La mia salute refiorira’

Operas like La Traviata bring out the dormant romantic in me. In Parigi o cara, noi lasceremo, Alfredo and Violetta’s reconciliation duet near the end of the opera, it’s the result of a combination of Verdi’s barely-there pizzicato and winds accompaniment, some of the most tender lines of Francesco Maria Piave’s libretto, and, in this performance, Cotrubas’ Violetta’s vulnerability and Domingo’s burnished tones.

Watch this space

I'm back with a vengeance -- and a camera!

Frigo

It is a reasonably sunny London evening, with temperatures hovering around the 5-8ºC range. Evidence of a recent short shower of rain drips from the red leaves of the tree outside my window. For the first time in my life, I say this: I crave warmth.

In Singapore, I used to give my claustrophobia a good workout in the underpasses and basement walkways of the Orchard, Somerset and City Hall areas. Now, I welcome sunshine. Those of you who knew my old sun-shunning self must be very surprised.

I enjoy the ephemeral. Here, sunshine is ephemeral. It is an infrequent occurrence in London life, so infrequent that a short-lived clearing of clouds is met with frantic attempts to do everything that the usual grey, drizzly and cold weather doesn’t permit: lie on the grass in Regent’s Park, have a picnic in the Hyde Park, pretend it’s summer again, dine al fresco, go for a jog, feed the ducks and pigeons and swans in St. James’ Park, leave the dratted umbrella at home, have a sorbet, dress skimpily.

I myself have turned into one of these crazy people who react dramatically to sunshine. No, I don’t leave my coat in my room or wear a short skirt; I simply sit in sunny spots and soak it up like a cold-blooded lizard (or a solar-powered flashlight, if you prefer). Accompanied by two friends on Thursday I spent a good two hours doing just that, first in Gordon Square Gardens and then on the steps of the Quad. It was both calming and energising and if not for the massive rain clouds that interrupted our sunny sojourn by obscuring every bit of blue sky, we would’ve stayed there.

As a result of the imminent winter, days are shortening here on the Isles. In Scotland, presumably, days are already dreadfully short but as the sun begins to set at 1745hrs here in London, I find myself making fun of Scottish weather less and less. While reading and writing and sitting quite still at my desk, my lack of movement makes me feel colder and colder as the sky turns from light grey to an inky blue-black. At some point, my attire changes slightly; I need my fleece-lined jacket to keep myself from being distracted by the wall-penetrating, skin-tingling cold. At night, the temperature dips, threatening to hit zero as the hours tick by. Under my duvet, I hardly feel the descent into that range of temperatures – something I feel increasingly grateful for.

The sunshine I wrote about in the first sentence of this post has disappeared. The clouds in the sky seem to spell the word bleak now as lights blink on in the compound. My dinner awaits re-heating, and I shall attend to it now. I welcome warmth – in all forms.

Excuses aplenty

Oh dear, I’ve abandoned this humble space for quite an embarrassingly considerable stretch of time. Here are my excuses:

1. I’ve been settling in.
If you’ve recently been to my About page and read that I’m about to head off to England for further studies, what you’ve read is history. I am now in England — in London, right at the heart of the most vibrant of cities on the British Isles.

2. Work has begun to take up my time.
As a History undergraduate, reading takes up the “free” time between lectures and tutorials and during those long “breaks”. To those who’re beginning to cast pitying glances at me (or at the screen, since you can’t actually see me), stop it. Work in its current context is a pure and utter joy for me. It makes me ridiculously happy just to declare myself a History undergraduate; finally, all work that I do is completely enjoyable and exhilarating. It’s difficult to describe how much of a difference it makes to be spending all of my academically-related time studying in great detail the academic areas I truly love. World Histories takes me from ancient civilisations to modern ideas; History of Eastern Europe since 1856 feeds my interest in the area that made me apply to SSEES in the first place; Russian…

Oh yes, русский. Or русский язык, to be more precise. I stuck to my word; I am learning Russian. More on my adventures in that area soon.

Indeed, I do have plenty of reading and writing and typing to do. Blogging has faded beyond being secondary on my agenda, I’m sad to say. But as you can see I’ve made an effort to return here — a good sign for the life of this WordPress. I’ll be back — and with photographs, too! À bientôt, my readers.

Keeping calm and carrying on

Anonymous Street

Gower Street

Red pillar box

Bit of greenery

Ah. Quintessential.

Croissant? Patisserie? Here?

Mind your heads

People -- and perceivable sunshine!

Big street, red buses, blue skies

Quaintessential

Parthenonesque

Heavy with thought

Any thoughts on where I am now? Some of my photos might give me away; there aren’t many countries — nor cities — with red pillar boxes, red telephone booths and red omnibuses. More updates soon.

YOG: Memores acti

With the extinguishing of our special vortex flame, the inaugural Youth Olympic Games (YOG) in Singapore came to their inevitable end.

That, I reckon, is possibly the most nauseatingly romantic sentence I have written in a long while. But sentimentality encourages nauseatingly romantic expressions; there is nothing like my Youth Olympics experience, and truly, nothing can equal it in scale, diversity, breathlessness, internationality, depth and value.

Before I continue, a caveat: this is my Youth Olympics experience I’m about to write about, and not the Youth Olympic Games in general.

Indeed, this is just my experience I write about. Volunteering as an interpreter in the Language Services department (or “functional area”), my role was flexible and multi-faceted. Though technically based in the quiet, air-conditioned room housing the multi-lingual switchboard (MLS), I often carried out duties outside of that cloister. The sedate immobility of MLS duty was interspersed generously with hectic activity. Before the commencement of the games, I sometimes made the dash to the Welcome Centre to receive jetlagged Francophone athletes and officials, lubricating channels of communication with the oils of interpretation. I spent three twelve-hour shifts at Pulau Ubin, aiding facilitation of games and conveying safety instructions with rapid, and increasingly fluid, English-German and German-English simultaneous interpretation. Other impromptu occasions requiring my services arose (there were a myriad of these: interviews, games, directions, instructions etc.), and on my last day, an excursion with French athletes to Marina Barrage (after the twenty-odd Germans I was meant to accompany overslept didn’t show up.

I’m making everything sound so very interesting. That would be rather inaccurate. Well, not every second of my shifts was spent doing something meaningful. There were times during my shifts where I was almost supplicating for work — or any activity at all that would drag me out of the inertial switchboard room. Though frivolous, laughter-punctuated chatter and internet-surfing often filled in the gaps of time that the absence of work caused, things could sometimes get exceedingly unproductive. Volunteering as an interpreter really entailed a desire to feel and actually be useful, not redundant.

Much as this might sound bizarre, it was my contributions during moments of difficulty, even emergency, that I enjoyed the most thoroughly. Dealing with an uncooperative athlete at doping control, lending assistance to an athlete desperate to fix his failing “digital concierge” — his Samsung Omnia… I loved these episodes of mild tension and nerves, of emotional strains and stress, because I knew my contributions were not just constructive, but invaluable.

To be fair, I’m saying all this in retrospect, and that means I’ve had the benefit of hindsight. At the point of interpreting I might have shared a similar anxiety and uncomfortable uncertainty with the people that needed my assistance, but it is upon reflection that I find these moments to be extremely satisfying experiences.

The entire journey has been extremely, delightfully, perhaps even somewhat unexpectedly satisfying, fulfilling, enriching and enlightening. I am tremendously thankful for this opportunity. Being an interpreter for two languages was an interesting mix of exhausting work and energising fun but I will remember my Youth Olympics journey most fondly for stretching me physically, mentally, socially and — I say this with sincere surprise — intellectually. Interpretation, after all, does require some rigorous cerebral and linguistic exercise — if one cares enough for the languages he or she is interpreting to and from. Expect more posts from me discussing several key experiences and encounters that have shaped my Youth Olympics experience to being what it is — an utterly preciously-guarded collection of memories of an unforgettable fortnight of seeing humanity from fascinating angles.

This feather stirs

After the close of the Youth Olympic Games, life has returned to normal: no more waking up at 0530hrs to get ready for a full day’s activities at an island tinier than Singapore, no more arriving home past midnight on consecutive days, no more attiring myself in purple and khaki, no more claiming dinners with dinner vouchers.

I miss those days. I miss draining myself of energy at Pulau Ubin, I miss watching the lights in the Youth Olympic Village gradually extinguish late into the night, I miss wearing my interpreter’s insignia and my accreditation pass with my uniform, I miss sharing anecdotes and jokes over dinner with new friends in the workforce dining hall shed.

There’s plenty I’d love to share about the Youth Olympic Games, but for now…

1. A fascinating, fascinating article on how our mother tongue (or first language, as I prefer) influences our thoughts. Adapted from Guy Deutscher’s latest book Through the Language Glass: How Words Colour Your World. I’m not prepared to agree with everything Deutscher asserts here and in his book, but they make for very refreshing reads. The best part about the article is the reaction it might trigger in readers; it is a satisfyingly thought-provoking read. My inner linguist was strongly reenergised by this.

2. The degeneration of music began long ago, but how many people are willing to admit it? “Music is nothing without an audience,” says Roger Scruton, but with millions of people still tuning in to obscene pop music by vocally androgynous but more importantly unskilled artistes, and with an increasing number of composers losing sight of the Classical shore, does real music have a future? This article reminds me of my Theory of Knowledge presentation on “new classical music” from days of yore.

3. I quote the BBC: “At an age when many people are thinking about how to get in and out of the bath, Mervyn Kinkead has put his own tub to a use which belies his advancing years.” It’s pleasant news to hear that the Isles are still alive with the quirks of its citizens!

4. Chavs: they annoy the hell out of some, but in entertainment, they provide some of the most stupidly funny comedy routines. Here’s Catherine Tate’s French version of her signature “Am I bovvered?” – “Suis-je bovvered?” and here’s Marcus Brigstocke’s routine on Britain and America’s “special relationship” (from approximately 2:00 to 3:00)!

5. Highly inspired by my French lessons on Classics, I’ve been spending a large proportion of my Internet time reading up on and reading about Greek mythology and history. During yesterday’s French lesson we had a short discussion on the existence and the role of Homer in ancient Greece, and this article by mythographer Marina Warner totally complemented that thread.

YOG: The Interim

Today’s the 24^th of August; the 2010 Youth Olympic Games officially end on Thursday, the 26^th. I’m already feeling nostalgic about its imminent end. I must admit to wishing that they lasted more than just two weeks.

But to hell with all this romanticising; denial and sentimentality never prevailed over inevitability and nothing will change this time.

I have so much to say about my experiences during these weeks. Being part of the Language Services team for these Youth Olympic Games has been one of the very best experiences of my nineteen + years of life and whatever fears and insecurities I might have had prior to the commencement of my duties as an interpreter have been washed away by the infectious joviality, liveliness and drive of my supervisors, my fellow interpreters and my new friends from all over the world – in a completely non-hyperbolic sense of the phrase.

Tomorrow I head out to Marina Barrage for what might be my last outing as a French and German interpreter this August. I will soak every moment of it up.

YOG: Up and running

Things are picking up the pace here in Singapore; the games have not merely begun, but are seriously up and running. Football kicked off the start of the competition, and now we’ve had gold medals in swimming, triathlon, taekwondo, rowing, fencing and a few other events. We’ve even seen world records being smashed by an under-48kg female weightlifter.

The Youth Olympics isn’t a redundant event, as I had very much earlier disparagingly claimed. I had the idea that the age window of fifteen to eighteen years of age was ridiculously narrow, and that those aged seventeen to eighteen would, really, be better off just concentrating on the Summer Olympics – the real deal, as I’d called it. Expecting the athletes to be pale comparisons to those of the Summer Olympics, I couldn’t be convinced that these Youth Olympic Games will really function as some sort of preview for the Summer Olympics.

Now that opinion of mine is outdated.

Limits are being pushed, abilities stretched, talents highlighted, medals dealt out – and for what I thought would be a shadow of the Summer Olympics, the Youth Olympics is very, very impressive indeed.

There are performances so far that have merited the description “jaw-dropping”; the young athletes are palpably living by the Olympic motto citius altius fortius. On multiple occasions I’ve questioned myself, “Youth Olympics?” The athletes really don’t come across as still-unripe sportspersons, despite being in the process of their ripening. They’re stars in the making, vibrantly coloured flowers destined for a promisingly spectacular bloom.

I’ve been drawn to the aquatics events – swimming, to be specific. It’s been unexpectedly exciting and sufficiently tense enough for me to feel the need to cheer audibly! I particularly enjoyed last night’s finals of the men’s 200m free, women’s 100m backstroke and the women’s 4x100m medley relay not only because the competition was unbearably yet engagingly tight, but also because these three events boasted not just good swimming, but good side-stories.

Swimming as an event in general proved to have a lovely side-story: yesterday eight gold medals were given out to seven different NOCs – an accidental but excellent manifestation of the truly global nature of these Youth Olympic Games.

In the 200m free the Russian Andrei Ushakov devoured his competition (please don’t take this literally, folks) – as how he did in the heats and semis. Already deserving of huge congratulations Ushakov did something else that further cemented his position in the Parthenon of youth Olympians. Ushakov’s smiles throughout the victory ceremony were already infectiously uplifting, but most pleasant of all was the sight of his proud singing of the Russian national anthem – a rare sight amongst many other sportspeople from various backgrounds. The commentators were thrilled by his unselfconscious and appropriately channeled national pride, citing how wonderful a change it is to see “a sportsman who knows his anthem and can sing it” after seeing so many footballers appearing dumbstruck by their own national anthems.

What prompted the commentators to later declare, “The Eastern Europeans win the song contest here!” was Daryna Zevina’s similar show of Olympic decorum; the tall, lean Ukrainian (who, in the 100m backstroke final, was ahead of her seven competitors for at least 75m of the race) looked fresh-faced and radiant on the podium as she, too, sang her anthem with assurance and poise, holding the an almost beatific smile throughout. Highlighting the Slavic people’s strong tradition in music, the commentators were clearly as enthused as I was.

Despite not rooting for the Chinese in the women’s 4x100m medley relay final (the Germans were in the race, too!), I half-hoped that there had been a mistake upon seeing that the Chinese relay team had been disqualified for a changeover problem after an unstoppable performance during the four laps of the event. In the breaststroke and freestyle laps the team from China was virtually indefatigable; the Chinese constantly pulled further and further away from their competitors in the neighbouring lanes until the second-placed Australians were a whole body length behind the overwhelmingly quick Chinese team. But the grace of their acceptance of their disqualification erased my inexplicable sympathy for them and transformed it to respect; the first reaction from the Chinese relay team was to go over to the Australians and extend their congratulations, despite having to deal with the disappointment of seeing their first place confiscated by the disqualification. It was and is a wonderful display of sportsmanship and graciousness that is hard to equal.

Tomorrow I expect myself to conduct plenty of non-English conversations with high usage of non-mainstream nouns and verbs and adjectives during my twelve-hour shift. I’m looking forward to the variety and novelty it’ll bring to my interpretation job. Cheers, everyone.

YOG: The Beginning

The build-up of apprehension and excitement was gradual, subtle. The graph of my adrenalin against time was rising with a increasing gradient, but presently it was a gradient tending to zero.

Indeed, the games have begun. The Youth Olympic Village (YOV) is slowly, slowly coming to life. I’m sitting here, now, at the French desk of in the room housing the multilingual switchboard, waiting for my turn to address a panicking athlete over the phone.

My centre of operation

Call ext +5601

No, I don’t actually wish to deal with emergencies. But because it’s only been two and a half days since the opening of the Village halls of residence, there hasn’t been an overwhelmingly pressing need for interpreters like myself. Yet.

Few things enroute to the Village announced the imminent commencement of the Youth Olympic Games (YOG). How peculiar, I noted at the beginning of my journey: the Olympic Lane markings were absent from that stretch of motorway that I was travelling on. A few minutes later, the first reminder: a bus bearing YOG colours approached from behind. I retrieved my YOG handbook from the depths of my haversack. Running through the list of event venues I noticed I was in the vicinity of one of them: Singapore Turf Club, the home of all equestrian events. Upon returning my gaze to the motorway I smiled as the first Olympic Lane markings came within sight.

The further away from home — and hence the nearer to the YOV — I drew, the more consistent the lane markings grew. Fluorescent yellow signs screamed for attention on the left of the motorway. GIVE WAY, they ordered.

Taking the appropriate exit out of the motorway and crossing the junction to Nanyang Technological University (NTU — they cleverly avoided calling themselves Nanyang University of Technology: NUT), my eyes scanned the entrance for signs of YOG-related activity. Left, right — none. Bizarre.

Suddenly — a massive welcome sign: WELCOME TO THE YOUTH OLYMPIC VILLAGE. The tiniest amount of adrenalin kicked in. Then finally, after traversing the hilly, complicated network of roads in the depths of NTU’s campus, numerous white marquees, security vehicles, taxis, and several others dressed in the same combination of rich purple and khaki: the Village entrance.

Or at least it was what I thought was the Village entrance. As I proceeded briskly to the marquees, I noticed I wasn’t where I thought I was. It was instinct that took me to where I was supposed to be — approximately three minutes’ walk away.

The Village entrance was surprisingly peaceful; chatter was minimal, people weren’t aplenty, panic was absent. The entrance also looked surprisingly unimpressive. The Main Accreditation Centre was another one of those marquees, only fitted with glass panels, air-conditioning and presumably some other facilities on the inside. The metal detectors and various other computerised devices were all too familiar; they’re stuff from the airport. There wasn’t anything particularly grand about the entrance. Neither were there futuristic turnstiles that I had hoped would be specially fitted for the games. Even the damn mascots Lyo and Merly weren’t there. Disappointing. On the other hand, it was an unassuming, unpretentious entrance — nothing reeking of ostentation. Pleasant enough. Clean. Safe. But one would hope that the inside of the Village would be the real spectacle.

I approached the first barrier of entry. Beep. Negative. Problems? Already? Oh wow, I cheered loudly muttered, mildly irritated. Directed by a bored security officer to the Main Accreditation Centre, I calmly made my way there.

Incompetence greeted me there. She was joined quickly by Ignorance and Indifference, being the inseparable triplets they always are. Incompetence refused me entry; Ignorance gave no suggestions for a follow-up procedure; Indifference stared back at me.

I shall spare you the details of my encounter with them. But one segment of the incident I must share: after I related my problems to Javier in the most unaffected tone I could manage — and in French, too — Incompetence and her two sisters Ignorance and Indifference transformed, magically, immediately, into Initiative, Importunacy and Interest respectively. You’re an interpreter? You speak French? For long have you been learning French? Is it difficult? GLKFJSLDJSF? SLFAJSDLKFJ? FJDKJSFLJ?

Imbeciles.

I was not amused.

Thankfully fifteen minutes later Javier came to the rescue, signed me in, and off we went, pass the clinical machinery and the blank-faced guardians of the gates, pass the few athletes wandering down the corridors alongside the Village Square (which is triangular)…

The minor disarray the Language Sub-Centre was in was certainly not what I expected to see. Various unfamiliar looking persons were collecting their uniforms, some others were running around pulling documents out of drawers…

Authority, in paper form

I hate people who don’t understand the concept (oh goodness it’s not even a concept) of punctuality, and I was late for duty — twenty-two minutes late, to be exact. Yes, I’m pedantic that way, and I was soon to be punished for my pedantry: upon entering the switchboard room where the venue coordinators were explaining phone call procedures, twenty-odd pairs of eyes directed their annoyed gazes at the latecomer, who, this time, was I. I apologised for interrupting as I silently cursed myself for being the Medusa of death stares myself, and for trying to petrify every latecomer I’ve encountered.

Slinking quietly into the nearest chair at the nearest desk (Bahasa Melayu — not my area), I sheepishly smiled at everyone around, who, to my relief, returned smiles. My muscles relaxed. My posture slackening slightly to a more comfortable one, I caught up on switchboard procedures and eased into the job. Overlapping rosters meant I could spend my dinner voucher at 1730hrs+, returning at 1800hrs+ to hold the fort at one of the French desks.

Français -- avec plaisir

After having my already slightly-sore throat severely aggravated by the Sichuan-style fried fish from dinner, I put out the fire with nearly a litre of water, returned to the switchboard room and claimed one of the vacated French desks as mine for the rest of the night.

While settling in I noticed my fellow interpreters in the neighbouring desks/compartments were all native speakers, save for two young ones with MOELC written conspicuously on their faces. The three Portuguese desks to my left were occupied by Portuguese and Brazilians, the remaining French desk by a French, and as for the Russian desk…. unambiguously Russian operators.

Irrational fears gripped me. Hold the fort? Me? I’m not even remotely French or Francophone… Nervousness defined my entire being. I fiddled absent-mindedly with the equipment at the desk: a Panasonic headset, a Panasonic telephone, the YOG notepad.

My equipment

Attempting to channel my nerves into aesthetic inspiration I doodled Bienvenue tout le monde! on a sheet of paper. I was about to construct the fanciest word art imaginable when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.

Technological assistance was needed. Inside, I laughed hysterically; technology? Me? Peerless irony. But thank goodness it was something I’d done before — and successfully, too: activating the YOG debit card.

Enter the card number here…
Now this…
Enter your first name here…
Last name…

I was doing well. Expertly (really!), in fact.

Now you enter your address here…

Germany, he chose from the drop-down list of countries.

Germany. The word registered in my mind as if with a loud clash of cymbals. Words tumbled from my lips before I had time to think.

Du kommst aus Deutschland?
Ja! Und du?
Aus Singapur.
Oh cool! Und… und also hast du in Deutschland gewohnt?
Nein.
Aber hast du…?
Ja. Für ‘nen Urlaub… Und auch Austauschprogramme…
Wo hast du denn Deutsch gelernt?
Hier.
Hier? In Singapur?
Ja doch.
Wo denn?
In einen Sprachzentrum.
Aber du hast kein Akzent, kein, kein… Kein Akzent! Uberhaupt kein… Es gibt keinen Unterschied… Kann man nicht feststellen dass du nicht…  deutsch bist… ‘st wirklich sehr, sehr, gut Deutsch…

I have never been more flattered.

I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t find anything to say, except an uncharacteristically shy and stifled danke. The above conversation and the seconds during which it was conducted are precious, precious memories I shall attempt to preserve. Already the memory of some sections of our conversation has faded almost indefinitely. Cruel Mnemosyne never meant for mortals to retain every one of our increasingly fragmented memories.

As I continued my conversation with my new friend I soon noticed the four badges he wore above his interpreter badge. Four. Now that was distractingly stunning. We interpreters are given one badge per language we are authorised to interpret in, and four was a formidable number of badges to have shining on one’s YOG uniform. I was given three — for French, German and Chinese — by my trusting supervisors, and from the amazed stares and raised eyebrows I had received I knew three was an impressive number. Four — for Russian, German, Italian and French — was out of this world. If these were military insignia, our entire army of interpreters would have to form a permanent guard of honour to salute his status of superiority.

Three? Formidable? Not really.

Close-up of my insignia

Only thirty minutes into my shift did I begin understanding the dynamic of a multilingual switchboard room. The ringing of a phone ushers in a sudden dip in volume of all our conversations. Tension hangs in the air. All eyes are fixed on the speaker, or at least in his direction. For the duration of the phone call nessun dorma, e nessun parla — no one sleeps, and no one speaks. Only when the phone call ends do all sinews relax. All expectantly await a post-mortem of the incident, as the operator completes the necessary post-query paperwork. Then, finally, a chorus of exhalations; the room is awash with relief.  Should the situation remain unresolved, however, the tension is protracted, stretched, painfully over our heads. Should the caller be a listless athlete testing out the phone lines, on the other hand, the brevity of the phone call and the operator’s amusement heralds an instant diffusion of tension, and idle chatter swiftly resumes.

As the hours went by, the number of interpreters in the room fell: 36… 30… 22… 15… 10… However, due to my multilingualism, I was obliged to stay, with six desks — three French and three German — under my responsibility. A few moments later, an announcement: a delegation requiring French interpretation was due to arrive at 2255hrs.

Which delegation is this?
Congo.

Congo.

Blinking back my mild shock I took a step backwards. Congo. I knew this entailed a slim, slim chance of there being an escape clause — an escape clause of retreating into English territory. My mind at 2205hrs was already clouded with fatigue, but this call to duty reinstated my obligation to remain on my toes with all senses sharpened. I returned to my desk with a renewed sense of urgency. The translation facility in my mind coughed to life.

I waited.

At 2300hrs, a grand total of four people occupied the switchboard room: two Russians, the venue coordinator and myself. Fighting the flu bugs and the sand man I kept myself awake with the tried and tested method of self-entertainment.

Singapore = Paris? I WISH.

With the Congolese delegation still nowhere in sight at 2345hrs, my kind supervisors thanked me for my patience, I bid them all good night and began the long walk out of the Village. It’s been an unexpectedly uneventful first day at work, but surely, the excitement will escalate dramatically from tomorrow. I await tomorrow’s duties with eagerness.