When I was eight years old, I discovered James Bond movies. My best friend’s father, understanding what was truly important in young boys’ lives, lied to my mother for me and snuck us off to watch Thunderball (the very best Bond movie ever made) and I was hooked. I liked the explosions and the shark wrestling. I didn’t quite understand all the kissy scenes with the girls, but found them intriguing. I really, really liked the underwater-scuba-two-armies-battling-with-sharks scene. But what I liked the most about the whole James Bond experience was the agent’s gift for languages. Over the years and in every film, regardless of where it was set, Bond was consistently able to exchange pleasantries with the help in their own language. The fact that these servants were almost always hypnotically beautiful women only added to my desire to learn another language.
Unfortunately, I did not grow up to be what you could truthfully call a gifted linguist. I took four years of French One in high school. My Spanish is limited to menus and the lyrics to La Bamba (well, okay, just the part where they sing, "La, la, la, la, Bamba"). I know just enough Greek to get punched in the mouth. Where James Bond would be able to negotiate an Anti-Ballistic Missile treaty between India and Germany, I am barely able to order a Happy Meal in Montreal.
I am going to Africa next summer to research a book and I’m anxious to improve my language skills before I go. I spent some time there a few years ago and I really want to do better this time around. Before my last trip, I used a Swahili phrasebook to memorize phrases that might help me in ordering food, dating (hey, you never know...) and transportation. I figured that if I learned thirty or forty core phrases, I could mix and match them to cover just about any situation. My theory turned out to be flawed. At one fairly fancy dinner party for instance, my hostess offered me some beautifully barbecued meat. Anxious to look good, I turned to her and replied in Swahili. I was confused when the room burst into raucous laughter. What I should have said was, "Pole, sikuli nyama" - "I’m sorry; I don’t eat meat." What I actually said was, "Pole, sibusu nyani", which translates roughly as, "I’m sorry; I don’t kiss monkeys."
Obviously, I’m anxious to avoid this sort of mistake in the future, so for the past month or so, I’ve been practicing with a teach-yourself-Swahili program on my computer. I’m making pretty good progress with it, if I say so myself, and I should do well in Kenya next summer, just so long as everyone I talk to holds up four pictures of what they are talking about and want me to choose one of them.
At any rate, I’ve been taking just about every possible opportunity to practice, including at restaurants, when I’m eating alone. And that’s why I’m sitting at a sushi bar, wearing headphones.
My laptop has drawn waiters from all over the restaurant like moths to a flame. I eventually get a crowd of four or five of them surrounding me in a rugby-like scrum, asking intricate questions about RAM, connection speed and how to upload cool pictures as desktop wallpaper. Unfortunately, my computer skills are only marginally better than my language skills and I can’t help them much. Also unfortunately, none of these guys seem to be my waiter, and it takes me a while to order. I eventually locate my waiter and order dinner, making sure to ask for a beer, then put my headphones on and start a Swahili lesson.
After a few minutes, I notice that some of the other customers at neighboring tables are looking in my direction with quizzical looks on their faces. Repeatedly, they start to look away, but then look back in my direction every time my computer program asks me for a response. I make very certain that I am not speaking aloud as I continue, but I keep getting the looks anyway. Finally, I turn around to see if all the other customers are looking at me and discover two waiters standing behind me, answering the questions out loud. I smile at them. They blush and excuse themselves.
I pack the laptop up as soon as my food arrives and eat quickly. It may be my imagination, but it seems like the staff is eyeing me with more respect as I pay up and leave, as if I am marginally more Bond-like. That feeling is short-lived though.
I’m pretty sure James Bond usually remembers where he parked his car.
