My earliest attempts to learn Spanish date to a 1995 Costa Rica trip. I&rsqu;yd taken along my good friend, Donna, because a) I enjoyed her company, b) she was somewhat fluent in Spanish and c) I enjoyed her company.

During our sojourn, I regularly pestered Donna to interpret words or phrases for me, and most&ndas;ybut not all of the time--she was able to do so.

About midway through our month-long trip we visited the North Caribbean jungle retreat at Tortuguero. One afternoon there we toured a nearby village with our guide, a Tico (Costa Rican) named Carlos whose English was impeccable. During a break we sat sipping a soft drink outside a small tourist shop. Carlos stood several meters away chatting with some of the other tourists.

From inside the shop I heard someone say what I thought was "no say" (which I later learned is spelled "no se").

"What does that mean," I asked Donna, "no say?"

"I don't know," she replied.

"Okay, then," I said. "I&rsqu;yll go ask Carlos."

"Trust me," she said, "Carlos won&rsqu;yt know either."

Donna then patiently explained to me that "no se" literally means "I don't know."

When I later decided in June 1998 to live in Mexico, I knew I'd have to really get serious about learning the language.

No big deal, I thought. I&rsqu;yll have plenty of time for leisurely study once I'm there. I had no idea what was lying in wait for me&ndas;yliterally down the road&ndas;ywould quickly make toast of my manana attitude. Fast forward six months.

It's January 4, 1999. I'm in a McAllen, Texas motel, and tomorrow morning I (shriek stifled) drive into Mexico. I had allowed myself ample time in Texas to negotiate the myriad of border crossing details; I&rsqu;yd been over the road map routes several times; and in addition to the requisite hola, adios and gracias, I&rsqu;yd learned several Spanish words I thought might come in handy. One was the word for help, a-y-u-d-a, which in reality was probably useless because I obviously would need a-y-u-d-a pronouncing it. Another was donde, or where, as in "where the hell am I?" So only the actual act of (second shriek) driving into Mexico remained.

It probably would be accurate to say I was a bit apprehensive about driving inside Mexico for the first time. My technique for dealing with apprehension has always been to ask myself the simple question, "so what&rsqu;ys the worst that could happen?" Imagining worst case scenarios usually worked because it led me to realize I could cope with most any situation.

So I sat back, imagined driving my car in Mexico and asked myself, "so what&rsqu;ys the worst that could happen?"

It was a very short-lived exercise.

Still trembling from the mental pictures I had just envisioned, I next decided a reality check might work better. So I went outside, got into my Tracker and drove the seven miles to the border. "To" the border. Not across. Not over. Just "to." I was still experiencing flashbacks from my worst case scenario visions, so actually driving into Mexico was, for now, completely out of the question.

My biggest fear, I decided, was becoming lost in the border town of Reynosa the next morning while trying to find the road to Monterey and then being unable to locate anyone who could explain directions to me in English. So I parked my car in Hidalgo, strolled across the international bridge and proceeded to walk the streets of the town, following the signs that pointed the way to the Monterey highway. Once I felt confident I had the route "down pat," I ambled back across the bridge to spend my last night in for who knew (or, for that matter, cared) how long on U.S. soil.

The next morning there was a brief but anticipated bureaucratic delay at the border, and by just after sunrise I found myself having safely negotiated my way through Reynosa and on the road to Monterey.

I remained alert but did relax a bit as I popped a Frank "The Magic Trumpet" cassette into the tape deck and began to focus on what I thought was my final hurdle: the 17-mile checkpoint ahead. That&rsqu;ys when it happened.

From out of nowhere, at the side of the road, there suddenly loomed the most horrendous cautionary traffic sign I&rsqu;yd ever seen! It was a road sign from hell with two full lines of text and stretching out to what seemed about half the length of a football field.

"Whoa!" I yelled, jumping on the brakes and jerking the Tracker to an immediate roadside stop.

What the hell was that? I sat there stunned for a few moments while allowing the situation's reality to sink in.

In preparing for this trip, I had reviewed sketches of Mexico's restrictive traffic signs; the ones with easily interpretable shapes and graphics. I had figured out how mentally multiplying by six would give me quick, conservative conversions of kilometers to miles for speed and distance signs. But I&rsqu;yd forgotten completely about cautionary signs that contain only directive words. Words I did not understand.

The sign back there for instance. What was it telling me to do? Or maybe not to do. How was I to know if it was simply stating that littering was against the law or was perhaps warning me that "just down the road resides a gringo-eating dragon." Moreover, how was I to drive from where I was to Ajijic without knowing what all those signs I was certain to encounter would be telling me. After all, there&rsqu;ys a good reason why they&rsqu;yre called "cautionary."

Only one answer seemed plausible. I put the car in reverse, backed up past the scary sign and took out my Spanish-English dictionary. (It was going to be a considerably longer trip than I&rsqu;yd anticipated.)

As it turned out, this sign&rsqu;ys instruction was simply to use the left lane only for passing.

I didn't keep track of how many similar unplanned stops I made that day and the next. After awhile many of the signs became repetitive, and a number of the same words began to appear in different contexts. This allowed me to decipher communications "on the fly" so to speak. But not completely because I still had to slow when approaching each sign to determine whether a new stop was necessary. And, of course, as terrains changed so did the messages.

I arrived in Ajijic a day later than planned but knowing my "proximo retornos" from my "curvas peligras," my "derecha carril" from my "izquierdo carril," and with my Spanish language education unexpectedly underway.

Almost immediately after arriving, several experiences vividly reinforced my need to learn the language quickly.

A month on the road and an aversion to visiting a random barber en route left me badly needing a haircut. Fortunately, during my previous summer&rsqu;ys visit I&rsqu;yd found an excellent hair stylist (i.e., one I trusted) in Ajijic. Given my limited Spanish, I asked my friendly real estate broker to make the appointment for me.

In the process of cutting my hair, at one point the stylist traced her finger along the top of my ear and said something in Spanish to which I gave the customary, pseudo-knowledgeable response. "Si."

Later that day I walked into my broker's office. She looked up and then actually screamed. "My God," she exclaimed, "you&rsqu;yve been scalped!"

"How do you say &lsqu;yleave it covering the top of the ear in Spanish?" I asked.

Having no telephone line also left me cut off from cyberspace and e-mail. I was truly incommunicado from everyone. After a brief flirtation with the idea of permanently maintaining the status quo, the parental responsibility (spelled g-u-i-l-t) side of me prevailed.

Entering the TELMEX office I looked around for some indicator of instruction, trying very hard to appear like someone who knew and understood what they were doing.

All signs, of course, were in Spanish and unintelligible to me. Not wanting to experience the embarrassment of going to a "wrong" place, I exercised my only apparent option. I saw a line and got in it. And ended up in the wrong place.

When my turn finally came I told the gentleman behind the window, "I need a telefono," using the only Spanish word I&rsqu;yd seen there that made any sense to me.

The TELMEX employee smiled and gestured to his right. There I saw several desks in a row with a line of seats facing them. I surmised this was the customer waiting area.

I had noticed this section when I first came in. And if I had understood the sign above it which read, "CONTRATACION," I then realized I could have avoided waiting in a wrong line. But my needless waiting time was not yet over.

Only one empty chair was in the waiting area, and I took it. My first thought was how would I know when it was my turn. Confident that someone would tell me (because they obviously could see I was a helpless foreigner who didn&rsqu;yt speak Spanish), I opened the Ojo I&rsqu;yd brought along.

I sat there for what seemed like a very long time. I looked at my watch. It had been a very long time. Moreover, I had the vague feeling that the people who were there when I first sat down had been served, left, and been replaced by others who had been served, left, etc. That&rsqu;ys when I realized things were not going to work the way I&rsqu;yd anticipated and that I&rsqu;yd better start paying more attention.

Just as I was about to (shudder) ask someone for help, a new customer came in whose actions provided said help. The senor went directly to a small and inconspicuous machine where he removed a slip of paper. Once more I realized that had the little sign on the machine I&rsqu;yd noticed when I first sat down meant anything to me, I again would have saved a lot of needless waiting time. But I&rsqu;yll definitely know what to do if I ever encounter another sign that reads, "TOME SU TURNO."

Later that same day I signed up for one-to-one lessons with a Spanish instructor.

To me, leaning the language is (and should be) a labor of love. Because the language is the people. And their culture. And the local aesthetics. Even the climate and the economics. In short, the language to me is the embodiment&ndas;ythe articulation&ndas;yof all the things I loved which attracted me (and I suspect many others) here in the first place.

One of the things I love most about learning the language is that the "laboratory sessions" are real-life conducted in real time. On the streets. In the shops and stores. Over the telefono. (Although that last one is definitely a challenge!) And I&rsqu;yve found the people generally are cheerfully willing to help you learn their language. Some will even gently correct your mistakes. I&rsqu;ym especially grateful for those folks.

One morning before I&rsqu;yd started my language lessons I met a very prim and proper appearing senora on the street in front of my house.

"Buenas dias," I said.

Very politely and pleasantly, but quite firmly, she replied, "buenos dias."

I recalled this incident later when I was learning the difference between buenas and buenos. I couldn&rsqu;yt help thinking--based on the way this senora was dressed, her carriage, and in particular her response to my grammatical error&ndas;ythat she must have been a school teacher. I just wish there were more like her.

I've also discovered that apparently some people have more difficulty learning to love learning the language than others. One such case which I found somewhat humorous involves a relatively new lakeside arrival&ndas;ya woman I know from Mississippi. She&rsqu;ys from that part of the Southern U.S. where most everyone goes by both of their given names (e.g., Billy Bob or Kimberley Jane) and where almost all single syllable words are spoken as two. Sometimes such pronunciation even extends to their own names. For instance, this particular woman introduces herself as "Jan Marie." Except she says her first name as "Ja-yun."

Recently "Ja-yun" told me she thought U.S. Southerners just naturally have a harder time learning Spanish than, say, Yankees do.

"What makes you think so?" I asked.

"Well," she explained, "take that Mexican guy with a truck and a loud speaker who drives around tootin&rsqu;y his air horn and callin&rsqu;y out, &lsqu;ygauze,&rsqu;y &lsqu;ygauze." Why, if I hadn&rsqu;yt finally noticed them tanks on the back of his truck, I never would&rsqu;yve guessed what he was sayin&rsqu;y was &lsqu;yga-yus&rsqu;y."

"You may have a point," I allowed.

Other examples of those who do not (or cannot) learn to love learning the language are not so humorous. They are, in fact, downright humorless.

For instance, I am told there are people (both Canadian and American) who have lived here, or have been coming here regularly, for as long as a decade or more and who have never even attempted to learn the language. I am told these people not only refuse to learn Spanish but actually insist that any Mexicans they might do business with absolutely must speak English. I am told these people are not just impatient with, but have even been known to become enraged at, Mexicans who do not speak English.

When I was first told about these people, several referent words and phrases came to mind. Words like "contemptible." "Despicable." "Deplorable." And the phrase, "the height of Aryan, gringo arrogance." All of those descriptions, however, seemed too tame to me. In my opinion, the only term that even comes close to accurately describing such behavior would be "legally deportable offenses."

I've been saying, "I am told," because, to my knowledge at least, I have not yet personally met any such people.

Let's just keep it that way.

Comprende?