COPENHAGEN, Denmark – Much communication – or lack of it — comes in the form of merely believing we know what another has transmitted.<\/p>\n
I was leafing through the Laugh-Lines section of a church publication and was struck by the fact that all eight jokes dealt with kids’ misunderstanding of certain words.<\/p>\n
For example, a kid in church tells his parents he knows God’s first name. How come? “Well simple, Dad. In the Lord’s Prayer it says, ‘Our father, who art in Heaven, Harold be thy name.'”<\/p>\n
Or the kid who asks about the fate of the flea when hearing about Joseph’s instructions to take his wife and child and flee to Egypt.<\/p>\n
And so goes the chasm between what was transmitted and what we take in.<\/p>\n
We’re on a fast-moving subway at the moment, having recently left the Copenhagen airport. The trip to a city called Vejle, which sounds exactly like the New Mexico “baile,” or dance, will take exactly two and a half hours – that’s how precise European transit systems are. And it’ll take us through a number of stops in this metropolis. We’re fairly new to mass transit and just can’t wait until Gov. Richardson’s super-sonic train is able to jet us from Tecolote to Mosquero.<\/p>\n
OK, we’re new at this game and are overly impressed by the high-tech schematic inside of each car which spells out the name of the next stop and shows a light indicating where we are on the journey. “No problem,” I told Bonnie, who was ever fearful of getting off too early or too late. “I’ll keep track of the stops. And besides, there’s a recorded voice that announces each stop.”<\/p>\n
But what we English-speaking non-Danes didn’t realize is that what we think is a phonetic spelling of certain place-names is no guarantee it’s pronounced that way in this Scandinavian country. My American eyes see “Norreport” and expect the computerized voice to render the name the way I think it should be pronounced.<\/p>\n
Were I the electronic conductor, I would make sure the “r’s” were clear and the powerful “t” and “p” clearly rendered. Instead, seconds before that stop, my American ears hear something like “Norro.” Hey, where’d the “t,” “h” and “p” go?<\/p>\n
Our son Stan, whose wedding we were traveling to, lives in a place named “Christianshavn.” Somehow, that stop came out as “Krisoven.” Many locals call the place “Christian Town.” But Madame Digitized Tour Director utters something bearing little similarity to what we expected.<\/p>\n
We just passed a popular stop, “Ballerup,” whose spelling is close to what teams hear the ump say to start baseball games. But instead, we heard an abrupt “Brup.”<\/p>\n
We struggled more with these Danish terms than we do with the French language. The French at least are generally consistent, as they drop the sounds of most final letters. The Danes … well, there’s no telling.<\/p>\n
And people certainly know how to play with the language, sometimes making clever cross-linguistic attempts. Years ago, when the Oakland Raiders acquired star Bo Jackson, all over the NFL, we’d read, “Bo knows football,” or “Bo knows offense.”<\/p>\n
But in a November game, when my team traveled to frigid Buffalo to face the Bills, long streamers carried the message, “Beaux deauxn’t kneaux sneaux.” We lost, but let’s not geaux there now.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u00a2 \u00e2\u20ac\u00a2 \u00e2\u20ac\u00a2<\/p>\n
I’ve always struggled with “may” and “might,” to the point that my mind is closed to any grammar-book or dictionary distinctions. I know I mix the two up but don’t have the energy to set myself straight. But I’ll try:<\/p>\n
“May” connotes permission and possibility: You may have that extra piece of pie. Thanks, Mom. Or, I may drive into town. It has nothing to do with permission but with possibilities. But that comes too close to “might.” I don’t see the distinction.<\/p>\n
So, when our son Diego purchased our train tickets to Vejle, the agent reminded us that since it was Friday evening, every seat would be taken, and we’d likely be standing up for 150 minutes. So Diego bought reserved tickets.<\/p>\n
In the reserved-seat car we noticed the words, in English, “These seats may be reserved.” Well, that’s nice and that’s what we just did. But we also wondered about the after-the-fact meaning of the message since we’d already left the station.<\/p>\n
Then we noticed a sort of Danish game of musical chairs, in which people ensconced comfortably in seats had to give them up to bona fide reserved-ticket wielders.<\/p>\n
It goes something like this: People with any kind of ticket sit wherever they wish. If the people who paid for the privilege of remaining seated throughout the trip are assertive enough, they tell the squatters to beat it (politely).<\/p>\n
But we witnessed even another aspect of musical chairs when the new arrivals themselves were asked to move. It turns out the group had bluffed its way to the seats. So when the third party arrived, with tickets that showed actual seat assignments, the interlopers had to leave as well.<\/p>\n
My interest was in the “may be reserved” phrase. Whereas the Copenhagen transit system uses “may” to warn riders that they are likely to be bumped, we Americans took a different tack by assuming that we may reserve the seats; that is, we had permission to reserve the seats, provided we paid at the office.<\/p>\n
We learned a bit of trivia during our travels: Hans Christian Anderson, the Danish novelist, poet and fairy tales writer, has a Copenhagen thoroughfare named after him. However, 20-plus letters that constitute the full name of the 19th century literary figure may\/might crowd the street sign, so it’s abbreviated to H.C. Andersen.<\/p>\n
Well, in Danish, “H” is pronounced “Ho,” “C” is “Se,” and that comes out to Jose Andersen.<\/p>\n
And that’s my kind of language.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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