As someone who considers themself at least semi-literate, with the benefit of a reasonable education and at least a passing interest in the world, I can confirm there is nothing quite so humbling in middle-age as learning a new language.   

At short notice, I’m hoping to briefly visit a Latin American country for my work in a few weeks’ time, and in preparation this week I downloaded a few apps and subscribed to podcasts to try and re-up my Spanish.  

My history with Spanish is one of big surges and even bigger retreats.   

I studied it until seventh form at high school. I wasn’t very good but at least I learnt a few nouns and could ask some basic questions.   

But when I moved to New York as a 24-year-old I decided to learn Spanish in a way I never had when I was a teenager. I moved to a Latin neighbourhood. I did thrice-weekly lessons on Skype, just speaking with a tutor friend in Mexico’s south.   

After a few months of studying, I decided to visit her.    

“Estoy excitado,” I said, trying to express my excitement at the impending trip. My tutor laughed and explained that’d just informed a conservative Catholic mother that I was horny.   

“Gaah... estoy tan embarazada!” I blushed.   

She bent over in laughter again. Turns out embarazada is not embarassed. Embarazada is pregnant.    

It’s amazing what immersion will do though. When I visited Chiapas, I’d collapse in bed, exhausted at the end of every day from 12-hours of speaking. But after just a few weeks, I could swear I was just starting to dream in Spanish. That’s when you know it’s sticking.  

Then, though. Oof. An almighty retreat. I fell out of lessons and Spanish fell out of my head. I eventually moved home and studied Māori, which I absolutely loved, but which has a similar vowel sound to Spanish. Often over the years when I’ve reached for the word, I’ve pulled a noun from the wrong language. And now, I’m embarrassed to admit that although my wife is Persian, in Farsi I can’t even say hello.  

There are some people though, for whom language comes easier than others. I’m good with sound and speaking with false confidence but very poor with grammar. My brother is much more studious, but I swear he also just gets grammatical structure. It’s like he sees the matrix when he’s studying language.   

I’m fascinated by people who can speak many languages. There’s a New Zealander named Harold Williams, who basically no one has ever heard of, who is considered one of the greatest polyglots in history. He was the foreign editor for The Times in London and spoke as many as 58 languages. As a lad in Christchurch in the late 1800s, he described having a ‘brain explosion’ when he was about seven-years-old. He bought himself the New Testament in every language his bookshop could order and taught himself that way.   

Our historic comfort in our majority monolingualism is one of the great faults of New Zealand culture. It’s sloppy. Insular. It’s embarrassing to visit poor neighbourhoods in poor countries and realise that despite the relative lack of educational opportunities, kids can speak more languages than many or most of us can. It’s wonderful to see the revitalisation of te reo Māori, but New Zealand must still be one of the most monolingual developed countries on Earth.   

So, here we go again. Like trying to start a lawnmower that’s been sitting in the shed for fifteen years, I’m pulling at the starter cord and pleading the engine to fire.   

“The cat likes to sleep.”  

“I would like to buy a ticket for the train.”  

It’s so humbling to go so far back. Embarazada, even. And yet still so rewarding when you feel something stick. Excitado!  

That’s the thing about language. More than vowels and consonants, it is the front door to culture, a gate to a whole new World.