There’s a particular type of danger that comes from thinking you’re funnier in a foreign language than you actually are.
It starts small — a joke, a pun, a little idiomatic wink. But somewhere between your brain and your mouth, it transforms into something that lands either as confusing, vaguely offensive, or weirdly romantic. Or, if you’re me, all three.
Take last Thursday. Marta had organised a “language mingle” at the bar behind the pharmacy. The concept: conversation tables, wine, tapas, and gentle linguistic cross-pollination. What actually happened: two hours of linguistic car crashes and poorly translated pick-up lines.
Miquel, of course, floated through it like some kind of polyglot James Bond, casually dropping into French to compliment a visiting Parisian teacher, then pivoting into Catalan to order olives with dangerous charm. The man can flirt in four languages and somehow sound like he means it in all of them.
Me? I tried. God knows I tried.
I found myself across from a woman called Camille, who had that French thing where everything sounds like she’s slightly mocking you but you don’t mind. She asked where I was from, and instead of just saying “England”, I attempted to joke:
“Je suis… comment dire… un mélange embarrassant d’anglais et de malentendus.”
(A sort of embarrassing mix of English and misunderstandings.)
She laughed politely. At least I think it was polite.
Feeling bold — buoyed by two glasses of something fizzy that might have been cava or possibly antifreeze — I doubled down. I attempted a joke about being “tongue-tied” in multiple languages. Except I got the phrase wrong and ended up telling her I was “linguistically handcuffed.” Which, judging by her raised eyebrow, may have had connotations I didn’t fully intend.
Miquel overheard and swooped in like a linguistic lifeguard, rescuing me with some elegant clarification that involved no bondage references whatsoever.
Later, at the bar, Marta handed me a beer and whispered, “You know, sometimes it’s better not to try too hard.” I nodded like this was profound wisdom. But then she added, “Especially when you accidentally proposition people.”
The thing is: flirting in your own language is hard enough. Add the fog of foreign vocabulary, cultural nuance, and my ongoing tendency to panic-fill silence with awkward puns, and it’s basically emotional tightrope-walking with faulty subtitles.
Still. There was a moment — brief but real — when Camille smiled and said, “I like your accent. It’s… charmingly broken.” And for about half a second, I felt like Catherine Deneuve might turn up and offer me a role in my own bittersweet French film.
Then I knocked over my wine.
Back to English. Back to neutral ground. Back to knowing my limits.
Mostly.
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