Tongue trials
Bloody hell, but it’s hard work living in another language.
It’s been four weeks since I started speaking German at home. I’m coming along by leaps and bounds-Naut says so, Aki says so-but it takes continual effort and occasional despair. It’s not that I’m bad at the language (I am, but that isn’t exactly the problem); it’s those moments when you just can’t cope. Examples:
You’re on the bus and the bus-driver is shouting. You look around and he seems to be shouting in your direction, but he’s too fast and idiomatic for you to understand (and it doesn’t help that he’s speaking in Afghani-accented Swiss German, which might as well be Navajo). Trying not to look like too much of an idiot, you give him the subtlest “talkin’ ta me?” body-language you can, which means twitching your eyebrows and widening your eyes questioningly and tilting your head until you look like a palsied idiot. Eventually it transpires that he’s trying to get the equally bemused Czech guy next to you to move away from the automatic door so it can close. The whole bus is looking at the Czech guy and thinking, “You fuckwit.” Thu driver makes some comment about dumb foreigners who don’t speak the language, which is a bit sharp coming from someone who’s a first-generation immigrant just like you. But at least you’re not the Czech guy, at least not this time.
You’re talking to someone you know. They rattle off some sentence you can’t make head or tail of. You nod assertively and say, “Mmm.” It’s probably interesting, but you’ve had a long day and you can’t quite face the effort of exhaustively decoding yet another sentence.
You’re talking to someone you know. You want to say something but don’t have the words. You try to backtrack and say it another way, but you don’t have the words for that either. So you try to explain roughly what you’re trying to talk about, and you don’t have the words for that. You try to explain your verbal dilemma, but the grammar’s too complicated. Your shoulders slump and you turn away and go into the next room. It’s not that you don’t want to communicate, but your brain just can’t take it any more.
You’re rattling away in German and, for once, getting along comfortably and reasonably fluently even if your grammar’s crap. Then some bastard tosses in a French word or phrase and your cortex flips into French mode and you’re two sentences down the line in the wrong language before you even notice. Realising your mistake, you try to switch back, and your next sentence jams up as both German and French words leap to your tongue. In the ensuing struggle, every language you’ve ever learned kicks in: German, French, Spanish, even your meagre smatterings of Dutch and Swedish; your speech faculty locks solid and you’re trapped in stuttering incoherence until you get some quiet time to let the verbal logjam clear.
You need some help from a total stranger-a shop assistant, say. You rehearse a few useful phrases in your head, then go up and say, “Entschuldi-”
“Certainly, Sir, how can I help?”
It’s been four weeks since I started speaking German at home. I’m coming along by leaps and bounds-Naut says so, Aki says so-but it takes continual effort and occasional despair. It’s not that I’m bad at the language (I am, but that isn’t exactly the problem); it’s those moments when you just can’t cope. Examples:
You’re on the bus and the bus-driver is shouting. You look around and he seems to be shouting in your direction, but he’s too fast and idiomatic for you to understand (and it doesn’t help that he’s speaking in Afghani-accented Swiss German, which might as well be Navajo). Trying not to look like too much of an idiot, you give him the subtlest “talkin’ ta me?” body-language you can, which means twitching your eyebrows and widening your eyes questioningly and tilting your head until you look like a palsied idiot. Eventually it transpires that he’s trying to get the equally bemused Czech guy next to you to move away from the automatic door so it can close. The whole bus is looking at the Czech guy and thinking, “You fuckwit.” Thu driver makes some comment about dumb foreigners who don’t speak the language, which is a bit sharp coming from someone who’s a first-generation immigrant just like you. But at least you’re not the Czech guy, at least not this time.
You’re talking to someone you know. They rattle off some sentence you can’t make head or tail of. You nod assertively and say, “Mmm.” It’s probably interesting, but you’ve had a long day and you can’t quite face the effort of exhaustively decoding yet another sentence.
You’re talking to someone you know. You want to say something but don’t have the words. You try to backtrack and say it another way, but you don’t have the words for that either. So you try to explain roughly what you’re trying to talk about, and you don’t have the words for that. You try to explain your verbal dilemma, but the grammar’s too complicated. Your shoulders slump and you turn away and go into the next room. It’s not that you don’t want to communicate, but your brain just can’t take it any more.
You’re rattling away in German and, for once, getting along comfortably and reasonably fluently even if your grammar’s crap. Then some bastard tosses in a French word or phrase and your cortex flips into French mode and you’re two sentences down the line in the wrong language before you even notice. Realising your mistake, you try to switch back, and your next sentence jams up as both German and French words leap to your tongue. In the ensuing struggle, every language you’ve ever learned kicks in: German, French, Spanish, even your meagre smatterings of Dutch and Swedish; your speech faculty locks solid and you’re trapped in stuttering incoherence until you get some quiet time to let the verbal logjam clear.
You need some help from a total stranger-a shop assistant, say. You rehearse a few useful phrases in your head, then go up and say, “Entschuldi-”
“Certainly, Sir, how can I help?”