Some of us Anglophones disdain the phrase ‘at this point in time’ It is a redundancy that probably made its inventor look articulate but which today is so much filler. I once had a supervisor who had very little to say, but she never had to pausebecause she could always use these five syllables when a more word-frugal person could simply say ‘now’ or (when emphasis was needed) ‘right now.’

But if you have been in Central America long enough, the geometric implication of this phrase has a special significance. Think of a point on a number line (called T for time), which has a fixed beginning and, in the other direction, an arrow indicating openness. In our parts, this ‘point in time’ is a like a bead on an abacus, subject to jiggling by anyone who can reach it.

When the handyman says he will be over at las cuatro horas, this likely does not mean four o’clock. In theory it could, but experience will teach you that the reality is otherwise. Four o’clock, as you understand it, is las cuatro en punto. The word punto is, of course, kin to our word, point. Do you see my, um, point?

This immediately raises the question of what plain old las cuatro means. As near as I can tell, it is anything from the theoretical fixed beginning (4:00) to 4:59. If the handyman really thinks he cannot make it by 4:59, and if he is a man of good faith, he should tell you las cinco. Time flies—el tiempo vuela.

All this has less to do with zenniness in the language than with custom. Most of the Hispanic world is closer than we are to a past when psychiatrists did not charge $120 an hour (or some tax accountants up to double that). If you got the handyman to your house, and he fixed the toaster by sundown, well, then, you both got something done that day.

Spanish has two basic words for time. Vez defines the point on the number line marking the handyman’s visit. Tiempo describes the space between his arrival and his departure. The former is, perhaps nine times in ten, seen in plural form, veces. The latter is almost always singular. Veces are instances, recurrences, occasions; tiempo is the abstraction, the thing that is invested cada vez (each time) we do something.

You would not ask someone ‘cuántos tiempos’ does she call her mom in Tulsa each week, but ¿Cúantas veces a la semana llamas a tu mami? Note that vez is feminine, which makes it easy to recall that Father Time is not ‘El Padre Vez.’ The common phrases algunas veces and a veces have a nuanced difference that apparently parallels that between ‘sometimes’ and ‘at times.’ But for ‘sometime” or ‘someday’ I find algún día works, except when my wife is asking when we can hire a babysitter so we can dine romantically at Circus Bar—something we should do de vez en cuando (from time to time).<

To express ‘awhile,’ ‘a time,’ or ‘a season,’ you need tiempo. Another word, rato, also means while, but only short whiles. If the handyman fixes the toaster while you wait, that is un rato. But if it takes him all week, with ordering parts and whatnot, then he needs un tiempo or más tiempo.

But tiempo is an overworked word. Not, by any means, as overworked as time. But there is something zenny in el tiempo being the word for ‘the weather.’ There is some logic to this, since weather changes with time. Yet el tiempo describes what things will be like for the next rato, or the rest of the day or week. When we speak of weather in cyclical or geographic contexts, the word is el clima. This is cognate, of course, with our word climate. If Aunt Mavis is coming to Guatemala to visit for a week, you need to tell her about el tiempo. But if she’s coming to retire or open a massage clinic in Panajachel, tell her about el clima.

Reader, I’ve run out of tiempo (Se me acabó el tiempo). ¡Hasta la próxima vez!

photo: Time after time by Akors (cc license)

The Zen of Fin and Fondo by Dwight Wayne Coop

Back when folks spoke Latin, finalis meant final and fundus meant bottom. Let’s go to the fundus of fin/fondo by first getting out of the way some equivalents of these English words. Final in Spanish is usually último (meaning not “ultimate” but “last”). The Spanish word final exists, but with little life of its own. You see it in phrases like poner punto final a (“to put an end to”). This is what my wife wants to do to my trips to Becky’s Bar in Panajachel, even though I never “drink” there. Bottom, in Spanish, becomes base for many physical and metaphorical foundations, whereas trasero is the word used in mixed company for that, um, part of the anatomy the wife must think I go to Becky’s to look at (quick note: I don’t).

Aside from fondo and fin, extremo often translates end, mainly in the sense of “tip” for anything ideological (as in English) or tubular (candles, pipes, pencils, caterpillars, etc.). Trotsky burnt the candle at both extremos while writing down his opiniones extremas. All in all, extremo is not too zenny.

Fin is straightforward, especially for movie buffs who recall that movies made in the 40s and 50s concluded with the uppity French fin at the fin of the final scene. And the common phrase por fin means finally. Fin is also the word for end in geometry and for time periods, lives, events, and civilizations. Admiral Nelson found two fines in the battle of Trafalgar: the fin of his life (he was fatally wounded), and the fin of the combined French-Spanish fleet (Nelson’s costly victory could also be called a meta, the proper word for goal).

Fin means purpose or aim in the phrases a fin de and con el fin de. Before a verb, they mean, “with the goal of” or “in order” or simply “so.” The wife could tell her knitting circle, “I went to Becky’s Bar a fin de poner punto final a las visitas que mi esposo hace.”

Fondo is zennier than fin. For abstractions, you need fin. For physical things, especially things big enough to enter—caves, buildings, railcars, peninsulas, fuselages, attics, cul-de-sacs, and the wardrobe in C.S. Lewis’ Narnia universe—you need fondo. Boats may be an exception, because the Spaniards were seafarers who thought up nautical synomyms. “All right, boys,” Columbus might have told his crew, “it’s a long way to India, especially since we’re going the wrong way. So let’s think up some good words for stern and bow, so we can quit saying fondo-this, fondo that. It’s something to do!” They already had a word for deep—profundo—and depths—las honduras. This word went on to become the name of a country, perhaps because the coastal waters are deep enough to drown in if you have had enough rum.

The first zenniness of fondo is that it means both end and bottom. If your movement is lateral, it means the former; if you’re descending, it means the latter. The second zenniness is that for lateral movement, fondo is relative. The fondo of, say, a row of offices in a government ministry is the end where the speaker is not. When you arrive at the reception desk and ask whom you need to see, you might be sent all the way to the licenciada at the fondo. And so, after you go there and stand in line (ideally with a copy of Revue), the licenciada might explain that you’re in the wrong place, and that you need to return to reception for redirection (perhaps to the fondo of another floor). Where is the reception desk? Al fondo, “at the back.”

Reader, maybe I have not reached the fondo, but I have reached the fin.

And so I have. This is the fin of “Zen of …” I want to thank all those readers who have, over the years, followed this column loyally, especially those who sent compliments, ideas for future columns, and the occasional correction or barb. There is talk of compiling the columns into a book. But for now, from one student of Spanish to many others, ¡Qué les vaya bien!

PS: Look for my new column, starting next month.