Speaking one’s own language is difficult enough, but to wander into another is to travel a road fraught with pitfalls. Nevertheless, it’s worth the effort and at least will surely get you a few laughs.
I’ve long had a love affair with languages, and the fact that I have no ear or particular talent for languages not my own has deterred me not one whit. My first encounter with another language was on the playground in elementary school in San Angelo. Of course the words I learned, or maybe just repeated, would make your average parson blush. They, in English, ran to “Do you want to fight” or worse, “f***k your mother”. I, of course, knew not what I was saying, but if they could say it to me, I could say it to them, and I sounded really good.
For some mysterious reason, I took Latin in the 8th grade and can still recite the opening passage of Caesar’s Commentary on the Gallic Wars……Gallia omnia es divisa in partem tres….But while Latin did give me a grounding in the grammar and vocabulary of romance languages, it gave little satisfaction as a spoken language, and worse yet, it was dead as a door nail. You’d never hear, “do you wanna fight?” in Latin on the playground. I struggled through two semesters of French in college, only because I had to. I must admit to something never previously disclosed. I busted second year French. A big fat F. I worked harder to get that F than I ever worked for any other grade. I have an excuse of course. I took French I in the first semester of my freshman year, and French II as a senior. The time lapse got me. The professor warned that I shouldn’t try it, but of course I knew better. I retook it in the summer of my graduation and struggled to a gentleman’s C. It was a low C at that.
In later years I studied French, Japanese and Spanish seriatum, all to little effect. My French in Europe with a delightful (and attractive) instructor who encouraged me beyond my inherent capabilities for two years. I actually gave a (short) speech in French at the opening of one of my company’s facilities in Paris. I rehearsed for three weeks and threw up twice just before the event, but I did it. And I think they understood me. At least they applauded at the end. Come to think of it, maybe they were just glad it was over.
I self taught myself Japanese relying only on Japanese in Ten Minutes a Day and numerous days and nights in the nether regions of Tokyo and lesser locations throughout Japan. Yes, I know, Japanese is supposed to be really difficult, but that depends on your objectives. I wanted only a basic understanding of simple sentence grammar and a vocabulary of about five hundred words. With that end in mind, I actually achieved more in Japanese than any other language. I could do well in hotels and taxicabs, hold my own in a bar, and not make too much of a fool of myself with business introductions. I once gave a presentation to some Wall Street types in NYC on the subject of international business. I opined at length on the importance of studying languages if only to develop some understanding of our foreign counterpart’s culture and manner of thought. One earnest young man asked how many languages I was fluent in. I said, “none”, but that I could get by in most languages. He asked how that could be. I replied that there were only three things a businessman needed to be able to say. I said that I would demonstrate in a language of his choosing. He sought to trip me up by choosing Japanese. Ha! I quickly responded:
1. Mizu wari onegi shimasu.
2. Torii wa doku desu ka.
3. Anatawa kerii desu.
And here I take some liberty in translation:
1. Could I please have another scotch and water?
2. Where is the nearest toilet?
3. My, you look very beautiful this evening.
My modesty keeps me from detailing the response of the audience except to note there was thunderous applause. n.b. it was a mostly male audience.
My study of Spanish has been both painful and rewarding. Painful in that I now know myself to have a completely tin ear when it comes to understanding the spoken word of a native Spanish speaker. And rewarding in that I make quick friends of those with whom I mangle their language. I suspect they appreciate my efforts if not my linguistic capability. I try to be cautious though and avoid the truly stupid blunders for which arrogant and ignorant gringos are known. I call to mind the blind stupidity of General Motors when they insisted on using the name Nova (for which they must have paid some brand guru a small fortune) when they decided to introduce the car to the Spanish market. Of course, we all know that no va literally means, “doesn’t go” in Spanish
No matter how tin my ear, when in Spanish speaking countries, I give it my best shot. Sometimes the results are confusing and sometimes downright laughable. Last night after having consumed demasiado cervazas y margheritas, I surmised that some iced tea would be good with dinner. I asked Susano, our house boy, “puedo tener te helado con mi comida?”. He looked puzzled then tentative in turn. He turned, hunched his shoulders and said something to the kitchen staff which could have been, “what’s the crazy old gringo trying to say?” Pancho, el jeffe of the house crew interceded by saying, “manana”. Somehow he had figured out what I wanted was “te con hielo” or tea with ice not te helado which means frozen tea, and that he would get it for tomorrow. Ah well, we got it done though……we communicated.
Often when faced with someone saying something to us in a foreign language, our first reaction is to panic and go completely blank. Our second reaction is the say the first thing that pops into our head in hope that the person will be satisfied and go away. We’ve all done this. To wit: the house staff here at Taninah is Mayan, and as it is their native language, speak it perfectly. They also speak Spanish fluently, but speak little, if any, English. They do not let this interfere in their efforts to make us comfortable and serve us well. Susano, our aforementioned house boy, had already asked me my name and had struggled with the hard consonant G, but gamely repeated it several times, “Gayree, Gayree”, then gave up and called me Jerry for the rest of our stay. When the opportunity presented itself while serving the soup course to S. he inquired, “como se llama?”. When S. realized Susano was addressing her, the anaphalactic shock of being spoken to in another language overcame her. To her credit, she neither ignored him nor ran away. She, after all, has made her way around many far stranger places, and probably understands French, por ejemplo, better than I do. But this time, in this place, in this situation the words “como se llama” meant nothing to her. Her brain synapses were firing in an incongruent order. But she knew the situation called for a response in Spanish whether or not she understood Susano’s question. She smiled bravely and replied, “si, muchas gracias”. At which point a brief look of puzzlement flickered across his face, then he recovered gracefully and showed his true class by replying, “de nada, senora” as he backed away.
Who says that travel doesn’t enrich us?
