Seis vídeos que te harán perder el miedo al inglésDavid Esteban nos ilustra con videos demostrativos de que cualquier alumno será capaz de hablar mejor que estos seis españoles.
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ENCUENTRA LAS NOTICIAS MAS RECIENTES SOBRE LA ASOCIACION Y LA ESCUELA. NUEVOS CURSOS, TALLERES, ACTIVIDADES, PAGINAS Y ENLACES DE INTERES. TODO PARA MANTENER LOS IDIOMAS ACTUALIZADOS
Seis vídeos que te harán perder el miedo al inglés
You can’t do much with milk in English. If you spill it, you can cry over it, but that’s about it. One of the first things which struck me on my arrival on the Iberian peninsula was the apparent fascination with milk. Excitement, disbelief, good fortune, bad fortune, admiration… could seemingly all be expressed with the help of milk. Don’t believe me? Consider the following, entirely fabricated exchange:
“Dust” is a surprisingly versatile word in English: a footballer may receive a particularly hard tackle and kiss the dust, only to receive an apology from the opposing player once the game is over and the dust has settled. As you grow up, your favorite teddy bear may be left in a corner to gather dust, only to be dusted off once the next generation of bear huggers comes along. Just like in English, you can bite the dust, or morder el polvo, in Spanish, although I wouldn’t recommend it.
Resaca is one of those words that many English speakers will already know, like tapas, burrito, cargo, guerilla, chorizo, and armada, without knowing the original or alternative meanings. Did you know that burrito means “little donkey”; guerilla means “little war” (making the popular collocation “guerilla warfare” kind of redundant, although guerilla fare sounds like a poorly spelled circus act); and un chorizo can also mean un ladrón (a thief), making it theoretically possible for a chorizo to run away with your chorizo. Going back to the resaca, though, as I have a terrible tendency to do: tener resaca means “to have a hangover” in everyday parlance, but la resaca also refers to the undertow or undercurrent which leaves debris and driftwood scattered across a shore following a storm, and it is this playful imagery that endears me to the word.
Botellón is the augmentative form of botella (bottle), so el botellón would literally translate as “the big bottle”. As any visiting Erasmus student will recall (although this may depend upon just how big the bottle was), un botellón is much more than a supersized coke container. Descend upon a public square and you’ll be met by hundreds of buoyant youths riding towards a sugar high on a wave of calimocho, a surprisingly potent mix of wine and coke which betrays all the stereotypes of Spain as a nation of fine-wine-worshippers. Botellón-ing has become such a feature of Spanish youth culture that further terms have been spawned, including botellódromo - an official space for the execution of botellónes - and macro-botellón which, as you may have guessed, is even bigger than a big bottle, although it remains unclear at what point a botellón becomes a macro-botellón.
Vergüenza falls somewhere between shame and embarrassment depending upon the sentence into which it falls. ¡Qué vergüenza! would translate as “how embarrassing!”, while if I were to say to you ¡Qué poca vergüenza tienes! I would be castigating you for “having no shame”. But my choice of vergüenza comes not from its breadth of use but rather its involvement in two delightful terms: la de la vergüenza and vergüenza ajena. La de la vergüenza translates as “the one of the shame”, and refers to the final piece of food left on a shared plate that no one dares to pluck for fear of being banned from all future tapas-oriented activities. Vergüenza ajena is the Spanish equivalent of that popular “untranslatable” German word Fremdscham; the feeling of embarrassment or shame that one feels on behalf of the perpetrator of the shameful or embarrassing act.
The average Brit has an ingrained need to comment on the weather or enquire thereafter at any given opportunity. This is not at all unusual when you take into account how imminently changeable and whimsical weather is in the British Isles. What’s more surprising is that it’s the Spanish, with their hazy days and sun-filled plights, who have two common words which the English could really do with: friolero and caluroso. The adjectives are used to describe someone who is particularly sensitive to cold (friolero) or heat (caluroso). So next time someone complains of the cold in clement times, tell them to stop being so friolero.
“Estaba toda la noche desvelado”, murmured my compañero de piso, or flatmate. He had just appeared from his bedroom, grumpy and confused, and so most probably unsympathetic to my need to know what on earth desvelado meant. It is in these situations that your mind races for connotations, associations, roots, derivatives, generalisable meanings of prefixes; anything that affords a stable enough foundation on which to estimate a response.
My final word on my list of favorite German words was Ahnungslosigkeit, which made it onto said list due to its euphony. Similarly, the word agujetas is a wonderfully guttural adventure which rockets and plummets between consonants and vowels whilst exercising some of the sounds that anglophones must master to mimic a Spanish accent successfully. Its phonetic merits are not the only thing which endear one to the word, however. Agujetas refer to the muscle ache, soreness or stiffness that one experiences in the days following unusual physical exertion.