Lost in Translation

We might all speak English here, but some meaning of words still gets lost in translation. I already explained this once, in the jumper/sweater conversation I had with Fluf (see the Little Things: clothing post). However, I come across more and more important ones. Take, for instance, the several nights ago when a bunch of us were hanging out in Fluf’s room, playing Psychiatrist (an exciting game involving a person dubbed “psychiatrist” questioning everyone in order to determine the “condition” of all the “patients” in the room). During this game, I kept having to describe what I was wearing. My response would be “gray pants and a gray T-shirt.” Every time I spoke, all the Brits in the room seemed to get a little smile on their faces. This remained a total mystery to me until finally, the other day, Fluf explained to me that I wear “trousers,” not pants. Now, my initial reaction to calling my jeans or sweatpants “trousers” was one of resistance, particularly because that terms seems so formal and old-fashioned. However, when he proceeded to inform me that “pants” means “underpants,” I quickly revised my mental vocabulary.

This is kind of similar to when I was first told to always call a “fannypack” a “bumbag.” Doesn’t “bumbag” sound like a silly term? It only sounds silly until you find out that “fanny,” in England, means vagina. That discovery gave a whole new meaning to my reading of Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. As for “bumbags,” I now just avoid using the term at all.

The same night we played Psychiatrist in Fluf’s room, he offered us all dessert. “Ice cream and jelly,” was what he offered to go get from the kitchen. This sounded a bit odd, but I figured that the jelly must just be a substitute for other toppings like chocolate or caramel sauce, so I accepted the offer. Plus, Sophie and Urvi were terribly excited over eating this concoction, so I assumed it must be a really yummy combination. Then, Fluf brings in a container of ice cream and . . . a bowl of Jello.

Note to self: never ask for jelly for your toast at any restaurant. Weird looks will follow.

Fluf was appalled that we call “jelly” by its commercial name. Meanwhile, I had never noticed. Yet, I do take great pains not to refer to “tissues” as “Kleenex.” Another name-brand label I caught was Band-Aid. They’re called “plasters” here. If you ask for a Band-Aid, as I did at basketball practice one Friday, no one will admit to having one. However, say “plaster,” and all of a sudden, every girl starts rooting around in her bag. It was like magic.

This is not to accuse Americans of being the only ones to use name brands to label common products. Brits actually have their very own verb, generated from a name brand. They do not vaccuum their rooms; they “Hoover” them.