Culture Share: USA (Florida) - Orlando: What's it Like Living in a Mickey Mouse Town?

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This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Ann Meier discusses life in Orlando, Florida.

Orlando: What’s it Like Living in a Mickey Mouse Town?

by Ann Meier

Good question. Orlando is the City Beautiful and that’s not a bad slogan. Orlando’s clean, shiny and new, with lots of trees and lakes – read former sinkholes. Periodically, the Convention and Visitors Bureau gives us a new slogan. A recent one appealed to me – Orlando Makes Me Smile. I smiled every time I saw the banner hanging from the convention center. We also Believe in Magic, both the basketball team and the Magic Kingdom.

There are many misconceptions about Orlando that confuse international travelers. The Miami airport is not a hop, skip, or jump away. Orlando does not have a beach. The east coast beaches are 45-minutes away. And when we say west coast, we mean the Tampa area—not California. Those beaches are two hours from Orlando. And the town closest to Walt Disney World, Kissimmee, is not pronounced Kiss a me. It’s Kuh sim me. One misconception we told ourselves for years, was that we were too far inland to worry about hurricanes. Wrong. Charley, Frances, and Jeanne visited in 2004. Those were visitors we hope we don’t see again.

Most people who visit Orlando never come anywhere near Orlando. They fly into OIA and head directly by cab, rental car, or shuttle to the parks which are many congested miles southwest of town. A few may notice that the airport code is MCO and try to figure out the designation. It’s not some combination of Mickey and Orlando. The designation is for McCoy the name of the military airfield that was there before the airport.

We love our tourists, but driving amongst them is dicey. They are lost often. Think nothing of cutting across three lanes of hurtling traffic to make a last minute turn, and then there are the Brits. They fly in by the hundreds—bless their Virgin Atlantic hearts—to the second area airport called Orlando-Sanford International. This airport is not in Orlando. This airport is more than forty miles from the tourist attractions. This means the Brits rent cars. Some scary things happen as they get used to driving on our side of the road in traffic going 70 mph down the interstate.

Tourists complain about paying tolls twice on the section of the Beachline (SR 528) that only runs a few miles from the airport to Interstate 4. We locals hate the tolls also and no one really believes the Expressway Authority needs all that money. But rest assured, the tolls are not just bunched in the tourist corridor. Most of us have E-Passes to blast through all these toll plazas. Orlando is obstinate. The rest of the state uses Sun Pass. E-Pass automatically charges $40 dollars to our credit cards each time our account balance gets low. Around here that can be a couple times a month especially if we use the Greeneway around the eastern edge of town to avoid the congestion and tourists on Interstate 4.

Greeneway is not misspelled. Despite all the greenery it runs through, it was named for a person. There was a contest for naming the road. One suggestion was the fruit loop, but the road didn’t make a circle and the orange groves are pretty much gone. The development post-Disney and some hard freezes ruined them. Used to be, the fragrance of orange blossoms filled the warm spring air at night. Now, the smell from muck fires is more common. Swamps burn and often. Central Florida is sometimes referred to as the Lightning Capitol of the country (maybe the world). The weather people run a lightning counter with their updates. These numbers can be upward of 6,000 strikes in an hour. Hunker down is a common admonition on these broadcasts. Seasoned firefighters from other states are surprised that bright green foliage can burst into flames easily in a forest fire. Back to orange blossoms. There’s a major roadway called Orange Blossom Trail. It’s not lovely. Don’t be misled.

Getting around in Orlando is expensive and frustrating for locals and tourists. For starters, Interstate 4 is an east-west highway, but in Orlando it actually runs north-south. Asking directions can be tricky because a local may tell a visitor to go south on the interstate, but when the visitor gets to the interstate the signs say east or west. Everyone in Orlando drives—except recent arrivals from the islands (Puerto Rico and Haiti) and the aforementioned Brits. Unfortunately the busy streets are not safe for walkers. Taxis are concentrated at the airport and they ONLY want to take people to the parks or International Drive. They can be surly if you want to head into town since they’ll have a hard time finding a fare for a return trip. Locals probably have never hailed a cab. In town, there is a free bus called the Lymo that runs between parking garages and through the heart of the business district. Lynx is the name for the regular bus system. The buses are painted bright colors like neon pink, lime green, or electric blue.

People do not shop in town. They shop at the malls. The tourists love the outlet centers at the north end of International Drive and the large Florida Mall off the Beachline. There is nightlife in downtown Orlando with new restaurants and bars. Tourists are more likely to find night entertainment at Universal’s City Walk or Disney’s Pleasure Island. (By the way, the name comes from Pinocchio. Look it up.) At this point, there are no movie theaters downtown. The city streets are not on a grid pattern since there are lakes everywhere. Streets meander, change both directions and names frequently. It is a very confusing.

Houses are built from concrete block and mostly painted pastel shades. They sit on slabs. There are no basements and no coat closets. It is very common for bathrooms to have doors that lead directly outside to a patio area whether the house has a pool or not. Very few houses have hardwood floors. Carpet, ceramic tile, or laminates are the floor coverings of choice. A lot of houses do have fireplaces. Surprise. They might be filled with flowers or candles, but we do have them. And we love our paddle fans. No one lives in a house on a hill. Orlando is five feet above sea level and flat as Flat Stanley. To maintain a house and lawn, you need a good bug service. I personally have three. One for inside that comes every other month, one for the lawn that comes on the same schedule, and a termite service that comes quarterly to monitor for activity.

Running barefoot through the grass is a bad idea for a couple of reasons. First, St. Augustine grass is predominant in our lawns – up north, you’d call it crab grass and yank it out. It’s a wiry, hardy grass that grows on runners. There’s nothing soft about it. The other reason is fire ants. Those little guys sting like fury. It takes weeks for the welts to go away. And never, ever wade into any body of water. Even casual water hazards on the golf courses are home to gators. The most common trees are live oaks and they lose their leaves in the spring. They don’t go bare, it’s more a shedding process. They also fill the air with yellow pollen that coats everything. It makes my eyes water thinking about it.

Our theme parks employ more people than live in a good sized town. Many of Walt Disney World employees are unionized. In other words, Mickey Mouse is a Teamster. When Disney came to Florida they invited the unions in as a matter of course, used to the studio environment in California. Universal Studios bought into Florida as a right to work state and fought unionization of its workforce. All theme park employees work extremely hard. They work odd schedules. They socialize in after hours bars and restaurants. Most give discounts to hospitality workers. Because of the 24/7 nature of the business, it’s not uncommon for someone to host a holiday dinner that runs all day with people dropping in before or after their shifts. Our workforce is diverse. Language differences can create barriers. I once worked in a resort where conflicts were common. I recall a knife fight at what we called the housekeeping barn. Don’t ask. The knife fight was over a bible. It’s that kind of place.

Employees at Walt Disney World are called cast members and they wear costumes—not uniforms. The costumes that characters wear are hot. They make 20 minute appearances in the park and they always have handlers nearby. They never roam about unescorted When cast members are at their work location, they are on stage. One cool detail is the two-fingered point used to direct guests (not customers) Watch for it next time you visit.

Yes, There is a tunnel system running underneath the Magic Kingdom (none of the other parks). It contains break rooms, stock rooms, the employee cafeteria, wardrobe and cash control. No. Walt isn’t frozen and stashed in Cinderella’s Castle. There are offices in the second story of the shops that line Main Street. Cast members are trained to respond to each question from guests as if it is not the one trillionth time it’s been asked. The most frequent question is “Where are the bathrooms?” The most inane is “What time is the 3:00 o’clock parade?” The answer to the bathroom question is frequently accompanied by the two-fingered point. You can imagine on your own how cast members react to the parade question.

EPCOT stands for Experimental Prototypical City of Tomorrow, but cast members like to say it stands for Experimental Polyester Costume of Tomorrow. EPCOT is probably the favorite Disney park for locals without children. Its restaurants, major festivals, and entertainment are a huge draw. The six week Food and Wine Festival is in itself worth buying an annual pass for. Throw in the Flower Festival and the pass can pay for itself.

Many, many, many of us have worked in the parks at one time. You can spot us anywhere. We can’t pass a piece of trash and leave it unmolested. When you visit, please take small children by the hand, be sure to gather all your personal belongings, and watch your step. If you follow all these instructions, I’ll shoot you my best theme park smile. I’ve got a closet full of them.

Ann Meier lives in Orlando and is working on a comic mystery series with a theme park setting. She was a member of Universal Orlando Resort’s opening management team and a trainer at Walt Disney World.

Culture Share: Brazil - Write About Your City (A Challenge)

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Fábio Fernandes discusses the city of São Paulo, Brazil


Write About Your City (A Challenge)
by
Fábio Fernandes



One of my most recent stories (still unpublished as I write this piece – June 3rd, 2011) is called The Remaker. It’s based on a short story by Jorge Luis Borges, Pierre Menard, Author of The Quixote. Basically (easy, I won’t give any spoilers) it deals with a future writer who revels in rewriting works by famous authors of the past, and how this can be done (and why someone even would do this) in the mid-21st Century.

But, even though this is the major plot point in my story, it is by no means the most important thing of it - or, at least, it’s not that how I envisioned it to be. For this story takes place in São Paulo, Brazil.

Most of you who read these words have never been to São Paulo, or to any Brazilian city. I don’t know if you are aware of my country and how big it is, and of its diversity. To this day, I still find out people that sincerely believe all of us Brazilians live right in the middle of the jungle, and we are not familiar with electricity, for instance.

How, I thought when I was writing The Remaker, can I show people that São Paulo is a city almost as big as Tokyo and almost as full of cultural and ethnic diversity as New York City? Not an easy task without resorting to clichés. So I focused on the story. And so it resulted that the first version portrayed almost every scene happening in closed quarters: a university library, a mall, the apartment of the protagonist, a café in downtown, a quaint, old-fashioned printing press, a bookstore, and a few other places. Interesting markers, and, I thought then, good markers in that they would show the non-Brazilian audience that São Paulo is a city like any other civilized city in the Western world. Yay for us!

But I didn’t think it was enough. For, in doing so, how São Paulo would be any different from Now York, London, or Paris? (among other things, lots of cafés in those cities, if you ask me.)

Besides, São Paulo offers a particular challenge for the writer. If you already watched the beautiful animation RIO (if not, go see it, I strongly recommend it) , you will see the beaches, the Carnival, and the huge, beautiful statue of Christ the Redeemer. It is indeed a beautiful statue, and every time I go to Rio to visit my parents, I like to walk in the beach with my mom in the sunset to shoot the breeze, talk about family, personal projects, and life, drink coconut water and look at the statue from a distance – at night it is wonderfully illuminated. (You should visit it someday.)

But São Paulo is another thing entirely. It is a megalopolis, an industrial city. Not a tourist place – though it has some of the most interesting Modern Art museums of the Americas, as the MASP (Museu de Arte Moderna de São Paulo), and its only visible monuments (aside from some very beautiful statues) are its huge buildings. The city is home to the main international event in Latin American athletics, the Saint Silvester Road Race, to the Brazilian Grand Prix of Formula 1, and several cultural events like the São Paulo International Film Festival (now in its 35th edition), the Virada Cultural (a once-a-year grand extravaganza featuring theater, classic and pop music, movies, book readings and signings – all for free during 24 hours straight), and the Gay Pride Parade, considered in 2006 the biggest pride parade of the world by the Guinness Book of World Records with an estimated 2.5 million participants. And did I mention that Brazil has the biggest Japanese community in the world outside Japan, most of which is based in São Paulo? And this is – really – just the tip of the iceberg.

The Remaker is in a slush pile of a magazine. I’m not sure if I managed to improve the perception of the foreign reader regarding the uniqueness of my adopted city. One thing is for sure: I still didn’t do everything I wanted to do with São Paulo. (Neither I was expecting to do it in one story.) But eventually I think I’ll be able to write a mosaic of stories in São Paulo, a set of near future stories where I can take the reader by the hand and show her the labyrinths of the largest city in the western and southern hemisphere, and the world's seventh largest city by population. It’s no small feat.


Fábio Fernandes is a writer living in São Paulo, Brazil. A university professor and translator, he is responsible for the Brazilian translations of several prominent SF novels including Neuromancer, Snow Crash, and A Clockwork Orange. His short stories have been published in Brazil, Portugal, Romania, England, and USA, and in Ann and Jeff VanderMeer's Steampunk II: Steampunk Reloaded. There's another story coming up in The Apex Book of World SF, Vol. II, ed. by Lavie Tidhar, later this year. He writes a column for SF Signal on e-books and e-readers.

Culture Share: Bulgaria - May 6th Saint George, Martyr and Dragon Slayer

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Harry Markov discusses Saint George's Day, May 6th, in Bulgaria.

May 6th is an important day for Bulgaria as we celebrate Saint George, who in Bulgaria is referred to as the Dragon Slayer or the Victorious (though literally from Bulgarian that one should be Victory Bringer). Saint George is the patron of farmers and shepherds. By default, all the people having names that remotely resemble George have a Name’s Day and celebrate: these include Georgy (Bulgarian version of said name ), Gergana, Gergina, Gloria, Gancho, Ginka, Ganka, Gabriella, Genady, Gosho, Genovena and many more.

Saint George’s Day is a big deal in Bulgaria for several reasons. For starters, Saint George is a saint of significance in the Christian pantheon. Because of his brilliant military career, Saint George’s Day also coincides with Day of Bravery and the Bulgarian Army. The tradition is alive and well - on the morning of May 6 all the news stations provide live feed from the army’s parade in the capitol as soldiers march to Alexandr Nevski’s Church. The ritual I noted this year was the blessing of the battle flags, though specific attention was paid to the Navy and their battle ships. I suppose that this specificity has to do with the legend that a healing water gushed after a church in the saint’s name was raised on the site where he killed the dragon.

It’s because of that particular feat why Saint George is one of the most recognizable saints in the Eastern-Orthodox mythology. In itself the legend doesn’t shock at all as it’s pretty straight to the point. In a true Greek fashion, we have a city located near a lake, which in turn was the home for this dragon. The dragon was a fierce poison breathing monster, whose breath could kill a person even from a solid distance. As a means to keep the beast away from the city, which had become the dragon’s go-to location for meals, the city ruler decided that each day a child would be left at the lake’s shore, inventing the first take-out delivery service for dragons anywhere (in Christian mythology).

Improper jokes aside, it was the city ruler’s young daughter to be eaten by the dragon, when Saint George appeared on a white horse and slew the dragon in the name of God as it emerged from the waters. This act – no one could previously kill the beast – was meant as a miracle so that God could convert the whole city into his followers. I suspect this particular myth served as the foundations for the knight on a white horse, who slays dragons and saves princesses.

Saint George is honored as a martyr. You remember the bit about his military career? Well, in fact, George served as a Roman soldier under the Emperor Diocletian. George proved himself to be a brave and honorable soldier, but that didn’t mean much when Diocletian decided to clean his army from Christians. Initially, George was picked to head the team that would be in charge of finding and killing Christians, when he himself revealed his love for God.

Diocletian tried to convert his best soldier to Roman beliefs, but when no offering convinced George to abandon Christ, tortures and decapitation followed. It was during these torture sessions that George performed countless miracles. He survived inhuman lashings, spending three days in a quicklime pit, poison and even swords grating his whole body. During his trial an angel appeared in order to heal George and in the end, at the command of the Emperor, he even resurrected a dead man.

Note: For the sake of being accurate, one must know that the “g” in all the names is not the “dʒ” sound like in the English George, but the normal “g” as in ‘guy’


Harry Markov lives in Varna, Bulgaria. This post originally appeared at his blog and is reprinted here with his permission.

Culture Share: Canada - Time as a measurement of distance

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Heidi Vlach discusses time as a measurement of distance in Canada.


Time as a measurement of distance in Canada by Heidi Vlach

For a lot of Canadians, an hour is a measurement of distance. Technically impossible, but it's true.

I hadn't thought it was strange until I had to explain it a few times to visiting Europeans. Canada is the second largest country in the world, with a population of only 35 million people peppered across all this space. Major cities are hundreds of kilometres away from each other. Practically speaking, exact distance to a destination doesn't matter -- it only matters how long the travel will take. So while the road signs say that Sudbury is 386 kilometres away from Toronto, most people here will tell you that Toronto is "four hours" away. That's approximately how long it'll take to drive 386 kilometres, after all. Why nitpick?

But it runs deeper than that. Metric measurement is the official Canadian standard (hence all the road signs giving kilometre measurements). That standard was only introduced in 1971 and it wasn't unanimously supported. Many older adults are more comfortable with imperial units -- the units they grew up learning. Ask an anglophone Canadian their height and they'll probably give you a feet-and-inches measure. Changing the national standard of measure doesn't happen overnight. Even now, many product labels still list two forms of measurements (e.g. millilitres and ounces), in the same way labels are written in both national languages, English and French. Just because metric is the technical standard doesn't mean everyone needs to be forced to use it in daily life.

Because of this, I grew up with my teachers using metric (mostly) and my family using imperial (mostly). A lot of American media spills over the border, so American TV shows added to my tendency to use imperial. I prefer nice logical centimetres if I'm measuring out a sewing project, but if I look at a person to guess their height, I understand it much better in the "five foot however-many-inches" terminology I hear on a daily basis. I wasn't taught a standard system so much as I was taught a particular state of cultural shift.

Many people of my generation show their cultural shift in the same centimeters-and-feet pattern as me, and I've never known an older adult to find it strange. Like a lot of things in the Canadian mosaic culture, measurement units are mostly a matter of personal preference. And if a Canadian doesn't remember exactly how far 100 kilometres is, they probably at least know the kilometers-to-miles ratio they need to estimate the answer. Everyone manages to get along and not sweat the details too much.

So I'm fairly sure hours are used to measure distance because that allows all Canadians an easy compromise. Everyone knows how long an hour is. And unless you drive at an unusual speed, everyone takes approximately four hours to travel from Sudbury to Toronto. With that out of the way, we can all get back to discussing the weather.

Heidi C. Vlach lives in northern Ontario, Canada.

Culture Share: Scandinavia - Travelers in Scandinavia, and no, I don't mean backpackers

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Therese Lindberg discusses Travelers in Scandinavia

Travelers in Scandinavia, and no, I don't mean backpackers by Therese Lindberg

Being a Traveler in Scandinavia involves a lot of things.
I could tell you about all the families who get bullied for who they are, about kids beaten in school and people chased from their land. Yes it happens even today.
But those are the rare occasions; usually we just blend in.
My family, my parents and my three siblings, have always had a house to live in. In fact from I was born till present day (twenty six) my family as a whole only moved three times, and only between two locations.

During the winter months of any given year, we live as any other family. We have a house, we have jobs, we go to church and we go to school. But when the snow starts melting and the birds return, that's when we “wake up.” The movie Chocolat with Johnny Depp portraits this well - when Vianne Rocher stands on the pier and feels the north wind calling her name.
The spring does the same for my kind. It's as if the essence of who we are goes into a state of hibernation during the winter months, and awakens to the song of the returned birds. The essence makes itself known, we become restless and the need for traveling will in the end win.

My Family has always owned a caravan, and my parents still do. This is not something limited to my family. Every spring the cellphones would start ringing and we would always laugh as we'd hear Father say “Feeling restless yet?” To the other person. We'd get more agitated as we stayed at home, and this was the same for almost every family.

They would take us out of school in the beginning of May and so we would travel. Usually accompanied by other families, and that's when you would, if a bystander, see four to five and even six caravans accompanied by a few cars traveling down the endless welcoming road.

We would travel to places where there were work to be found. I would say ninety percent of all male Travelers have carpenter or a painter as their occupation. I don't know why that is - they are simply good at it. And they would go knocking on doors and tell people they could fix their roof, paint their house, build a barn maybe. All in all a very old-fashioned hands on way of doing it.

The women however, would stay at the camp-site. The children would be free to play and if one became hungry there was always food to be found in one of the caravans. The women would see all the children as theirs, and make sure nothing happened to any of them.

If there were no jobs to be found in a town, or a city, we would move on. Usually we only stayed for a job, maybe two which took mostly one to three weeks. We would then pack up the caravan and head on to the next place, and we'd always feel excited, because who knew what waited in the next town?

Quite often would we cross the border into Sweden, and we had no problems driving through the night and perhaps let Father get a few hours sleep as we stopped at the side of the road. We all enjoyed it, as finally we were free.

Our language is called Rotipa and it is unfortunately a dying language. There aren't many people left who speak it, although most families use some of the words in their daily life. A dictionary was designed not long ago, and so we try to re-instate the language. It's a slow process but we're getting there.

We're an old race, with an outdated culture, and surviving in a modern society is difficult. And so we have adapted in order to survive, but during the summer months we are pretty much the same as we've always been. We've traded out the horse and carriage for a car and caravan, and the paintbrush has been replaced by modern equipment. But the women still stay on the campsite guarding the children and the men still go knocking on doors offering their services. At night we still light up a campfire and we all listen as the men tell stories about their day, and their ancestors.

Therese Lindberg lives in Fredrikstad, Norway, except when she is on the road.

Culture Share: Netherlands - Bicycles in the Netherlands by Corinne Duyvis

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Corinne Duyvis discusses bicycles in the Netherlands.

Bicycles in the Netherlands by Corinne Duyvis

If you've ever been to the Netherlands, you'll probably have noticed that we like our bicycles.

We like them a lot.

The Dutch landscape, being approximately as flat as the computer screen you're looking at right now, lends itself perfectly to cycling. Given that most of our cities were built long before the invention of cars, we also tend to have narrow streets, with very little space to ride a car, let alone park it. For that reason, our cities encourage bikes or public transport as a means of getting around.

Add that to the fact that biking is pretty well engrained into our national consciousness...

Well. It means a lot of bikes.

It also means the following things (note that this is written from the perspective of someone who's lived in Amsterdam all her life, and it might be different in other/smaller cities):

* Practically everybody learns to bike from a very young age; kids get their first bike the moment they're able to walk.

* We bike everywhere. To school, to work, to the supermarket, to concerts, to the train station. Everywhere.

* We don't wear any special clothing on our bicycles. Bicycle shorts and helmets are reserved for hardcore sports cyclists and small children.

* We bike whenever. Midnight. In the snow. In the wind. In the rain. (That's what ponchos are for, after all. I've even seen a few special-made bike umbrellas.)

* Amsterdam has more bikes than inhabitants.

* Getting your tyre caught in a tram rail is always a risk.

* Sometimes people walk their dogs by bike.

* The police will patrol using bikes.

* We text while cycling. (I'm sure some even play Angry Birds.)

* We have separate bike paths, plus bike traffic lights to go with them.

* Depending on the time and place, it's perfectly normal to have a good ten or more cyclists waiting at a single traffic light.

* There are bicycle racks to park your bikes all over the city. Practically every non-residential street has several. (Even some residential streets have them.)

* Many buildings will also have basements to park your bike in -- both my old high school and former place of employment had these. Separate bike garages also exist.

* None of this will stop a true Amsterdammer from chaining their bike to whatever stationary item crosses their path. Bridge railings, street lights, trees, and "do not park your bike here" signs are especially popular.

* Bike theft is a huge problem. If you're smart, you'll carry at least one extra lock with you and you'll loop it through both the frame, the wheel, and Stationary Item X, because loads of thieves will just leave the wheel behind and take the rest of the bike -- or will take only the wheel to supplement other wheel-less stolen bikes. It's bizarre how many people fail to do this and end up surprised when their bikes are missing an hour later.

* Abandoned bikes are a problem, too. The city will tag bikes that have been standing around for too long; if they're still there a couple of weeks later, they cut the locks and take them with them.

* In a similar way, thieves will steal bikes en masse: They rent a truck and just toss any bike not chained to something on there.

* We have special bike compartments in trains -- and you'll need to purchase a special bike ticket to be able to travel with them.

* We'll have grandmothers in evening wear biking to a classical piano concert; fathers biking home from the grocery store, dog in a basket up front, a kid in the seat on the back, and a heavy grocery bag dangling from the handlebars; businesspeople in full suits biking to and from work, suitcase strapped on the back; and teens balancing a crate of beer on their laps or the handlebars.

Corinne Duyvis lives in Amsterdam, in the Netherlands.

Culture Share: Iran - Iranian New Year

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Jahan and Tahereh Alizadeh introduce Iranian New Year.

Nowrūz (also, No-rooz or norooz) is the name of the New Year in Iranian calendar and the corresponding traditional celebrations. Nowruz is also widely referred to as the Persian New Year.

Nowruz is celebrated and observed by Iranic peoples and the related cultural continent and has spread in many other parts of the world, including parts of Central Asia, Caucasus, South Asia, Northwestern China, the Crimea, and some groups in the Balkans.

Nowruz marks the first day of spring and the beginning of the year in Iranian calendar. It is celebrated on the day of the astronomical vernal equinox, which usually occurs on March 21 or the previous/following day depending on where it is observed.


With the passing of a year and the coming of another, Iranians set a traditional Nowruz table called "Sofreh haft-seen" with of seven (7) kinds of food. The number seven has been regarded as magical by Iranians since ancient times and is symbolic of heaven's highest angels. Each type of food has a name starting with the letter "sin" in Persian (Farsi) - similar to the letter "s" in English. They symbolize life, health, wealth, abundance, love, patience, and purity. The tables with their seven articles symbolize the triumph of good over evil. This belief dates back to antiquity but the practice is still very much alive.

The seven articles usually used are:

1. Serkeh (vinegar)
2. Seeb (apple)
3. Seer (garlic)
4. Senjed (the dried fruit of the oleaster tree)
5. Somaz (sumac)
6. Samanu (creamy pudding made of wheat germ)
7. Sabzeh (a dish of specially raised wheat or other seed sprouts).

Each of these items has special symbolic significance. Vinegar represents old age and patience. Apple symbolizes health and beauty. Garlic (which is considered medicinal) represents health. The dried fruit of the oleaster tree represents love. Sumac berries are the color of the sun and symbolize the victory of good over evil. The samanu pudding is regarded as holy, and the wheat/lentil sprouts represent rebirth.

There are other things you can place on the table which may not begin with letter 's' but have significance. For instance, a book symbolizing wisdom: Muslims place the Holy Qur'an and Zoroastrians put the Avesta to implore God's blessings; some people may also put poetry books from Iranian poets.

To reconfirm all hopes and wishes expressed by the traditional foods, other elements and symbols are also on the sofreh:

• a few coins placed on the sofreh represent prosperity and wealth;

• a basket of painted eggs represents fertility.

• a Seville orange floating in a bowl of water represents the earth floating in space.

• a goldfish in a bowl represents life and the end of astral year-picas.

• a flask of rose water known for its magical cleansing power, is also included on the tablecloth.

• Nearby is a brazier for burning wild rue ,a sacred herb whose smoldering fumes ward off evil spirits.

• A pot of flowering hyacinth or narcissus is also set on the sofreh.

• A mirror which represents the images and reflections of Creation as we celebrate anew the ancient Persian traditions and beliefs that creation took place on the first day of spring.

On either side of the mirror are two candlesticks holding a flickering candle for each child in the family. The candles represent enlightenment and happiness. A jar of water is sometimes added to symbolize purity and freshness, along with bread, a traditional symbol of the sustaining of life. It is also usual to see fresh milk, cheese, fruits, dates, pomegranates and coins on the New Year table.

Jahan and Tahereh Alizadeh live in California. Jahan came to the US from Iran in 1977, and Tahereh in 2001.

Culture Share: Ireland - An Ear for Language by Joshua Ramey-Renk

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Joshua Ramey-Renk discusses language habits in Ireland.

An Ear for Language - They speak English here. Don’t they?
by Joshua Ramey-Renk

I recently spent a year and a half living in Dublin, Ireland, living among people who, like me, grew up speaking and writing the same language I do. Or so I thought.

While there, I had a chance to interact, mingle, and absorb many of the unique twists on language that the Irish use and which sound so foreign at first but after time become second nature. In fact, some of them became FIRST nature, and I found many of those same twists and changes crept unconsciously into my writing and had to be edited out later. Of course, the tricky part is recognizing that they’ve crept in in the first place. And it wasn’t just my writing, my spoken vocabulary changed as well.

These language shifts had three major types: Spelling, “Britishism vs. Americun” and Irishisms. Here are a few examples of each.

Spelling

It’s no great thing for an American writer who is also a wide reader to recognize that “colour” is the same as “color”, or that tires come with a “y” to become “tyres”, which touch the “kerb” instead of the “curb”. But when you realiSe that you should have realiZed something and spell check doesn’t help, you’ve started to go native.

And let’s not get started with the liberal use of the possessive apostrophe. It’s mine, it’s your’s, and it is it’s own rule in much written material. I include this under spelling because I was never able to figure out if the construction was official or not.

The chilli peppers in Dublin were so spicy they needed an extra “l”, but there are plenty available after students enrol in school. Unless they’ve already enrolled.

And what chance does a foreigner have when the Glendalough Hotel is near the Glendaloch Hostel, or the you get off at the Balally tram stop to visit Ballawley park?

Britishisms v. Amurican

I use the term “Britishism” advisedly. Implying that they are still under the linguistic thumb of the British Monarchy is a fighting argument for most of my Irish friends, but I have a pass because I drink a lot of Guinness and always stand my round at the pub. These are things that go beyond mere spelling and address more of the way language is used differently among our cousins across the pond. I think they are as common in the 26 counties of the Republic as they are in the six of the (“occupied”, some would say) North.

I found the largest differences in surprising places. I’m not a sport-type, but I do believe that San Francisco is a good baseball team, whereas the Gaelic Athletic Association would claim that Cork are a good side for the hurling. Similarly, while I visit a doctor at the hospital in the US, when I was in Hospital over Christmas for a kidney stone, Doctor’s opinion was paramount and both he, and the location, were devoid of either definite or indefinite articles. But both did get capitalized.

The things I found creeping into my writing, and speaking, the most were everyday expressions that replaced their more barbaric American counterparts. I stopped calling people on their cell phones and began ringing them on their mobiles. I no longer waited in line, but I did queue for a long time. And lastly, when my wife and I argued over something we stopped saying “Don’t you think..?” and began up-scaling the argument with “Would you not agree..?”

Irishisms

These were expressions and words that I started using which, on investigation, were pure Irish gold. That is to say, unique to the island, sometimes based on particular Irish-Gaelic language usage, and occasionally involved leprechauns.

When I was told by a colleague that they were after having a meeting with the CEO, I suggested that they should knock on his door because I had seen him in his office. I got an odd look, and was asked “Why would I do that? I just met with him.” Oh. I’m told that this version of “I just had a meeting…” comes straight from the Irish Gaelic usage.

At some point in my stay, I stopped talking about “my wife” and began telling people what “Herself and I” had done over the weekend. I stopped visiting the restroom and started hitting the jacks, which is a country expression that I blame on my good friend Lorcan D. for sticking me with the first week we worked together. And my favorite four-letter word became the more socially acceptable “Feck”.

Traveller’s advisory: Don’t ask an Irishman what they think about leprechauns. Apparently belief in such creatures is for the Plastic Paddies who buy souvenir trinkets to send to their American cousins. Or those claim to have seen them but who have drunk too much Guinness and are totally locked.

At the pub, I wouldn’t refer to “that guy”, but could point out that “yer man” had showed up again and was harassing the bar staff. And that cute woman at the bar? Well, yer wan is married and it’s best to stay away. Good enough for me, since Herself wouldn’t approve of it anyway and she’d be giving out to me the rest of the night, which is much worse than being scolded or nagged.

Lastly, I was never sure if I was supposed to “Come here to me now” and pay attention or “Go away!” because I had said something surprising. I blame both of these additions to my vocabulary on the linguistic stylings of Michael H., but he’s from Galway so that’s a whole different story.

I’ll be straight up and say that I’m not a linguist. Any or all of these observed language differences may be based on something completely different that I understand, and my adopted usage itself could be completely flawed. All I can say is that I’m an observer, a writer, and like all writers, to some degree I’m a chameleon. I listen, I write, and when I edit I have to look at strange new vocabulary that has snuck into my sentences and wonder “Just how the feck did that get in there?”


Joshua Ramey-Renk lived for a year and a half in Dublin, Ireland, before relocating back to California’s Bay Area - but you're still likely enough to find him with a pint at an Irish pub!

Culture Share: Food and Drink Customs in Greece by Dario Ciriello

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Dario Ciriello discusses food and drink customs in Greece.

Food and Drink Customs in Greece by Dario Ciriello

In the course of a dinner party, or during a social occasion where hors d'ouevres are served, it's not unusual for me to catch people eyeing me with mild disapproval. It's true: even after twenty years in the US, I still forget that reinserting, or 'double-dipping', the same chip or carrot stick you have just taken a bite of into a bowl of salsa or dip is simply not done. While I doubt this would raise a hair in Europe (see Fondue), I've more than once seen people drilling their kids on this point.

I, on the other hand, find it distressing to see even the most well-mannered Americans pushing food--peas, say--onto their fork with their fingers, a cultural oddity which must have something to do with the Old West, or perhaps the Great Depression. Why on Earth can't they use a knife in their off-hand? It drives me crazy.

In Europe, we believe that soup should be served piping hot, something that is universally ignored in the US. Salad comes after an entrée, not before—the idea is that the fresh, crisp greens or vegetables clean your palate after a rich main dish. Dessert is something for special occasions, and a plate of fruit, and/or cheese, is a tasty and healthy way to finish a meal And why is water always iced in the US, even in winter?

In Greece, where my wife and I spent a wonderful year on the small island of Skópelos, customs concerning food and drink are even more different, and sometimes challenging.

If you have the fortune to be a guest at a Greek table, you'll find that bowls and serving dishes are set out family-style, but without serving implements. Diners simply use their forks or spoons to pick at the dish, a mouthful at a time. To someone who's at all concerned about hygiene and matters bacterial, this is easily as disturbing as the business of double-dipping.

The first time I encountered this, I surreptitiously noted where my hosts—all apparently healthy, but one can never tell—inserted their utensils into the various dishes, and tried to serve myself from in-between these 'hot spots'. At first, it was easy, like keeping a mental count of the last few numbers that come up on a roulette wheel. But between the growing number of dishes, the shifting patterns of spoon- and fork-insertion as gaps appeared on the plates, the difficulty of keeping up a conversation in a language which I only vaguely grasped the outlines of, and my frequently-replenished wineglass, I was soon forced to abandon my efforts and simply hoped for the best. I was in Greece, and would have to learn Greek ways.

Nor are Greeks shy about using their hands to serve food, as we discovered when we were invited to an Easter celebration. When, after several hours on the spit, the lamb was done, our host and his future son-in-law manhandled it to the table and set it down in front of Máhi, our hostess. Máhi made a couple of big incisions, plunged both hands into the steaming carcass, and began to tear big off big hunks, laughing as she piled them onto our proffered plates. We'd never seen meat served this way at a dinner party, but at least it must be tender.

Then there's the business of heads. At Easter, the lamb carcass on the table still bore the charred remains of its face, complete with pointy teeth and cooked, milky eyeballs, facing us not two places away, a sight that is still vivid in my memory. And if you order mezés (snacks) at an ouzería, you'll at some point find yourself confronted with fish which still have the head attached, and which you're expected to eat.

When it comes to drink though, Greeks (and Southern Europeans generally) exhibit a good deal more sense than Northern Europeans or Americans. Drink is never, never served without ballast to accompany it and cushion the drinker's stomach against the too-rapid absorption of alcohol. If you visit an ouzería or tsipourádiko (oúzo and tsípouro joints, though the terms are somewhat interchangeable), every round of drinks comes with a selection of different, strongly-flavored mezés, or snacks: vegetable and kalamári dishes, spicy sausage stews, or small broiled fish. So over the course of a few rounds of drinks, you end up eating a good-sized meal.

Another interesting custom is that traditional Greek tsipourádikos and ouzerías serve their shots in sealed 50ml. miniatures, which makes billing easy for the server—at the end of the evening they just count the bottles on the table. It also gives the customers a growing array of decorative little empties to play with. Retsína, on the other hand, is sold by weight rather than volume, and served chilled in a cheap aluminum jug. After a little while, ordering wine by the half-kilo seems normal.

Greeks also dine late, in keeping with tradition in Latin and European countries. The normal dinner hour is 10 p.m., and 11 p.m. is not unusual. Of course, when businesses close for four hours in the middle of the day, typically between 2 and 6p.m., this is understandable. Most people work until 8 or 8:30 p.m., but the emphasis is always—and correctly, I believe—on family and social life rather than work. So what if you regularly get to bed at one or two a.m.? At least you were having a good time, and the office doesn’t open until 9 or 10 a.m. anyway.

We could learn a lot from this culture.

Dario Ciriello spent a year living in Greece on the island of Skópelos, and has written a memoir about his experiences entitled Aegean Dream.

Culture Share: Philippines - Gates and Exterior Walls by Charles Tan

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Charles Tan discusses gates and exterior walls in the Philippines.

Gates and Exterior Walls by Charles Tan

As a Fine Arts student, I was taught various design aesthetics. Gothic architecture. Modern architecture. It's even more interesting when you apply it to Philippine homes, mainly because we've been heavily influenced by our previous colonizers like Spain and the US. And yet, when I compare the image of houses here to houses elsewhere, there is a significant difference between the two. I couldn't quite pinpoint it at first and it was the simplicity of it all that eluded me: Philippine houses have gates and exterior walls.

This is a significant cultural detail. It's not because Filipinos are paranoid by nature, but if we analyze Philippine history, we're very much a feudal country and that kind of legacy has had a lasting impact. Just as an example, land ownership is a significant portion in our Constitution and land reform is a never-ending political issue. The obsession with land is a factor in our architecture, be it consciously or unconsciously.

Every single house in the Philippines has a gate and an external wall (the only exception are squatter's homes). Whether you're rich or poor, your home will always have those two. Sometimes, it's just a token presence rather than any practical hindrance: I've visited houses where the gates are only waist high and the "wall" is actually a short fence. At other times, it's a secure fortress, with steel gates more than twice my height and equally towering walls that are reinforced with barbed wire. Because of this, certain US concepts are foreign to us. We do have lawns but they're hardly open to the public so the morning paper will never end up on our lawn. Similarly, automated garage doors are redundant so most people--even wealthy citizens--simply don't have a garage door.

What's interesting with gates and exterior walls is that there's variation in design and not all of them are practical in keeping out intruders. Our gate for example looks like a net so anyone passing by can see through it, and when I get locked out of the house, I easily climb the gate. (Of course it has to be said that we live in a village, which is a walled-off community.) On the other extreme is a gate with the paint faded and all you have is this huge metal slab with a peekhole. Exterior walls have a lot of variance. I've seen some home owners allow vegetation to cover their gate while others make do with a paint job. What's on top of the exterior wall however is what's surprising. The school near our house, for example, has shards of broken glass embedded on top of their walls to deter trespassers. Some houses incorporate spikes and fences into their design. And others are simply flat, relying on sheer height to deter intruders.

The presence of gates and exterior walls is so commonplace that many of us take it for granted and it's simply assumed when discussing architecture. From a cultural perspective, this all ties back on how we value land in the country and this is simply one manifestation of it.

Charles Tan lives in Manila, in the Philippines.

Culture Share: Qing Ming and Seventh Month - no, they are not Halloween

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Joyce Chng discusses Qing Ming and Seventh Month in Singapore.

Qing Ming and Seventh Month - no, they are not Halloween

One distinct memory I have when it comes to Hokkien funeral rites is my grandfather's, back when I was only eight or nine (perhaps, even younger). I have sketchy memories of my Ah Gong, memories of his caring nature and his smile, of being held by him. It was all the way back then when I was looked after by Ah-Ma and Ah-Gong in their Geyland five-foot-way house. When they moved to Bedok, Ah-Gong soon passed away and they held the funeral wake at the void-deck of the housing estate.

Now, the void-deck is a common area designated by the government to be used by everybody, ranging from funeral wakes to wedding celebrations. So, it's not uncommon to have a Chinese funeral wake at one end and a Malay wedding at the other. People are rather civil about this when it comes to using the void-deck.

I didn't get to see Ah-Gong in his coffin. But I was aware that a sense of sadness hung in the air like unspoken words. I was clad in garments made of rough brown sack cloth. Sometimes I even wore a plain white tee shirt, with a colored piece of cloth pinned on the sleeve. I would later learn that the colored piece of cloth signified my relation/connection to the deceased. I was one of the grandchildren.

For the children, the week-long funeral wake was a strange mix of color, noise and (odd) gaiety. To us, it was a party with people visiting every night. There were make-shift round tables, each laden with a plate of peanuts, sweets and tidbits. Strands of red thread mixed with peanut shells. The guests would bring the strands of red threads back and later to discard them. The children laughed and ran about. In the day, we would pretend-hide from the forbidding banners of ancient warriors like Kuan Kong or sit down with the aunts making paper ingots for the ritual burning in the nights. Then, everything accumulated in a burst of theatre, loud gongs and chanting, and crossing a 'bridge' with the rest of the family.

I couldn't remember when we 'sent' Ah-Gong off. I only remember seeing a garishly decorated lorry, replete with florescent phoenixes and a pagoda. This type of hearse is fast becoming rare. Likewise, the hearse was accompanied by a band, mostly comprising of amateurs who blew their trumpets and banged their drums enthusiastically.

Later, when the household settled and we mourned in our own ways, my aunts started talking about the strange occurences at night, when the light started flickering for no reason or that the tap in the bathroom started running in the middle of the night. They said it was Ah-Gong coming back.

~*~

Death rites are interwoven into the Chinese way of life, into the year of festivals and celebrations. We have Qing Ming and Seventh Month (Ghost Month), two festivals related to death and remembering our ancestors. They find their way into my fiction, something I happily welcome. Qin Ming is a period where families re-visit the graves of their relatives. The Mandarin Chinese for these visit is “shao mu”, literally “sweep grave”. There they tidy the grave and tomb-stone, removing weeds and clearing out assorted debris. At the same time, they lit candles and lay out new offerings.

Seventh Month is darker. The spirits of the dead return to visit their living kin and relatives. Families bring out altar tables covered with all sorts of good food. They burn paper money so that their relatives would live in relative comfort in hell. There are paper cars, paper houses, paper dresses and even paper cell phones. I am sure that the enterprising ones would come up with paper iPads (for tech-saavy ghosts). Everyone knows when Seventh Month starts. The streets and pavements are lit by candles. In the twilight and dark, they look beautiful and eerie, guiding the dead. Throughout the month, people make offerings and burn paper money. Stories also proliferate with the urban legends re-surfacing to send chills down spines. “Never walk on burnt ashes,” one story goes. “The ghost will follow you home.” Another one, more to frighten children - “Never go out at night!” (for obvious reasons).

Oddly enough, we have getai concerts with music and singers, or – also getting uncommon – Chinese opera performances by invited travelling troupes. The front seats are always empty for the 'unseen' guests. These days, people watch the getai concerts for visual entertainment and general good fun.

Yet... the more spiritual and paranormal aspect weave in. Larger celebrations would involve mediums (or tang ki) who invite the gods to possess their bodies. They would perform impossible feats of strength or endurance, scarring themselves with cleavers to prove that they are truly blessed by the gods.

It is not a surprise that everyone breathes a sign of relief at the end of Seventh Month.

~*~

For some reason, Southeast Asian ghosts seem more vicious and blood-thirsty. The pontianak. The hantu tetek. The pochong. The flying heads with bloody entrails. The urban legend where the old lady feasts on soiled sanitary pads. The ghost in numerous school toilets. Seventh Month tends to heighten those dark primal fears in us. We tread more carefully, more prudently (since the ghosts seem to be easily offended/angered!).

But hey, it's no Halloween here...

Not at all.

Joyce Chng lives in Singapore.

Introducing: The Writer's International Culture Share

The more writing I do, the more I find myself searching around the internet looking for information and inspiration. One of the sources I have come to appreciate a lot is the Folkroots column at Realms of Fantasy (here's a wonderful example by Theodora Goss). I've also been following the discussion of World SF with great interest. Thus, I was very intrigued and inspired when my friend Harry Markov started posting information and stories about his native country of Bulgaria. I was struck by the conviction that his posts had a lot in common with my own articles about my experiences in Japan, and that somehow they belonged together in a set. When I spoke about this with Harry, a new idea started to come together:

What if there were a place on the web where writers from all over the world - including the US - could share folklore, local culture, religious stories and details of daily life that would be difficult or nearly impossible to discover through ordinary web research avenues?

Thus was born the idea for The Writer's International Culture Share.

The culture share will start small at first, but with your help I'm hoping it can grow much bigger. I have received much positive feedback on the idea and already offers for posts are coming in (for example, for the Netherlands, Singapore, and England). I'm deeply grateful to these writers for offering to share their native cultures, and I'll be posting Culture Share posts here at TalkToYoUniverse every Thursday, compiling an index in three categories: folklore, religion, and daily cultural practices.

Here is the beginning of the index, with a sample post of each type so you can see what I'm thinking of. I invite you to take a look and consider whether you'd like to share something of your own.

Folklore

• Personification of Spring in Bulgarian Culture by Harry Markov

Religion

• Saint Haralampi, patron of Plague and Beekeepers by Harry Markov
  

Daily Cultural Practices

• Unexpected differences: Japanese Taxis by Juliette Wade
  

If you would like to contribute or learn more about the project, please contact me at info at juliettewade dot com .

Culture Share: Saint Haralampi, patron of Plague and Beekeepers

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Harry Markov discusses Saint Haralampi, patron of Plague and Beekeepers.

Saint Haralampi, patron of Plague and Beekeepers

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Saint Haralampi [sometimes referred to as Haralambos or Haralampii]

Here I want to tackle my Names Day, St. Haralampi. First, let me explain the concept of the Names Days. I’m not aware if any other Eastern Orthodox Christian countries celebrate these, but the concept is simple. Bulgaria has a vast religious calendar that hosts all holidays, many of which are Names Days. I’m having hard time keeping this formal, because it looks as if I’m dumbing it down.

Yesterday was St. Haralampi, during which all the people who have this name or a variation of it celebrate. I’m Haralambi, so I celebrate, but so far haven’t heard of a female version of my name, because Haralambi is essentially a Greek name [because I’m ¼ Greek]. Mandatory for all Names Days is to wish the ‘name bearer’ [I invented this term, because I don’t want to type up ‘people who celebrate their Names Day’ all the time] health and prosperity. I don’t get many, because my Names Day is obscure. Not many are named after the saint, due to his Greek origin.

Now that I’ve covered the basics, I want to talk more about my saint. Saint Haralambi isn’t a well known historical figure. What is known about his life is that he died defending his faith, which automatically listed him as a martyr and thereafter as a saint. Legends say that he was a Miracle Worker and a great healer. Because of his healing, he was named a patron of diseases [icons portray him chaining all personifications of diseases and in particular, the plague itself] and beekeepers [because of honey’s healing properties].

As legends go, on February 10th Saint Haralampi captured the Plague [an ugly, old woman] and chained her. Celebrations during this day are meant to keep the plague outside the house. To protect themselves from this terrible disease, people fenced houses with hawthorn and briers [if my translation is correct], sewed garlic cloves to the headscarf for women and shirts for men. Some even dressed with special “pestilential shirts” sewn of nine widows.

The ritual bread.

Women are forbidden to work on this day, lest the plague enters their home. What they do is to bake a special bread [shown above]. Here the facts become rather meshed up. One source says that women coat the bread with blessed honey from the church and nuts. Then they cut it into four pieces that correspond with the four directions of the world. One is kept at home and the other three are given to neighbors and relatives as a token of health. But before any of this goes down, the house must be scrubbed clean.

There is another custom. Only the “pure” women [no idea whether by “pure” the text refers to virgins or healthy women] to bake bread and bring it outside the village at the crossroads to appease the plague. Alternatives to this suggest to leave food and water on the ceiling or to hang bread wrapped in cloth on an abandoned wall along with a wooden vessel of wine. To be on the safe side and drive away the plague, it’s called diminutive names: "sweet and honey", "good", "aunt". I’d go for a bit more mystical and call her “honeyed one.”

The most interesting custom so far has to do with the use of twins. The whole village has to be ritualistically plowed by two twin brothers. They have to do so using a plow made from a twin tree [or twin wood, I’m not sure about the translation here] and twin oxen.

If St. Haralampi’s Day is not celebrated, he will grow furious and will release the plague and other terrible diseases from their chains down on the ungrateful ones. Yes, my saint is not as benevolent as you thought. No wonder people commit to so many customs and rituals in his honor.

How honey is consecrated.

Also, on this day consecrated honey is believed to have especially strong healing properties as it can cure rashes, measles, wounds on the body. If you smear it on children’s foreheads, they remain healthy.

Harry Markov lives in Varna, Bulgaria on the shores of the Black Sea. This post originally appeared at his blog, linked above.

Culture Share: Personification of Spring in Bulgarian Culture by Harry Markov

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Harry Markov discusses how spring, and the month of march, are personified in Bulgarian culture.

Personification of Spring in Bulgarian Culture

It's March, the most bipolar month in Bulgaria [to be honest December surpassed it with days, I had to walk with short sleeves OUTSIDE]. It's the month that catches the death of winter and the birth of spring, so from a meteorological standpoint, March can be as cold as January, as rainy as February and as mildly tempered as April.

Baba Marta in her sunny mood

Of course, such erratic weather patterns panicked did a lot to panic Bulgarians back in the time, to the point that we personified March as Baba Marta [or Grandma March for the curious ones] and March is a time, when we honor Baba Marta in hopes for good weather. In olden times, shepherds would freeze up in the mountains with their flocks, because the sunny weather would easily turn to a snowstorm and the people along with the animals would be trapped there. Naturally, no one had the desire to lose their loved ones as well as their livestock to bad weather and this naturally led to the conception of Baba Marta and the month-long series of rituals that are performed in her name. Baba Marta is not only the embodiment of March, but also the very personification of spring, which for Bulgaria is a tough and unpredictable season. Often cold and with rain showers while it's sunny outside.

In this post, I will touch upon the mythological reasoning as to why Baba Marta suffers from her violent mood swings. The most popular belief is that Baba Marta has two brothers: January and February [they are named Golyam Sechko and Maluk Sechko, which I fail to translate], who have anger management issue, hence why it's cold during these months. Basically, both brothers always do something to displease their sister, either drink all the wine or leave their house in an utter mess. This angers Baba Marta, who as their sister is depicted as an old crone with a cane, and snow covers the land. Otherwise, when not provoked, Baba Marta is happy and loving, thus prompting the sun to shine.

Baba Marta during a fit

Sometimes, Baba Marta's said to be the brothers' bride [yes, there's polygamy at work here] and I actually know some inappropriate jokes about why she is always throwing fits. They involve cold feet and ill-endowed spouses.

It's interesting to note that while nowadays March and spring are female in Bulgarian folklore, once Baba Marta was actually a man, who had two wives. One was loving and beautiful, while the other is described as always scowling and cold. When March looked at the first, the sun shone and the weather cleared. When he looked at the other, winter would creep back in. However, it's a rather unpopular version.

The patriarchal structure of Bulgarian society reinforced the idea that March is a female and that her mood swings are unrelated to anything. Today, the tale of Baba Marta and her brothers or spouses, while known, is not central as to why Baba Marta angers as easily as she does. It's just accepted that she is as easy to laugh as she is to cry. Anything can anger her. If she sees old men on the streets, she might anger. Seeing children and young women might better her mood.

With this ends the mythological roots of Baba Marta and a very brief 'psychological' profile of her emotional instability.

Harry Markov lives in Varna, Bulgaria on the shores of the Black Sea. This post originally appeared at his blog, linked above.

Culture Share: Unexpected Differences - Japanese Taxis

This post is part of The Writer's International Culture Share, in which writers discuss their personal experience with world cultures: Juliette Wade discusses Japanese Taxis and how they might inspire fictional worlds.

Unexpected Differences - Japanese Taxis

Sometimes a simple object can provide an example of unexpected differences across societies. The other day I got thinking about the day I arrived in Tokyo as a Monbusho exchange student, and the craziest taxi ride of my life - and I realized I'd found one of those objects.

The taxi.

Say you're writing a story, and your character has to get from here to there, so you need a way to move him or her. One way is to stick this person in a public paid conveyance of some sort. Give it a non-Earth appearance, an alien driver, pay in the local currency, and you might think you're done.

But the fun has just begun. There's a possibility for difference at every step, even in something so seemingly ordinary.

Let's start with the way you find a taxi. In Japan it's not all that different from large cities in America, where many taxis are on the road. The only thing you have to remember as you approach the curb is that the cars are driving on the left-hand side of the road, not the right, and that will influence which direction the taxi will be able to take you. So you stand at the side of the road, and raise your hand. (Of course, there's also the calling-ahead option, which was what we had when we arrived in Tokyo; the government had sponsored our scholarship for us, so they called us the taxis.) For story purposes, I could imagine possible alien variations on the curbside stance - do you hold up two fingers or five? Does it matter, or should you really be waving your tail instead?

Anyway. For now, assume you're on a street with a sidewalk, standing at the curb. Do you yell "Taxi" at this point? The Japanese word for "taxi" is "takushii" which sounds almost the same, but yelling in the middle of the street is generally frowned upon, and let's face it, the taxi driver probably won't hear you.

Next comes the first major sticking point of taxis in Japan - or, it was, when I lived there. If you're a foreigner, the taxi may choose to ignore you completely. In your story world, think about what kinds of qualities might be used to justify excluding your character from service. Pure foreignness? Possibly. Or maybe a particular feature that the hosts find alarming. Or maybe when this transportation is sponsored by individuals with diplomatic clout, there's no overt objection, which could set your character up for an unfortunate surprise later (when he tries to procure his own ride).

Let's say the taxi stops for you. Great. In the US, you reach out and open the back door on the passenger side. If you do this in Japan, you might end up with skinned knuckles or possibly a major bruise. Japanese taxis are equipped with a special mechanism that allows the driver to open and close the door, and this is part of their job. They don't want you moving the door. This for me is interesting because it's a difference in the construction of the vehicle, but also a difference in the way that you are supposed to interact with the vehicle - which functions of the interaction are your job, and which belong to others.

Once you're in, you discover that in most Japanese taxis, the headrests and seats are covered with white doily material. It's a weird but charming touch. Also, the drivers generally wear white gloves. These aren't just signs of charm, though - they're also evidence of Japanese concepts of hygiene.

Next, you ask for your destination. If you're working in a fantasy or science fiction setting, do think through how your people organize their cities. Japanese streets are generally not named unless they are quite large, and blocks are numbered, and houses numbered based on their position on the block - so houses across the street from one another aren't consecutively numbered, but in fact dictated by the separate numbering sequences of the blocks they are on. In the city of Kyoto, streets generally run North-South or East-West, so it's easy to navigate, but the addresses almost sound like walking directions. In Tokyo, things are wacky and a single missed turn can get you lost in seconds, but their addresses are pretty reliably tuned to the block numbering system.

Once you're moving, consider whether you want to worry about road rules or street signs. Road manners are a question as well. In Japan we'd sometimes see people stop their cars in the middle of the road and leave them running while they ran into 7-11 to buy an ice cream or a drink (because there is no parking to be had anywhere). Our general response to this was "whaaaaa?" But it happened often, and often when we were in cars our hosts or taxi drivers had to navigate around stopped vehicles.

I couldn't actually tell you whether it's standard for Japanese people to talk to their taxi drivers. Taxi drivers generally seemed to like talking to me, but that could have been because I was something of an oddity there: a light-haired foreign girl who spoke Japanese fluently. That would be another place where manners might differ in a fantasy or science fictional environment.

When you get where you're going, you have to pay. Money is a great source of potential strife. Taxis in Japan are expensive - usually 1000 yen or so base, just for getting in, and it meters up from there. On my crazy ride from Narita Airport to Setagaya-ku, the meter kept going up so far that the guy I was riding with and I were incredulous, praying that we wouldn't be asked to pay when we finally arrived. Just a tip? Never try to take a taxi from the Narita Airport to anywhere in central Tokyo. It will cost about $300. We were lucky, because it turned out that the price didn't have to come out of our arrival stipends. A standard taxi ride costs more like 1850 yen, and don't ever try to pay with a 10,000 yen bill. The one time I found I didn't have enough smaller change, the guy wouldn't even take what small change I had - he yelled at me to get out, slammed the door and drove off. A free taxi ride, I guess, but I felt awful. And of course, in Japan, you don't tip, but in America, a taxi driver who hasn't been tipped may actually leave his vehicle and pursue you on foot.

Now, I'm not trying to say that when you get your character from one place to another, you have to include every one of these details. No way. Maybe the trip itself is unremarkable in the context of your story; in that case you should put as few words on it as possible. But paying close attention to the physical and social details of transportation can give you ideas for unusual elements to change, or especially pertinent details to include. And even one or two of those can be enough to make your reader think, "Wow, this place really isn't like Earth. It's a whole new world."

Juliette Wade lived in Japan for a total of three+ years, spending a year with a host family in Kyoto, a year in a dormitory for foreign students in Tokyo, and a year and a half in an apartment in the Tokyo suburbs.