Your Civic Doodee

Here we have a curious mixture of civic pride and vandalism in Sevilla. RECOGE LA KK DE TU PERRO means PICK UP YOUR DOG’S POOP. The Spanish “k” makes a “kah” sound, so “kk” means “caca,” which means “poop.” These four pictures were all taken within a two-block radius, and although it’s true that there did not seem to be a dog caca problem in the two-block radius, one can’t help wondering if a little dog caca wouldn’t be preferable to a glut of instructional graffiti.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.

As I get ready to shove off to the States for a month or so, I’m thinking that those students of mine who want to keep in good ESL shape might simply spend some time at the supermarket. At the supermarket most products present the fine print—ingredients, nutritional values, health warnings—in straight Spanish, but the large print, the funky-font print meant to grab the eye and make a sale, often comes at the consumer in English. Words like “effect,” “advanced,” “professional,” “fresh” and “digestive” (?) are especially popular. What’s up with this? Is English labeling meant to make a product seem exotic, like French labeling (“parfume,” “eau de toilette,” “J’adore,” etc.) is meant to do in the States? One friend tells me that if a product has English on the label, people will assume it has been thoroughly tested and is reliable. Okay, then.

Like a lot of bilingual ventures, the practice has its curiosities. Trident sells a sugar-free gum over here called “Senses.” Both the product name, “Senses,” and the packaging, a thin rectangular pack that folds open, suggest prophylactics, but let’s put that aside for a moment. (While we’re at it, let’s also put aside the fact that the word “trident” came to us from the Latin tridens, meaning “having three teeth”—not an ideal image for promoting chewing gum.) The brand (“TRIDENT”), the model (“SENSES”), the flavor (“TROPICAL MIX”), the health benefit (“SUGARFREE”)—nearly everything in plain view is presented in English.

Everything but the contents, which are presented in what may at first look like English but is in fact a kind of Spanglés. On the front panel of the package, the consumer is told that inside the box he or she will find “14 GUMS.”

Gums of what animal, we are not told. If we’re talking human gums, we’re talking cannibalism. Being as this is Spain, land of jamón jamón, a hundred different ways to prepare pork, maybe we’re talking hog gums. Either way, gums is not exactly a cheery, front-of-store product. Point being that in this case it’s maybe best—for sellers of Trident Senses, anyway — if the Spanish shopper knows a little English, but not too much.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.

In the American South, we sometimes find the expression “Country Cooking” spelled “Kountry Cookin,” which is more or less to say, Really horrible food served here. In the Spanish South, we sometimes find the expression “Te Quiero” (“I love you”) spelled Te Kiero, which is more or less to say, I luv you.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.

If you have ever made a habit of renting videos at a video store, chances are you have been duped by promotional material. An arguably funny/scary/tender moment from the movie is featured on the DVD jacket, and based at least in part on this featured moment, you rent the movie, only to discover that the rest of the movie has very little to do with the featured moment and is in fact total crap. Abroad, in translation, this phenomenon sometimes works in reverse: whether as a result of calculated marketing or sheer clumsiness, a masterpiece may be presented as total crap. Take Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, for example. Here in Spain the title (¡Olvidate de Mi!) translates as Forget About Me!, which title, especially if we consider the puckish exclamation point, suggests this might be a good family movie, wherein a group of likeable folks overcome a series of small challenges in an amusing and mildly poignant manner, and then go on to live satisfactorily ever after. However much that kind of story might earn in grosses, it is probably safe to say it would not win an Oscar for Best Original Script, which Oscar Eternal Sunshine… did win, in 2005.

Moving on to our cast. This headshot of Jim Carrey looks to have been pulled not from Eternal Sunshine… but from one of the Ace Ventura installments. His hair is so clean, his face so closely shaven, his grin so charming… he’s the goofy-but-cute guy-next-door nobody can seem to forget because he’s so goofy-but-cute and lives right next door. That is to say, the man pictured on the cover is nothing at all like Eternal Sunshine’s Joel, a shambling wreck of a man in the throes of a mental breakdown.

Said breakdown has a lot to do with Kate Winslet’s Clementine. Quirky and capricious, Clementine has a penchant for dying her hair rowdy colors: it’s Smurf-blue one moment, pumpkin-orange the next. On this DVD jacket her hair color looks more or less natural, or at least L’Oreal sanctioned. Her aspect here suggests not an imaginative and adventurous individual, but a dewy-eyed girl-next-door trying to be strong and independent despite her longing for a goofy-but-cute guy-next-door who wants her to forget about him.

Next, Elijah Wood. Here in Forget About Me!, he might be the mischievous-but-harmless younger brother (or elf) who has a thing or two to learn about growing up — which thing or two he will learn by overcoming a series of small challenges in an amusing and mildly poignant manner. If you’ve seen Eternal Sunshine… you know that Wood’s character, Patrick, is anything but harmless. He’s more like an extremely creepy, borderline-psychotic stalker. If there is a moment in the movie when he smiles like this — ingenuously — I cannot find it.

It’s true Kirsten Dunst smiles and laughs in this film, but only when she’s stoned out of her gourd. Here she looks less like a twenty-something pot-hound than a seventy-something matriarch, cheery and young at heart and having a thing or two to teach about life, which thing or two she will teach by way of presenting a series of small challenges to her progeny, who will overcome them in an amusing and mildly poignant manner and then go on to live satisfactorily ever after.

Maybe there’s something to all this. Maybe the jacket design could serve as a kind of Trojan horse whereby a standard, typical audience might discover a thoroughly atypical film. More likely, the standard, typical audience will want a refund. And rightly so. This is false advertising. Exceptionally false. If you’ve seen the movie, you know Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is not for the DVD player in the family minivan. If you haven’t seen the movie, you ought to. Incoherent promotional material notwithstanding, it is a gem.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.

The “Indoor Sleeper” label on my new slippers has got me wondering. It could be that here in Andalucía the designation “Indoor Sleeper” serves as a kind of status symbol: in July and August, people who don’t have air conditioning, people like me, often become what we might call “Outdoor Sleepers,” snoozing on the roof or terrace at night; meaning that the people who do have air conditioning, the people who will not be sleeping on the roof or terrace come July, might properly be called “Indoor Sleepers.” In which case wearing a slipper called “Indoor Sleeper” could be like wearing a shirt with a polo player on it: whether or not you really are among the privileged and pompous, your casual wear suggests that you are. In a Polo shirt and a pair of Indoor Sleeper slippers, you can feel like you’re really somebody special, even if you don’t have air conditioning or know the first thing about polo.

All this said, I have a hunch that “Indoor Sleeper” is in fact another example of Spanish having its way with foreign words. Why do I think that? The answer has less to do with footwear than with pole dancing. Not long ago I came across a poster in Córdoba announcing a performance by the “Streep Boys.” First I thought “Streep” had to be a typo. This was not an organization of male Meryl Streep fans; surely it was a band of DJs called the “Street Boys.” I was all set to track down the group and point out the typo, save them further embarrassment, when a colleague informed me that “Streep Boys” is the generic term in Spain for male strippers. That is to say, the Streep Boys are Strip Boys. “Streep” is how “strip” sounds when pronounced by a Spaniard.

This would explain what I discovered when I went back and studied the Streep Boys poster up close. The background of the poster featured a well cut male torso. Mr. Córdoba, Mr. Sevilla, and Mr. Málaga were due to appear at a local nightclub the coming Saturday. I quietly thanked the Streep Boys for abbreviating “Mister,” then could not help thinking how bad the word “streep” would look back home in the States. Back home, the misspelling would like as not be used pejoratively, to make ugly fun of a foreigner’s pronunciation. (Or maybe to tout South of the Border.) Here in Spain, it is used to render the sound of a foreign word as it might be pronounced by a monolingual local—a gesture of linguistic good will, as it were, from the Streep Boys.

But hang on. The Spanish double-“e” does not sound like the English double-“e.” The Spanish double-“e” is closer to the English long “a.” The verb leer (to read) does not sound like the name of a ruined king in Shakespeare, or something a mischievous child might do. It is closer to a “layer” of cake. So that, if streep were pronounced by a Spaniard who is not familiar with English—or perhaps even one who is, seeing as streep is not a word in English—we might think he is referring to a contagious throat ailment, i.e. the Strep Boys.

Back to my colleague. She knows that the English “ee” sounds like the Spanish “i” because she is an advanced ESL student, but how would the average Spaniard, say somebody on the lookout for a male striptease, know that the English “ee” sounds like the Spanish “i”?

“That’s easy,” my colleague said. “All the people know the Backstreet Boys.”

“Oh.”

Alas. Boy bands cover a lot more ground than visiting ESL instructors. Curiosity depressed the cat. But it also helped explain something. Bearing in mind “streep” for “strip,” maybe an “Indoor Sleeper” is actually an “Indoor Slipper.” Maybe the label on my slipper is not intended to suggest status, but simply to tell me what the product is. In case you forgot, this is an Indoor Slipper.

But then what about “Indoor”? How did that get here? A boy band called the “Indoor Boys”? I don’t want to know. Whatever they are called and why-ever they are called that, my Indoor Sleeper slippers are right comfortable. At about two euros, they were quite the deal. I can’t vouch for the Streep Boys.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.