Exámenes EOI resueltos

 

MODELOS DE EXÁMENES OFICIALES ESCUELA OFICIAL DE IDIOMAS 

EXÁMENES INGLÉS

EXÁMENES FRANCÉS

EXÁMENES ALEMÁN

EXÁMENES ITALIANO

PRUEBAS DE CERTIFICACIÓN  DE LA EOI

+EXÁMENES RESUELTOS

Exámenes francés EOI resueltos

 

 

MODELOS DE EXÁMENES OFICIALES DE FRANCÉS EOI RESUELTOS 

 

NIVEL BÁSICO - A2

NIVEL INTERMEDIO - B1

NIVEL AVANZADO - B2

 

PRUEBAS DE CERTIFICACIÓN DE LA ESCUELA OFICIAL DE IDIOMAS

 

+EXÁMENES RESUELTOS

Exámenes inglés Escuela Oficial de Idiomas resueltos

MODELOS DE EXÁMENES OFICIALES DE INGLÉS EOI RESUELTOS

   NIVEL BÁSICO - A2

   NIVEL INTERMEDIO - B1

   NIVEL AVANZADO - B2

   NIVEL SUPERIOR - C1

   NIVEL EXPERTO - C2

PRUEBAS DE CERTIFICACIÓN DE LA ESCUELA OFICIAL DE IDIOMAS

+EXÁMENES RESUELTOS

Exámenes alemán EOI resueltos

 

MODELOS DE EXÁMENES OFICIALES DE ALEMÁN EOI RESUELTOS

 

PRUEBAS DE CERTIFICACIÓN DE LA ESCUELA OFICIAL DE IDIOMAS

 

NIVEL BÁSICO - A2

NIVEL INTERMEDIO - B1

NIVEL AVANZADO - B2

OTROS EXÁMENES RESUELTOS

The trip to McCarthy - EOI Islas Baleares inglés C1 resuelto

McCarthy is a couple of hundred miles east of Anchorage, on the way to the border with the Yukon territory of Canada. It is surrounded by one of the largest areas of wilderness in the world, where four of the great mountain ranges of North America collide. Nine of the highest peaks in the USA are there, surrounded by enormous glaciers, rivers and canyons, and teeming with seriously wild wildlife. McCarthy, old by Alaskan standards, dates from the first decade of the twentieth century, when it developed as a social hub for the copper mines at Kennicott, five miles away. When the mines closed it went into decline, and for a while became a ghost town. The current year-round population, depending on which source you consult, is somewhere between fourteen and twenty. There seems a good chance I’ll be able to meet them all, if only I can get there.
Unlike the other places I have been visiting, McCarthy has no known Irish connection. Something about it, though, is calling out. Hidden at the end of one of the loneliest roads on earth, the town seems the right place to end a journey that has been driven as much by instinct as by design, and which has paid me back with many happy accidents. So I’m going there because we share a name; and because, like most people, I’ve always fancied going to Alaska, because it’s big, scary and far away. But as well as all this, I also have a hunch. I didn’t have it when I first set out, but now I want to pursue it all the way to the end of the road.
“Aviation in itself is not dangerous, but like the sea, it is terribly unforgiving of any carelessness, incapacity or neglect,” says a sign on the wall of the hut. Outside on the airstrip a tiny red and yellow plane sits on its skis among the piles of snow, looking like a toy. This is how I will get to McCarthy, if the pilot ever comes back.
The guy in the hut says he’s gone into town to pick up some shopping. I’ve had a look inside the plane. There are two seats and sixteen cases of beer! I’ve hopped between tropical islands on these little bush planes, but I’ve never been on one in the kind of landscape we’ll be going through today. My afternoon departure time has already been put back twice when:
“Hi. I’m Kelly,” says a big, bearded, genial man who’s just walked into the hut. It’s straight out to the plane, door shut, headphones and seatbelt on, taxi what seems about fifteen yards along the runway, then we’re up in the air and heading directly towards those enormous snowy mountains. “This is real flying, eh?” says Kelly, as I nod and smile and try to come to terms with the worrying sensation of being airborne in this tiny machine.
We fly to the left of the mountain range that faces the airstrip, then on through a dreamscape of white peaks we can almost reach out and touch. Far below are frozen rivers and crystal glaciers glinting turquoise and emerald in the brilliant afternoon sun. Kelly’s skilful hand on the controls inspires confidence. We talk using headsets with microphones attached, looking like singers in a boy band. He’s good company and points out the different mountain ranges. As he sees me relax, however, his stories start to stray from what you want to be hearing when you’re hovering at this height:
“There was a forecast for some turbulence on the way back today, but looks like we might have missed it. My wife and I stopped overnight along the coast one time and we meant to carry on home the next day. The forecast was for extreme turbulence, but we thought we’d try anyway because sometimes those predictions are way out. Well, it was so wild up there . . .”
There’s a little electronic sign on the dashboard that says it’s only fifty miles to our destination, and now Kelly is pointing out of my wide window and tilting the plane, not to push me out, but to show me the McCarthy road. I can see where it skirts the edge of the glacier and the melting ice has made it impassable. As we’re rounding the glacier, hugging the side of the mountain, the winds suddenly hit. It’s seriously bumpy for the first time—but, like the man said, this is real flying, and he seems to be in control—and, against all my better instincts, I find myself wanting it to bump a little bit more as we swoop low over the first buildings we’ve seen since the hut at the airfield in Anchorage. McCarthy is just a handful of wooden houses. A little further on we sweep low past the deserted structures of the Kennicott mine. We bank steeply to our left over the glacier, and make a perfect landing on the McCarthy airstrip. Kelly turns off the engine, and I get out and listen to the most silent place I have ever heard.

Adapted from Advanced Placement English Tests. Macgraw Hill. 2008.

Ministers who justify state snooping might now learn that the biters can be bit - EOI Navarra inglés C1 resuelto

Every journalist knows that breaking the law is inexcusable - except, of course, where there is an excuse. As a general rule, what I write, however obtained, is in the public interest. What you write is money-grubbing prurience. Now what was that juicy story you told me the other day?

The News of the World scandal is in danger of submerging the body politic in a wave of hypocrisy. The paper did what some newspapers have long done, which is scrape the dustbin of gossip in whic lurks the fame of all public figures. Aided by electronic surveillance, journalists use private detectives, hackers, oddballs and dodgy policemen to dig the dirt on behalf of their readers and shareholders. They usually pay money, even if this is not allowed.

Sometimes, as with the Daily Telegraph on MPs' expenses, we are served copper-bottomed sensation. Although the scoop was allegedly based on payments for theft, the world cheered the "public interest". Other times, as with the (Princess) Dianagate tapes, salacious material is uncovered with no shred of public interest but which no amount of self-restraint could keep from the public eye. In the case of the News of the World, the ease with which mobile phones can be eavesdropped on supplied a mountain of celebrity gossip.

Human Rights law may offer "a right to respect for private and family life, home and conversation", but this is merely a pious hope. When a cloud of secret range-finders can hover over the mobile phones of the stars, policing is near impossible. Hackers can squat in caravans or attics, equipped from any backstreet store. The News of the World gained access to thousands of phone messages. These could as easily have been posted on the web.

Although the police have decided to take no further action, the case raises intriguing but tangential issues. It is implausible for the former News of the World editor, Andy Coulson, to plead that he did not know what was going on. No editor would be left in the dark about the costly source of such scoops. Even a remark that "I would rather not know" admits responsibility.

When a member of the paper's staff, Clive Goodman, went to jail in 2007 for a hacking offence, a parliamentary committee was told that he was a “rotten apple” and an isolated case. We now learn that Coulson’s staff had access to thousands of mobile phone records, all illegally obtained and currently in the hands of the police.

The paper then lavishly paid off some of its victims on condition of confidentiality, while the police (and Crown Prosecution Service) agreed to turn a blind eye. They neither pursued other offences by News of the World reporters nor informed those whose private lives they knew to have been compromised. The police appeared to collude in a massive breach of privacy.

The much-vaunted framework of parliamentary oversight and media self-regulation was also left looking idiotic. We have been told for 18 years that the presence of working editors on the voluntary Press Complaints Commission brings a weight of expertise and judgement to its decisions. This is selfserving rubbish, trotted out by successive PCC chairmen who enjoy cavorting with the barons of media power.

The case for non-statutory regulation of the press remains strong, but depends heavily on that regulation being scrupulous and outspoken, as it largely was under the old Press Council with its vigorous chairmen. The present Press Complaints Commission claims to work its magic "behind the scenes". It works no magic. It is dead.

None of this impinges on the central issue of the News of the World case, that chaos now surrounds the confidentiality of electronic data in Britain. That law-breaking now depends wholly on the “robustness” of an excuse is hopeless. Most people accepted that the Telegraph was justified in using stolen information to reveal details of MPs’ expenses. But the argument was tested neither in the courts nor before the PCC. It was granted by acclamation.

© Simon Jenkins “The Guardian”, 10th July 2009

It's all about me - EOI País Vasco inglés C1 resuelto

It used to be that only oppressed minorities had the right to lay claim to victim status, but not any more: it seems that anyone and everyone can be a victim now. Forget the Oppression Olympics, the pointless debate over which identity group suffers the most discrimination; these days, as Frank Furedi noted in The Culture of Fear: "We are all expected to compete, like guests on a television programme, to prove that we are the most put-upon and pathetic people in the house, the most deserving of counselling and compensation."

It was Margaret Thatcher who inadvertently provided the catalyst for all this navel-gazing and selfobsession when she infamously pronounced that there is "no such thing as society. There are individual men and women and there are families. And no government can do anything except through people, and people must look after themselves first." Since then it's all been about "me me me"; not even 11 years of a Labour government have managed to halt our increasing narcissism or inject any sense of collectivism back into the national psyche.

Bookshop shelves groan with the weight of self-help manuals, designed to pander to and heal just about every psychic and emotional stress known to humankind, while misery lit (or misery porn as it's more accurately known) is fast outselling any other genre.

As writers scribe in unflinching detail their stories of brutalised childhoods, and of their survivals against all the odds, we lap up these tales of woe and clamour for more. Narratives that were meant to inspire and empower us with their messages of triumph over adversity serve instead as fodder for our most voyeuristic tendencies; it's starting to feel like there's an incredibly tasteless competition on to find the poor sod who has had the most miserable childhood in the history of the world, ever.

But as Libby Brooks observed recently in her excellent piece on the debate about rape: "Creating a hierarchy of victimhood helps no one." I couldn't agree more.

Even those with all the advantages aren't exempt from all this wallowing and internal reflection.

Born with a silver spoon in your mouth and sent to all the best schools? Don't worry, there's a support group out there for you somewhere. Think you've always been happy and never wanted for anything? Well think again. No one gets through life unscathed: you're probably in denial and need a good dose of therapy to find out whatever it is you're repressing.

What's really lacking in all of this introspection is any sense of the bigger picture. These personal histories stand alone, testament to the individualism that has permeated every aspect of 21stcentury life. Rather than examining and critiquing our social conditions, we're encouraged instead to look inwards, to heal ourselves and rid ourselves of any demons we may have picked up along the way. As a consequence of this we're failing to make those vital connections between our personal experiences and how our lives have been shaped by forces beyond our individual control.

But "the personal is political" was not just some trite feminist slogan dreamed up to help bored housewives make sense of their lot. As Carol Hanisch said in her essay of the same name: "personal problems are political problems. There are no personal solutions at this time. There is only collective action for a collective solution." Isn't it about time we started to embrace that kind of thinking again?

The discriminations and prejudices I've encountered in my life are not because I'm me, Cath Elliott: they're a direct result of the gender and social class I was born into. Counselling, self-help books or holistic therapies might make me better able to deal with what life has thrown or has yet to throw at me, but it won't do anything to change the external conditions that impact negatively on me and mine.

So, the choice is ours. We can either continue to wallow in our victimhood, fighting to outdo each other with our tales of oppression and woe, and attempting to heal our lives in splendid isolation, or we can learn once again to recognise our shared experiences and start to fight together for change. We're only victims if we choose to be so. Personally I reject the label: I'd advise everyone else to do the same.

Adapted from The Guardian

The impossible moment of delight - EOI CyL inglés C1 resuelto

A recent survey has examined the well-trodden ground of the relationship between pleasure and money. Many studies have examined this, from any number of starting points, often concluding, in the oldest of old clichés, that money can’t buy you happiness or, in more sophisticated terms, that happiness and pleasure often reside, not in riches in absolute terms, but in being richer than the people who happen to live to your left or your right. Other studies have claimed that comparison with the wealth of others leads to a “set-up for disappointment” and that a good attitude is all that matters.

This most recent study inquired into the wellbeing of 136,000 people worldwide and compared it to levels of income. It found, overall, that feelings of security and general satisfaction did increase with financial status. Money, however, could not lift its possessors to the next level, and was unable to provide enjoyment or pleasure on its own. The survey, published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, examined large numbers of people from almost every culture on Earth, and found much the same thing. The stereotype of the rich man who finds life savourless and without pleasure was not invented simply to keep the poor happy with their lot.

Paul Bloom addresses the same issue in his book How Pleasure Works. According to Bloom, at the point when people get the thing they really want, they enter a state of perfect pleasure. Both Bloom’s book and the enormous survey concentrate on status and on the moment of getting possession of something we want. Are we satisfied and filled with pleasure when we get what we want? Bloom, looking at eager consumers, would say ‘yes’; the survey tends to say ‘not necessarily’. In my view, it’s rare that we can actually pin down the specific moment when the feeling of pleasure is at its clearest.

Take the teenager determined to buy the latest must-have gadget, a woman setting out to get a new handbag, or a prosperous businessman who wants to add to his collection of Japanese netsuke. The setting out with the happy intention of spending; the entering of the shop; the examination of the wares; the long decision; the handing over of the money; the moment when the ownership of the goods is transferred; the gloating at home; the moment when the object is displayed to others. All these steps form a process in enjoyment, but almost all of them are redolent with anticipation or with retrospective glee. The moment where bliss is at its peak is over in a flash, and hardly exists at all. Everything else is expectation or memory.

Composers have always known this simple, basic truth: pleasure is half anticipation and half blissful recollection, and hardly at all about the fulfillment of the promise. The great musical statements of ecstasy, such as Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde or Schubert’s first Suleika song, are literally all half crescendo and half languid recall. We look forward to pleasure; we look back on it. The moment of pleasure itself is over in a flash, and often rather questionable.

The hairband and geegaw emporium Claire’s Accessories has a thoughtful, rather philosophical slogan to tempt its young customers. It sells itself under the strapline ‘where getting ready is half the fun’. That is honest and truthful. A group of 14-year-old girls in their party best is nowhere near as successful an enterprise of pleasure as exactly the same girls putting on and trying out and discussing their hopes for the party in advance; not as successful either as talking it over the next day. The party itself, from the beginning of time, has consisted of a lot of standing around and gawping and giggling, and someone crying in the lavatory.

So any notion of fulfilled pleasure which insists on the moment of bliss is doomed to failure. Mr Bloom and the researchers of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology were clearly happiest when undertaking their research, during which time they were looking forward to coming to a conclusion. And now they can sit back and start to say ‘Yes, when I concluded my theory of pleasure and satisfaction…..’ Even for philosophers of pleasure, another ancient and well-handled cliché about travel and life is true: getting there really is half the pleasure.