Europe, the Middle East and Africa (EMEA)

Basque Country

Euskal Herria

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Euskal Herria

Basque

Did you know that Basque is one of the oldest languages in Western Europe? For centuries, linguists and historians have analyzed, deconstructed, studied, and tried to trace the Basque language back to its roots. Yet to this day, nobody has been able to pinpoint its exact origin. In the linguistics field, Basque is known as a language isolate, or what we call an “orphan” in the world of family language trees. And, although all scholars seem to have agreed that Basque (or Euskara) is not of Indo-European origin like Spanish, French or English for example, there are more differences in opinion than there are similarities.

Some scholars claim the language of Euskara resembles Berber, a language spoken in Northern Africa. Others find linguistic similarities with the Georgian language spoken in the Caucasus, a possible but very distant cousin. Many say it is a language of prehistoric origins, and a small few have even suggested that it comes from outer space! Nothing like a bit of linguistic mystery to get the imagination going.

The Mysterious Basques

In Basque, Euskal Herria literally means “the land or country where Basque is spoken.” It is an area of approximately 3,900 square miles (10,000 square kilometers) straddling the Western Pyrenees in what is modern-day Spain and France. Most Basques are usually bilingual, speaking Basque and either Spanish or French, and according to EKE (Basque Cultural Institute) there are approximately 750,000 speakers in the world. When speaking about the Basque Country and its borders it is almost impossible to avoid politics, particularly given its very recent violent past for the claim of independence. Luckily, the still ever-present independence conflict has now turned mostly peaceful so let’s just avoid that topic altogether and focus on the wonderful culturally distinct area that it is.

Vitoria-Gasteiz

Christmas 2019 was the last time I travelled to the Basque Country to visit family. You have probably heard about the city of Bilbao, the twentieth century industrial town today turned modern-hip city housing the Guggenheim museum. Or perhaps you have heard about San Sebastian with its glitzy International Film Festival, fine sand beaches full of surfers, and bars displaying their gastronomical delights. Both cities have much to offer, however, I will virtually take you to the city of Vitoria-Gasteiz, the de-facto capital of the Basque Country and the lesser known of these three larger cities south of the Pyrenees. 

The winter holiday is a nice time of the year to visit Vitoria if you don’t mind cold weather. In fact, any time of the year is a good time as you will easily avoid the swarms of tourists further up north. While I am likely biased, Vitoria is actually picturesque and well worth the visit. The city and surrounding areas are great for hiking and biking, there are museums, palaces, and churches to see, as well as many restaurants and bars. Plus Napoleon’s armies were defeated there, so plenty of history to explore if that’s your thing. 

One of the first things we always do when we arrive, after dumping our bags at grandpa’s, is take the tram to Sancho el Sabio street and start our pintxos tour. The timing of our arrival is generally planned to coincide with the evening pintxo fare, around 7 or 8 pm, but don’t fret – you can find pintxos earlier in the day in many bars.

The Basque “Pintxo” Culture

A pintxo is a piece of bread with a small bit of food on top held together by a toothpick. Normally you can eat a pintxo in a bite or two, making this the main distinguishing feature between a pintxo and a Spanish tapa for which you generally need a fork to eat. My kids love pintxos! The variety of toppings make it easy to find something they will actually eat, and I assure you my two are quite picky. For them, having something to eat while not being forced to sit down and listen to the adults go “blah blah blah” is heaven. And for us, well… pintxo culture makes it totally acceptable to take the kids bar hopping, enjoy little bites to eat while tasting local tempranillo wines from the nearby Rioja Alavesa or the fresh and little acidic txakoli, a Basque white wine. What is there not to love? We like to make our way up the hill from bar to bar to the medieval center of the town before strolling back with a full belly to catch the tram.

The medieval part of town dates back more than 8 centuries and it is gorgeous – an almond-shaped quarter with pedestrian streets, a mix of centennial palaces, spectacular old churches, modern urban sculptures, and a ton of activity around the holiday time. At any bar you will be hard-pressed to find a seat as they are usually packed with friends catching up, chatting and eating, especially during weekends. Submit to the culture and take in all the hustle and bustle – you will be glad you did. Even though Basque people are sometimes reserved, overall, they are good humored and friendly.

Languages in the Basque Country

What I have noticed over the years when I go back is the increasing number of people that I hear speaking Basque in the street, particularly younger people. The most recent estimate is that 1 in every 6 people in the Spanish side of the Basque country now speak Euskara. Otherwise, you will hear Spanish spoken and nobody will look at you strangely either if that’s all you speak.

According to Hella Basque, “bilingual Euskara speakers increased by 6% from 1991 to 2016.”1 

Although this is quite hopeful, on the French side the number of Basque speakers is dwindling, and now only 1 in every 10 inhabitants speaks it. Despite the efforts to revive the language on the Spanish side, which I bear witness are being fruitful, UNESCO has declared Euskara as an endangered language which makes me sad.

Won’t You Join Me in Basque Country?

I feel very lucky to have been born and raised in such a culturally different part of Europe. I feel honored to have had the chance to learn and speak (even if at a rather basic level) a very unique and ancient language, and even more honored to now be able to share all of it with my family and friends – and of course, all of you. 

I definitely can’t wait for the next time I go to the place I still call home. Won’t you join me there?

 

Written by Ronait Tynan

 

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Ma Belle France

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Ma Belle France From North to South

French-speaking Global Population

If you are anything like I am, visiting France is an experience you aren’t likely to forget. 

According to the World Atlas, French is the official language in some 29 countries around the world. It is one of the procedural languages for the European Union (EU) and one of the recognized working languages of the United Nations (UN). When we include French native speakers, L2 speakers, partial speakers, as well as speakers of various French dialects and creoles, the world is home to arguably as many as 300 million French speakers. Nearly half of the global French-speaking population lives in Sub-Saharan Africa, Northern Africa, and the Middle East. With a rapidly growing African population, the Organisation Internationale de la Francophonie (OIF) estimates that by 2050, there may be as many as 700 million French speakers, 80 percent of whom will reside in Africa. 

Download the Data

Download the Data

My Canadian Roots

I was born in Canada. I grew up in a steel city in southern Ontario not too far from Toronto. When I was a little girl of 9 years old, I was introduced to the wonderful world of French, and I was immediately obsessed. I excelled in all of my French lessons and would speak French with anyone who’d engage me. After my fourth year of high school, I was accepted into a federal government program that allowed me to spend the summer in Quebec. I was placed in the highest level, and spent two full months fully immersed in the French Canadian language and culture. I’ll write a future post about my unforgettable experiences Quebec. If you’ve never been, throw some clothes in a duffel bag, hop in the car, train, or plane, and head to Quebec! It’s simply amazing.

By the time I was in grade 13 (let me translate — I’m speaking “Canadian” now. Grade 13 no longer exists but it was offered as a 5th year of high school for all those keeners like me who wished to continue their academics into university), I was not only conversing with my French teachers in the French language, but I was hired by Alliance Française to work their evening telephone lines. By the following September, I headed off to the University of Ottawa and spent some time at the Université de Laval in Quebec to eventually earn my degree in French Language and Literature. Yep. I was hooked, and still am to this day.

You know, I didn’t even have a single immediate family member with whom to engage in the French language except for one lovely aunt who was (and is) also a Francophile. Everything I learned, I learned on my own, with nothing more than a burning desire to speak the language I had quite literally fallen in love with. After I earned my degree, every single job I have ever held has involved the French language in one degree or another.

My French Translation Days

In my early days following graduation, I worked at a local paint and wallpaper store. I was responsible for answering all the calls that came in from the store’s French clientele who resided in Northern Ontario and Quebec. I then went on to work as a translator for an insurance company. I was primarily responsible for translating medical documentation, as well as legal and general correspondence from French to English. And I’ll let you in on a little secret — this was well before the days of CAT tools and translation memories.

Yep. I used good old-fashioned generic, medical, and legal dictionaries in both languages. And I loved it. Every single second of it, even when it involved (which it almost always did) having to dissect and identify each and every letter in each and every word a doctor had illegibly scribbled into her notes before I could even begin the translation process. I loved it. I loved French. I loved the sound of it. I loved the French Canadian culture. I loved learning about the French culture and its history in general. And I still do. No, I’m not a Francophone, but I am most certainly a Francophile for life.

Traveling to France

I had eventually left the insurance world and returned to graduate school to earn a Masters degree in Education. Within weeks of graduation, I was scooped up by an elementary school, offering me a French Immersion teaching position. I would then spend the next eight years, teaching French Immersion in Canada before relocating to the United States. In the US, I was immediately hired to teach the French language and culture, and spent the next few years, teaching at the elementary, middle, and high school years.

It was during these years that I was invited to act as a chaperone, and accompanied my high school French students to France. And it was in France that something very powerful and quite unexpected happened to me — but more on this later. In fact, I suspect I have to tell my story in a somewhat backwards fashion so as to end on my most extraordinary moment. Yep, I’ll start at the end.

Le Paris

Oh yes, Paris. It certainly didn’t disappoint. One of my fondest memories was our visit to the Sacré Cœur. After our tour, we rested for a quick bite to eat on the stone stairs and the grassy hills at the basillica’s entrance. It was here that I had to at least attempt to start a conversation with one of the statues vivantes. I just couldn’t help myself.

Our time in Paris was extraordinary. We visited the Salvidor Dalí museum, took a cruise on the Seine, paid our respects to Notre Dame, and climbed the Eiffel Tower. I suspect this is typical for most tourists, but it was beyond special for me. In fact, there was one particular moment that literally stopped me in my tracks. But more on this later on.

Le Sud de la France

Our final destination was a visit to Montpellier, a beautiful historic city which sits near the south coast of France, on the Mediterranean Sea. We also spent quite a bit of time in the wonderful port of Sète. We visited the Sète marketplaces. We hiked Mont St-Clair, we picnicked and played soccer on the Mediterranean, and we experienced the breathtaking Grotte de Clamouse.

On one particularly surreal evening, we dined in a 16th century castle. Among the guests, were an elderly Québecois priest in full garb, an English rock star with his mother, stern-faced French politicians huddled together discussing politics, a group of French instructors, and I, one very overwhelmed and very hypnotized Francophile Canadian. I’ll admit, I felt a little intimidated but it didn’t stop me from trying to my heart’s content to converse with everyone.

I sat with the Quebecois priest who was as lovely as lovely can be. I tried to speak politics with the men huddled in the corner but that didn’t bode too well. They were much too involved in the politics of the day to entertain this starry-eyed Canadian. I talked at length with the rock star and was completely charmed by him and his mother’s British accents and humorous stories. But I truly spent the majority of the evening with our lovely Monpellier hosts who couldn’t have been more supporting and inviting. And the castle! Oh my goodness, the castle! I have never in my life seen a dining table as long as the one with which were were presented. I have never even come close to stepping foot in a stone building as extraordinarily antique as this. I have never spent a more enchanted evening — and I suspect I never will again.

Montpellier

Back in Montpellier, my colleague and I stayed with a couple who welcomed us into their home as one would welcome their own family. Each evening, we’d enjoy the most delectable meals. We would sit around the table for hours laughing and losing ourselves in engaging conversation. We would then retire to the den where we would listen to music and sing our most beloved songs, and it was at this moment that I found a delightful Canadian connection.

Our male host, whose name sadly escapes me, was a huge fan of Leonard Cohen, the one-and-only Leonard Cohen, a Canadian singer, songwriter, and poet. And it just so happens, this here Canadian is also a huge fan. We would sing his songs every night while our host played guitar, and it was quite literally magical. I was living in a dream. On our final night, I presented him with a gift — a double compact disc of Leonard’s greatest hits. The world has since lost our beloved Leonard Cohen, but those evenings, in the den of our friends’ home in Monpellier, these aren’t memories that are likely to ever fade away, I pray.

Back to Paris

So, why do I want to end my story at the beginning? Because it was in Paris that something quite extraordinary happened to me — and I didn’t see it coming until it landed squarely in the center of my being.

Ok, so, to know me is to know that I am a mother at heart. I take that responsibility very seriously as all mothers do. Naturally, I extended that responsibility to my students, who to me, were my children when they were in my care. So, having taken on the enormous responsibility of caring for other families’ children on foreign soil was not one I engaged in lightly.

On the morning we were to visit the Champs-Élysées and the Louvre, I was feverishly counting heads, gathering up my chickens, quite typical of any other morning. After ensuring everyone was accounted for, and after lining up my little darlings, partnering them with a buddy, and giving them safety instructions for the day like the dutiful mother that am, we were off. We walked briskly through the streets to make good timing. Yes, I was that sort of teacher who was also very respectful of schedules and made sure we were on time — or ahead of time — to each and every event. In the hustle and bustle, I must have not really been focused on “where” I was, but more focused on my students’ safety and the need to keep on schedule. 

l’Arc de Triomphe

So we hustled and we bustled on. We hurried our way through the streets as I continued to gather my chickens as close to me as I possibly could — and then, all of a sudden, it happened. We were there. We were standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe, and it was as if everything else faded away. It was as if time had stopped in its tracks and it was just the Arc and I. I was so busily counting heads and ensuring everyone’s safety that I didn’t see it coming. I could feel tears forming in my eyes and suddenly I was weeping.

You see, I grew up in a single-family home. We had next-to-no money and I grew up with very limited expectations with regard to what I’d be able to accomplish in life. It was those early years of my upbringing that made a lasting impression upon me, that formed my thoughts and perceptions so to speak. All my life, I felt in my heart that I was just a poor, little girl from a steel city, and although I talked the big talk to my students about France, about Paris, and about its history, and although I spoke as though I was some sort of expert, I always felt in my heart of hearts that I was an impostor of sorts.

In my mind’s eye, I was always going to be that poor little girl who dreamed of France but who could never actually afford to visit. And somewhere inside of me, I felt somewhat like a phony, offering these engaging, lively lessons to my students to try to instill in them, the passion and love I had for this language and its culture, even though I had never, ever stepped foot on France’s soil, and likely never would. But then suddenly here I was, standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe. 

I had made it. I was no longer a phony. I was no longer that little Canadian girl who only dreamed of her France. I was standing on Her soil. It is quite impossible for me to describe how humbling this was, and how honored I felt to have been a part of something so ground-shaking — at least that’s how it felt for me.

Like all dreams do, this one too soon came to an end, and I was on my way home, back to counting all my little chickens’ heads en route, all the way back to the States. My time in France had come to an end. 

Ma chère et belle France, tel est le rêve que je porte dans mon cœur.

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