To this question I would casually reply, "Oh sure, I can get by."
What I really mean by this is that I have learned to get by with not understanding 90% of the conversations spoken around me while I am here. Fortunately I am an introvert which means I am not bothered by spending hours around a table with 5 or 6 people and grasping the meaning of only a sentence or two. I am perfectly content to sit silently, cutting slice after slice of cake, happy in the knowledge that everyone else is so busy talking that they won't notice that I have eaten three quarters of the dessert and even more blissfully unaware when the hostess glances in my direction and, startled at the sight of the nearly empty cake plate and the telltale crumbs at the corners of my mouth, informs everyone that it is no wonder Americans are all obese if they eat the way this one here does.
It wasn't always so. As a newlywed 15 years ago I enthusiastically set out to learn the native language of my husband and for a long time I entertained the misconception that he actually was interested in teaching me. Or, if not teaching me exactly, at least in putting forth the effort required to help me learn. There was no doubt in my mind that I could succeed: with a native speaker right there in the house, how could I fail? And not only that but when we were newlyweds we were living with Mihai's best friend Marius, also a native of Romania. Two native speakers in the house! I was on the short track to total fluency.
After a month or two of marriage I realized I still did not know how to say the basics such as "we're out of toilet paper" and "if you're going to produce that sort of odor, go in another room first". I realized formal lessons were probably in order and both Mihai and Marius agreed.
Oh, I was young in those days and had enthusiasm to spare. For the first lesson I prepared accordingly: me with a stack of fresh, blank paper; pencils sharpened to a bright, fine point; a book of Romanian grammar circa 1972; a plate of cookies and a pot of hot tea. I was set for what I was certain would be nothing more than a stunningly successful Romanian class right there in my own living room.
At the end of the first day I was able to declare that under a tree I could see a man, and that on the table I could see a glass. Being an exceptionally bright student I could even begin to extemporaneously form my own sentences and declared that on the table I could see both a man and a glass. I imagined that within a month or two I would be engaging in deep philosophical discussions about politics and the state of the global economy. My accent, I thought, would only serve to make me appear exotic and "pique interest."
That evening when the three of us gathered at the dinner table to eat, Mihai and Marius began to speak in English and I objected. "Romanian only from now on! Look, I will start it off my declaring that on this table I see both a man and a glass and ...a man." (I was uncertain how to pluralize and did not yet know the word for "another"). In return I received blank stares. The kind that only people raised under communism can seem to produce.
Thinking that perhaps I had spoken too rapidly for them to understand, I repeated my sentence and waited to be congratulated and for Marius to turn to Mihai and say something along the lines of "all that beauty and so smart, how did you find her?" Instead I was told that the word I had used for glass was really the word for vase, not at all like a drinking glass, and that I had failed to pluralize correctly. (it did no good to show them the 1972 grammar book as the source of my vocabulary) Furthermore, they were at the table, not standing on it like some drunken guests at a wedding where the bride and groom made the mistake of providing an open bar.
But since I had given them the go-ahead to speak in Romanian, they happily did so and I sat with increasing feelings of despair as I realized that after all those hours of studying glasses (er, vases) and men and seeing things on things, there was not a single word in their conversation that I recognized. I thought once that I heard the word "under" and was quickly informed that I was completely mistaken.
However, as I said, I was young in those days and my enthusiasm could not be dampened quite so easily.
The next strategy involved the use of one of those "Teach yourself..." programs. Now of all of the languages that are relevant to learn for business, pleasure and travel, Romanian is somewhere in the bottom 2 so its not exactly easy to find a book which supports self-guided lessons. But I can thank British businessmen traveling to Romania for the few that are available. The problem with these is that Mr. Porter, the British businessman and star of the "Teach Yourself Romanian" book/CD series, has very different communication needs than do I. Mr. Porter apparently must know where desks are located and to whom they belong and how many engineers are employed by the company. Mr. Porter frequently loses his way to the theater and is forever needing to ask if he should turn left on Boulevard Pantelimon or right on Strada Emenescu. I need to know how to tell someone to cover the salami with plastic before putting it in the refrigerator because otherwise my orange juice tastes disturbingly like cured meat. Mr. Porter speaks with great deference to his listeners; I must yell at children to stop picking their nose and wiping it on their friends' sweaters.
In the end, there was only one hope left: that going to Romania would at last afford me the opportunity to be absorbed in the language and I could not help but learn.
sigh
English, my dear readers, is everywhere. It is on the radios, the televisions, on the t-shirts of children, the sides of buses. Its like cat hair to a person with an allergy to cat hair: you cannot escape it. People without an allergy don't think its there but it is my friends, it is. And the problem with it is that it tricks you. You think you are doing very well with your Romanian, that you are understanding nearly everything when in fact you are relying on this ubiquitous English to fill in the gaps you don't even realize you have until you are in one of those rare situations wherein no one speaks English and you are suddenly in over your head. At that point you cannot rely on a street sign or a quick translation, you have no choice but to sit back and stuff your face with cake which is not such a bad option for you but most unfortunate for your hostess and anyone else who likes dessert.
Now I know what you're thinking: when will this post end and also, but Leigha, your in-laws don't speak English, can't you learn something from them?
Indeed this is so. My in-laws do not speak English. And its true that from my mother-in-law I have learned every conceivable way to ask someone how much money they make, how much their car costs, what the balance is in their bank account and to declare that I have purchased everything I own at an excellent price.
The problem with learning from my father-in-law is that when you attempt even mundane conversation he feels the need to provide you with a detailed, full-blown lesson in grammar. For example you say to him that the coffee smells wonderful and you must listen to and repeat all of the grammatical forms of this statement such as the interrogative, the declarative, the imperative until you are forced to say something along the lines of "its six thirty in the morning and if you don't let me get some caffeine I will begin screaming-how's that for exclamatory?" Once you have reacted this way, people are oddly reluctant to continue assisting you.
And of course none of the above teaches you how to read and write in the language (an important detail when you are text messaging your Romanian friends).
And this, dear readers, has been the long and winding road to our ultimate destination: to inform you that Leigha now also attends the gradinita.
The little children don't seem to mind; the little girls bring me flowers and ask that I braid their hair (one would assume that after seeing what a tragedy my own hair is they would think better of asking but they are young and perhaps near-sighted as well).
Teo seems happy to have me there, I think she enjoys the company of an adult every once in a while. The only ones who are bothered by my presence are my own children who had finally adjusted to the indignity of being in kindergarten and are now having to contend with the additional humiliation of attending school with their mother.
I don't go every day. And I try to give them their space. But still, its hard for them.
And so every chance I get, every opportunity that possibly affords itself, into every conversation that its possible to weave this information I tell them the unmistakable fact: (the one that every wife longs to be able to tell her children regarding her husband): "don't blame me, this is all your father's fault."
A few photos that I love:
On the first really fine day of spring I saw this man on his way out of town. What he was doing with the flowers I can only imagine but its lovely to contemplate...
Cristi lived in Italy for the first few years of his young life which was apparently long enough to give him that distinctly Italian male attitude. He has informed me that he must learn English and I must keep practicing Romanian so that "we can talk more".
you've got to love such a cheeky chap
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