# minor
- ni: Thai for "this"
- ein wenig bewegter: German musical term for "a little more agitated"
- same-same: Thainglish for, well, same-same
- un poco agitato: Italian musical term, same-same ein wenig bewegter
another new year party
Yes, the New Year celebrations are still in full swing. This is a party on campus, presumably for students. Note the vertical hanging fluorescent lights.
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