Moments of Oddness
It's Dublin, the Sunday after St. Patrick's, and the Temple Bar neighborhood is still going strong. On the way from one pub to the next, he stopped me.
"Hey man, hoow's it gooin'?"
He had a strong scottish accent. I'm trying to write his dialog, phonetically, the best I can.
"Oh, pretty good. How are you?"
We got to talking. I could barely understand him with that accent. I finally ask him:
"So what do you do?"
"Ay kem wit te shayps."
"Uh... sorry?"
"Ay kem wit te shayps."
"Uh... sorry, I don't know what you just said."
His face crashed into a look of sadness, and his eyes turned toward the sidewalk.
"Ay'm sorry. Ay hev a spaych impediment."
It's Saturday night, and I'm in a taxi on my way home from the Düsseldorf Altstadt. The driver looks about 60, with silver hair and glasses down on the end of his nose, the skin on his face cracked and dry. At the first red light, he tells me, in German (which, besides one key word, I've translated to English here):
"Anschnallen, please."
I answer, in my bad, broken German: "Anschnallen? I'm sorry, I don't know that word." And apologetically: "I have bad German."
The driver turns his head to the right and begins to just stare at me, giving me the evilest eye ever. He stared -- I am not exaggerating -- the entire 20 seconds or so that it took for the light to change. For reasons unknown to me, he was apparently, and suddenly, pissed off. I wanted to look away, but I knew that if I broke eye contact first that'd be as good as admitting guilt for whatever it was I'd just done that'd so enraged him.
"Um... anschnallen?" I repeated. "Can't you explain what that is for me?"
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?" he snapped back at me.
I broke the eye contact.
A few seconds later, I muster up the nerve to say "I'm sorry if I said something wrong...?" He just sat, silently staring into the traffic ahead.
By the time he stopped the cab at my building, I hated him, and I gave him no tip. I went upstairs and looked up the word. It means "to buckle up."
Back in Dublin. Out of nowhere, another Scotsman has come up, and the two of them begin chatting to one another, totally (to me) incomprehensibly. Suddenly, Scot #2 says to me:
"Ay'menebelmeh."
Here we go again.
"Uh.... what?"
He leaned in real close, his face right next to mine, and said it again, louder:
"Ay'menebelmeh!"
"Uh... I'm sorry, I don't know what you just said."
He pulled a laminated card out of his wallet, and held it up right next to his face, still leaning in close to mine:
"Ay werk with DAYD PAYPLE."
"Hey man, hoow's it gooin'?"
He had a strong scottish accent. I'm trying to write his dialog, phonetically, the best I can.
"Oh, pretty good. How are you?"
We got to talking. I could barely understand him with that accent. I finally ask him:
"So what do you do?"
"Ay kem wit te shayps."
"Uh... sorry?"
"Ay kem wit te shayps."
"Uh... sorry, I don't know what you just said."
His face crashed into a look of sadness, and his eyes turned toward the sidewalk.
"Ay'm sorry. Ay hev a spaych impediment."
It's Saturday night, and I'm in a taxi on my way home from the Düsseldorf Altstadt. The driver looks about 60, with silver hair and glasses down on the end of his nose, the skin on his face cracked and dry. At the first red light, he tells me, in German (which, besides one key word, I've translated to English here):
"Anschnallen, please."
I answer, in my bad, broken German: "Anschnallen? I'm sorry, I don't know that word." And apologetically: "I have bad German."
The driver turns his head to the right and begins to just stare at me, giving me the evilest eye ever. He stared -- I am not exaggerating -- the entire 20 seconds or so that it took for the light to change. For reasons unknown to me, he was apparently, and suddenly, pissed off. I wanted to look away, but I knew that if I broke eye contact first that'd be as good as admitting guilt for whatever it was I'd just done that'd so enraged him.
"Um... anschnallen?" I repeated. "Can't you explain what that is for me?"
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?" he snapped back at me.
I broke the eye contact.
A few seconds later, I muster up the nerve to say "I'm sorry if I said something wrong...?" He just sat, silently staring into the traffic ahead.
By the time he stopped the cab at my building, I hated him, and I gave him no tip. I went upstairs and looked up the word. It means "to buckle up."
Back in Dublin. Out of nowhere, another Scotsman has come up, and the two of them begin chatting to one another, totally (to me) incomprehensibly. Suddenly, Scot #2 says to me:
"Ay'menebelmeh."
Here we go again.
"Uh.... what?"
He leaned in real close, his face right next to mine, and said it again, louder:
"Ay'menebelmeh!"
"Uh... I'm sorry, I don't know what you just said."
He pulled a laminated card out of his wallet, and held it up right next to his face, still leaning in close to mine:
British Institute of Embalmers
"Ay werk with DAYD PAYPLE."