Magdalene Dalziel
How can I laugh at the stereotypical boozed-up Brits abroad when I’m not that different from them deep down?
THERE’S nothing quite like a holiday in the sun to remind you just how ignorant you really are.
I’m just back from a week in Benidorm, which isn’t exactly known for serving up an authentic slice of Spanish life. But that didn’t make the embarrassment of being unable to say more than the most basic of phrases in the native tongue any more easy to swallow.
If you’re one of the 34 per cent of people in the UK who can converse confidently in another language, I salute you. Now go and rest that weary and very clever head, for my ramblings don’t translate to you.
But if, like me, you’re part of the rest of the population, then shame on us, because we’ve ensured our nation remains the least likely anywhere in the world to learn a new lingo.
It wasn’t always that way for me. Quite the opposite, in fact. The future looked bright at the age of 17. Having blagged my way to an A in higher German, I found myself studying the subject for my first year of university.
Daydreams of a bohemian Berlin exchange experience, packed full of curried wurst, art galleries, all-night raves and a hot local on my arm, were soon shattered by the brutal reality of early-morning lectures and a lacklustre attitude to academic achievement.
It’s something I regret more and more the older I get, and my frustration grows rapidly every time I hear the once familiar guttural tones of the German language being spoken and I’m so close to, yet so far from, understanding.
Over the years, I’ve been lucky to have visited some far-flung places, where I’ve made pals from all corners of the globe. And, somehow, I always manage to brush away the nagging feeling that I don’t bring as much to the table as fellow travellers, who have been bilingual for as long as they can remember.
After all, I’ve seen the temples at Angkor Wat, watched the sun set in Singapore and washed elephants in a Thai sanctuary while decked out in an “I Love Laos” T-shirt and harem pants – so how much more cultured can you get? But I was left choking on my all-inclusive cocktails last week when I received a less than welcome wake-up call from a moody waiter, reminding me to “speak slowly” and remember I was in Spain while I clumsily attempted to order dinner. After I got over my rage – let’s just say there was more to this incident, and this gentleman and I did not get on well – I realised he was right. Despite having visited his country more times than any other, my conversational skills haven’t moved on from “dos cervezas por favor”. The waiter’s words were still ringing in my ears when I touched back down in Glasgow. After all, how can I laugh at the stereotypical boozed-up Brits abroad who fly off to new destinations just to seek out home comforts, when I’m not that different from them deep down? So, I’m signing up for German night classes. I figured I owe it to my younger self to try to make those thankless hours of studying worthwhile. And who knows, if that goes well, maybe I’ll try my hand at Spanish next, even if it is just to get one over on a certain hospitality worker. Surely it’s better to be bitter than ignorant – and maybe I was always more suited to the bohemian lifestyle of Barcelona anyway.