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If there is one thing Europeans collectively love—besides debating cheese regulations, forming coalitions that last shorter than a TikTok trend, and pretending they don’t secretly enjoy Eurovision—it's competing over who speaks the best English. Forget GDP growth, inflation targets, or carbon neutrality goals. This is the battle that really matters: who can order a latte in London without panicking, who can flirt in Dublin without Google Translate, and who can watch The Crown without subtitles. According to the saints at EF who have dedicated their lives to measuring just how well the world can say "Actually, it’s pronounced croissant" in English, the Netherlands has once again secured the top spot. For the seventh year in a row. Seven! In EU-years, that’s basically an eternity. That’s longer than some governments last, longer than the shelf life of a European infrastructure plan, and longer than the time it takes a German train to show up late. But before you pictu...

Once upon a digital time, in the land of silicon logic and data deluge, artificial intelligence was supposed to be humanity’s great unifier — the algorithmic Esperanto, the techno-lingua-franca that would finally understand everyone. And then, it didn’t. It turns out that AI, that supposed oracle of inclusivity, speaks fluent English, decent French, and broken Mandarin — but when it comes to Africa, it suddenly turns into that one American tourist who thinks yelling “HELLO?” in all caps will make everyone understand. Take Hausa, a language spoken by 94 million people in Nigeria. Ninety-four million! That’s basically the population of two Canadas and a whole lot more interesting vocabulary. Yet ChatGPT — the same model that can compose haikus about quantum physics — recognizes only about 10 to 20 percent of sentences in Hausa. Ten percent. That’s not “limited proficiency.” That’s the linguistic equivalent of showing up to a family dinner and asking, “So… what’s your Wi-Fi password?”...

When Science Meets the Obvious Ah, science—the noble pursuit of truths so painfully self-evident that only a multi-million-dollar grant and several lifetimes of postdocs could uncover them. The University of Zurich, in a heroic act of intellectual daring, has recently announced that when humans mix their genes, they also mix their languages. Groundbreaking. Truly. Who would have guessed that if you swap DNA with your neighbors, you might also pick up their words for “sausage”? But wait—this isn’t just about bratwursts and sandwiches. This is about the grand history of humanity: conquest, colonization, globalization, and the never-ending game of “your word or mine.” The researchers want you to know they’ve proven it scientifically. Forget the centuries of linguistic scholarship, colonial diaries, and the fact that half the world says “OK” because America steamrolled its way into pop culture. No, now we have genes telling us what our ears and history books already knew. So buckle up,...

Oh, romance. That chaotic little gremlin with access to your heart, your brain chemistry, and—if you’re unlucky—your Amazon wishlist. For the past 200 years (and let’s be honest, probably much longer), humanity has been whispering sweet nothings through fans, photos, pneumatic tubes, and plant symbolism, desperately trying to say, “I like you, but I have absolutely no idea how to just say it.” Welcome to the lost languages of love—where longing glances meant “marry me,” secret violets whispered “I’m gay,” and coded fans tried their best to be the 1800s version of flirty texting but ended up more like “interpretive jazz semaphore.” And guess what? Despite 5G, facial recognition, and the tragic rise of AI-generated Tinder bios, we are still playing the same damn game—only with fewer corsets and more dick pics. Chapter One: Fans, Flowers, and the Flirtation Olympics Ah, the Regency era. A time when love was communicated through a sideways glance, a subtle blush, and, of course, a dec...

Gather ’round, fellow monolinguals, and let us pay tribute to the most underrated, overused, and frequently butchered invention in the history of homo sapiens: language. Yes, language. That ancient Wi-Fi signal bouncing around our big wrinkly brains, capable of uniting empires, toppling kings, and creating Twitter beefs that spiral into real-life lawsuits. And now, thanks to Laura Spinney’s brainy new book Proto: How One Ancient Language Went Global , we finally have the origin story we didn’t know we needed—but clearly deserve. Spoiler alert: it starts in a region currently being shelled. That’s right. Proto-Indo-European (PIE), the ancient godfather of English, Sanskrit, Greek, Gaelic, and yes, the language you’re currently misusing to read this, started with a ragtag bunch of nomads grazing beefy cattle in the Eastern Ukrainian steppes. Forget cavemen grunting or Egyptians chiseling cryptic bird memes onto walls—real linguistic domination began with the Yamnaya. Picture them: robus...

If aliens are out there, floating around in their advanced UFOs or perhaps swimming in some interstellar soup, they might one day decide to drop us a line. And when they do, we humans—paragons of preparedness that we are—will look up, blink into the blinding celestial message, and ask, “Wait, was that Morse code? Or just cosmic indigestion?” Welcome to xenolinguistics , a real thing that real humans with real PhDs are studying. It’s not just sci-fi daydreaming for Reddit threads anymore. This tiny academic field—20 to 30 brave souls strong—is tackling the crucial question: How would we talk to aliens? But more interestingly: Why do we talk at all? Because here's the truth: language isn’t always about saying true things. Sometimes it’s about lying to your boss about why you’re late (again), posting a vague Facebook status that screams “ask me what’s wrong,” or telling your cat she's a “sweet little angel” when she is clearly a murder gremlin in a fur coat. So, naturally, t...

Ah, the Indo-European language family—a 400-strong linguistic dynasty spoken by more than 40% of humanity, yet its origins have remained one of the greatest historical whodunits for centuries. Enter a pair of landmark studies published in Nature that finally (or at least more convincingly than before) track down the OG Indo-European speakers. Spoiler alert: They were in Russia. Yes, that Russia. The one currently busy rewriting its own history while scientists are trying to piece together what actually happened thousands of years ago. A Little History on This Linguistic Soap Opera Back in the 18th century, some very clever scholars started noticing suspicious similarities between languages as seemingly different as Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit. The theory that they all descended from a common ancestor gained traction, and by the 19th century, the so-called steppe hypothesis was born. The idea? A bunch of ambitious herders from the Eurasian grasslands (probably somewhere around present-d...