that language

Already missed one personal deadline for this blog, and it’s only the third post. Well, well, what can one do when they have a dismal day which started like this:

‘Bruna! Wake up! Aren’t you ever going to get up?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t you know what time it is? Why don’t you sleep at night? What were you…’

‘I was studying! I spent the night studying, that’s all.’

‘Studying? What? That language of yours?’

That was it. You can say whatever you want about me (not actually, but, still), auntie, just don’t touch Welsh. You-just-don’t. Or any other thing I do simply for the sake of doing - like writing a blog about a trip to Wales. I wish I could have said that yesterday. I usually can - I’ve always had a problem with the no-talking-back rule at home. Problem was, I’m not making any money at the moment, for the first time in thirteen years, but the bills keep coming, and we’d just had an honest talk about family affairs the day before, in which I learnt some ugly things I’ve just written (an entertaining paragraph) about and deleted in case this blog falls onto the screen of someone it shouldn’t, lol. So here’s why you didn’t hear from me yesterday - except if you read my self-pitying post on Facebook about hugging myself. Yes, that’s how ridiculously low I was feeling. That post did get quite a few likes, though, so I’m probably not the first person to feel like that.

Besides seventeen likes (not bad, I’ve got 205 Facebook ‘‘‘friends’’’ at the moment - this recent trip to Wales I should be writing about increased the previous number considerably), that post gave me an idea for a project, ‘hug yourself_the project’ (obrigada, Guilherme! rs), and reminded me of why the time I spent in Wales was worth every single hardship I’m currently facing (diolch yn fawr, Charles!). I was even awarded, to the sound of ‘J’y suis jamais allé’, from the Amélie soundtrack, gold, silver and bronze medals for cwtch, coffi yfed and cysgu, respectively (perhaps the order should’ve been sleeping, hugging and coffee drinking instead?). One doesn’t get recognition for their special talents this way every day, so I was really pleased. Nonetheless, this is not what I’m writing about today, not today. I’ve got to write about what it means to decide to go on an unpaid leave for six months to study Welsh for eight weeks when you’re 34 years old and Brazilian with no connection to Wales whatsoever.

by Charles (or, yn Gymraeg, gan Charles)

I’m not that bold (or am I?). I left the country to spend four weeks abroad and be back in time for the beginning-of-term meetings. I wouldn’t have believed it if I’d been told, while boarding that plane, I’d actually be staying for the full two months of the course. I’m so glad I did. I wouldn’t have met people like Jess, the girl from Australia who not only speaks awesome Welsh for our level, but also likes Clarice Lispector and Mads Mikkelsen (and has the best answer to the question ‘Why learn Welsh?!’ - why not? lol), and Carol, the ‘other Brazilian girl at the hostel’ (more about her, much more about her, later), both of whom you’ve already met here, as the first was one of the Bute Park fence climbers and the latter, one of the Loyal Friends at Burger King. I wouldn’t have found out Liz (who’s starred all of the posts on this thing so far) and I had been living parallel lives for most of our lives, each at their own little corner of the world (well, Liz’s world is way bigger than mine, but the similarities are striking), and I wouldn’t have learnt much Welsh, as only after the fourth week did I start to feel any confident about my ability to do so (nothing to do with the first four tutors, mind you: it was actually down to time, my time, the one it took me to get past the feeling of bewilderment that goes with learning something from scratch).

OK, all that sounds really nice (well, I think so, lol). Just remember it was a summer course, and summers don’t last forever (a shame, especially in the case of Cardiff, which does seem to benefit immensely from them, with their blue skies and surprisingly warm sunshines and supposedly mild temperatures). Just like one of those migrating birds, to use a real lame comparison, I had to fly back home at some point. And it’s not like I had something in store for me, an MA position to look forward to (and worry about, like the other Bute Park fence climber did, for weeks - I was so happy, hapus!, to hear he’d got it, eventually) or a Welsh family to go back to and make proud. I was coming back to months of what I call technical unemployment in the bosom of a Japanese family. They’re a good family, I don’t mean to be unfair - my father, in particular, has been very supportive. Still, we’re low, very low, lol, middle class people. We can’t simply not work. It’s not how things work here at home. Therefore, I knew what was coming, I knew I’d upset a few people a few times before I got back on track. People would advise me to take contradictory actions, different people and the very same ones. I’d get into a couple of arguments and I’d cry a couple of times.

I owe so much money at the moment that I’m considering not getting a haircut until March 2017, when it’ll be about one year overdue. I know there are people, families, in much worse financial situations than me, of course. I’m only warning you, if you ever consider doing something of the type, to perhaps plan it better. It was wonderful, the whole experience, including the fact that I wasn’t expecting it to happen the way it did. Would I do it again? What do you think? Here I am, spending most of my day in front of a laptop writing to people in my head, my imaginary readers. What will I do with Welsh? Do I plan on applying for a PhD in Wales? Can’t afford it. A job, then, maybe? Haven’t got a citizenship which would allow me to do so. So what the heck?... I plan on becoming a fluent Welsh speaker one day, however far that day may be, and I plan on having nice little conversations with strangers in Welsh the next time I visit the country. Like, next year, I hope. Which is why I’ve been so unpleasantly focused on the subject of work and money, sorry. I shall give you Fernando Pessoa and crepes next time. Or, simply, more wine. A bit of Welsh, for a real change?