The world turns out to be surprisingly much like one of those "good news/bad news" kids' jokes they seemed to be so fond of in the 1980s. You know the drill: "Good news, I've got a new bucket! Bad news, it's got a hole in it! Good news, the hole's in the top! Bad news, the top of the jumper I'm wearing." etc. (I made this up obviously but, on re-reading, I think this might actually be something dredged verbatim out of my earliest kids-comic memories.)
In this particular case, it goes: "Good news, you're going to Israel to learn a new language! Bad news, the school that everyone has recommended you go to is sold out! Good news, they're actually not sold out if you email them! Bad news, you have to do a language test! Good news, the test is over the phone! Bad news, they're going to call you at seven o' clock in the morning!! Good news, the woman doing the test is incredibly friendly and reassuring! Bad news, it turns out you basically know nothing about Hebrew as a language!"
Yes, it's true. I've just got off the phone from this incredibly early first encounter with Hebrew as an actual medium of communication, rather than one of prayers and songs, and I'm reminded a little of my experience during the written part of my French GCSE. That moment of panic: "Oh god, I can't remember the verb 'to have'". In the French GCSE context, the situation persisted, and I had to write the whole exam without that crucial verb, like someone writing a novel without the letter E.
This telephone language test was full of "floor caves in" moments like that. She asked me to translate the sentence "I have a big house". And I thought: Ok, I know how to say "big house", but what's the word for 'to have'? "Can you give me the infinitive?" I asked, trying to wow her with my knowledge of how languages work in general (already a sure sign that this interview was going to be a flop.) She told me gently that Hebrew has no word for have. A trick question! How cruel!
It was time to admit defeat. The test was an abject fail: I don't know even the basics of having a conversation in Hebrew. When she asked me what my name was, I guessed correctly that it would be the first question she'd ask, but that's a high-wire guessing game. Picture the incorrect guess: "Are you ready to start the exam? My name is Rob Levy." The stuff of nightmares.
So, come next Sunday (the week is Sunday to Thursday there -- exotic!) I'll be in the lowest level they offer: the dreaded "Level Aleph". I'll be in with the people who don't know the letters. There'll probably be tiny chairs and tables, and I'll be made to eat my packed lunch with a bib like the other children. No doubt the first of many language-ignorance-based humiliations to come.
But this is exactly what I've signed up for: Learning a language "in-country" involves precisely this sort of hubris-trashing experience -- not knowing what someone is saying then finding out it was "Where are you from?" -- over and over again until eventually the things you didn't understand or can't say involve words and concepts which are sufficiently advanced that you can call yourself a speaker of the language.
I've learned this painful truth before, when I was in a noisy German applewine bar and realised I had no hope of following the conversation and it was still hours before closing time. But it's what the process is, and it's part of the reason it's so wildly effective.
So bring it on. I'm ready for the pronunciation fails, the misunderstandings, the shaking the hand of people who've put out a hand for payment etc. etc.
I'm old and wise now. I can handle it. I have a big house.
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