Category Archives: Phrases

Dulce domum

Dolce domum, The Wind in the Willows

Home! . . . Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day’s work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him. - The Wind in the Willows

Hoy no quiero estar lejos de la casa y el árbol. – Silvio Rodríguez

Vocabat has a new home base, and all fan mail via snail mail will need to be redirected. (Electronic fan mail can be sent the same route as always.) Where in the world has Vocabat flown to? Well, she’s found herself new and better lodgings on the west side of town. That place won’t be ready for a month, though, so she’s staying at a friend’s house (the same friend of last post’s dedication) in the meantime. He’s away gallivanting around Europe, and she has a big, beautiful house all to herself. As it’s right by the lake, she’s taken to thinking of this place as her month-long balneario– her lakeside resort. It will be a month of repose, cleansing, and preparation for some new and wonderful tides.

I wanted to teach you the phrase por estos lares because I used it in a recent comment and thought it would make for as good a post as any. It’s not that it’s uber-useful–you won’t be hearing it left and right–but I still consider it useful enough. Also, we all have our little pet phrases, and this is one of mine. The nice thing about pet phrases is that you get all the fun of being a pet owner and none of the mess or hassle. Searching in old emails and chats, I see that I’ve used this phrase many times but have never been the recipient of it. And that’s OK–I have the confidence to use certain peculiar words and phrases even if it makes me a little extravagant, a little eccentric. I like to be anything but generic, and I try to keep my Spanish just as interesting and memorable as my English.

Por estos lares means around here, ’round these parts, in this neck of the woods. Some other colloquial and regional ways of expressing the same idea are por estos rumbos, por estos pagos, and por estos vientos. In a word, around.

¡Tanto tiempo, Diana! Qué milagrazo verte por estos lares.

Long time no see, Diana! Fancy running into you around here.

Juancho se ha ido a Francia. Ah, ¿sí? ¿Qué estará haciendo por esos lares?

Juancho took off for France. Oh, really? What could he be doing in those parts?

Lares is actually an archaic word that you won’t see outside of this fixed phrase and variants. While it’s very formal and highbrow in some areas, it still gets a good bit of currency in others when you purposely want to use a formal word or use it facetiously for a laugh. It’s rather poetic–after I used it once in an email, someone went on and on about it, saying how beautiful the word was and what an excellent choice it was on my part. It’s a pretty word that apparently is heard infrequently enough that it warms the heart of those with literary sensibilities.

If you remember your Roman history, you know that Lares were guardian deities in ancient Roman religion. From what I can tell, Lares sometimes get conflated with other gods and thus get labeled as household gods, even though some had much broader domains. In Spanish, then, a lar came to mean an hogar (hearth or fireplace)– perhaps because that’s where the shrine for the Lares would be set up?–and then figuratively a house itself. Of course, hogar works the same way: it means hearth, and thus by extension also refers to the entire house and the sense of home. You’ll never hear lar in the singular or anyone refer to their house as their lar, but the word has survived thanks to the por estos lares phrase. I suppose he’s still a pretty endangered species, though.

Not in other Romance languages, however. One way of saying home in Catalan is llar; lar can also be home in Galician and Portuguese.

Llar, dolça llar - Home sweet home (Catalan)

Lar, doce lar - Home sweet home (Portuguese, Galician)

In Spanish, the phrase is hogar, dulce hogar. I’ve never really been a fan of the word hogar- it looks so ugly to me. Makes me think of Hogwarts and William Hogarth. It is, though, much homier and cozier than casa.

Are you a homebody? A real lover of home? You can express this two ways in Spanish: casero and hogareño. I’m definitely a homebody at heart–you didn’t think all these blog posts were written at Starbucks, did you?–but I force myself to go out and be social. At least until I find another homebody to keep me company . . .

Another word for home that you might hear is morada. I was surprised to hear this word after a long hiatus last weekend when I went to the house of a new friend from Bogotá. As we walked in, he said, Bienvenida a mi morada. Morada? I vaguely remembered that it meant dwelling. You might hear this otherwise stuffy word in this phrase just like it’s typical for us to say in English, Welcome to my humble abode. 

While we’re on synonyms, I guess it bears mentioning that other ways of expressing a place where people live include vivienda and domicilioSome good friends of mine are very active in homeless and housing issues in our city–the word they would want to reach for to talk about housing in general is vivienda. It can also be an individual housing unit. Domicilio, well, I usually hear that in the context of getting carry-out: domicilios/servicio a domicilio. Of course, domicilio = domicile. Domicilio is such a cute word–it is definitely making part two of my favorite words list.

Servicio a domicilio

One house-related phrase that I love–wait, no no no. This won’t do. I think that’s more than enough for now. Besides, I got home so late today and then got straight to dinner and blogging–if I don’t go now, I won’t even have any time to enjoy this charming homestead. I’ll share the phrase later on; can anyone guess what it is?

¿Se te cayó una calza?

In Medellín, I knew this really wonderful woman named Uva. Her full name was Uvaldina, but most people seemed to call her Uva. And, believe me, her name was the least interesting thing about her. That woman was a trip. Very dicharachera, she was full of the most colorful (and frequently off-color) and wild expressions. As her speech was crackling with idioms, sauciness, and playful wit, there was never a dull moment by her side. She would relentlessly create double entendres where none originally existed and make a scandal out of everything. Boisterous, over-the-top, ribald: these are all great words to describe Uva. She was also incredibly warm, loving, and generous. She made me feel like family from the start (and still does), even though I was lucky if I could understand even half of what she said. Actually, I was probably pretty lucky that I was spared many of her groan-worthy comments. Still, Uva was a lot of fun. I know I’ll never meet anyone like her.

I remember once being out with her, and I must have said some big word in Spanish. Who knows what it was– maybe retroalimentación, maybe envergadura, maybe pernoctación. (She surely would have had a heyday with all of those words, especially envergadura.) Whatever the big word was that I struggled to spit out, she then looked at me and said: ¿Se te cayó una calza? Huh? I had to request clarification. It turned out that a calza is a filling. (usually called an empaste) In very informal speech, caérsele una calza a alguien means that you struggled so much to pronounce a big, fancy word that a filling plum fell out. I’ve scurried hither and thither on the interwebs to find you some more examples, and here are my loose, idiomatic translations. I assume this phrase is very Paisa (Medellín and surroundings), and, oh man, I really wish you could hear this question asked in a thick, beautiful Paisa accent. I’d record myself saying it, but my accent just isn’t what it used to be–alas!

Juemadre, se me cayó una calza pronunciando interdisciplinaridad.

Geez, I cracked a tooth trying to wrap my mouth around interdisciplinaridad.

Hola Stavrula: (Casi se me cae una calza tratando de pronunciar tu nombre!)

Hi Stavrula: (One of my fillings almost fell out as I tried to say your name!)

¿Ya pusieron el video de nuestro presidente pronunciando Djokovic? Casi se le cae una calza.

Did they already put up the video of our president pronouncing Djokovic? He almost choked in the attempt.

Si en español podemos decir multitareas y no se nos cae una calza de la dentadura, ¿para qué decir multitasking?

If we can say multitareas in Spanish and keep all of our dental work in place, what would make us decide to say multitasking instead?

Image by Christiann MacAuley at stickycomics.com

Is there a more natural way to say this in English? The only one coming to me right now is to say that something is a mouthful. Anyway, the takeaway is that you have to be careful with those big words in Spanish! If you’re not cautious, you’re liable to lose not only your pride but also a few fillings in the process. Maybe dentists in Medellín send patients with new fillings home with instructions to avoid caramel, avoid hard candies, and to strictly avoid all foreign words (especially of English and Slavic provenance) and words over six syllables. As I don’t have any fillings, though, I have no excuse for being timid about pronouncing the big words. Maybe one day I’ll even be able to effortlessly say programaremos (a tricky word for me) sin que se me trabe la lengua.

¿Te lo explico con plastilina?

Did you catch the play on words in my last post’s title? I grilled three friends on it, and none of them got the allusion. Hmm. I’m generally a person devoid of snark, but for the sake of education I’m going to employ some major snark right now and use a Colombian phrase that’s apropos: ¿Te lo explico con plastilina? Should I break it down for you using Play-Doh? Would some clay figures help you get it? Do I need to spell it out for you? Here, see if this helps.

Amanecer for all seasons

Get it? A man . . . amanecer. Ahhhhh, ya caigo. We see what you did there, Vocabat. Nothing ingenious–I know–but not too shabby either, right?

Now, back to the phrase of the day: ¿Te lo explico con plastilina? Plastilina is putty-like modeling clay. Its official translation to English is Plasticine®, but I’d never heard that word before. I guess I should have, though. Plasticine is what clay animation features like Wallace and Gromit, and Gumby are made with. There’s also a reference to Plasticine in the Beatles song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”

Picture yourself on a train in a station,
With Plasticine porters with looking-glass ties.

In Spanish, the word plastilina is also frequently used for Play-Doh, even though there’s a world of a difference to the discerning fingers and noses of children. Play-Doh has a base of flour, salt, and water; is totally edible; and it hardens. Plasticine, on the other hand, is derived from clay and is oil-based. It’s not edible, and it never gets hard. In some countries Play-Doh is known as just that: Play-Doh. 

Plastilina

Explicar algo con plastilina, then, means to have to explain things in very basic terms to those who might be a little slow on the uptake. To put things so simply that even a child could understand. It’s like when we say, Do you want me to draw you a picture? in English, though you can also say ¿Te lo dibujo? in Spanish.

It appears that explicar algo con plastilina is a Colombian phrase, with possibly some usage in Venezuela as well. Thanks to the internet, I now possess an equivalent phrase: it looks like explicar algo con manzanas expresses the same idea in some other countries. Personally, if I was having trouble grasping something–say, how the Federal Reserve works–I’d much rather have it explained to me via Play-Doh than apples. More power to you, though, if you could look at the cross-section of an apple and instantly understand monetary policy.

Ese tipo no entiende que no quiero nada con él, toca explicarle con plastilina.

That guy just doesn’t get that I’m not interested in him; you have to come out and make everything so obvious to him.

¿Quedó claro o tocará explicarte con plastilina?

Does that make sense, or do I need to dumb it down for you?

Bob Willey explica con plastilina el posmodernismo.

Bob Willey explains postmodernism to us in layman’s terms.

I learned this phrase in Bogotá from my friend Carolina, who currently lives in Tokyo. She grew up in the U.S., and she had a time of it trying to learn Spanish when she moved to Colombia 10+ years ago. She told me that she would have to ask ¿Cómo? ¿Cómo? ¿Cómo? so many times that her friends would gently tease her and say, ¿Te lo explicamos con plastilina? In anticipation of these insincere, smart-aleck offers, I would love to carry around a small tub of Play-Doh in my purse. Then, when I inevitably draw a blank at some point in a conversation, I could take out the Play-Doh, hand it to the other person, and say, ¿Dizque guarilaque? Qué pena, pero no sé qué demonios querrá decir eso. ¿Será que me lo puedes explicar con plastilina? Or when they say, ¿En serio que no sabes qué significa eso? ¿Te lo explico con plastilina?, I’d whip it out and say, Bien pueda. Hágale. Their expression would be so priceless.

Amanecer for all seasons

For some reason, this old post on some of my favorite words in Spanish has been getting a lot of traffic lately. Those words are great, but unfortunately I don’t find many opportunities to work floripondio, acuatizaje, or gordinflón into conversations. (Despite our obesity epidemic, we Americans are pretty touchy about this being pointed out to us. Thus, you can only think gordinflón; you can’t say it. Unless you’re The Onion, of course.)

Some of the words on that list do get a lot of mileage in my daily parlance, though: words like mijo/mijaojalá, and pues. Today I want to write about amanecer, the second word on the list. He’s number two, but he tries harder than number one (inmiscuirse), and he’s infinitely more interesting. He’s also much more useful than, say, pluviosidad. Of course, I support beauty for beauty’s sake, so there’s nothing wrong with being beautiful and (practically) useless. We just get more opportunities to admire the loveliness of words like amanecer when they lend themselves more easily to the prose of daily life.

I’m sure you’re familiar with amanecer. It means to dawn, for the sun to come up. Amanecer as a noun means sunrise, dawn, daybreak.

Hoy amaneció a las 5:55. 

Today the sun came up at 5:55.

Rezo por ti cada noche, amanece y pienso en ti. (Shakira)

I pray for you every night; at dawn I think of you.

Después del concierto nos quedamos tomando vino hasta que amanecía.

After the concert we drank wine until it was beginning to get light out.

Image by °lorenalreves° via Flickr Creative Commons

Nunca alcanzamos a ver el amanecer juntos.

We never got a chance to watch a sunrise together.

Another very widespread usage of amanecer is to wake up, especially to talk about your location or how you feel. ¿Cómo amaneciste? is the standard question for this, and you ask it to your fellow household dwellers (partner, family) as you groggily pad about in the mornings. You can also ask close friends or coworkers if it’s still a.m. What is it asking? Poetically, how did you dawn? (You can, after all, tell people that they’re un sol–a sweetheart–so why can’t they dawn and dusk?) Really, it’s, how’d you sleep? How are you feeling this morning? Did you wake up on the right side of the bed? Rodney wrote a post on it a while back. Ojo, it usually sounds more like ¿Cómo ‘maneciste?

Describing how you feel:

Sudafed te tumba pero amaneces renovada. Es buenísimo.

Sudafed will knock you out, but you’ll wake up a new person. It’s amazing.

Amanecí bien, pero hoy salí bastante aburrido del trabajo.

I felt good this morning, but I left work today extremely unhappy.

En estos días mi niño me amanece enfermito y con una infección en los ojitos.

The past few days, my son has been waking up sick and with an eye infection.

amanecí duro

Describing where you are:

Amanecí otra vez entre tus brazos, y desperté llorando de alegría. (Chavela Vargas)

At daybreak I found myself once again in your arms, and I awoke crying tears of happiness.

Nos quedamos dormidos en el avión y amanecimos sobre Madrid. 

We fell asleep on the plane and woke up over Madrid.

In Colombia, they frequently say amanecer to mean to spend the night somewhere. Actually, I never heard this in Bogotá, but I heard it constantly in Medellín. Maybe it’s used in Bogotá as well, but I never noticed it. Although I lived in a more or less central part of Medellín, on the weekends I’d often go to Bello, a municipality to the north. Once it got late, the question was always whether to amanecer or not to amanecer; to just stay the night at the family’s house or head all the way back. I can’t find a single citation of this usage online, but I know it’s common in Colombia. Anywhere else? I love that rather than focusing on where you spend the night and perhaps using atardecer or anochecer, this usage instead focuses on where you spend the dawn. Mom, can I spend the dawn with Amy? Perhaps instead of a slumber party, we’d call it an awakening party. What’s better– to fall asleep by a lover’s side, or to wake up next to them? Which should we emphasize? Isn’t language rich? Living in Colombia and inhabiting this beautiful Spanish, I felt like I lived in a poem.

El sábado decidí amanecer en casa de mi familia, pues se me hizo tarde, además también estaba lloviendo.

On Saturday I decided to stay the night at my family’s house because it was getting late, and on top of that it was raining.

Voy a amanecer donde mi tía la noche antes del matrimonio.

I’m going to stay at my aunt’s place the night before the wedding.

Amanece, quédate a mi lado toda la noche hasta que llegue el día, reina de mi vida. (Doctor Krapula- Colombian band)

Stay the night, stay by my side all night long until day comes, my queen.

Image by olgaberrios from Flickr Creative Commons

Amanecer muerto is a way of saying that someone was found dead in the morning. Maybe they died in their sleep, or maybe they passed away in a less peaceful manner. It’s now lights out for them.

One must-know phrase–at least in Colombia and, it appears, Venezuela–is this one: amanecerá y veremos. Literally, it will dawn and we’ll see. Figuratively, pretty much the same. Tomorrow will come and then we’ll see. Let’s wait and see. Only time can tell. Seeing is believing. Amanecerá y veremos can be an innocent enough phrase that merely indicates that there’s no point in stressing out and that we’ll know the answers to our questions soon. It can also be a synonym, though, of a cynical attitude of indifference and apathy. Sort of a, Harumph! Oh yeah? Such and such politician said they’d do that? Time will tell, I guess, but I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you. It’s like an eye roll and a shrug, transcribed.

When checking in new patients at work, we have to ask them a litany of questions, one of which is something like, “Is there anyone in your life who threatens or abuses you?” (¿Hay alguien en su vida que le amenace o lo maltrate?) I always mentally trip over threaten, though, and have to sort through in a nanosecond whether it’s amenazar or amanecer, amenace or amanece (amanezca). Is there anyone in your life who dawns you? Would you like there to be? I know I would.

In case you were wondering, you can’t use amanecer to express that something dawned on you. If you have an aha moment, you’ll want to say se me ocurrió or caí en la cuenta.

So, do you concur with me that amanecer is as beautiful and fascinating word as what it describes? Definitely as worth it to learn as an amanecer is worth waking up early for.

Conocer el mar

Conocer el mar