One of the reasons I signed up to study abroad in Ireland is because it’s an English-speaking country. I thought it would be great to live across the world but still understand what’s going on around me.
I also have a major crush on Bono.
And a consistent hankering for mashed potatoes.
As I started to explore the country, though, each person I spoke with sounded different. Some people sounded like the cute and cuddly Irish people in Lucky Charms commercials, while others mumbled words that sounded like they were choking on the hangy-ball things in the back their throats.
The latter of the dialects is more common among the older folk. I’m not sure if they’re just old and tired and don’t want to move their lips anymore, or if each generation has a different accent. Either way, this whole “English language” thing is tricky.
Last week I asked this cute old man for directions to a coffee shop, but ended up in front of a store that flashed, “Ladies Ladies Ladies: All Sizes (Adult Store)” in red neon letters because I interpreted his words incorrectly. As much a gem as this place was, I don’t think it brewed French roast.
The surprise language barrier only intensifies when we go out at night. The many voices and blaring music make it difficult to concentrate on what native conversationalists are saying. I usually just nod my head yes, repeat the words “right” and “exactly” and hope I’m not agreeing to something illegal or offensive.
One night, however, I saw the linguistic barriers between us all crumble like a good game of Jenga. The DJ put on “The Safety Dance.” We unconsciously formed a large circle, and a man from Dublin started to perform the robot dance in the middle.
It was an international version of Footloose. He was a genius. He knew that the robot is funny in all languages. He even threw in some extras to keep the laughs going: letting his forearm dangle while his body stood still; checking his pretend watch and stating it was time to boogie; and pressing invisible buttons on his torso that controlled the movement of his limbs.
I surveyed the room and realized dancing is the only true, universal language. The dances I observed, and voluntarily participated in, were just like those from home.
There were the groups of three or four people in each corner of the room who slowly moved their knees up and down as if they were doing squats in the gym. They pretended they were having in-depth conversations with each other, but kept looking over their shoulders at the jamming going on in the middle that they knew they’d be a part of after a few more cocktails.
A short, sweaty man with a thin goatee pulled out some tricks as well. The second he placed his hands behind his head in the sit-up position, I knew he was going for hilarious, dance-floor gold. He did the pelvic thrust dance, in which you push your lower abdomen in and out while simultaneously bringing your elbows together like a ThighMaster.
A few ladies added some familiar moves to the universal dance party as well. One did the booty jiggle, while another performed the pepper shaker, in which you keep your elbows still and move your fists back and forth as quickly as possible.
A tall, lanky guy did the shopping cart while his short, stumbling friend spun around in a circle and cheered until he got too dizzy and had to sit down.
Now, don’t get me wrong: These were all signs that we were at least dancing the same language. It was the final character who officially broke down the barriers for good, though. The first few beats of “Pour Some Sugar on Me” started to play. The group started to spread out, and the sweatiest man I’ve ever seen cleared the floor for the finale.
He was the fat guy of the group, and he could move like a 12-year-old gymnast.
His tight button-up shirt was now a different color from its original hue because of the heavy dance-induced sweat. He had all the weapons to put our moves to shame, and he wasn’t afraid to use them.
First came the lip-syncing and head-nodding. He followed up with a quick running man and canoe paddler. He finally ripped off his button-up and did the worm in a white undershirt that seemed more like a second skin until he was literally gasping for breath. It was the ultimate ending to a fat guy breakdown.
Was I a little scared for his life when he still wasn’t breathing right an hour later? Perhaps, but he, along with his peers, reminded me what “The Safety Dance” taught us years ago: “We can dance if we want to. We can leave your friends behind. ‘Cause your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, well they’re no friends of mine.”
The language here is much different than what I’m used to in Boston, and misinterpretations can lead you to weird adult entertainment stores instead of coffee shops. But this communication hurdle has taught me a very important lesson: The robot dance is a passport to universal understanding.
Megan Murphy, a junior in the School of Education who is studying in Dublin this semester, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached [email protected].