I really need to learn some Spanish before we get to Mexico. Last time we were there, all I had was a European Spanish phrasebook and was gripped with self-consciousness every time I needed to communicate in the local lingo.
Matt was utterly useless. Deeply unhelpfully, he immediately starts speaking the local language at the exact point that we leave that country. Last time he spontaneously started speaking Spanish when we flew out of Mexico City and into LA. Possibly not the worst place in the world to speak Spanish, but Matt's dogged pidgin version still raised a few perfectly shaped eyebrows.
After ten years in the UK, he has adopted a few Englishisms - faffing about, mincing along - but claims that these are ancient Gisborne expressions. However, his accent remains strongly Kiwi and has possibly actually strengthened since we arrived.
About a week ago he declared that he knows it is time for us to leave as he thinks he is starting to lose his accent. If he sticks to his usual MO, he will arrive back to Gisborne talking like a proper Pom - probably a geezer.
Back to Mexico. Despite the fact that neither of us spoke any Spanish whatsoever, every time someone spoke to us in Spanish, Matt would turn and stare at me, indicating that I would be the one responding.
In 2002 we were travelling in Thailand and met a couple of very sweet professional rave dancers from Germany. I can't remember her name, but the guy's name was Kai. They told us that he had smoked so much weed in Pha Ngan that he forgot how to speak English, a temporary case of linguistic amnesia if you will.
They were in a restaurant when it first struck. The Thai waiter came to collect their order and Kai made a very long, complex order in German. Alarmed, his girlfriend told him to speak English. Kai said he thought he was speaking English. His girlfriend told us of her anguish, saying that for five days he "abandoned" her, leaving her to speak English alone. I feel her pain - but at least she could actually speak English.
There comes a point where the necessity of speaking a foreign language overcomes the embarrassment. From that point on, you are emancipated from the shackles of self-consciousness and can have a go, make mistakes, and perhaps even enjoy it.
Mine came when we were staying in San Cristobal, a beautiful colonial town nestled in the clouds in Chiapas. We were staying in an old hotel, and like many of the places we stayed, it was not advised to flush toilet paper. One morning, in a groggy haze, I instinctively tossed the paper into the bowl. I pulled the lever and suddenly realised my mistake. In horror, I watched the water rise. I broke into a cold sweat and leaped up on to the step as the water poured across the floor.
I told Matt what had happened and instead of helping me, he pulled a Kai and told me that he was going to the hotel restaurant for a coffee and would wait there while I sorted it out. I grabbed my dodgy European Spanish phrasebook and, using the back of our ticket stubs as cue cards, I prepared my lines. Then I made my way to the concierge and delivered my speech.
"Buenos dias"
"Grande problemo"
"Bano blocado"
I walked him to our room, said "Gracias" and made a run for it.
At breakfast, ordered by me, in shamelessly bad Spanish, I explained to Matt that bano-gate had been a cathartic experience. This most embarrassing incident had purged me of The Fear. After you've told someone that you've flooded their toilet, it puts ordering breakfast into perspective. Matt suggested that I start a Spanish language school based on this methodology. Humiliation could literally remove one's barriers (or blocados). The only problem with Matt's suggestion, I pointed out, is that I DON'T SPEAK SPANISH!
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