The woman who hated Catalan
Let’s hear the story of the Portuguese woman who didn’t like Catalan; the Barcelona man who didn’t like Catalonia; the priest who was jealous of Portugal; and the Portuguese who almost missed the bus.
1. Barcelona
In the last week of the 20th century, when I was in my silly twenties, I found myself on a bus heading for Barcelona with a group of friendly Algarvians. I don’t have space here to explain from the beginning what led me to be on that bus. What you need to know is that we were happy to go and arrived very, very tired — and went to sleep the very first night in a parish centre near the Vall d’Hebron Hospital, where Jordi, a reserved and competent-looking Catalan, looked after us, trying not to miss any young Portuguese during that week at the end of the year, the century and the millennium.
At that young age, I already suffered from a very rare affliction: Catalanophilia. A trip to Barcelona was a rare pleasure for me. Finding so many things written in Catalan around me and hearing, on the metro, the pronunciation so strangely similar to my own left me in a state of dangerous intoxication.
2. The Portuguese woman who hated Catalan
As is always the case when travelling, I made several friends during those days, with whom I roamed around Barcelona. But there was a thorn in these rosy days: that group of friends included Carla — who had a particular hatred of Catalan!
I didn’t quite understand how she got that hatred. Somehow, if I suffered from Catalanophilia, Carla had caught the Catalanophobia virus. And there we were, walking through the streets of Barcelona talking and arguing…
Perhaps I’m overstating it. More than hate, Carla had a slightly annoying tendency to claim that Catalan is not a language.
It’s true that linguists often don’t agree on where one language ends and another begins. But there are languages that do not raise much doubt, and Catalan is one of them. Whatever criteria we use, Catalan should be counted as a language: it is recognised as a language of its own by its speakers, it has an established standard used in writing, it has a standard while showing a healthy dialectal variety, in addition to a centuries-old literary tradition. Long before there was a Kingdom of Spain, many people spoke and wrote in Catalan, although they didn’t always call it that. And don’t forget: it is the only official language of an independent state (Andorra). It has its own distinctive grammatical features. It has an established orthography. I could go on all day. I’ll end with this: Catalan speakers have at their disposal all the linguistic arsenal typical of a language with a written tradition: dictionaries, grammars, encyclopaedias and, of course, books complaining about language these days.
In other words, Catalan really is a language — and a language with millions of speakers. The only fact that leads some (Carla included) to negate this is: the territory that gave the language its name is not independent. But, heck, the Basque Country isn’t independent either, and no one dares say Basque is a dialect of Spanish. We can give many more examples of languages with names that refer to territories that are not independent. Leaving the Peninsula, but without leaving Europe: Scottish Gaelic, Occitan, Breton, Sorbian, Lappish, Welsh… If you look closely, even the names “English” and “Castilian” refer to territories that are not independent.
3. That’s some language!
Well, that didn’t matter to Carla. We’d walk through the metro and she’d point to the Catalan notices that came with the Spanish translation underneath, compare the similar Catalan and Spanish words and decree with a sneer:
“How come is that a language?!”
I shuddered and stopped myself. She kept going: she looked at sentences in Catalan and ranted about how “some people” consider it a language!
This happened because, in fact, Catalan is a language similar to Spanish… But so is Portuguese — and French, Italian… Basically, she discovered that Latin languages are close to each other!
When we talk about the differences between neighbouring languages, it is always possible to find examples to prove everything and its opposite. Knowing this danger, here I leave some triads of words to see how Portuguese, Spanish and Catalan are both similar and quite distinct:
Portuguese — Castilian — Catalan
o meu primo — mi primo — el meu cosí
as mulheres — las mujeres — les dones
o homem — el hombre — l’home
azul — blue — blau/blava
praia — playa — platja
filho — hijo — fill
bom dia — buenos días — bon dia
falar — hablar — parlar
comer — comer — menjar
Two quick notes…
Firstly, the article “el”, used in Catalan, is a typical mark of Spanish in the minds of the Portuguese. It is one of the reasons why some distracted people look at a text in Catalan and think it is in Spanish. Note, however, that the Catalan “el” does not follow the same rules as the Castilian “el”: for example, “el meu cosí” corresponds to “mi primo” (although, to be strict, these differences in the use of articles also happen within the same language). Before moving on, two surprises: the Catalan “el” is often read as “âl”; moreover, it can be joined to the following word, thus becoming “l’home”. Oh, and note the plural: the masculine plural definite article in Catalan is “els” and not the very Spanish “los”.
Second note: the words in the various Latin languages may have the same roots, but appear in different places (so to speak): thus, the Catalan “parlar” (“speak”) corresponds to “falar” in Portuguese, but the same root of “parlar” appears in other Portuguese words: “parlamento”, “parlatório” and, with an older common origin, “palavra” (“palavra” — “word” — is also linked to the word “paraula” in Catalan, of course). Finding these subterranean connections between Latin languages is one of the pleasures I get from comparing them.
All these differences, of course, do not invalidate that Catalan has a very strong Spanish influence, which is quite noticeable in the typical pronunciation of Barcelona (just as an example). Despite this, it remains a perfectly separate language, with a Latin origin in its own right.
Well, it’s not just Carla who doubts it. I’ve already heard a Portuguese businessman complaining about the ignorance of those who call Catalan a “language” when it is “obviously” a dialect; a Portuguese academic declaring the use of Catalan in academic articles absurd, given that Catalans have access to another, far more useful language (I sigh…); a television commentator calling Catalan a “rag-tag language” — and so on….
These confused statements are a very long way from an active contempt for the language (which is probably easier to find in Spain). I imagine that very few Portuguese people take the trouble to hate Catalan. I just happened to meet one of those very few Portuguese — and right on the streets of Barcelona!
4. Sleeping at the ATM
Anyway, apart from those Catalan nuisances, we all got on well. What a delight it was to ride the metro and hear the names of the stations in Catalan, while walking the streets and discovering a new city at the age of 20, at the exact turn of the millennium, in a week of cold and Christmas and lots of people running around with shopping in their bags and hurried steps — not to mention the pleasure of finding Barcelona’s architectural gems at every turn.
One night, lost in the city, we were late — when we finally arrived at the door of the centre where we were staying, Jordi was no longer there and no one opened the door for us. Where did we sleep? Well, where we could: in one of those compartments in a bank agency where you can withdraw money all night. There’s no point in telling you much more. Soon the sun started to rise and Jordi arrived, scolding us in Catalan and Spanish, in order for everyone to understand.
Since I spent that night on the floor of a bank, may I suggest to the reader that if you ever find yourself in front of an ATM in Barcelona, you’ll have Spanish and Catalan as options (in addition to English, French, German and, in certain obscure corners of the city, Portuguese). I dare you to select Catalan: the money will still come out and you’ll learn a bit of the language.
5. Manuel de Barthelona
I must have sinned a lot those days — perhaps it was my less than generous thoughts towards that Catalanophobic Carla — because I ended up having to go to Señor (with a proud Ñ!) Manuel’s house for lunch. I can’t remember his surname, but I know he was from Barcelona, but didn’t like Catalonia at all…
I went there for lunch because the gentleman was very active in the parish and wanted to take part in the youth meeting by hosting some participants for a meal. I, a Portuguese who could speak a little Spanish and English, was chosen to accompany a group of Lithuanian girls who could speak a little English. For Señor Manuel did not know English — at all! He only knew his mother’s Spanish and Catalan, although he could only speak and not write it. I would be the interpreter in that improvised Hispano-Lithuanian Meeting.
The young women were beautiful representatives of the brand new Republic of Lithuania, which had won a hard-fought independence a few years earlier. They were very proud of their new nation.
Señor Manuel was a Spaniard living in Barcelona with a strong distaste of Catalan nationalism. The very word “independence” made him break out in a cold sweat. He was Spanish — and he said “Barcelona” in the Spanish way, with the “th” sound in the middle, the vowels wide open, reminiscent of old Manuel from Fawlty Towers — who was, of course, from Barthelona. The sound was reminiscent of Manuel from the series, but the look of this new Manuel from Barthelona was not: he was a paunchy man, with that good-natured air of someone who likes to chat at the table with good food and wine to accompany it.
I remember many blonde heads at the table, speaking English, and me trying to translate the conversation between a Spaniard and several Lithuanians. It went better than I feared.
Señor Manuel was very surprised when I told him I was Portuguese. He then explained to me that the image he had of the Portuguese and Galicians (he put us all in the same bag, as he made a point of saying) was different: he always thought of strong, hardworking, dark-skinned people of few words. Well, let’s just say I was not very strong and, being an improvised interpreter, was full of words during the whole lunch.
He then told me about his pride in being Spanish. He showed me Christmas cards he had received from the Spanish prime-minister and even from the king. He was the headmaster of a small Catholic school in the parish, and perhaps that was the reason he received these cards, which he showed us with dignified pride.
6. Classic Catalan
Perhaps, given the setting, it would have been wiser to conceal my predilection for the Catalan language and Catalonia. But I couldn’t… I told him I loved Catalan and Catalonia.
The very Spanish Señor Manuel paused for a moment and smiled, rather puzzled. He didn’t say anything. I continued:
“I can even speak a little Catalan…”
The man was amazed:
“Then say something…”
I took a deep breath and said, in Catalan:
“Jo parlo una mica de català!” (“I speak a bit of Catalan!”)
He then showed me a very enthusiastic smile, shouting in Spanish:
“¡Pero eso es catalán clásico!” (“But that’s classic Catalan!”) — an exclamation explained by the fact that I used my Portuguese accent, which is very close to the older, rural Catalan, less influenced by Spanish.
The world is complicated and Spain is even more so. The man, a die-hard Spanish nationalist, was visibly pleased to find a Portuguese youngster speaking Catalan. He picked up some parish bulletins he had been creating in Word, where there was always a page in Catalan, which he wrote with difficulty. For him, writing in Catalan was a challenge because he had never learnt the language at school — only at home and on the street. His son, on the other hand, who was at the table with us, delighted with the Lithuanian invasion of his home, had learnt Catalan and Spanish at school and could write well in both languages.
We had lunch and chatted and enjoyed ourselves — if this was an article about Lithuania, I’d tell you more about what happened across the table, but that’s for another time.
7. A priest jealous of Portugal
Did I only met people not very fond of Catalan culture during those happy days? No, not at all! I will now tell you about my conversation with a priest from Barcelona. If Señor Manuel was definitely Spanish, this priest was quite Catalan.
The gentleman (whose name I can’t remember) began by telling me that there, in that pavilion next to us, he himself had taught Catalan during the 1960s — which was (to put it mildly) frowned upon by authorities. He explained that the children of the proudest Catalans who went to public schools in those years — where the only language was Spanish, of course — learnt to write in Catalan in improvised classes in their spare time.
The situation is confusing. We will hear many people say that Catalan was banned during Francoism. Its use was not banned — not least because it was difficult to ban a language spoken at the table, in bed, in the garden, in whispers. Beyond what was said in private, Catalan was not completely banned: from the 1940s onwards, books could be published in Catalan; there were music festivals with entries in Catalan; in short, it was a language that was more or less tolerated.
Now, let’s face it: the fact that it was not forbidden doesn’t mean it was welcomed. Note, moreover, that any limitation on the use of our own language is always something we resent. Just imagine how it would feel to have the government your country prohibit the use of your language in courts (just an example). Maybe then we’ll start to understand a little better how Catalan-speaking families felt in those days. There were several practical prohibitions or exclusions: Catalan had no place in education, television was only in Spanish, street signs were also in Spanish… No one had any doubts: for the Spanish State, Catalan was a mere dialect, which was to be tolerated until the day Catalans finally gave it up (sooner the better!).
Let’s go back to the last week of the year 2000. That priest was happy, in the winter sun of Barcelona, in a parish off the beaten track. He was happy because those times were past, a somewhat mythologised past, as befits any past. Around the year 2000, teachers in schools taught Catalan — and not only taught the language, but used the language to teach other subjects, apart from Spanish language itself (which is mandatory).
The Catalan government applies — to the horror of some Spaniards from other regions — a policy of linguistic immersion: regardless of the mother tongue of their parents, all students are taught in Catalan, with the aim that by the end of their schooling they will all be able to write and speak Catalan and Spanish very well. Does this jeopardise the knowledge of Spanish, as some people argue? Well, the truth is that all the kids speak Spanish, in their Spanish exams they score as well or better than students from other regions — and on the streets of Barcelona it’s easier to hear Spanish than Catalan. So, Spanish is hardly in danger. Note that — as far as I know — the language policy of promoting Catalan is supported by a large majority of the Catalan population. It’s not just the nationalists who are in favour of protecting the language.
Suddenly, the priest leans over and tells me in confidence:
“In fact, we are very envious of you, the Portuguese.”
I laughed.
“Really?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What the hell for?”
“Because you are independent.”
So, I had just met a Catalan independentist. It’s not difficult nowadays, but it was rarer then. I eventually learnt that there is an old slogan of Catalan independentists that says: “The autonomy we need is the autonomy of Portugal.” It rhymes, but only in Catalan: “L’autonomia que ens cal és la de Portugal.” In other words: this autonomy stuff is all very well, but what we’d really like is to be like the Portuguese.
This is just a simple story about what happened to me during those days at the end of the century. My great passion is Iberian languages — all of them. I don’t have much to say about how the section of the peninsula that is not Portugal is to be organised politically…
8. How to tell the time in Catalan
On the last day of our week in Barcelona, in January, 2001, already in the new century, in the new millennium, Jordi (who had put up with us all those days) organised a meeting to say goodbye.
During that week, he had spoken to us mostly in Spanish — but in his last speech he used Catalan to address everyone. Most people understood what he said, but there were a few surprised looks. It seemed some Portuguese had been in Barcelona for a week and only then were hearing this other language…
At one point, he informed us all that the bus that would pick us up would be there at the door at “un quart de dotze”.
Before continuing, it is worth explaining that there is a very peculiar characteristic of Catalan: the way of telling the time. Perhaps many Catalans don’t use it in everyday life, but it exists and is used when making a speech or writing a text.
Thus, eleven and a quarter, in Catalan, can be expressed in this strange way: “un quart de dotze”. Literally, “a quarter of twelve”. The logic seems to be this: a quarter past eleven is the first quarter of the twelfth hour of the day. If we look closely, the first hour of the day runs from 00:00 to 00:59. The second hour goes from 01:00 to 01:59. The first quarter of an hour of the second hour goes from 01:00 to 01:15.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that eleven and a quarter is “un quart de dotze” and Portuguese speakers will inevitably interpret it as “um quarto das doze”, which translates as “a quarter past twelve”. Everyone understood “12:15” and not “11:15”.
Similar languages can confuse us — especially if they are invisible as Catalan is for many Portuguese.
I tried to let everyone know what was going on. Carla cut me off:
“I can speak Spanish very well and I heard Jordi say ‘a quarter past twelve’!”
“Carla, I know you speak Spanish wonderfully, but the man spoke in Catalan…”
“Don’t start with that nonsense again!”
I shrugged:
“Do as you like. The bus will arrive at a quarter past eleven, not twelve.”
Ah, wouldn’t it have been nice to be alone waiting for the bus at the right time?
Jordi, however, was well aware of the confusions that Catalan time could get us into. So he decided to explain, in Spanish: “I repeat, the bus leaves at 11:15!”
The Portuguese looked at each other. Some asked him to repeat the time in English as well. Finally, there was no doubt: the time was indeed 11:15.
I walked away slowly and discreetly. I didn’t want anyone to notice the smug smile that had settled on my face.
On the journey to Portugal, everything went well. We sang and talked and slept. And, beyond languages and timekeeping, Carla and I began to talk about other things, further and further away from the city that had bewitched us in opposite directions.
