Inglês Nu E Cru Rádio

Não tem legenda boa para esse episódio. Mas, sabe o que tem? Foster analisando o inglês do Eduardo Bolsonaro, o talvez futuro Embaixador do Brasil nos EUA. Então, com vocês, a primeira parte dessa análise que nós amamos fazer!

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Seguindo a linha do episódio de ontem, hoje vamos falar sobre hot weather! Alexia tem pavor, sofre, odeia. Foster não liga muito a não ser que fique quase 50 graus celsius. Mas, de novo, um episódio super importante para mandar o small talk que a gente ama tanto.

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As temperaturas baixaram no Brasil e, por conta disso, resolvemos gravar um episódio sobre isso! Ter o vocabulário sobre mudanças de tempo, temperatura, etc, é muito importante. Então, nada melhor do que ter a dupla que vocês mais gostam falando sobre o assunto, certo?

Atenção: se você morar em um lugar que esteja com temperaturas baixas, saia com um casaco e um cobertor (ou quantos quiser) para doar para algum morador de rua que esteja precisando. Faça a sua parte, ajude quem mais precisa!

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E dessa vez vamos falar mais profundamente sobre a Copa do Mundo Feminina de Futebol! Assistismos à alguns jogos - aqui em Portugal passou em TV aberta a final mas, para todos os outros jogos precisamos burlar o sistema - e queremos conversar com vocês sobre. Achamos que é um momento pra lá de importante e, claro, você desse lado pode aprender a argumentar, demonstrar seu ponto de vista em inglês.

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João Gilberto: foi o primeiro cantor que o Foster conheceu do Brasil. E logo se apaixonou, claro. Para quem não sabe, a música ajudou muito quando ele estava dando os primeiros passos em português e hoje queremos compartilhar isso com vocês.

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Hoje temos um convidado pra lá de especial. Marco, o pai da Alexia, vem contar a sua aventura em Portugal que ocasionou em 2 dedos quebrados. A primeira vez que ele quebra algo na vida! Happy Monday and press play!

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A day in the life at Inglês Nu E Cru Headquarters. Cleaning the house! Vacuuming! Women's soccer! Presidential tweets! Hospital visits and broken fingers! English Naked & Raw!

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Hoje é sexta! Yay! E hoje completamos o ciclo do texto que lemos durante essa semana inteira. Foster faz algumas perguntas de como a Alexia se sentiu lendo, o que achou mais difícil e, principalmente, sobre confiança. Aperta o play and have fun!

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Terceira parte do texto que começamos na segunda feira. Se você perdeu os episódios anteriores, volte para escutar. Vale muito a pena, Pico Iyer é incrível e, quem sabe, pode mudar a sua percepção sobre o ato de viajar.

**http://picoiyerjourneys.com/index.php/2000/03/why-we-travel/

There are, of course, great dangers to this, as to every kind of freedom, but the great promise of it is that, traveling, we are born again, and able to return at moments to a younger and a more open kind of self. Traveling is a way to reverse time, to a small extent, and make a day last a year — or at least 45 hours — and traveling is an easy way of surrounding ourselves, as in childhood, with what we cannot understand. Language facilitates this cracking open, for when we go to France, we often migrate to French, and the more childlike self, simple and polite, that speaking a foreign language educes. Even when I’m not speaking pidgin English in Hanoi, I’m simplified in a positive way, and concerned not with expressing myself, but simply making sense.

So travel, for many of us, is a quest for not just the unknown, but the unknowing; I, at least, travel in search of an innocent eye that can return me to a more innocent self. I tend to believe more abroad than I do at home (which, though treacherous again, can at least help me to extend my vision), and I tend to be more easily excited abroad, and even kinder. And since no one I meet can “place” me — no one can fix me in my risumi –I can remake myself for better, as well as, of course, for worse (if travel is notoriously a cradle for false identities, it can also, at its best, be a crucible for truer ones). In this way, travel can be a kind of monasticism on the move: On the road, we often live more simply (even when staying in a luxury hotel), with no more possessions than we can carry, and surrendering ourselves to chance.

This is what Camus meant when he said that “what gives value to travel is fear” — disruption, in other words, (or emancipation) from circumstance, and all the habits behind which we hide. And that is why many of us travel not in search of answers, but of better questions. I, like many people, tend to ask questions of the places I visit, and relish most the ones that ask the most searching questions back of me: In Paraguay, for example, where one car in every two is stolen, and two-thirds of the goods on sale are smuggled, I have to rethink my every Californian assumption. And in Thailand, where many young women give up their bodies in order to protect their families — to become better Buddhists — I have to question my own too-ready judgments. “The ideal travel book,” Christopher Isherwood once said, “should be perhaps a little like a crime story in which you’re in search of something.” And it’s the best kind of something, I would add, if it’s one that you can never quite find.

I remember, in fact, after my first trips to Southeast Asia, more than a decade ago, how I would come back to my apartment in New York, and lie in my bed, kept up by something more than jet lag, playing back, in my memory, over and over, all that I had experienced, and paging wistfully though my photographs and reading and re-reading my diaries, as if to extract some mystery from them. Anyone witnessing this strange scene would have drawn the right conclusion: I was in love.

For if every true love affair can feel like a journey to a foreign country, where you can’t quite speak the language, and you don’t know where you’re going, and you’re pulled ever deeper into the inviting darkness, every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair, where you’re left puzzling over who you are and whom you’ve fallen in love with. All the great travel books are love stories, by some reckoning — from the Odyssey and the Aeneid to the Divine Comedy and the New Testament — and all good trips are, like love, about being carried out of yourself and deposited in the midst of terror and wonder.

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Segunda parte do texto que começamos na segunda feira. Se você perdeu os dois episódios anteriores, volte para escutar. Vale muito a pena, Pico Iyer é incrível e, quem sabe, pode mudar a sua percepção sobre o ato de viajar.

**http://picoiyerjourneys.com/index.php/2000/03/why-we-travel/

We travel, then, in part just to shake up our complacencies by seeing all the moral and political urgencies, the life-and-death dilemmas, that we seldom have to face at home. And we travel to fill in the gaps left by tomorrow’s headlines: When you drive down the streets of Port-au-Prince, for example, where there is almost no paving and women relieve themselves next to mountains of trash, your notions of the Internet and a “one world order” grow usefully revised. Travel is the best way we have of rescuing the humanity of places, and saving them from abstraction and ideology.

And in the process, we also get saved from abstraction ourselves, and come to see how much we can bring to the places we visit, and how much we can become a kind of carrier pigeon — an anti-Federal Express, if you like — in transporting back and forth what every culture needs. I find that I always take Michael Jordan posters to Kyoto, and bring woven ikebana baskets back to California; I invariably travel to Cuba with a suitcase piled high with bottles of Tylenol and bars of soap, and come back with one piled high with salsa tapes, and hopes, and letters to long-lost brothers.

But more significantly, we carry values and beliefs and news to the places we go, and in many parts of the world, we become walking video screens and living newspapers, the only channels that can take people out of the censored limits of their homelands. In closed or impoverished places, like Pagan or Lhasa or Havana, we are the eyes and ears of the people we meet, their only contact with the world outside and, very often, the closest, quite literally, they will ever come to Michael Jackson or Bill Clinton. Not the least of the challenges of travel, therefore, is learning how to import — and export — dreams with tenderness.

By now all of us have heard (too often) the old Proust line about how the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new places but in seeing with new eyes. Yet one of the subtler beauties of travel is that it enables you to bring new eyes to the people you encounter. Thus even as holidays help you appreciate your own home more — not least by seeing it through a distant admirer’s eyes — they help you bring newly appreciative — distant — eyes to the places you visit. You can teach them what they have to celebrate as much as you celebrate what they have to teach. This, I think, is how tourism, which so obviously destroys cultures, can also resuscitate or revive them, how it has created new “traditional” dances in Bali, and caused craftsmen in India to pay new attention to their works. If the first thing we can bring the Cubans is a real and balanced sense of what contemporary America is like, the second — and perhaps more important — thing we can bring them is a fresh and renewed sense of how special are the warmth and beauty of their country, for those who can compare it with other places around the globe.

Thus travel spins us round in two ways at once: It shows us the sights and values and issues that we might ordinarily ignore; but it also, and more deeply, shows us all the parts of ourselves that might otherwise grow rusty. For in traveling to a truly foreign place, we inevitably travel to moods and states of mind and hidden inward passages that we’d otherwise seldom have cause to visit.

On the most basic level, when I’m in Thailand, though a teetotaler who usually goes to bed at 9 p.m., I stay up till dawn in the local bars; and in Tibet, though not a real Buddhist, I spend days on end in temples, listening to the chants of sutras. I go to Iceland to visit the lunar spaces within me, and, in the uncanny quietude and emptiness of that vast and treeless world, to tap parts of myself generally obscured by chatter and routine.

We travel, then, in search of both self and anonymity — and, of course, in finding the one we apprehend the other. Abroad, we are wonderfully free of caste and job and standing; we are, as Hazlitt puts it, just the “gentlemen in the parlour,” and people cannot put a name or tag to us. And precisely because we are clarified in this way, and freed of inessential labels, we have the opportunity to come into contact with more essential parts of ourselves (which may begin to explain why we may feel most alive when far from home).

Abroad is the place where we stay up late, follow impulse and find ourselves as wide open as when we are in love. We live without a past or future, for a moment at least, and are ourselves up for grabs and open to interpretation. We even may become mysterious — to others, at first, and sometimes to ourselves — and, as no less a dignitary than Oliver Cromwell once noted, “A man never goes so far as when he doesn’t know where he is going.