Tag: language

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A Sunday Story

My wife and I are both studying Korean, and she is quite a bit more an advanced student. As part of my effort, I purchased 2.2 x 3.5-inch blank flash cards with binder ring to write words in Hangeul on one side and English on the other. I study vocabulary while walking, passing countless other people wearing white AirPods and listening to music. But today, I came upon kindred spirits, so to speak—likewise putting good use to their time walking.

Along Georgia Street, between Howard and Polk, in San Diego neighborhood University Heights, from behind I approached an elderly woman pushing a walker accompanied by another lady holding a smartphone from which came repeated English words. They studied a foreign language, too! The pair clearly were of Asian heritage, and I hoped Korean because wouldn’t that make a great story. But based on what little native tongue spoken between them, my guess is Japanese.

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Parlez-vous Français?

I shot the Featured Image for two reasons: Surprise to find a French preschool on Park Blvd in downtown University Heights; reminiscence—our daughter nearly attended a public French immersion school when we lived in Maryland. I have often wondered why she failed to make the cut. Could it be that she would enter as a first-grader instead of a kindergartener? Because: She was first on the waiting list, and the administration told us that admission was almost a certainty—some student(s) either dropping out or not showing up were frequent occurrences.

The kids learned English and French side-by-side in a program that lasted through eighth grade. Had Molly been accepted, and had she stayed, our family’s destiny would have changed. We would have unlikely left the Washington, D.C. area and moved across country to San Diego.

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What the Hell is a Biter?

Not long ago, I considered myself still tapped into popular vernacular. I am a people and culture junkie, after all. But today, three barbers showed how clueless and out of touch is this 55 year-old man. I’m not sure which depresses more, the realization or confessing it.

My barber personalizes his workspace with Jack Daniels jars and other signature items described but I couldn’t see. Hey, he takes off my glasses to cut what little hair I have, and my vision blows without them. His coworker in the next chair complained about another guy who comes in to buy hair-cutting supplies and selfies in front of my barber’s chair space. The evidence is on Instagram.