Zaanse Schans
Mom, of Dutch origin, came to visit us in Germany in ‘82, or so. We took her to the old country to take in the culture. She grew up speaking (whatever bastardized version of) Dutch her mom and aunts taught her. So, in her mind, she was a true Hollander.
You see, if you forget the actual Dutch word, just say it in English, but with a Dutch accent. It's not rocket science. So, that version of the language became her vernacular.
So, we’re in a nice park in Zaanse Schans, viewing the windmills, when she spots a Hollander about her age sitting by himself on a bench. She decides to go converse with the ol’ boy in her best Dutch. I warned her several times, “Mom, these people are serious Hollanders and they speak fluently. You may wish to reconsider.” “Ach, ver sonder” (or thereabouts) was her reply. “Fine, I warned you,” says I.
She sits by him and starts rattling off her absolute best Dutch ever. After the best 3- minute dissertation of her life, he says to her in somewhat broken English, “Why don't you just speak in English? I have no idea what you're saying.”
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