Parlez-Vous Español?
by Karen Williams - Seminole Chronicle - February 15, 2007
“My brain is alert and fully-functioning.”
Thus I chant each morning before my self-imposed Spanish lesson. I’m determined to learn that language even though my neurons scream in pain.
It would be wonderful to know Spanish – to switch from one language to another at the drop of a hat/sombrero and to be able to read the Spanish subtitles on the signs in Home Depot.
But in high school, I studied Latin, and in college, I signed up for French.
French fascinated me. It was so melodic, so continental, so Bridget Bardot-esque. And the nasal component worked well with my sinus problems. I could envision myself at a café in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, wearing a beret, slurping snail meat, and parlez-vousing with the locals about Charles de Gaulle, Marie Antoinette, and Pepé Le Pew.
College level French was a rude awakening, however. At the first class, the professor began hurling about French phrases, which the rest of the students, most of whom had taken French in high school, seemed to know. I shrunk in my seat as the prof approached me.
“Ah vay voos oon stealo?” she asked.
Blankly, I stammered, “No…no, I don’t steal.”
My response evoked laughter – with a French accent, no less - from the rest of the class. How could I know she was asking me if I had a pencil? If I already knew this très silly language, I wouldn’t be there in the first place.
Somehow I persevered and made it through a year of French, spending so much time listening to tapes in the language lab that I developed an obsession with the mysterious “Pierre” who recorded the material. Perhaps I’d meet him some day, and hopefully he’d be more like Napoleon’s taller brother than the aromatic Mr. Le Pew.
Later came an opportunity to travel briefly in France. I tested my linguistic ability by entering countless establishments, mainly pastry shops, and asking for an item in French. My question would usually elicit raucous laughter and a “Vous êtes Américaine!” from the vendor which, loosely translated means, “Please give back the Statue of Liberty, Idiot.”
After those experiences and a botched opening of my first bottle of French wine with fingernail scissors, I put my French on the back burner. Way on the back burner. In fact, it slopped off the stove and I forgot it for decades.
Until, that is, I began studying Spanish.
Suddenly a language that had been as buried as Napoleon started coming to life in my cranium. And the harder I tried to exile it to Elba Island, the more determined it became to conquer the entire language cortex of my brain.
Everything came to a head on a recent visit to Miami. A friendly Latino couple attempted to make polite conversation in our hotel elevator. I understood them and prepared to answer with impeccable Spanish straight from my home-study workbook. Instead, out of my mouth came a mixture of French, Latin, and Pig Latin.
The wife stared at me. “Perdóneme?”
“Burrito!” I sputtered. That was the only Spanish word that I could think of, but thankfully I remembered to roll the double r’s.
The couple exchanged perplexed glances and exited the elevator at the next floor. “Buenas tardes, mi amigos!” I meant to yell as the elevator door was closing. But somehow it came out, “Vous êtes très stupide!”
Darn that Napoleon! He may have failed to conquer Russia, but my brain’s a goner.
Copyright 2007 - Karen Williams
