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Creole slang and he may never before have heard that utterance from the lips of a non…
Haitian。
That one line is guaranteed to get you reactions ranging from a long； slow smile to a
cheery “Where did you learn that？” to loud and joyous laughter to the exclamation； “You
must know Haiti well！”
Don’t get the idea that Haitians are the only ones susceptible to the charm of
hearing a few words of their language。 They just may be more demonstrative than most
in showing it。 Romanian cab drivers have turned off the metre and given me a free ride in
return for my “Good morning” in Romanian。 A Soviet Georgian cab driver refused to
take my money and invited me to Sunday dinner at his home； one of the tastiest treats and
most interesting evenings I’ve ever enjoyed。 An Indonesian cab driver screamed – that’s
all； just screamed – upon hearing “Thank you” in his language。
I’ve long suspected there’s a memo posted in the kitchen of every Chinese
restaurant in America instructing all personnel not to let any American who exhibits any
knowledge of Chinese go unrewarded。 Try this experience； just to taste the power。
The Chinese term for “chopsticks” is kwai dze。 The first word is pronounced like
the Asian river the American war prisoners built the bridge over。 The second word
sounds like the ds in “suds。”
The next time you’re in a Chinese restaurant； smile at the waiter and say “Kwai
dze。” When he brings the chopsticks； smile again and say； “Shieh； shieh” （“Thank
you”）。 Pronounce that as you should “she expects；” making sure you never get as far as
the x and accentuating the “she”。 The immediate payoffs on this one can range from a
free plum brandy cocktail at the end of the meal clear over to a stubborn refusal to let you
pay。 The more subtle； and satisfying； payoff is that they will assume you know not only
the rest of the Chinese language but the Chinese cuisine as well； and they’ll probably
give you no less than the absolute finest the house can produce every time they see you
come in。
Your rewards for knowing even a paltry few words of a language vary in inverse
proportion to the likelihood that you’ll know any at all。 A German baker isn’t likely to
endorse his whole day’s profit on strudel over to your favourite charity merely because
you enter his shop with a big “Guten Tag” （“Good day”）； but an Albanian baker might if
you enter with “Tungjatjeta。” You won’t knock French socks off with a “Comment
allez…vous？” （“How are you？”）； but you may set winter gloves flying in Helsinki with a
correctly pronounced “（Hyv。。 P。iv。。）” （“Good morning”）。
Don’t overdo it。 I’ve known cab drivers from obscure countries almost drive off the
road when they’re surprised with a burst of their native tongue from an American
passenger； and once I had a Chinese waitress in a Jewish delicatessen （honest！） get so
rattled when I ordered for our party in Chinese that she messed up our order beyond
redemption。
I have many times ignited what looked like spontaneous street festivals by hailing
groups of people on the sidewalk in the language I heard them speaking。 They frequently
stop； return the greeting； and then start hobnobbing with the people in my group； leading
to laughs； the exchange of addresses； dates for later on； and； I suspect； even more！ I’ve
never understood the joy of bagging a bird or a deer and watching it fall to the ground。
My joy is bagging strangers from other countries with the right greeting in the right
language and watching them come to a halt and become old friends at once。
The material payoffs of learning foreign languages are many and predictable；
though perhaps a bit surprising in their scope。 In early 1990 a friend told me he was
looking to fill a job paying 650；000 a year； qualifications： attorney； knowledge of
Russian； and willingness to relocate to Moscow。 I prefer the psychological payoffs of
studying foreign languages – pleasures so keep you could almost call them spiritual。
They joy of a true mathematician escalates as he moves from algebra to
trigonometry to calculus。 Likewise； the joy of the true language lover escalates as he
advances from what I call “Foreign 1” to “Foreign 2。” Foreign 1 is interpreting or
translating （interpreters speak； translators write） from your native language to a foreign
one。 Foreign 2 is doing it from one language that’s foreign to you to another one that’s
foreign to you。
You are permitted to feel like Superman when you pull off such a feat。 You are not
permitted to act like Superman； nor are you permitted to let on that you feel like
Superman。 You mien should approximate that of a bored New York commuter telling a
stranger how many stops there are between Grand Central Station and New Rochelle。
The best Foreign 2 feeling I ever had was interpreting for Finns trying to
communicate with Hungarians。 Finnish and Hungarian are widely hailed as the most
difficult languages in the world。 They’re related to each other； but not in any way that’s
helpful or even apparent。 There aren’t five words remotely similar in the two languages；
and a Hungarian and a Finn can no more understand each other than can a Japanese and a
Pole。
I long nurtured a dream of house lights coming up in the theatre。 The theatre
manager comes to centre stage and says； “Is there a Finnish…Hungarian interpreter in the
house？” I wait until he repeats his request louder so that everyone in the theatre will get a
load of those qualifications。 I then； in the fantasy； grudgingly make my presence and； by
implication； my suitability for the assignment known。 I rise and approach whatever
emergency it is that requires my linguistic talents； while those hundreds of theatre goers
gasp at their relative inadequacies。
Something like that actually did light up my life for an evening and then some。 I
was invited by a well known woman broadcaster to join another couple who had invited
her and a guest to a Madison Square Garden horse show。 I’d never dated her before。 I felt
outclassed in the glamour department； and I was uncomfortable as we four wound our
way through that upper crust crowd looking for our places。
Suddenly I was spotted by Anna Sosenko； lyricist； writer； theatre producer； and
dealer in the memorabilia of show business worldwide and down through the ages。 Anna
wrote； among other biggies； the song “Darling； Je Vous Aime Beaucoup。”
“Hey； Barry；” Anna yelled out over the crowd from about twenty rows away。 “Can
you come by my studio next week？ I need you to translate some Ibsen！”
Remember what that sudden spinach infusion did for Popeye’s biceps in the
animated cartoons？ That’s exactly what happened to my standing in the foursome after
Anna’s outcry。 My date and her friends turned to me。 “Ibsen？ You translate Ibsen？
Where did you learn to translate Ibsen？”
They may very well not have known what language Henrik Ibsen wrote in。 Never
mind！ You don’t have to be absolutely s