Languages of Love (Not)

Just like everyone else, I’ve been thinking about Spain, its imminent economic collapse, the ramifications on Europe, the rippling effect on American banks and employment and the Presidential election, and the implications for a possible surge even faster and greater than before from India and China whose anti-democratic ideologies might be part of the coming hegemony.

What?  You’ve been thinking about artisanal cheeses?  Neat!

Anyhoo, to quote Ma again, to rid my mind of the anxiety encroaching upon panic that is implicit in wondering about what happens next, I’ve been immersed in language tapes.  Give me a language based task any day.  It’s the perceptual, hand-eye stuff that throws me in a tizzy.

So: Having reviewed Japanese once again, I’m prepared to order food and drink, get directions, buy something, and say excuse me, please, and thank you.

That done, I’ve been studying Thai.  I’m at the point where I can say excuse me, no, the English language, the Thai language, and I understand.  That latter phrase, for a male speaker, sounds something like, “Kow-chi clop.”  The irony?  I don’t understand.

Meanwhile, it’s planning the next meal, Spain and languages aside.  That means: Boulud Sud and Sushi Yasuda.

And don’t say you don’t understand.  I do: Kow chi clop.

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