Flossed in Translation

I once heard a catchy pop song whose chorus, I thought, went: “We’re going to eat pizza!” I heard this song for the first time during the intermission of a four hour-long Bollywood movie in a theater in Delhi (which I mention only because the opportunity to tell people that I’ve been to Delhi comes along less than couple of times a week). I spent all day giggling and singing to myself about eating pizza. It wasn’t until several weeks later that I heard the song again that I realized that the chorus actually went: “We’re going to Ibiza.” Suddenly, the rest of the song, which is about having a party in the Mediterranean Sea, made more sense. Sadly, this isn’t too uncommon. I often find myself hearing something, giggling about it, and then later learning that I’ve been completely wrong.

I have enough problems understanding and speaking English – it took Jen three years to convince me that the phrase “Alls I’m saying” is more Montanese than English – that I was nervous for weeks about the idea of being in a mini-van for five days with the Chulos, who speak only Spanish. Now, I really shouldn’t have been. After all, I’ve been continuously studying Spanish for roughly 2.5 times longer than the Internet has existed. My first teacher, Señor McGillicuddy (I kid you not), when choosing between all of the different and unique Spanish accents to teach, settled for a rare Montanan dialect. He did such a fine job of imprinting how to pronounce words in Spanish, that I’ve been misunderstood from Valladolid, Mexico to Valladolid, Spain. When I traveled in Central American and Spain with Jen (who I actually met in a Spanish class) a typical encounter would go like this:

Will: “Dos cervezas, por favor.”
Bartender: blank stare
Will (holding up two fingers): “Dos cervezas?”
Bartender: blank stare
Will: “Uh, cerveza, beer?”
Bartender: “Que dice de mi madre?”
Jen: “Dos cervezas, por favor.”
Bartender (grabbing two bottles of beer): “Si, si – dos cervezas!”

Of course, speaking only ranks second to comprehension when it comes to the problems I have to conversing in Spanish. When I was going to university, I did a study abroad program in Sevilla, Spain where I lived with a family that did not speak any English. Now, at the time, I had been studying Spanish for longer than I had been shaving (or wearing, like all of my friends, a goatee that expressed my individualism). My host family found it quite amusing when they discovered that when would tell their dog Dinki to sit down, I would often sit down as well as I thought they were talking to me. It was only later, that I discovered why they were laughing and talking in the command form so much.

I’m happy to report that traveling in Montana with the Chulos went very well. Alicia’s father Augusto, who maybe knows three words of English, has decided to study English when he gets back home. In fact, I think I’ve been an inspiration for him, as the day before we parted company, he joked it shouldn’t take him very long to learn as much English as I know Spanish. Of course, it wasn't until I later asked Alicia to translate, that I understood why everyone at the table was laughing so hard.

In all honesty, my Spanish abilities have increased the joy and satisfaction in my travels by a factor greater than all of the hairs in my creative goatee. Alls I’m saying, though, is that if we ever end up together at a pizza party in Ibiza, maybe you should order the beer. I should probably also mention that I’ve been to Delhi.