I Don't Get It...Say It Again In Mandarin

I never realized it when I was a kid how pathetic it was that half of the time I could not understand half of the people on this island that I lived on because I don't speak their dialect. You know what's worse? One of them is my dad.

That's pretty sad. But I didn't like him anyway.

Now things have changed. The once oppressed South Fukien dialect is not only making a comeback, even the president speaks it. So I don't understand half of the people on this island most of the time. I've also made amends with my dad. Double whammy.

Case in point: I was quite happy to have dinner with some of my dad's friends whom I haven't seen in 13 years. We used to travel with this gang to other parts of Taiwan, Southeast Asia, and North America. I couldn't understand them half of the time then, but since their dialect was oppressed in the schools, I didn't think much of it other than the want to pick up a few words here and there. Cut to tonight. Steaming dishes and dim sum (no longer an afternoon tryst, it's now a 24-hour decadent possibility in this awesome city) was served one tempting plate after another. Two bottles of $40 Cabernet Souvignon and one 17-yr-young whiskey were quickly being relieved of their burdens. Boisterous conversation was the norm, spiced with an occasional toast in recognition of a good joke (crass or otherwise) or randomly for no reason at all. I enjoyed myself, that's to say, I felt like a solo American sitting at an all-Chinese table, forcing every joke to be repeated in Mandarin, spiced with an occasional English, Japanese, or Spanish phrase, with any good pronunciation skinned before delivery. I tried hard to pick up words I'd recognize, but the amusing reality was that I simply couldn't understand what was being said.

Oh my I had a great time. Two-thirds of a bottle of wine didn't hurt the cause. But I don't even like wine.