believe your main interest is her mind, her passion for medieval architecture and her views on global warming?
My language woes only deepen once we cross into Italy. On the train I try to memorise a list of simple phrases—‘Hello’, ‘Goodbye’, ‘How much is it?’. The trick is saying them in the right order. Arriving at the pensione the first evening, I stride in, shake the man’s hand and greet him warmly in Italian: ‘Well, goodbye,’ I say to him. He looks somewhat confused. No doubt when we leave, I’ll pay the bill, pick up the bags and shout, ‘Well, hello,’ as I stumble out the door.
Jocasta, inevitably, has the language down pat, and rushes into cake shops and orders this or that ‘ questa ’. It turns out this is the Italian for ‘I’ll have one of those’, but I’m left with the impression it’s the term for a particular gooey pastry. For some reason Jocasta finds it amusing when I inquire at the restaurant that night whether dessert might include any of those ‘really beautiful questos ’.
We move on, travelling through Slovenia on the way to France, which is like going to Melbourne on the way from Sydney to Brisbane. I buy a Slovenian guidebook, and we sit down to eat. Almost immediately I realise my guidebook doesn’t include the phrase for ordering a beer. Incredulous, I flip through again and still find it missing, even from the section marked ‘emergencies’. In fact, the only thing listed in the drinks section is the local pear liquor—Hruska.Somewhat later I discover this is also the sound you make after you’ve drunk too much of it.
For some reason Paris seems easier. Despite my complete lack of French, I discover I’m able to translate an entire advertisement about the strip club next to our hotel. It’s like a curious mystical ability: I’m a sex savant. I read the sign to Jocasta, freely translating as I go. The club features women who dance without their tops on and, later in the night, remove their trousers. Alcohol, I read aloud, is served to gentlemen at very reasonable prices. And the women are very beautiful. The place is called either The House of Pain or The House of Bread. Or possibly both. I can’t be sure. It may be that they strip off then beat each other with bread sticks. Odd, certainly, but the French are odd. The point is, I am able to understand nearly every word.
Slovenia aside, it’s the same with beer. Wherever we travel, I can order it immediately and in any quantity. I’m now convinced I could attend a strip club and get pissed anywhere in the world. Is this the collective unconscious of which Jung wrote? Are Australian men the only ones born with this remarkable linguistic gift?
We head home with a stopover in Los Angeles. My linguistic confusion grows all the more intense. I try to copy the American way of speaking English. It’s ‘real’ good, not ‘really’; ‘five x’, not ‘five times’; and ‘two-thousand-five’ instead of ‘two thousand and five’. They are so spectacularly busy they just don’t have time for those extra syllables. Even the children are flat out, forced to call it ‘math’ and not ‘maths’. They’d love to add that final ‘s’ but, real sorry, just don’t have the time. In a park, I even spot a sign advising a ‘No Thru Road’. I imagine the poor park supervisor, up to his neck in work. ‘I’m just not ina position to muck around with letters that really aren’t pulling their weight.’
Of course, once I get home, I realise that it’s the Australian language which is the strangest of all. We’re a nation of underestimators. It’s the only place in the world where an atrocious act is described as ‘a bit ordinary’, while an act of genius is ‘not half bad’. The first day of spring, in which birds are trilling, the air throbs with heat and scent, and the sky is a brilliant azure blue, is described as ‘not too bad at all’.
It must be tough for American visitors, given that
My language woes only deepen once we cross into Italy. On the train I try to memorise a list of simple phrases—‘Hello’, ‘Goodbye’, ‘How much is it?’. The trick is saying them in the right order. Arriving at the pensione the first evening, I stride in, shake the man’s hand and greet him warmly in Italian: ‘Well, goodbye,’ I say to him. He looks somewhat confused. No doubt when we leave, I’ll pay the bill, pick up the bags and shout, ‘Well, hello,’ as I stumble out the door.
Jocasta, inevitably, has the language down pat, and rushes into cake shops and orders this or that ‘ questa ’. It turns out this is the Italian for ‘I’ll have one of those’, but I’m left with the impression it’s the term for a particular gooey pastry. For some reason Jocasta finds it amusing when I inquire at the restaurant that night whether dessert might include any of those ‘really beautiful questos ’.
We move on, travelling through Slovenia on the way to France, which is like going to Melbourne on the way from Sydney to Brisbane. I buy a Slovenian guidebook, and we sit down to eat. Almost immediately I realise my guidebook doesn’t include the phrase for ordering a beer. Incredulous, I flip through again and still find it missing, even from the section marked ‘emergencies’. In fact, the only thing listed in the drinks section is the local pear liquor—Hruska.Somewhat later I discover this is also the sound you make after you’ve drunk too much of it.
For some reason Paris seems easier. Despite my complete lack of French, I discover I’m able to translate an entire advertisement about the strip club next to our hotel. It’s like a curious mystical ability: I’m a sex savant. I read the sign to Jocasta, freely translating as I go. The club features women who dance without their tops on and, later in the night, remove their trousers. Alcohol, I read aloud, is served to gentlemen at very reasonable prices. And the women are very beautiful. The place is called either The House of Pain or The House of Bread. Or possibly both. I can’t be sure. It may be that they strip off then beat each other with bread sticks. Odd, certainly, but the French are odd. The point is, I am able to understand nearly every word.
Slovenia aside, it’s the same with beer. Wherever we travel, I can order it immediately and in any quantity. I’m now convinced I could attend a strip club and get pissed anywhere in the world. Is this the collective unconscious of which Jung wrote? Are Australian men the only ones born with this remarkable linguistic gift?
We head home with a stopover in Los Angeles. My linguistic confusion grows all the more intense. I try to copy the American way of speaking English. It’s ‘real’ good, not ‘really’; ‘five x’, not ‘five times’; and ‘two-thousand-five’ instead of ‘two thousand and five’. They are so spectacularly busy they just don’t have time for those extra syllables. Even the children are flat out, forced to call it ‘math’ and not ‘maths’. They’d love to add that final ‘s’ but, real sorry, just don’t have the time. In a park, I even spot a sign advising a ‘No Thru Road’. I imagine the poor park supervisor, up to his neck in work. ‘I’m just not ina position to muck around with letters that really aren’t pulling their weight.’
Of course, once I get home, I realise that it’s the Australian language which is the strangest of all. We’re a nation of underestimators. It’s the only place in the world where an atrocious act is described as ‘a bit ordinary’, while an act of genius is ‘not half bad’. The first day of spring, in which birds are trilling, the air throbs with heat and scent, and the sky is a brilliant azure blue, is described as ‘not too bad at all’.
It must be tough for American visitors, given that
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