Lost in Translation: It´s Funny, How.....

 

Ah, the joys of traveling—new sights, new experiences, and… new ways to completely bomb a joke. As a traveler, I have quickly learned that humor, like currency, doesn’t exchange at the same rate everywhere you go. What’s worth a belly laugh in one country might barely buy you a smirk in another. And no matter how funny you think you are, a joke that kills at home could leave you stranded in a sea of polite, uncomfortable smiles abroad. Welcome to the comedy no-man’s-land, where humor goes to die—or at least to awkwardly shuffle off-stage...

As a traveler, humor becomes a test of adaptability, kind of like trying to eat foreign street food without getting food poisoning. You think you know what’s funny? Guess again. Each culture has its own comedic currency, and if you’re not careful, you’re that tourist trying to pay in Monopoly money.

The Art of the Blank Stare

Here’s the thing: when you’re in a foreign country, humor is like a delicate soufflé—one wrong move, and it collapses. You’re out there, bravely trying to connect with people, and then you hit them with what you think is a killer joke. The room goes quiet. Someone coughs. A tumbleweed rolls by...

The Cultural Time Lag

One of the most mystifying things about traveling is the time lag of humor. Not jet lag—I´m talking about that delay between telling a joke and the (hopeful) response. In some places, like the UK, where irony is a national sport, a joke will hit instantly. In Russia, however, a joke might be received with stone-faced silence—only to be appreciated later, when you’ve long left the room. Humor is marinated there, like vodka-soaked fish. You’ve already moved on to your next punchline, but that dry, wry quip about existential dread is just now working its magic.

As you travel, you start to understand that humor can be about the long game. Will they get it tomorrow? Next week? After another vodka shot? 

So, what’s the takeaway for the globetrotting comedian? Sometimes the funniest moments often happen organically, through shared experiences and, yes, even the awkward silences.

Because if there’s one thing that truly transcends culture, it’s the universal appeal of laughing at how badly a joke can fail.

Funny how that works... or, didn´t---

Just Like The Moon~

Barcelona

I awoke early. Bouncing out of bed, I was eager to get to know you. You slept. You made me wait. I tried to go back to sleep and be patient, yet I felt restless...listless...lost. I am a morning person, didn't you know?

As I waited on you, I had time to think; time to pace the chilled marbled tiles, giving my icy feet time to remember (and grieve for) the warm, Hawaiian sand they'd so recently burrowed beneath. I had time to worry...to fret over how many mornings alone I would spend during our time together--time to calculate that loss in not just days, but hours...minutes...seconds...moments...and loved ones. I looked outside. Not even the sun would shed its light; instead making me wait in momentary darkness. I felt you were closed entirely to me, Barcelona. Even your shops and markets had no warm welcomes for me this morning....signs seemed to scream in resolved solidarity: "CERRADO!" I was awake, alone.

Unaffected, you took your time. As mid-day approached, I (being nearly at my wits' end, and certainly almost out of patience) watch as you nonchalantly amble towards me. Slowly, you beckon your day to begin, acknowledging noon in an unhurried aside. I follow at your heels, anxious to see who you are; what you are all about; to discover why you are so beloved among your people. To possibly understand why those who arrange their entire lives just to stay near to you possess such fierce loyalty in your name.

You stroll down the street, round three corners, cross one plaza, and slow. Sidling up to an unassuming sidestreet cafe, you enter...no introduction necessary. This is your spot. Here your table is ready--your coffee and croissant are waiting to warm you. I eat as well, feeling energized by the welcome repast. Yet, still, I wonder what it is exactly that is so special about you. You seem so quiet; almost rude; arrogant in your way. I wait to see.

You settle the bill and I assume we are on our way. My heart drops as I watch you leisurely reach for the daily news, shifting your weight ever so slightly--settling in. We sit for what seems like hours, observing as people pass. Your neighbors, your friends, your colleagues...all greeting you in quiet nods and familiar double-kisses from cheek to cheek. Your streets begin to slowly grind their gears--street vendors pedaling their wares; citizens shifting their paces into one slow and steady, collective hummmmm (yet in a reserved and almost regal way). I begin to see glimpses of life in you, Barcelona.

We share a lite lunch in a little cafe, and you open up a bit more in conversation. Gestures are more animated, and your muscles along your jawline (as well as your stiff upper lip) become more relaxed. I think I may have even caught a brief and fleeting glimpse of a grin at one point.

I begin to get excited, but now, where are you going? "Siesta," you say?!?!? But...isn't that just an exotic and very European-ese way of saying..."NAP?!?!" (as in the kind I used to be forced to endure back in the day...in Mrs Frye's Kindergarten class...while relegated to an orange foam mat that I DISTINCTLY remembered smelling of a grievous mixture of urine and cheetos?...) Well, if so (and I sadly fear it is), to be quite honest, this idea of wasting so much of my day away when I could be getting to know you, leaves quite the same odious stink to my senses). * Boo *.... Yet, I humor you, and we place our days on hold as we sleep. * sigh *

We awake and, surprisingly I feel refreshed. Almost, yes, almost as if this is morning anew. YOU bounce out of your bed and leave ME in the dust! There is much to do, you say, as I dash after you. We make our way through the (now bustling) streets; streets awake and alive with people yelling, heralding their family and friends across the avenues. I dodge children and papas giggling through a frenzied futbol session in the square...watch as a tiny curl-crowned Spanish princess passes by, greedily gobbling up her gelato--a tiny pink trail of sticky sweetness the only evidence remaining of her afternoon's delight.

Arriving at the pub, we sit. We eat. We drink. We laugh. And..I watch you come alive...mingling, dancing, reveling in fellowship and light. It is not until now that I see you, Barcelona. You, to me, personify the very rhythm of your days. We got off to a slow start. I only felt darkness from you...until I understood and looked closer. You, too, shine....the moon to Hawaii's sun, you are now understood, and recognized, with respect and newfound wonder.

I collapse into bed as we return home. How about tomorrow, new friend, let's sleep until noon....