My dad sometimes comes with me when I travel. Which is quite a trick, since he died in 1997.
Pat Willius was a curious man. By that, I mean he wondered about things. He was an earnest, lifelong learner. About life, people, Nature, other cultures… While we traveled a lot, he seemed particularly enamored of Mexico, where he took Mom, me and my brother, Dan, when I was nine (making me the show & tell hero of Miss Berg's fourth grade class).
It might have started with that trip, but at some point Dad decided he should at least talk the walk, and started dabbling in learning Spanish. I think he had a good ear for languages, and, as I said, he was curious. He loved the discipline of learn-
ing. And he saw the power of language to open doors.
But Dad was a restaurateur—thus, his interest in people. But it’s a tough job, one which left him little time for hobbies. So, much like his efforts to improve his golf, the Spanish had to remain more a curiosity than a commitment.
DITCH THE DEUTSCH
Flash forward to my late 50’s. Enjoying my own occasional trips—with and without Sally— to Mexico, I, too, decided I wanted to be a better traveler than one who can simply find the baño or order a cerveza. To be able not just to greet my cab driver in his own language, but maybe ask him a couple of questions: How’s your day going? How long have you been driving? Do you have kids?
My family roots are German, so, having been offered a choice between French and German in high school, of course I’d opted for the deutsch. Some 45 years later, though, I was starting to regret that choice. I decided that, even as an older man, that feeble grasp of German was a total waste.
First of all, I had little interest in more than the requisite high-points travel in Europe. And then there was the matter of esthetics. To my artist’s ear, German just sounded so severe, so unpleasant; The few times I’d spoken it, I couldn’t believe those sounds were coming out of this mouth.
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| PHOTO: Angry German Kid Wiki |
What kid doesn’t light up when
he feels his father’s pride?
So, long story short, I signed up for a community education beginner’s Spanish class, became friends with my Mexican-American teacher and embarked on a lifelong love affair with Latin America and its language. Now, after some 25 years of not very intense study, I’ve reached what I think I can safely call the advanced level in my Spanish, and continue striving to become fluent—whatever that is.
MORE THAN A MEMORY
Here’s the emotional, mystical twist. As I travel (I’m in Mexico again as I write this.) and strike up conversations with locals—especially after one of the occasional extended chats that leads to a new friendship, or even a virtual adoption by a family—I often feel Dad’s presence.
PIC: Dad lighthearted (joke book?)
It feels like way more than memory. More like a tangible presence. He’s right there; he sees me doing what he’d long dreamed of; he knows how hard I’ve worked at it; and—the best part—he’s over-the-top proud of me.
What kid doesn’t light up when he feels his father’s pride?
Some of my emotions run pretty close to the surface, so it can be embarrassing when I’m talking with some Mexican dude in the zócalo. All of a sudden, Dad’s right there and of course the person doesn’t know why I’m tearing up. Fortunately, I’m comfortable enough with the language now that I can explain. Most folks understand.
Thanks, Dad, for the good-ear genes. For the cultural curiosity. For the sense of adventure. For the dream.
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