No matter where we are in the world, Tim has a pretty good sense of direction. He knew the driver in Paris was not heading the right way, even though he couldn't communicate it to him without his translator.
In Tim's book, there is nothing worse than getting lost or not being able to find a place. It's a total guy thing. But sometimes it can't be avoided.
Years ago, we took a trip with my mother, sister, brother and two family friends to England, Scotland and Ireland. Due to the mountain of luggage we toted around with us, we needed to rent two cars for the duration.
Tim drove car one while I navigated with the map (this was way before nav systems), and my mom followed in car two. The rest of our happy little band alternated between the two cars.
Everything went well enough in England where they believe in putting up fairly accurate signage and have paved roads and maps whose lines actually represent the roads. And then we got to Ireland.
On our way out of Dublin to the west coast, Tim got quite ill, so I had to drive. With much trepidation, I handed over the map to my mother, sister, Pat, and our friend Mary Ann, and told them they would have to lead the way. I would have done better putting on a blindfold and throwing darts at an atlas. Those three could get lost in a broom closet with a flashlight and mapquest. But I had no choice.
True to form, two hours later of careening around hairpin turns and dodging suicidal sheep, we ended up dead-ended at a lake. This would not have been nearly so distressing had we been planning to visit the lake, or even the county, but since we were actually aiming for a major city on the opposite coast, it was not a good situation.
Tim woke up, and I believe his first words were, "Where in God's name are we?" And the really tragic part was, nobody knew for sure.
"A lake," did not seem to be the answer he was looking for, especially when it was not accompanied by the actual name of the lake.
"What county are we in?" he rasped out. Again, his question was met with blank looks and helpless shrugs.
"Are we still in Ireland?" Okay, now he was just grasping for straws. After all, Ireland is an island and we hadn't crossed any water...well major waterways...I didn't think. I don't know, I was too busy trying to keep from plunging over the edge of a cliff every time another car wanted to pass on the wrong side of the narrow cow-pass they laughingly refer to as two-lane roads in that country.
Eventually, we found a native who was able to assure us that: A. we were still in Ireland (so there!) , and B. we were still on the east coast.
After pouring over the map for a good half hour, we were able to figure out where they went wrong, if not why, and plot a course back to civilization (my mother, trying to put a bright face on things by saying, "At least we got to see a place most tourists don't see. Aren't we lucky?" was not helping. It was like the captain of the Titanic trying to put a bright face on the whole sinking thing by pointing out that at least there was plenty of ice for cocktail hour.).
Tim managed to keep it together and climbed back behind the wheel to finish off our journey, which was uneventful until near the end.
The hotel we had booked into in Cork had no actual address that we could find, only a description that it was "on the hillside overlooking the river" (Gotta love the Irish--ask a simple yes or no question of us and you get a forty-five minute dissertation with the most detailed, colorful descriptions you will ever hear in your life. Ask for a little help with directions and you get the vaguest, most rambling explanation that leaves you more confused than when you started.).
But we were young and still had a shred of hope and optimism, so we figured we would find it.
The only problem was, as we pulled into Cork, I looked behind us and there was no blue car following our red one. My mother, Pat and Mary Ann had vanished!
Tim, being gallant, pulled over and waited for them to appear. After all, he reasoned, there was only one main road and we were on it. Foolish boy. Applying reason to my family. Tsk, tsk.
Black cars whizzed past, red cars whizzed past, even blue cars whizzed past, but not the one we were looking for.
Feeling a sense of duty, Tim turned the car around and backtracked to find them, against the strong urging of Mike and myself to "Save ourselves" and not end up dead-ended at a cave or a giant pile of cow-dung which is where they were sure to be.
Much later, after a fruitless search (duh. Tim couldn't have seen that coming?) we convinced him to head to the hotel where we could check in and perhaps marshall some troops for a fresh search party later.
As we drove up the hill and prepared to make a right turn into the hotel, we encountered the blue car chugging down the hill and making a left into the hotel. Turns out, they had started chatting and followed the wrong car! Fortunately for them, the luck of the Irish was with them and they didn't end up back at the lake (which was a real possibility).
Poor Tim. And that was the last group trip he went on. Wonder why?
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Lost in Translation
I have a friend who speaks five languages fluently. I speak one--English--but I can say hello and order wine in at least four languages. Pretty much all you really need to know. Sometimes though, it would be nice to know just a couple more words.
The other day in Paris, three of us were in a car on the way to dinner with a driver who, I believed spoke about as much English as we do French. But, no matter. He understood our mangled pronunciation of the name of the restaurant--we thought.
After the first few turns though, we began to doubt that he was taking us in the right direction.
"Are we headed to la Fontaine Gaillon?" Tim enquired in loud, slow English, which is exactly the same as speaking any foreign language.
Pause. No response.
Our friend in the front seat gave it a try. Whew! Glad he speaks French, I thought.
"Are we going to la Fontaine Gaillon?" he repeated.
Wait. What? I looked at Tim to see if I was nuts or if he had heard his question repeated in loud, slow English.
Surprisingly, he got an affirmative answer. Hmmm. Guess Tim wasn't loud enough or slow enough.
Not satisfied that the driver really understood his concern, Tim persisted. "I thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," he leaned forward and yelled in the driver's ear.
Pause. No response.
"We thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," once again our friend's language skills dazzled us.
"Yes, I go this way," the driver replied.
Okay. This was getting just plain weird. I was hearing English, but clearly our friend was actually speaking French to the driver. I guess the jet lag was worse than I thought. I looked at Tim to see if he had heard the same thing I did, but he was too intent on getting at least one answer out of the driver without a translator.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he bellowed, leaning so far forward his nose was practically pressed against the windshield.
Once again a pause and no response. Oh, this guy was good.
We exchanged puzzled glances with our friend who gamely interpreted one more time.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he once again repeated loudly and slowly.
"Yes, but the traffic is bad, so I go around," the driver answered straightaway.
Okay, now this was just getting bizarre. I know our friend was speaking English that time. I could tell from the bright red color creeping up Tim's neck. So why wouldn't the driver answer Tim? Had he offended him in some way? He was wearing Italian shoes, but the tie was French. Didn't that count for something?
Hey. What if it was the accent? Did our friend's mid-western twang sound more Parisian than our flat, east-coast diction? Maybe Tim would have gotten further if he'd tried a "Hey y'all" or "How you doin'?". Even a "Yo. 'sup?" might have actually gotten some sort of acknowledgment.
Alas, we would never know the truth because before Tim could go with his instincts and throttle the driver until he admitted he actually understood and spoke flawless English, we arrived at our destination...Where I promptly ordered us each a nice glass of wine...in French...I think.
The other day in Paris, three of us were in a car on the way to dinner with a driver who, I believed spoke about as much English as we do French. But, no matter. He understood our mangled pronunciation of the name of the restaurant--we thought.
After the first few turns though, we began to doubt that he was taking us in the right direction.
"Are we headed to la Fontaine Gaillon?" Tim enquired in loud, slow English, which is exactly the same as speaking any foreign language.
Pause. No response.
Our friend in the front seat gave it a try. Whew! Glad he speaks French, I thought.
"Are we going to la Fontaine Gaillon?" he repeated.
Wait. What? I looked at Tim to see if I was nuts or if he had heard his question repeated in loud, slow English.
Surprisingly, he got an affirmative answer. Hmmm. Guess Tim wasn't loud enough or slow enough.
Not satisfied that the driver really understood his concern, Tim persisted. "I thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," he leaned forward and yelled in the driver's ear.
Pause. No response.
"We thought it was in the other direction from our hotel," once again our friend's language skills dazzled us.
"Yes, I go this way," the driver replied.
Okay. This was getting just plain weird. I was hearing English, but clearly our friend was actually speaking French to the driver. I guess the jet lag was worse than I thought. I looked at Tim to see if he had heard the same thing I did, but he was too intent on getting at least one answer out of the driver without a translator.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he bellowed, leaning so far forward his nose was practically pressed against the windshield.
Once again a pause and no response. Oh, this guy was good.
We exchanged puzzled glances with our friend who gamely interpreted one more time.
"Isn't the restaurant over by the Louvre?" he once again repeated loudly and slowly.
"Yes, but the traffic is bad, so I go around," the driver answered straightaway.
Okay, now this was just getting bizarre. I know our friend was speaking English that time. I could tell from the bright red color creeping up Tim's neck. So why wouldn't the driver answer Tim? Had he offended him in some way? He was wearing Italian shoes, but the tie was French. Didn't that count for something?
Hey. What if it was the accent? Did our friend's mid-western twang sound more Parisian than our flat, east-coast diction? Maybe Tim would have gotten further if he'd tried a "Hey y'all" or "How you doin'?". Even a "Yo. 'sup?" might have actually gotten some sort of acknowledgment.
Alas, we would never know the truth because before Tim could go with his instincts and throttle the driver until he admitted he actually understood and spoke flawless English, we arrived at our destination...Where I promptly ordered us each a nice glass of wine...in French...I think.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
No Rest For The Weary
This past weekend, we were in Paris. We arrived very early Friday morning, and since neither one of us got even a wink of sleep on the plane, we decided to take a short nap before we landed face down in a plate of quiche.
Never imagining we would be bothered at 7am, we neglected to put out the "I'm relaxing" sign before we slipped into our jammies. As it turned out, not only should we have put it out, we should have had it flashing in bright, neon-colored lights.
The first knock came just as we were headed for nirvana--the bed. A way-too-chipper-for-7am hotel staffer stood there bearing a complementary fruit plate and bottles of water.
"Welcome," he beamed, and proceeded to set up our treat, making at least thirty trips back and forth for plates, napkins, silverware, moist towelettes, etc.
Somewhere around trip number twenty, I began to think it was too bad they haven't invented some sort of device that he could use to make life easier. Something that maybe had, oh, I don't know, wheels. Yeah, maybe some sort of a wheeled cart that could be rolled into the room, and either left there or quickly and easily unloaded and wheeled back out. Something maybe like that thing in the hall he used to bring all this stuff to our room in the first place. Nah. Crazy idea. It'd never work.
Finally, he was done, and with a cheery wave au revoir, he disappeared and we were left to see who could make it to the bed and fall asleep the fastest.
The last thing I remember is making sure Tim set the alarm, which turned out to be totally unnecessary.
The next thing I remember is hearing Tim say, "Get out!" and prying open one bleary eye to find another member of the hotel staff standing in the bedroom doorway.
"I came for the mini-bar," he was muttering, clearly misinterpreting "Get out" to mean "Please, come in. Don't mind the people in the bed. You just rush right over and check out that mini-bar to see how much damage they were able to do in the whole HOUR they were in the room."
The second "GET OUT!", accompanied by Tim rising from the bed like a grizzly coming out of a really long hibernation, seemed to need no translation. Last we saw of that guy, he was booking it out of the room like he was going for the gold in the 100 meter dash.
This time, we made sure we had the "I'm relaxing" sign firmly placed on the door, and briefly contemplated wedging the couch, the coffee table and the bed under the handle before heading back to sleep.
What we failed to realize though, in our sleep-deprived state, was that we had two doors, one in the sitting room and one in the bedroom. The hotel staff unfortunately realized that they had yet another chance to keep us from getting our beauty sleep though, and right on schedule, one hour later, there was a pounding on the door.
"Bonjour! Make up the room?" a woman who clearly had a death wish called out.
"No! Go away!" Tim responded in a tone that threatened to set back foreign relations a good two hundred years. I guess we won't have to worry about an ambassadorship any time soon.
"I will come back later. OK?"
Yeah, sure. How about in, oh, say, an hour? We wouldn't want to break our pattern here and get more than 40 minutes of sleep at any given time. Hey, maybe you could bring back fruit guy and mini-bar guy, and we could eat all the tiny little bags of chips, drink all the itty-bitty little bottles of vodka, pig out on strawberries and macaroons and then get really crazy and open all the cute little shampoo bottles. Par-T!!!
Once again, we headed wearily back to bed only to have the alarm go off before our heads even hit the pillows. At that point, we were afraid of who might show up next, so we gave up, showered, and headed out without bothering to remove the useless "I'm relaxing" sign.
As we waited for the elevator, it occurred to us that maybe that was our mistake in the first place. Instead of putting the "I'm relaxing" sign on the door, maybe we should have put out the "please make up room" sign instead. It wasn't like we could have had any more people coming into the room. I don't think the hotel staff was that big.
Never imagining we would be bothered at 7am, we neglected to put out the "I'm relaxing" sign before we slipped into our jammies. As it turned out, not only should we have put it out, we should have had it flashing in bright, neon-colored lights.
The first knock came just as we were headed for nirvana--the bed. A way-too-chipper-for-7am hotel staffer stood there bearing a complementary fruit plate and bottles of water.
"Welcome," he beamed, and proceeded to set up our treat, making at least thirty trips back and forth for plates, napkins, silverware, moist towelettes, etc.
Somewhere around trip number twenty, I began to think it was too bad they haven't invented some sort of device that he could use to make life easier. Something that maybe had, oh, I don't know, wheels. Yeah, maybe some sort of a wheeled cart that could be rolled into the room, and either left there or quickly and easily unloaded and wheeled back out. Something maybe like that thing in the hall he used to bring all this stuff to our room in the first place. Nah. Crazy idea. It'd never work.
Finally, he was done, and with a cheery wave au revoir, he disappeared and we were left to see who could make it to the bed and fall asleep the fastest.
The last thing I remember is making sure Tim set the alarm, which turned out to be totally unnecessary.
The next thing I remember is hearing Tim say, "Get out!" and prying open one bleary eye to find another member of the hotel staff standing in the bedroom doorway.
"I came for the mini-bar," he was muttering, clearly misinterpreting "Get out" to mean "Please, come in. Don't mind the people in the bed. You just rush right over and check out that mini-bar to see how much damage they were able to do in the whole HOUR they were in the room."
The second "GET OUT!", accompanied by Tim rising from the bed like a grizzly coming out of a really long hibernation, seemed to need no translation. Last we saw of that guy, he was booking it out of the room like he was going for the gold in the 100 meter dash.
This time, we made sure we had the "I'm relaxing" sign firmly placed on the door, and briefly contemplated wedging the couch, the coffee table and the bed under the handle before heading back to sleep.
What we failed to realize though, in our sleep-deprived state, was that we had two doors, one in the sitting room and one in the bedroom. The hotel staff unfortunately realized that they had yet another chance to keep us from getting our beauty sleep though, and right on schedule, one hour later, there was a pounding on the door.
"Bonjour! Make up the room?" a woman who clearly had a death wish called out.
"No! Go away!" Tim responded in a tone that threatened to set back foreign relations a good two hundred years. I guess we won't have to worry about an ambassadorship any time soon.
"I will come back later. OK?"
Yeah, sure. How about in, oh, say, an hour? We wouldn't want to break our pattern here and get more than 40 minutes of sleep at any given time. Hey, maybe you could bring back fruit guy and mini-bar guy, and we could eat all the tiny little bags of chips, drink all the itty-bitty little bottles of vodka, pig out on strawberries and macaroons and then get really crazy and open all the cute little shampoo bottles. Par-T!!!
Once again, we headed wearily back to bed only to have the alarm go off before our heads even hit the pillows. At that point, we were afraid of who might show up next, so we gave up, showered, and headed out without bothering to remove the useless "I'm relaxing" sign.
As we waited for the elevator, it occurred to us that maybe that was our mistake in the first place. Instead of putting the "I'm relaxing" sign on the door, maybe we should have put out the "please make up room" sign instead. It wasn't like we could have had any more people coming into the room. I don't think the hotel staff was that big.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)