The three year old philological experiment

Though I am sure there is some common etymologic ancestry, to my untrained English ear German and Italian have absolutely nothing in common.  This, combined with the fact that both languages are spoken at the Levi home rapidly, one after another and sometimes simultaneously, is making it difficult for me to pick up as much German as I had hoped, but it does provide some extremely comedic scenarios.

Young David (older brother of Daniel, who inspired this blog's first post), already has quite the linguistic background.  His mother and grandparents, all natives of Milan, speak Italian to David and his younger brother.  His father, from Berlin, speaks to them in German.  David attends English language daycare and I am to speak to him in English as well.  The child is not yet three years old and speaking in three different languages.  Needless to say, I'm a bit envious.  David usually does a pretty good job of knowing in what language to respond to whom, but he's also developed his own vocabulary for some every day items that are combinations of the languages.  For David, "te" means milk - his parents figure this must come from the Italian word for milk, that is, latte (German for milk is milch).  One of my favorite mash-ups is "pish-e", or fish - a combination of pesce in Italian and either the English or German word (in German: fische).

It's actually quite interesting from a philological standpoint; I'm currently reading Robert Sokolowski's Phenomenology of the Human Person and at the end of the fourth chapter he strikes off on an extended tangent about what happens in communication when two groups of people who have no common language are forced to live together and make a life.  The first generation speaks pidgin, one form of protolanguage, which Sokolowski partially defines as when common words are created for concrete things, but there is no grammar and no syntax.  In short, it is protolanguage because nothing past, future or abstract can ever be expressed, and nothing can ever be expressed in a complex fashion.  The second generation of this hypothetical group produces creole - a combination of the two languages not only with its own  vocabulary but also with its own very complex grammatical and syntactical structure.  Italian, Spanish and French all began as creole - Latin combined with with whatever native dialect existed in the geographical region before the Romans came around.  Sokolowski also identifies the language of toddlers as protolanguage; they can point to concrete ideas, but do not yet have the facilities to express the abstract.

All of this is just a really long way of saying that watching a three year old deal with three different languages is watching this play out in real time.  Listening to David is really fascinating once I'm able to get past the fact that he's whining or yelling because he's not getting his way.

As I mentioned above the multilingual environment in which I currently reside is not only educational but also hilarious.  Last night at dinner when Mrs. Levi suggested that she and her husband go see "Van Gogh" (as in the big exhibit that is in town) today, Mr. Levi gave her the weirdest look, which neither the Mrs. nor I could figure out until he explained that he thought she suggested they go to "Bangkok".  My favorite situations, however, come from David when he is excited because not only does he combine languages, but he also forgets to pronounce the entire word.  Several times a week this leads to confused stares from one adult to another as if to communicate "what in THE HELL did he just say??".  Yesterday when I arrived he was extremely excited and said to me "OK! Now we'll go and play legos and read books in the living room, OK?!"  This is of course not what David actually said, and I will leave you with that phrase and subsequent mental translation now:

"OK! Jetz we go joc leg and ree buch in sala. jetz! k?!"

(Jetz = jetzt = now in German; joc = jocare = play in Italian; leg = legos; ree = read; buch = bücher = books in German, sala = living room in Italian).

My answer: "OK!"

Sheep and Goats

One of the nicest parts of my time spent in Basel is that I get to leave while the children are taking repasso (Italians insist that this is different from the Spanish siesta, though I'm still not clear on why or how).  This means that every weekday, I have the chance to roam the city if I so desire.  I'd be lying if I claimed to have never frittered away any of these hours either sleeping or on the internet, but I think for the most part I've taken advantage of my time.  The city of Basel is not all that large, and as a result of these semi-daily walks, I've come to know the city pretty well.  I try to go to different places every day, but there's a path that I generally take through the town.  St. Jakob's-Strasse-Freie Strasse is sort of the main thoroughfare of GroßBasel (literally, 'Big Basel'), leading me past Tinguely Fountain to Barfüsserplatz, at which I take a right, go past the many cafés and shops on Falknerstrasse and am led to Marktplatz.  Marktplatz is the place for fresh food and homemade goods from every kind of vendor each morning and it is also the residence of Basel's bright red city hall, always catching the eye amidst all the neutral shades of the surrounding buildings.  The Rhine is just a stone throw away from Marktplatz.  Elisabethenkirche can be seen at most any point during this walk; its massive gothic cathedral with bells that ring every fifteen minutes -  a beautiful but also somewhat obtrusive sound that never quite fades into the din of the city.  The entire walk takes me about 20 minutes at a leisurely pace.

I've walked through several spots in Basel, but the place my feet lead me to again and again is Münster - what Basel calls its cathedral, what I call its old cathedral.  I make this distinction because it no longer functions as a church, but is instead a small museum dedicated to the city and its history.  Whatever its capacity, Münster is a sight to behold.  The church stands high above the Rhine and is easily recognized from its colorful - green, yellow and red concentric diamonds - roof alone.  It stands in a square--Münsterplatz--with what used to be the bishop's residence and what are now very beautiful office buildings.  The church, like so many others, was built in stages, but its earliest outer walls date back to 8th century.  In 1019 it was consecrated Heinrich Münster in the presence of King Heinrich II,  but was destroyed in a fire sixty-five years later.  It was rebuilt and destroyed again in a earthquake.  In 1363 it was re-rebuilt in the now-standing Gothic style.  There was another fire in the 15th century that only affected the inside of the church and that was rebuilt in a Roman style, which makes for a visually interesting transition when entering or exiting the cathedral.  It used to be Catholic, was made Reformed, and is now a museum.

After becoming Reformed, the lower church in Münster was dedicated to Brother Klaus and his wife Dorothy Wyss, two exceptionally holy German peasants.  After marrying Dorothy and raising ten children with her, Brother Klaus obtained her permission to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and become a monk.  He never actually made it, and the story goes that he met an angel on the way who told him to go back to his family, for that was where he was needed.  Still, Dorothy must have been like, the best wife ever.

The upper church is home to many who have passed from the land of the living, but the most notable is Erasmus of Rotterdam, a great thinker and a great Catholic.  He left the city of Basel during the tumultuous years following the Reformation, but returned at the request and under the protection of the mayor of Basel himself and died shortly thereafter.  Catholic though he was, those decent Reformers buried him in their cathedral anyway.

My favorite part of Münster is actually its courtyard.  Looking over its walls to the right the rolling green hills of Germany can be seen; look left and there's France.  Not to mention KleinBasel's ('small Basel') horizon right across the Rhine and the Messeturm sticking out like a modern sore thumb.  The courtyard is always filled with people; there are always some Baslers just lunching there and enjoying the view, as well as tourists coming to explore the Cathedral.  I think I've heard every language but English spoken up there.  It's a great place to read, and I have on occasion sprawled out on one of the benches and slept in the sunshine, listening to the street musicians who tend to congregate in Münsterplatz.

Yesterday as I was leaving, I passed the side of Münster that has the scene starting at Matthew 25:31 carved into its walls.  A small family of street musicians had set up right underneath of it and were all playing guitars.  I had fallen asleep earlier and was awoken to their singing.   It's the first time I regretted not having a camera, though now I'm glad I didn't have the option.  I listened for a while to the father and his two children harmonize and then I threw what money I had in their case and walked on.

The Strange Allure of Pink

My knowledge of pop music/music on the radio decreases every year.  Not owning a car is a factor, but by and large it's because most music on the radio is terrible.  When I watched this, I had to ask a friend what songs they were parodying (thereby introducing me to the entity known as Lady GaGa).

Most days, after young David is finished watching Dora die Explorer and goes to daycare in the morning, his grandfather changes the channel to an obscure MTV station that plays videos all day long.  At first I thought this was a thoughtful, if misguided, attempt at making me feel welcome, but after I replied no when asked if I enjoyed "this MTV music" and the channel was still on, I realized the grandfather likes listening to and watching the videos.  I've become increasingly more appalled by the videos I see, but luckily little Daniel has no interest in television and I'm usually in a different room with him, preventing serious injury.

Today Daniel was extra-tired and taking a mid-morning nap, so I sat down on the couch to read while music videos were playing in the background.  A video for a song that I didn't know existed began to play - Pink's "Please Don't Leave Me."  When I looked up to see the title, I had a hard time taking my eyes off the screen because the video actually has a an old Greek drama vibe to it.  Then, the grandfather walks into the room and says "ah yes . . . I lika da videos from diss, ah, Pink lady.   Dey are always-a very peculiar".  So we sat together and watched the strange scene below:

Feierbendkonzerte

Last night I attended a Feierbendkonzerte (evening recital) at Leonhardskirche.  In 1118 the collegiate church was consecrated, but the crypt is the only part remaining from that time.  The inner church dates from about 1135 and everything else dates from about the 15th century.  Like most churches in Basel, it was originally Catholic and then after Luther was Reformed.  Unlike most churches in Basel, however, it still holds services.

Leonhardskirche is unassuming from the outside.  It stands on the Upper Rhine and I happened upon its square while wandering around Barfüsserplatz and deciding to see where some steps in one of the little alleys lead (incidentally, this tactic, while I don't think very intelligent in most of the US cities I've been to, has always served me well in Europe).  Leonhardskircheplatz doesn't have a very good view of anything except the tops of building, and the church is surrounded by other very large modern looking buildings, but I'm a sucker for churches so I walked inside.

The first thing that strikes me about the church is its lectern, which looks like it's all been hand carved.  You can see it in the picture I linked above, but not close enough to see the detail.  The bottom consists of a pedestal with eight arms of ivy to support the base, which has more intricacies than it was possible for me to take in at one time.  The top of the lectern is shorter and wider, and its designs mirror its base.  If the rest of the church had been decorated in this fashion it would have been rococo, but alone against a relatively plain backdrop it's breathtaking. 

There were plaques all along the walls commemorating one important person in the church's history or another.  The plaques about the priests and bishops were in Latin, and thus I understood most of it, but I was hopeless when it came to the plaques in German.  I understand hardly any German as it is, but the typography was flowery and ornate, so I had no chance.  I think they were about patrons of the church.  Every single plaque however, had a unicorn and a bee on it, and I have not yet been able to figure out what they symbolize.  Perhaps St. Leonhard's crest?

I'm sure this is a more modern addition, but there are small lights throughout the church that hang down on utility wire and they look like they're floating.  It really is quite beautiful.

The musician, Magdalena Hasibeder, played on the church's 1718 Silbermann organ.  She played Bach's "Ach was soll ich Sünder machen", BWV 770, Homilius' Trio: "Komm, Heileger Geist, Herre Gott", and ended with Bach's Präludium und Fuge e-mol, BWV 548.  I sat in front of the lectern and let my eyes wander over the carvings while she played.  Bach's Präludium was my favorite.  As the music got closer to its crescendo, the pillars of the church transformed from structures that hold the arched ceiling in place, into paths to the heavens.

A Confession

Daniel is the 18 month old I take care of most of the day.  He has the blondest hair and the bluest eyes I've ever seen; his mother is a Greek/Italian, so obviously those Arian genes he inherited from his father really are dominant.  Daniel, like (I hope) most other children his age is interminably curious and always wants what he cannot/should not have.  Perhaps I should not think something so devious of someone so young, but I believe he feigns injury so that I will pick him up and he can then get his fair little hands on things at adult eye-level.  Complicating this matter is the fact that the apartment Daniel and his family lives in is not baby-proofed, which leads to my following him around and taking from him the things which could inevitably lead to injury and possible death.  In the past two weeks this has included but is not limited to pens, magnets, coins, a hairdryer, utensils of all shapes and sizes, and those really heavy fake Chinese relaxation balls with chimes in them.  Daniel's parents think this is funny and cute.  Daniel's parents are not his primary caregivers.

One day last week Daniel started taking books off the lower level shelves in the family room.  Finally! I thought, something that won't kill him.  I let him take the books off the shelves and flip through the pages.  He seemed fairly interested, so I figured I had a good ten minutes before he got bored and waddled into the next room.  After about forty-five seconds, however, Daniel's grandfather and namesake walked into the room, said to Daniel "Nein! No! No librettos per Daniel."  He then looked at me and said "He destroy books."

I was a bit taken aback, given that the grandfather sits around all day and reads novels (we had a halting conversation in Italio-English about A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court the other day) while his wife and I chase the little ones around -- surely he wants to instill a love of books in his grandchild?  What better way to kill this nascent curiosity than to disallow any encounters with the material of a book itself?  It's half the fun, I dare say.  The musty smell and worn-in spines of old books, the crisp, stuck-together pages of new books that have a spine so straight it seems like they are resistant to letting you read them.  These are experiences a child Daniel's age can appreciate, even if the letters on the page mean nothing!  

So, I must admit, I have been letting Daniel take books off the shelves and play with them - under my watchful eye of course.  If he even looks like he is about to tear a cover, crinkle a page, or place the spine in his mouth (the tool of choice for curious toddlers), the book gets taken away, along with an explanation of why.  For with a love of books and their form, I want to also instill respect.  Daniel and I had a breakthrough the other day with a small English-Italian dictionary when he got it out, thumbed through the pages, and then placed it back on the shelf exactly as it had been.  "Bravo Daniel!" I cried and clapped my hands.  He smiled.  I thought I had gotten through to him.

This, however, is not my confession.

Back at the end of May when I was haphazardly packing all of my belongings to move to a house a mere seven spaces down on the same street, I almost forgot that a friend and former roommate has asked me to be temporally responsible for one box of books belonging to her.  Around 11:00 pm of the night before I was to leave the city, I remembered the forgotten books in the basement, ran down, and began placing the books in one of the empty boxes of another roommate who has not yet begun her arduous process of packing.  This operation should have taken five minutes tops, but with a toddler-like curiosity I examined each of the thirty or so books before putting them away.  Most of the books I had heard of, many I had read or at least read parts of, but one entitled Life in Macondo I never knew had even been written.  As the last new novel I read had been 100 Years of Solitude, on the recommendation of the roommate who owned the books, I was quite interested.  I tossed Life in Macondo in my own bag, finished packing up the rest of the books, figured my roommate would be nonethewiser, and I could tell her after I finished it that it was a handling fee.

Daniel Levi had not yet entered my life.

Yesterday, as Daniel was playing with books on his parents' bookshelves, I walked out of the room to check on his lunch.  At sixty seconds, I was obviously out of the room for far too long and got suddenly nervous when I didn't hear the child.  I ran back into the room only to discover that Daniel had taken my purse down from a high shelf and gotten the book I am currently reading out of my purse, that is, Life in Macondo.  A half second of triumph (out of all the things in my purse, he chose the book!) was followed by horror as I realized he had torn the dilapidated cover clear off the collection of short stories.  I could no longer tell my roommate, who shares my love of books, that borrowing her book was a handling fee.  Life in Macondo has been sacrificed to the gods of curiosity at the hands of an 18-month-old Arian.  Would Márquez approve?