Today's new word
pili a word from the old Beijing dialect (老北京话) that has no exact equivalent in Standard Mandarin, nor any good representation in hanzi characters, but means something highly complimentary, the best I can tell
This afternoon at the park, the kids and I met up with one of Myles' friends and his father. Brigid tried her best to keep up with the two boys, as she always does. Two weeks ago when we were them, she wanted to prove that she could, too, handle a hockey stick as well as well as anyone.
Once again this afternoon, Brigid fearlessly trailed Myles and his friend as they ran around. The friend's father exclaimed with admiration, "茉莉好棒! (Mòlì hǎo bàng!)" Using Brigid's Chinese name, he repeated that same statement, Moli is terrific.
Then he thought for a moment, and said that there was a better word for what Moli was, a word from the old Beijing dialect. There were no characters for this word; it merely existed, spoken, in a disappearing language only. He said the word was pili. This word, pili, captured best for him what opinion he had of my daughter at that moment.
He went on to talk about what a great language 老北京话 was, how nothing in the world sounded quite as lovely as it. When he rattled off a few more words to demonstrate this, it was almost as though he were singing.
Recalling a conversation on the same subject I had with another Changping friend whose family originated inside the Second Ring Road, I told him that I found it very interesting when people talked about 老北京话. Both he and the other person had great affection for the particular sounds and unique vocabulary, both of which that conveyed more emotion and meaning than either of them found in standard Mandarin at times. It was as though, I said to him, 老北京话 grew from warm, cozy homes filled with delicious smells and food, and the language sounded like that. At least, that was the sense I got from people that shared their love for this old dialect.
He agreed that 老北京话 was special, grinning at my own impressions of it. "Nothing else like it," he said.
And then he said one more time, "茉莉是 pili. Pili."
This afternoon at the park, the kids and I met up with one of Myles' friends and his father. Brigid tried her best to keep up with the two boys, as she always does. Two weeks ago when we were them, she wanted to prove that she could, too, handle a hockey stick as well as well as anyone.
Once again this afternoon, Brigid fearlessly trailed Myles and his friend as they ran around. The friend's father exclaimed with admiration, "茉莉好棒! (Mòlì hǎo bàng!)" Using Brigid's Chinese name, he repeated that same statement, Moli is terrific.
Then he thought for a moment, and said that there was a better word for what Moli was, a word from the old Beijing dialect. There were no characters for this word; it merely existed, spoken, in a disappearing language only. He said the word was pili. This word, pili, captured best for him what opinion he had of my daughter at that moment.
He went on to talk about what a great language 老北京话 was, how nothing in the world sounded quite as lovely as it. When he rattled off a few more words to demonstrate this, it was almost as though he were singing.
Recalling a conversation on the same subject I had with another Changping friend whose family originated inside the Second Ring Road, I told him that I found it very interesting when people talked about 老北京话. Both he and the other person had great affection for the particular sounds and unique vocabulary, both of which that conveyed more emotion and meaning than either of them found in standard Mandarin at times. It was as though, I said to him, 老北京话 grew from warm, cozy homes filled with delicious smells and food, and the language sounded like that. At least, that was the sense I got from people that shared their love for this old dialect.
He agreed that 老北京话 was special, grinning at my own impressions of it. "Nothing else like it," he said.
And then he said one more time, "茉莉是 pili. Pili."
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