Globe and Mail: Monday, Feb. 25 2002

You are a man, I am a woman, my friend managed to say in Chinese to her taxi driver in Beijing. Inspired by this primal observation, he responded with probably the only English he knew: “I love you, baby.”

Making a fool of yourself is a crucial part of learning a language. For Mandarin or Putonghua, the language spoken by most of China’s 1.3 billion people, the opportunities for foolishness are abundant, given that each word has one of four tones. Using the right one is pretty important.

Wo wen ni, for example, means either I ask you or I kiss you. At a bus stop at 6 a.m. the former expression is more useful on most days.

When I first arrived in Beijing, I spent a lot of time looking for my lover’s husband instead of the internet café. I now understand why people seemed reluctant to help me find wang ba.

It’s like being a child again when you learn a language.

The long isolation of mainland China from the West also means there is little overlap between the languages. If you don’t know the Chinese word, there is little chance that the English word will work, as it might with French. Mama (mother), baba (father), tai feng (typhoon) and ke tou (kow tow) are among the rare examples, but they are not of much practical use. That more current words such as e-mail, bye-bye, okay, show, cool, and NBA have made the jump to Chinese confirms the growing contact between our societies.

For the most part, you are left teaching your mouth and tongue new tricks. The R sound is the most difficult. Practice it in public and someone may think you have a bone stuck in your throat. I so fear the word re (hot) that I routinely greet people with the phrase: It’s not too cold today. Even when the temperature hovers around 37 C.

Looking the fool is also easy with the written language, even when you think pointing and grunting might save the day. Trying to figure out a menu written only in Chinese characters can lead to an upset stomach even before the food arrives.

Improvisation helps. Once, I wanted a tomato dish but couldn’t remember the word for tomato. With other patrons looking on curiously, I struggled to explain to the waitress (with gestures) that I wanted a vegetable, red like your apron and round like this.

On another occasion, after telling my waitress (with embarrassment) that I can’t read, I followed her into the kitchen to make my order. The eyes of many cooks followed me until I spotted a tasty-looking dish. I pointed it out to her, feeling quite clever, until she said, gou rou, discouraging me. She knew Westerners don’t like eating dog.

A classroom is a much safer place to practise.

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For starters, you have allies: your classmates always know exactly what you are trying to say even when your teacher doesn’t. A classmate once concluded it is far more pleasant to speak Chinese to foreigners. We don’t fuss so much about correct grammar and pronunciation, yet understand each other perfectly.

Second, in a language class, laughter is simply an accepted form of correction. It’s hard to feel embarrassed when the person next to you sounds worse.

But the classroom does sometimes embolden you to try out new words, even in public. On my way home one day, I saw a peasant dragging a massive suitcase down steep stairs to the train station. May I help you? I offered, carefully trying out my new verb. I immediately recognized the horror in her eyes and gave up the effort. I consoled myself with the thought that it was my big nose ( da bi as some Chinese still refer to Westerners), rather than my pronunciation, that caused her fright.

Feedback from native speakers is, however, an important part of the trial-and-error process of learning. Each morning on the minibus, I defiantly call out my destination stop and wait to see how much giggling this provokes in other passengers. A lot of giggling means I should try a different stress or tone the next day.

Yet there is magic in learning a language. One day, after months of study, you begin to understand a phrase or a sentence here and there — enough to make you know it is possible. Like a secret code, the words slow down and become decipherable.

You learn that the sounds the Chinese make in their communication are not really so alien. Chi fan le ma? (Have you eaten?) is used as a greeting, Mei guanxi (No problem) to apologize for stepping on someone’s foot, and Man zou (Take it easy) to say good-bye.

Language tells us something about a people’s history and what they think is important. The Chinese use the verb “to go” for all places except home. One always hui jia — returns home.

Hierarchy is important in family life. There is a word for each brother, sister, uncle and aunt that tells you who came first and who later. Language reveals things about the past. The word for city and for wall is the same. Cheng-li means inside the city while cheng-wai means outside. These words come from a time when being inside or outside made a big difference.

Speech opens a door to a people and their culture in a way a tourist’s sightseeing cannot. It allows you to make a connection, even if it is only to answer the elevator lady’s question with Wo shi Jianadaren (I am Canadian).

The ultimate reward of learning Chinese is seeing the world through the eyes of a people with several thousand years of history and experience behind them — and knowing exactly what you will have for dinner.