Kilkenny Ireland, spring 2006 — A friend of my ex-vriendin K_ was visiting her from their native Holland.

We were walking to the cinema to see a good little film called "Pavee Lackeen," a slice-of-life about Irish-Traveller culture. The subject of language came up, and R_ said "gaan we Nederlands praten?" — "shall we speak Dutch?"

Naturally, this would have seemed a great idea for me. I knew just enough Dutch that I could hold a conversation, minimally, and I would have theoretically relished the chance to speak it. I like the language, and of course enjoy being able to use it. Anybody would be proud of that — and anybody but the Dutch would understand and respect that feeling.

But, in this case, R_ and K_ — quite unaware, I'm sure — skipped over my head with impertinent, fast, and brief Dutch "conversation" — about nothing, and seemingly for no other purpose than to get it over with. Speak Dutch with Steve, patronizingly, for one minute... and then get back to speaking English.

Fine enough. It's the most-complete common language. It's normal to use, for conversation. And, also, here we were in Ireland this time — so I couldn't protest that I needed to speak Dutch, as I'd done for a time in Holland. But the way that these two girls acted as if they had to indulge my desire to talk a little Nederlands was vintage Dutch.

I ought to mention that K_ and I had come to a nearly complete breakdown of communication — a failure that would become total within a week. She had come to a point where she was treating me with a contempt that could only be feminine. This cursory dismissal of my wish to speak Dutch was emblematic of that contempt.