Introducing oneself and telling where one is from to other travelers has consistently been a problem, especially when talking to someone in a foreign country. The main difficulty is the name of our small town and our state: Vancouver, Washington.
Inevitably the listener would say, “Oh, yes, I know Vancouver,” and refer to Stanley Park and other features of Vancouver, B.C. and Victoria. They never seemed to hear the “Washington” part of my address.
I would reply: “No, no, not Vancouver, B.C., but Vancouver in the state of Washington.”
“Oh! Ah, yes, you live at the capital.”
“No, no, not Washington, D.C., but Vancouver city in the state of Washington,” I replied, with a heavy emphasis on “state.”
Usually this conversation took the better part of a half hour and disconcerted everyone. Eventually, I learned to go into this explanation with a lung full of air and fully explain where we were and where we weren’t before the listener could respond with a “yes, I know.”
This seemed to work reasonably well until I met a great Dane and his wife in Eastern Europe. I explained in great detail that we lived in Vancouver, Washington (the state) on the banks of the great Columbia River, across from Portland, Ore.
Each time I drew a breath, the Dane would say, “Yes, yes I know.”
It turned out that he really did know.
He and his wife come to Portland every year to escape Denmark’s rotten February weather. They also have friends in Vancouver that they visit each time they are in town.
My own misinterpretation
The following February they vacationed in Portland and visited us in our home. They were both kind enough to not remind me of my faux pas of the prior fall. The worst of the faux pas remained unknown to most everyone because until now, I have been too embarrassed to relate it.
That wasn’t the only miscommunication.
At our first introduction, the Dane told me he was a “hog farmer” — at least that is what I heard. I immediately connected that to the wonderful Danish hams. It seemed quite plausible that he was a specialist in raising hogs for that purpose.
After the family visited us in the United States, I learned that he was a LOG farmer and that he owned a sizable track of timberland just northwest of Portland.
On this trip to Portland, they had brought their only child, a daughter with them. She was married to a French farmer and admired our little nine-tree orchard.
When I explained the pile of pruning from the orchard and some shrubbery, I told her that there would be a day in the spring during “burn season” when I could burn the entire pile of prunings.
She understood that there was only one day when all people could burn prunings.
“That must make one hell of a smoke!” she said.
I had to re-explain that there was a season and that we did not all burn on the same day.
Another example of misinterpretation.
Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. E-mail is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA 98666. Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
