Although I traveled to places where English was spoken fluently in most cases, I sometimes struggled to understand people when they spoke to me. I expected a language barrier in Iceland, but not in Ireland or Wales. I know, it’s a classical American move, assuming English is universal, until you’re the one left stammering in confusion.
For the most part, I muddled through. I’d let people speak; their English sounded like a foreign language full of accents and phrases I didn’t understand. I smiled and nodded a lot, hoping my response matched whatever they’d just said.
Taxi drivers were the hardest to understand. I’d hop in the car, rattle off my destination. The driver would strike up a conversation about my accent and where I’m from. I would explain from the Pacific Northwest on the West Coast. Carefully avoiding the word Washington. I’m convinced that if I said it, people would picture Washington, D.C., the capital on the opposite coast.
Avoiding politics was a priority on my travel list, and for the most part, I succeeded. But on my very first morning in Ireland, over breakfast at Killiane Castle, a chat with a couple at the next table drifted into a conversation over King Charles’s visit to Washington, D.C. Oblivious to how my voice carried beyond the couple I spoke with, in my usual speak-before-I-think mode, I joked about a real king speaking to a wannabe king. The whole dining room heard me and exploded in a cheer, leaving me wide-eyed and startled.
One woman even raised her fist and said, “Yes!” Her voice was not demure, but quite assertive.
The few times politics snuck into our conversation, not one person spoke in favor of our leader. One taxi driver delivered a passionate, nearly theatrical rant the entire ride. He didn’t aim his rant at me, but at our leaders, and much of it sailed right over my head thanks to his thick accent. He needed to vent, and vent he did. Despite his rant, he was nothing but helpful, and he made sure I found my way around the train station.
The most comical misunderstanding happened right after I landed in Wales by ferry. A taxi driver helped me drop off my bags at the house where I stayed in Lower Fishguard and drove me back to a coffee shop in Upper Fishguard.
When I walked up to the counter to order, a young woman asked, “Are you all right?” Actually, she said it like this: “You ori?”
Her question bewildered me. Why would she ask me that? So I replied, “Why? Do I not look all right?” I’m sure my face gave my bewilderment away.
She smiled and took my order. I smiled back, still not sure why she asked, and said, “Yes, I’m all right, thank you for asking.”
If you’ve been tagging along with my adventures, you already know my order: chai latte. Bless the coffee shops that kept my caffeine cravings satisfied.
Days later, I had a classic forehead-slap moment when I realized she greeted me in the Welsh equivalent of our saying “How are you?”
After that realization, anytime someone asked me that, I smiled and replied, “Splendid,” or “Having a great time, and you?”
“Can’t take me anywhere.” Became one of my signature phrases whenever I blundered, misspoke, or fumbled something. It kept me grounded and never failed to coax a smile from whoever heard it. Throughout my month-long journey, I met the kindest, most generous souls, and I carry their warmth with me in gratitude.