Words with no frontiers

A handful of words barely change across languages. Can you guess them?

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Every now and then, language brings us together. You can be pardoned for not knowing how to order dinner in Finnish or Dutch. But, most likely, any human will understand you if you say "pizza." Something similar would happen if you were trying to stop a "taxi", or if you were offered "chocolate." Can you guess these 15 words that are practically the same across languages?

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Music is the language of the soul, and apparently, of many tongues too. It traces back to the Greek mousikē, meaning "art of the Muses." The Romans borrowed it as musica, and, just like a catchy tune, it spread.

For example, in Italian, it’s still musica, and in Spanish it’s música. In French, musique, in Turkish müzik, and in Japanese ミュージック (myūjikku).

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This word comes from the Old Italian banca, meaning "bench," because medieval moneylenders did their business on benches in marketplaces. If they failed, their bench was broken—hence bancarotta, or "bankruptcy."

In French, it’s banque, in Spanish banco, in Italian banca, and in German Bank. Even the Dutch stick with bank. A word so universal, you could call it… currency.

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The good news is you will have no problem calling a taxi in several countries. How much they’ll charge you, however, will vary.

This word is short for taximeter, from the French taximètre, which itself comes from the Latin taxa (a "charge" or "fee").

In German, it’s Taxi, in Russian такси (taksi), in Indonesian taksi, and in Finnish, taksi. The French, ever stylish, also call it taxi too.

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This one is just as convenient. The word "hotel" comes from the French hôtel, which originally meant a mansion or townhouse, derived from the Latin hospitale (a place for guests).

It seems like the whole world agreed on the global concept of "mi casa es su casa." For example, in Italian, Indonesian, and Spanish, it’s hotel, in Turkish otel.

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The internet —the modern-day agora. Of course, it’s a recent term, one that transported itself until it became a universal word. As a result, the versions for it don’t vary much across the board.

It’s short for "interconnected networks", a term born in the 1970s. In German, it’s Internet, in French internet, in Japanese インターネット (intānetto), and in Finnish, Dutch, and Spanish, for example, it’s still "internet".

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The piano –both the instrument and the soft intensity– has been conquering souls for so many centuries, that many languages agreed to call it the exact same word.

Its full name, pianoforte, comes from Italian, meaning "soft-loud," because mechanically it could perform both, making it more nuanced than the harpsichord, its predecessor.

In Spanish, it’s piano, in French, it’s piano, in Norwegian, it’s _piano_… You get the idea. The Russians say пианино (pianino), but you would still understand it.

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Cleverly, your ticket to the world is called pretty much the same everywhere you travel.

It comes from the French passeport, literally meaning "pass through a port."

Most languages have a combination of "pass" and "port" in them, and some just reduce it to "pass". For example, in Italian, it’s passaporto, in Finnish passi, in Swedish it’s pass, in Indonesian paspor, and in Turkish, pasaport.

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Many cultures must agree that bananas are nature’s perfect snack. No need to change its fun label. It comes from the Wolof word banaana.

In German, it’s Banane, in French banane, in Japanese バナナ (banana), and in Finnish banaani. And it is exactly banana in endless others, like Spanish, Portuguese, Croatian, and Italian.

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The pizza —Italy’s gift to the world and the reason we all have a favorite topping. It comes from the Latin pinsa, meaning "flatbread."

In French, it’s pizza, in Turkish pizza, in Russian пицца (pittsa), and it’s piotsa in Gaelic. Different ways to pronounce similar sounds, really.

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The existing word was chosen to name the device invented in the 20th century. It comes from the Latin radius, meaning "ray" or "beam," referring to the waves it receives as signals.

In French, it’s radio, in Japanese ラジオ (rajio), in Finnish radio, and in Turkish radyo. Even in Swahili, it’s redio.

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"Safari" comes from the Arabic safar, meaning "journey," which traveled through Swahili before becoming a global term for wildlife expeditions.

The word gained popularity during the colonial era, when Europeans ventured into Africa to hunt (or, these days, photograph) the "Big Five."

In French, Indonesian, Spanish, Finnish, Hindi, and others, it’s safari. Few languages came up with an alternative term, really.

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Similarly to the radio, when photographs were invented, it was decided to name them with terms everybody could understand. This was to combine the Greek phōs (light) and graphē (drawing).

The invention of photography in the 19th century revolutionized how we capture memories, and the word itself became a global staple.

In French, it’s photo, in Japanese フォト (foto), in Turkish foto, and in Finnish valokuva. Well, you got us there. But the Finnish can also call it foto.

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It would be easy to ask for coffee everywhere in the world, and we are grateful for that. Imagine having to remember a contrite translation as soon as you wake up!

It comes from the Arabic qahwa, which originally referred to wine but later became associated with the energizing drink. The word traveled through Turkish kahve and Italian caffè before spreading worldwide.

In French and Spanish, it’s café, in Japanese コーヒー (kōhī), in Finnish kahvi, and in Indonesian kopi.

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They say that one out of ten people don’t like chocolate. That must mean that approximately 90% of the world enjoys it. And they all agree to call it the same name.

It comes from the Nahuatl word xocolātl, which the Aztecs used to describe a bitter drink made from cacao beans. Spanish conquistadors brought it to Europe, where it was sweetened and transformed into the treat we adore today.

In French, it’s chocolat, in Japanese チョコレート (chokorēto), and in Turkish çikolata. Even in Hindi, it’s चॉकलेट (chŏklaṭ).

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It’s no wonder, is it? One of the words that remains barely changed across languages has the Latin universus ("whole, entire") as its root.

It’s because, originally, the term was a phrase describing an academic institution: universitas magistrorum et scholarium ("community of masters and scholars").

In French you’d call it université, in Spanish universidad, in Italian università, in German Universität, and similarly on.

Who were they?

Who was Pollyana? These 12 words derive from fictional characters

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Giants, dreamers, and even a few villains: They all hide behind a handful of words that sprinkle our vocabulary even today. Who knew that in the 21st century we would still be using nods at heroes from Persian folktales or commedia dell’arte? In this list, we’ll explore 12 words that sprang from the pages of novels, plays, and myths because, first and foremost, they were fictional characters. Let’s dive in!

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Ever heard of R.U.R.? Rossum's Universal Robots is the play that gave us "robot." Written by Karel Čapek in 1920, it features mechanical beings called roboti designed to serve humans.

Čapek borrowed the term from the Czech word robota, meaning "forced labor." In the play, these robots rebel, causing global chaos. Čapek’s vision was groundbreaking and already cautionary.

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A serendipitous twist is one that is fortunate, delightful, and more importantly, unexpected, like discovering a $20 bill in an old coat. That rare word derives from The Three Princes of Serendip, a Persian fairy tale.

Serendip was an old name for Sri Lanka. In the tale, these princes were known for stumbling upon discoveries by chance. In 1754, Horace Walpole coined the term to describe their knack for happy accidents.

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Meet the ogre. This word stomped into our vocabulary thanks to Charles Perrault’s fairy tales, especially Puss in Boots. In the story, an ogre is a man-eating giant who can shapeshift.

Perrault likely borrowed the term from the Italian orco (meaning "demon") or Latin Orcus, a god of the underworld. Today, "ogre" describes anyone brutish or cruel—despite how popular or celebrated the ogre Shrek may have become.

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Are you annoyed when people misuse words? Enter Mrs. Malaprop. She’s the star of Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s 1775 play The Rivals. Known for hilariously mangling words, she’d say "pineapple" instead of "pinnacle," or "allegory" for "alligator."

Sheridan named her after the French phrase mal à propos ("inappropriate"). Her blunders gave us "malapropism," any unintentional—and funny—word substitution.

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The word "meander" comes from the Meander River in ancient Greece. Known for its winding path, it became a metaphor for aimless wandering. In mythology, Meander or Maiandros was the patron and deity who guarded this river.

Literature popularized the term, using it to describe any unpredictable journey or anecdote—or someone’s long-winded speech.

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You may remember the story of Pollyanna, the cheerful orphan from Eleanor H. Porter’s 1913 novel. She was the one who played the "glad game": Her goal was to find silver linings in every situation.

Her signature optimism was so relentless that "Pollyanna" became a tag for someone unrealistically cheerful, and maybe a bit naive.

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The word "zany" gestated in commedia dell’arte, a 16th-century Italian theater tradition. In these plays, zanni (a Venetian form of "Giovanni") were clownish servants who provided comic relief.

Over time, "zany" came to describe anyone too jokey or clownish. Think of the class clown you best remember, or that friend who’s always pulling pranks. They’re the modern-day zanni, keeping the audience entertained.

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Remember Ebenezer Scrooge? The miserly lead of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol is the poster child for penny-pinching and holiday grumpiness.

He was redeemed at the end of his story, but that didn't stop English speakers from using his name as a label for someone often reluctant to share. Dickens likely drew the name from the archaic word "scrouge," meaning to squeeze or press. That’s fitting for a man who hoards every penny.

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Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein gave us not only a groundbreaking sci-fi tale but also a word that’s often misused.

The creature, assembled from body parts and brought to life by Victor Frankenstein, is frequently called "Frankenstein," though that’s technically the scientist’s name. The term now describes any jumbled creation or one that spirals out of control.

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Kind one moment, cruel the next. Robert Louis Stevenson’s 1886 novella Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde introduced us to a man with two personalities: the respectable Dr. Jekyll and his monstrous alter ego, Mr. Hyde.

The story explores the duality of human nature. Today we still use "Jekyll and Hyde" to describe anyone with a split personality.

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Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote gave us the word "quixotic." It describes someone who’s idealistic to the point of impracticality.

The novel’s hero, Don Quixote, tilts at windmills, mistaking them for giants. His name comes from the Spanish quijote, meaning "thigh armor."

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Gargantua was a giant with an equally massive hunger. He was introduced in François Rabelais’ 16th-century series of satirical novels, Gargantua and Pantagruel.

The name, derived from the Spanish garganta (meaning "throat"), was a nod at the creature’s appetite. Over time, "gargantuan" came to describe anything enormous.

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Svengali was a sinister hypnotist. In George du Maurier’s 1894 novel Trilby, he used his knack to manipulate the titular character into becoming a singing sensation.

The author invented the word "svengali" for this character and the novel popularized the term. It has since come to describe anyone who controls another, usually with evil intentions.