Lost in Humilation.

Saturday, November 15, 2008 at 3:02pm

Last week I was lucky enough to go away for the weekend, courtesy of my wife.I knew we were “going somewhere” but didn’t know where. Rachael kept it a complete secret, but that didn’t stop me asking every question under the sun about whether we were staying the UK, going abroad, flying abroad, whether it was somewhere we’d been together before, somewhere I’d been before. When the time came to leave, we jumped into my car.

“How long is the drive going to be?” I asked, thinking that I’d be able to tell based on the distance to the airport. “Stop trying, I’m not telling you.” Eventually I gave up, and distracted myself by wondering how long it would be until I’d see my old friend, food, again for breakfast instead. I soon got used to the idea that I wasn’t going to find out until the very last minute. After all, not knowing was more fun, anyway. In order to keep the secret going as much as possible, I stared at the floor as we waited at the gate to board. It must have looked dodgy that I couldn’t look the airline attendant in the eye when I handed her my passport and boarding pass. It must have been doubly suspicious when Rachael practically shouted, “whatever you do, just don’t look up!!!”

As I walked down the walkway to the plane, I found myself rudely staring at the other passengers to try and work out where they were from, and as a businessman walked past us on his mobile, I found myself cocking my ears towards him to hear his accent. French. Most definitely. Must be Paris. Get in! Can’t really go wrong with Paris. Rachael noticed and asked me to stop trying to spoil the surprise for myself. Too late.

So on we shuffled, and I couldn’t help but analyse every complexion, mannerism and word from the passengers in the seats as we passed them. Most of them looked Spanish. That scuppered my guess. Bugger, I realised, I really had no idea.Whenever I travel, I take literally everything I could ever want to use on the plane with me in my hand luggage. Since I’m lazy, this usually means stuffing the two or three magazines, books, mp3 player, camera and DS all into the seat pocket in front., anything to avoid standing up and redistributing my bags. I’m usually the last person standing up in the cabin as a result. The sooner I realise that the resulting lack of legroom could be avoidable by stretching my legs a bit, the better. As we sat waiting patiently for takeoff, I stared out at the bright, but low sun streaming across hangars, planes and vehicles of the runway area around the airport.

Glass on windows glinted as we taxied through to our takeoff point and I was excited about the unknown. I hadn’t really had a chance to look forward to the weekend until we arrived at Terminal 5 that morning, so my mind had suddenly gone into overdrive. I tried to think of all the places we could be going. I couldn’t help but start to wonder which locations I’d rather be going to, and came up with two; Paris and Rome.

One, the most romantic city in the world, the other, one of the richest in history. Identifying two of my favourites was potentially a bad idea, as the list of possible choices was relatively high and it was likely I’d be disappointed. Thankfully, I needn’t have worried, as the captain soon advised us on the flight time to Paris, and how the weather was somewhat different to the bright day we were having. Somewhat different, indeed. I believe that somewhere inside me, I am receptive to learning new languages, and I find myself remembering allsorts of words and phrases from several different countries. I was most confident with French though, as I’d studied that for my GCSEs. I could even assume a mean accent.

So, as we sat in a tiny restaurant just south of the River Seine that night, menus in hand, waitress hovering with pen at the ready, I was ready to put my five years of (albeit non attentive) study into practise, I realised that I had, in fact, remembered nothing. “Je voudrais, er…Rachael, what’s the French for glass?” Out comes the guidebook. She flicks to the Useful Phrases section at the back and quickly retrieves the word. “Verre”, she whispers, not looking up, perhaps not wanting to see me in pain.“Right, thanks.” Bear in mind, the waitress, the only one in this busy restaurant in the heart of Paris, is still standing waiting patiently for me to order. Rachael still hasn’t looked up. “Je voudrais deux verre du vin blanc, s’il vous plait.”

Perhaps not perfect, perhaps not in order, and maybe it did take several moments to get it out, but I was damn proud of myself. I was practically a local. Not so proud though when the waitress nods, and says in English, “Thank you sir, which white wine would you like, and is that a large or small glass?”I would probably have had more success if I'd have tried moonwalking across the English Channel.The fact that EVERYONE seems to speak English cannot be a good incentive for the British to learn another language. Everytime I ask a Frenchman if they speak English, everytime, they politely say, usually with a slight shrug, “A little,” perhaps in mortal fear of a deep conversation about Nietzsche. I wouldn’t give up though, I tried it several times over the weekend, usually forgetting half the words I thought I’d known before starting the conversation. No wonder my poor wife always sighs when I try and speak Spanish, which I know even less of. Surely though, it’s better to try and speak the language, even when you know full well they speak perfect English?I can’t remember half the things I’d learned about grammar anyway, which is the glue that binds all the other words together.

My memory in general is getting far worse than it used to be. I know now what Paul McCartney was thinking of when he called his last album “Memory Almost Full.” The fact he must be well into his sixties has nothing at all to do with it. I’d gladly swap all the other phrases I’d learned (in German and Japanese as well as the lyrics to the entire REM back catalog that I’d stored away in the dark recesses of my head) for some fluency in one language, but it doesn’t work like that, sadly. I can’t even finish one sentence. The worst thing is when you visit a new country, having worked out a few phrases, and successfully reel off a line or two. The listener then stares you in the eye, and then starts a fully blown conversation about the weather, exposing me as the fraud I am. Worst still, in Japan, I’ve literally been laughed at.