When in Buda…Pesky pronunciation & the BBC

On Saturday, while listening to BBC Radio 4, a long held suspicion of mine was confirmed.

This suspicion stems from the coverage of last November's US elections and revolves around the winning candidate's name. I spent part of the evening watching the BBC coverage before switching to CNN online and noticed that the BBC journalists at home and in the States seemed to be having a feud amongst themselves. Observe:

BBC journo in UK: And how is it looking for BARR-ack Obama in North Carolina?

BBC journo in NC: Well, as you can see, this student union is full of supporters and volunteers in the Ba-RAWK Obama campaign and they're clearly hoping for victory.

And back and forth the evening's coverage went, competing pronunciations over the eventual winner's name parried back and forth like a game of syntactical tennis. Having just discovered the BBC Have Your Say message boards, I made the mistake of submitting this observation to the conversation. The BBC message boards should come with a disclaimer discouraging foreigners from contributing their views as any such opinions will be dismissed out of hand despite their validity. I was variously accused of trying to teach the British how to speak, as if I'd suggested a complete overhaul of pronunciation, rather than merely suggest that British journalists do President Obama the courtesty of pronouncing his name the way he does. I was not suggesting that the pronunciation of the second syllable in the name Natasha should rhyme with "posh", not "trash", as it frequently does here, nor that the first syllable of my last name is Mick, not Muck or Mac. I didn't suggest that the entire Anglophone world start dropping the 's' in Paris. It was just that the BBC could perhaps stop mispronouncing the name of the most famous man in the world at the moment. It's not even difficult. If English tongues can handle Ahmadinijad and Medvedev, surely Barack is possible?

Clearly the majority of the English think their pronunciation's perfect. Where does this certitude come from? This Saturday, I learned the answer – from my old friends the BBC!

In the ten o'clock hour, a program on Budapest that would air later in the day was being discussed. When the program actually came on, the presenter said she'd received messages from listeners saying they thought she'd find it was actually "Budapesht". Never one to assume competence in others, she phoned the BBC Pronunciation Bureau (It exists! I knew it!), who told her that the British say "Budapest". "Others," she announced, somewhat disdainfully, "may call it Budapesht [never mind that those "others" include the Hungarians] but WE say BudaPEST!"

“Is YOUR Career Making You Infertile?”

I had never really pondered this question until it confronted me yesterday in The Times (I know, I know…but it was in a café. I didn't buy it or anything). Essentially, the gist of this article, based on research by Professor Elizabeth Cashdan at the University of Utah, is that driven career-women are exposed to high levels of stress, which cause their estrogen levels to drop and some estrogen to be replaced by androgens. This results in lowered ovulation and can even produce a change in a woman's WHR (that's waist to hip ratio, for the uninitiated, and ladies, apparently we're in deep trouble if our waists aren't roughly 70% of our hip circumference). See http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/health/features/article6073045.ece for full version.

I don't have a problem with the scientific argument presented – Cashdan is actually studying WHR across cultures, from a decidedly anthropological slant (See http://www.anthro.utah.edu/PDFs/cashdan/whr.pdf.) I do object to way article's author, Peta Bee (also published in The Daily Mail) has twisted the research into a not-so-subtle attack on professional women: the notion that "career women" (is it me, or does that read like something of the back of a 1960s Air Stewardess Barbie box?) are not attractive to men. Their bodies are "straight up and down." Dr. Laurence, a London fertility doctor contributes this bit of wisdom in the article's last paragraph: "It is no biological mystery that so many studies have shown men are drawn to women who are curvaceous and have a narrow waist, indications of health and fertility." The article lambasts Kiera Knightley bodies in favor of the Marilyn Monroe/Jessica Alba variety (poor Keira's WHR is only 80%! She best stop acting, now!), implying that if only women cared less about getting ahead at work, they'd stay home, bathing in estrogen, which according to our good London doctor "makes [women] relaxed, calm and thoughtful, the perfect state in which to become pregnant."

Yet only a paragraph before, this same medical gentleman informs us that a woman's sensitivity to estrogen is determined in puberty and largely unalterable. He does not, however, consider an obvious question that follows. Is a woman's career drive, her sense of competitiveness, a function of estrogen (at least in part) and if so, are less estrogen-rich women drawn to high-powered careers because they're not maternally gifted? Bards in medieval society were frequently scrawny or otherwise unfit for work – they were the only ones who could be spared and only their infirmities secured them time to create songs and poetry. Also, a professional life, in my experience, makes one a better mother – I was inspired by my mother's career and loved that fact that she had an active life outside the home. I didn't feel cheated, and while it's true that I spent my time sans maman with a nanny and not filed in an over-subscribed daycare centre, I have only good things to say about my mother's combination of work and motherhood. I'm not really surprised that the good Dr. Laurence ignores these questions, but I am surprised that Bee does. A bit of cyber-digging revealed that she herself has had a child and that her own life represents a third way unacknowledged by her article. Why doesn't she speak up? Where's the female solidarity?

Equally worrying are the lack of responses posted in reply to the article. Reading it enflamed me, but it doesn't seem to have done much for the readership of The Times. The four comments on offer range from something along the lines of "this is all men's fault. I have to compete with them, so I can't have children" to "all this proves is that women aren't good at being men" (who knew that ambition and professional drive were solely male attributes?) to "I have an hour-glass figure and I ALWAYS get pregnant on the first try."

All of this is beginning to make me nervous – with notable exceptions, English women are the most motherhood-worshipping, career-deprecating, anti-feminist crew of sisters I have ever encountered and articles like this make me fear that a Handmaiden's Tale-esque social experiment could gain ground here with terrifying ease. In a way it already has – the default oral contraceptive in the UK contains double the estrogen of my American pill, which (quel surprise) isn't available here. It must have been designed with "career women" in mind.

 

London Job Hunt, Day 2 & Miss Singapore on Westbourne Grove

Success! I have just received confirmation that as of today, I am in charge of UK development for a fascinating, international theatre company. This news is especially welcome as a perusal through yesterday's Guardian revealed that its Media & Arts jobs section has shrunk to a page. A PAGE! But, more important than any financial gain that may result from this is having once more a project to sink my teeth into and to distract me from PhD decisions, as well as a new group of interesting theatre types with whom to discuss, work and collaborate.

(Quick aside: Paul has just come into the room and begun reading over my shoulder. He points out that the company is composed of foreigners, not Brits, which may explain why I've been successful.)

This news comes on the heels of an absolutely lovely UK weekend, which began Friday with a visit to John, Sarah & Beatrice in Oxford, where the rain forbore long enough to go for a walk to a charming pub, a pleasant Easter Sunday that included a trip to St. Paul's Cathedral followed by a delicious Paul-created dinner with Andy and then a luxuriously lazy Monday, which consisted of brunch at Harlem on Westbourne Grove at 3.30 in the afternoon, the discovery of a classic black All Saints skirt at Traid for a tenner, the acquisition of inoffensive sunglasses (mine being broken), white wine in Richmond with Bran and a late-night curry at Kathmandu Inn. Who knew such bliss was possible?

I should say more of brunch, before signing off to go bask in my success for a few hours before I am confronted with the amount of work I actually need to do and begin to go a bit frantic. Harlem's schtick is American Soul Food – collard greens, corn fritters, BBQ chicken, cobb salad (!!!). We've been meaning to go there for ages, but have been repeatedly distracted by a pizza restaurant on the same block that does the most fantastic, New York style pizza I've ever had outside New York. Anyway, yesterday we finally made it. We toddled in for the Sunday brunch menu (held over for Easter Monday) at 3.30 and found ourselves sitting next to a table of late twentysomethings whose conversation was extremely eaves-dropping friendly and quite improbable. Things we learned:

• One of them, who was being messed about by some guy not worth her trouble, was a former Miss Singapore, who competed in the Miss Universe pageant.
  
• There is a facebook group and world-wide network of former Miss Universe contestants and whenever Miss Sing goes to a new city, she endeavors to meet up one of them.
  
• A serviced flat across from Selfridges costs £4000/month.
  
• Even if you're on the guest list for Mahiki, sometimes you still have to wait.
  

As we were leaving, I said to Paul that it's good to have these encounters every now and then. One thinks one is living a relatively pleasant life, full of friends, travel, yummy food and sartorial goodness, with some left over to share, and then you encounter the world of former Miss Universe contestants and begin to wonder if you've ever lived at all…

London Job Hunt, Day 1

So today, I endeavored to apply for a job a trendy vintage store I have been frequently patronizing for the last two years. It has a regular turnover of staff and garments spread over a variety of locations and only two shops actually receive/price clothes. I had spoken to a staff member, obtained a number for the office, and called them this morning. I confess to anticipating a reasonable level of bitchiness – I've watched too many episodes of Project Runway to expect anything less. But good lord! Nothing prepared me for Fashion Geezer. His list of offences:

• Answering the phone with "Hello" and then responding to my inquiry if I had reached the right number with, "Is this about a job?" Too bad I'm not assessing his people skills. (Quick aside: why is it somehow okay to be horribly rude/dismissive to potential employees who you expect to treat your customers with respect, courtesy and charm if hired? It's like kicking a dog repeatedly and then asking it to allow small children to dress it nonstop for five hours.)
  
• Asking a variety of fashion related questions (fair enough), some of which I honestly didn't know the answer to, some I did, and others which I was unable to answer because I couldn't understand what he was saying.
  
• His flagrant assertion that I was not a permanent resident. A: How do you know? B: What does it matter if I have a work permit? C: Discriminate much?
  
• This situation (which I acknowledge is not really his fault and is part of a larger problem w/British/American English). Fashion Geezer (Dude or Boy would sound better but I could tell by his voice he had to be over 60) asked me if I knew what di-voor-ray is. I reproduce his pronunciation phonetically. I tried to google it, thinking it would be something like this: devouré or devouree. No. It's devore. How do you get di-voor-ray out of that? And do you know what it is? It's flocking – thick pile fabric (like velvet) with the thick bits burnt off to make a pattern. I owned an entire, full-length dress of it in 1998. Why do the English, who historically detest the French, adopt and then mangle/mispronounce French words that are completely inscrutable to any non-Brit who may have the misfortune to encounter them? Keep the accentual marks or change the pronunciation, but doing neither is ridiculous!
  
• When I replied after the devore-fiasco that no, I didn't have a fashion degree (despite costume experience and good knowledge of periods from theatre), but that I had a good eye and was a quick learner, attributes their website requests, he then told me it doesn't say that (it does, really – I double-checked after I got off the phone, just in case I'd read it wrong) and refused to speak to me any longer.
  
• Second Man, who I spoke to next, booked me to come in for an appointment, but I realized when he hung up the phone that he hadn't actually told me to which of the company's various locations I should report.
  

All of this is highly disturbing on several levels. First off, I have never received any manner of advice whatsoever (or indeed any conversation beyond "Do you want me to open the case for you") from anyone in these shops (and I have been to all of them) so I question that anyone beyond the admittedly savvy girls who receive and price things has encyclopedic knowledge of the entire contents of the inventory. Mostly, they put things on hangers, keep an eye out for thieves and ring people up. I can do that. I can also wear interesting clothes that give people ideas and inspire them to buy stuff, and I can make pleasant conversation and suggest things they might like to try. Surely this is more useful than slouching behind the counter glaring at all and sundry while mentally reciting an alphabetized list of British designers from Ashley, Laura to Westwood, Vivienne?

Rest of the day spent sending out C.V. to hopefully less vitriolic destinations. Dear God.

Job Search, Day 1 (Intro)

Hello dear readers (if any of ye there be),

Today, I am embarking on London Job Search, Part III. The previous two attempts have been horrifically demoralizing and ego-devouring, so I've decided that I shall set this particular endeavor apart by writing about it, my logic being that at the end, even if I do not succeed in finding a job, I will at least have an interesting chronicle of my search. Also, I hope that regular, sentient reflection will provide some sense of perspective and humor that was lacking in previous attempts. Of course, should anyone reading this wish to employ me, that would be another lovely outcome. And if anyone wishes to reply to this series of posts saying something akin to "all London employers are rubbish not to fight to hire someone of your wit and talents" I shall certainly not be opposed.

Okay. So to start off, I should provide a rough outline of my C.V. Here's what we're working with:

Theatre (Creative): Lots of acting, some directing and dramaturgy, a fair bit of choreography

Theatre (Production/Admin): A year of development & marketing for a rather lovely, smallish company in Philadelphia; 4 years of self-producing in Prague; freelance development & marketing in London since last Sept.

Writing/EFL: 1.5 years of teaching EFL in Prague; 1 in London; 3.5 years of tutoring writing in the US

Office: 10,000 summers (okay, about 7) in a law firm in Harrisburg

Skills: Scarily fast typing (80 wpm), good net skills, competent at most MS programs (apart from Access – what is it for?)

Qualifications: BA English (mcl), MA Theatre, EFL Certificate (not at CELTA b/c I did it in Prague where no one cared. This may become a sticking point later, so stay tuned)

Now, on to the sort of job I am seeking…basically, theatre production job ideal, some EFL teaching/writing tutoring/exam prep would be fine, I'd love to be someone's summer research assistant, I'd enjoy working in fashion retail but my retail experience (not listed above, as quite brief) is in luxury home décor and gourmet food, and I wouldn't mind any sort of part-time, office-y type job. I also at this point do not care if I do any sort of extra/model-y type stuff, as I've done bits of this before and in any case anything I do will be only until October when I will (hopefully) start a PhD. Things I will not do: anything to do with food preparation, water, cleaning products or children under the age of 15. Also, nothing that requires me to wear a name tag (unless it's someone else's name).

One more thing…in the interest of fairness, I will not list the names of any place of employment with which I have dealings by its real name.

And we're off!

Meanwhile back in London…

So here I am, back in London at last after 6 weeks in the US, during which I wrote, somewhat regrettably, nothing. That's not strictly true, as I did write two complete PhD applications with writing samples, bibliographies and research proposals. But you don't really want to read about professional/geographic dialects in the 17^th century, do you? In any case, I don't wish to. Not at the moment anyway. I suppose in a way the silence makes sense, as this is a blog about a previously Anglofilic American, who is fast turning into an Anglophobe under the influence of London. How fitting then that my first relevant (for these purposes) observation came while I was in the air, midway between New York and London.

Despite fearing it would depress my already ambivalent spirits, I decided to throw caution to the wind by watching Easy Virtue, which is a delightful film based on a Noel Coward play. It's about a glamorous and slightly shocking (of course) American racecar driver who falls in love with and marries the son of a crumbling aristocratic family from, you guessed it, the UK. Predictably, misery ensues for all (American has sat for Picasso! Doesn't over cook her vegetables! Can't prevent idiot sister-in-law from doing the can-can knickerless at a church fete!). As I watched, I felt compelled to write down the following dialogue/lines, which seemed to particularly resonate w/my experience of the UK:

Father: Smile.

Daughter: I don't feel like it.

Father: You're English, dear. Fake it.

…

American girl: Coming here has been the most demoralizing experience of my life.

…

American girl again: I can't live here. Nothing can.

To which this American girl says: Too right. (At least not for very long anyway, or without being transformed in the process into someone utterly unlike myself).

Having set the tone for the flight, I decided to continue on with Revolutionary Road. I have been avoiding this film, which I also very much wanted to see, for weeks, on the grounds that it would likely confirm my worst suspicions about the pitfalls of marriage, but having survived Easy Virtue without recourse to the galley (refuge of alcoholics and social drinkers on am flights – you can separate the pros from the amateurs given the number of trips back and the knowledge that such a system exists in the first place) I felt somewhat invincible. I didn't write down lines on RR, tone much to serious and just generally brilliant and deserving of 100% attention without distractions of rummaging for moleskine, but as the film ended, I couldn't help but be struck by its similarity to EV. Voici:

EV: Film made by Brits about the stultifying nature of life in Britain. Set in the 1920s.

RR: Film made by Brits & Americans about the stultifying nature of life in the United States. Set in the 1950s.

Two critiques of society, two vintage time periods that allow the audiences to conveniently ignore the contemporary resonance, should they desire to do so. Of course, you'd have to be completely oblivious to miss the obvious relevance, but still neither of these movies offers the unavoidable scrutiny of American Beauty or Disturbia, par example.

With about an hour of movie viewing time left, I decided to watch some of La Vie En Rose (Why, by the way, was this film, La Môme en français, released in English-speaking countries under a different, but still French, name?). While doing so, I tried to think if any of the European films I've seen (and I've seen quite a few by now) depict the sense of "hopeless emptiness" (RR) that so many well-made and critically-acclaimed Anglophone movies seem to. Possibly Caché (Hidden), but otherwise I can't think of any that get at quite the same sense of quiet desperation. Perhaps when Pink Floyd referred to hanging on in quiet desperation as the English way they were speaking of the language, not the nation, as it seems to be a transatlantic problem. Given the exuberant work of Baz Luhrman, perhaps Australia's exempt. Or perhaps I just haven't seen enough Australian cinema.