Have you ever had it happen that, while telling an anecdote, the word you are looking for does not come to you? Or that you start a sentence with all the confidence in the world and, halfway through, you need an 'mmm' to buy time? Maybe you are one of those who speak almost without stopping, but it could also be that you need to take a pause to organize your ideas before continuing. If you had to describe your way of speaking, what would you say? And do you think there is something in your rhythm that distinguishes you from the rest?

Surely everyone has said or heard at some point a sentence like this: “The construction of the building lasted two years”. If we look at it, this sentence has something curious: there is a noun, ‘construction’, that does something that, at first, we wouldn't expect from a noun: it has a duration. We can say how long the construction lasted, we can say it was fast or slow and even that it was constant. On the other hand, if we say that “the construction at the end of the street is new”, we are no longer talking about the process of building, but about the result: the building that has been built. The word is exactly the same, but what it designates is quite different.

When you walk down the street, do you notice the language of the signs? Probably not much, which is quite normal. If we pass by a coffee shop and it says ‘coffee’, we are surely not aware that we have just read a word in English. If we enter a supermarket and see ‘ofertas’, we probably don't ask ourselves why that is written in Spanish either. And if in front of a restaurant we find ‘pa amb oli’, it is possible that we think about it even less. The words are there, but we don't always see them as words. However, what would happen if, for one day, we paid attention to them?

After last week's newtons and greengage plums, we can continue searching for proper names hidden within everyday vocabulary. Once again, we just need to look around a little. We can put on some sneakers to go for a run or some hiking boots to go on an excursion. If during these activities we catch a bit of a cold and get a headache, we might have to take an aspirin. And, if the headache goes away and we decide to go out for dinner, we might use mascara to dress ourselves up a bit more.

These days, when classes return, it is easy for ‘newtons’, ‘watts’, and ‘pascals’ to return as well. These are words that are part of the usual vocabulary of science and, being so well-known, they no longer seem like people's names to us. A newton is a unit of force; a watt, a unit of power, and a pascal, a unit of pressure. When we use them, we hardly think of Isaac Newton, James Watt, and Blaise Pascal.

How many of you have started a conversation in Catalan and, after a short while, ended up speaking in Spanish? Perhaps the other person had answered you in Spanish but understood you perfectly. Perhaps you didn't know if they spoke Catalan. Perhaps it was someone you had just met and didn't want to make them feel uncomfortable, or perhaps, quite simply, it just came out that way.

Imagine you are on a terrace, with the heat sticking to your skin, a glass with ice in front of you, and you ask your companions if they want to go for a swim. One of them replies: “No, thank you. Consequently, I will proceed to leave the establishment.” You will probably look at them strangely, not because you haven't understood the sentence or because there's any problem with the syntax, but because it's hard to imagine someone speaking like that in that situation. The most probable thing would have been for them to say “No, I’m going home” or simply “I’m leaving”.

A few weeks ago there was a historic demonstration in Palma against tourist saturation. Beyond the slogans and demands, there was an underlying idea that I believe almost no one disputes: there are too many tourists in the Balearic Islands. Or, at least, that's what most Majorcans would say. However, what if someone claimed there are too many tourists? Should we understand that they are mistaken?

Why do we say ‘abe[j]a’ and ‘ore[j]a’ if we write ‘abella’ and ‘orella’? The most intuitive answer would be to say that, in some dialects, ‘ll’ is pronounced like an ‘i’ (which, in this article, we will represent with [j]). The explanation seems convincing, but it collapses as soon as we look into it a little.

A pear is a pear, or at least that's how it seems. The fruit is the same whether you buy it at the market in Inca, order it at a greengrocer's in Valencia, or at a stall in La Boqueria. The word is also spelled the same everywhere. However, it's enough to hear how it's pronounced for something to change. If you buy it in Inca, they will probably ask if you want it very ripe and you'll hear a 'p[ə]ra' (neutral 'e'). If you are in Valencia, it will be a 'p[é]ra' (closed 'e'), and in Barcelona, no one will hesitate to offer you a 'p[è]ra' (open 'e'). Now comes the question you might be asking yourselves in light of this: how is it possible that such a common word sounds in three ways? And, above all, which one is the original?

There are verses that go in one ear and out the other. And there are those that, on any given day, make you stop. The other day, stuck in one of the usual traffic jams on the Mallorcan motorways, I noticed a line from Tobogan, by Zoo: “He had to work it out”. I noticed it because the same group, in Vull, sings: “If someone has to cry, let them cry”. It’s not that the line grated on me, nor was it (obviously!) the first time I had heard it. However, it made me think about the hesitation that still exists today in one of the most emblematic constructions of syntactic grammar.

For years we have been returning to the same examples: the neutral ‘lo’’, direct complements with ‘a’, prepositions that appear before ‘que’ when grammars insist they shouldn't be there, etc. The examples are well-known and the arguments too. Sometimes, in fact, it gives the impression that the Catalan linguistic conversation is trapped in a kind of loop in which we always end up discussing the same things.

If you were asked where Mallorca ends and Menorca begins, you probably wouldn't hesitate much. There is an evident physical separation, with a lot of water in between, a clear geographical border and a certain feeling that one thing is on one side and another on the other. The same would happen if the question were a little smaller and you were asked where Baix Camp ends and Baix Ebre begins. Perhaps the exact limit wouldn't be so present (those from Baix Camp and Baix Ebre certainly would, of course), but somehow we have assumed that territories can be divided: there is a point from which we leave a space behind and enter another.

Given the magnitude of the housing crisis, the growing concern it generates, and the feeling that the policies applied so far have not addressed the problem with the necessary ambition, it is essential to start focusing also on possible solutions. It is a matter too serious to resign ourselves to repeating well-known diagnoses. The housing crisis is today a great social crisis, because it directly affects people's right to develop a life project with dignity.

What would happen if, within a word, not all vowels were equally autonomous? If one decided how the others should sound? If we listen carefully to how some speakers in the Valencian Country pronounce words like ‘dona’ or ‘cosa’, or ‘conill’ or ‘sortir’ in certain areas of Mallorca or the Ebre Lands, something shifts with respect to what we would expect. On the one hand, where we would expect an 'a' at the end, we can hear a vowel that approaches the stressed vowel: ‘c[o]v[o]’ instead of ‘c[o]v[a]’. On the other hand, a vowel that we would expect to be more open closes due to the influence of another: ‘c[u]nill’ instead of ‘c[o]nill’.

Among the most frequent verbs in the Catalan language is, without a doubt, 'hacer' and ''Give'. Both have full and clear uses, such as 'to do a job' (in which the verb 'to do' means "to carry out") or 'to give a book' (in which the verb 'to give' has the full meaning of "to transfer to another"), but they also participate in many expressions where the main meaning lies in the accompanying noun. When we say, for example, that we want to 'ask someone a question', the core of the action is 'question'. The same occurs in ''to pay a visit,' 'to do work,' or 'to do an analysis.' The verb 'to do' provides the verbal structure of the sentence (it marks the tense, person, and agreement), but the main semantic content (that is, the meaning) is provided by the noun.

How many times have you heard, thought, or even said, "Yes, Catalan is all well and good, but what's it really good for?" How many times has the conversation ended with a count of speakers, a comparison with English, or a list of supposed career paths? The question seems innocent, but it isn't. It implies a very specific way of understanding the world: only what has an immediate, quantifiable, exportable, and tangible return is valuable. Everything that doesn't fit into that logic is viewed with suspicion. Meanwhile, more than 2,600 kilometers from Palma, at Masaryk University in Brno, there is a full degree program in Catalan Language and Literature that is celebrating its tenth anniversary this academic year, 2025-2026. Ten years. It marked the occasion with a commemorative academic ceremony held on Wednesday, March 4th, with established faculty and graduating classes who have already entered the professional world.

Have you ever stopped to think why, before a performance begins, they ask us "Turn off your mobile phones"Do we really need to specify that the phones are ours? Is there any real possibility that, at that moment, someone will understand that they should turn off the phone of a stranger sitting three rows behind them? The formula is neither strange nor ''Incorrect,' of course. Now, does the possessive add any information that isn't already obvious?

How is language organized in the human brain? What makes it possible for a child to acquire a language in just a few years, for this ability to be maintained throughout life, or for the system to find ways to reorganize itself after an injury? These questions, which linguists, psychologists, physicians, and neuroscientists have been trying to answer for many years, are not just for academics: they are relevant to anyone interested in understanding how one of the most basic and, at the same time, most complex abilities of the human species works.