Rooting for Pot Plants in Australia

Admittedly, I sometimes think of myself as far more sophisticated than I truly am.This is particularly true when it comes to language, something I like to think I excel at.Now don’t go getting the wrong impression here, I am an American and, as such, monolingual. I used to be somewhat bilingual in Spanish but lost that after years of no practice and although I can order beer, go to the toilet, and discuss someone’s sexual preferences in Hungarian, Romanian and broken Russian- for all intents and purposes, I speak only English.American English.That being said, having spent years living and traveling in former British colonies, I also have a damn good grasp on British English and can switch comfortably, depending on where I am in the world, between the two with facility.However, there is one language that I have just recently encountered that I was in no way prepared for, no matter my fluency in American and British English: Australian English.Ten days ago I met Australian English for the first time comprehensively…and I might never recover.Mind you, I have two close friends, one of whom I was traveling with, who are Aussies so I thought I was completely familiar with all of the wonderful expressions and quirks that make Australian English so entertaining.I knew that if I was hungry, but not ravenous, I was feeling “peckish.”I knew that “no dramas” is a fairly standard answer to “thank you.”I knew that any sort of uncomfortable situation, from being in a sour mood to being in mortal danger, meant I was having a “bother.”I also knew, by way of getting drunk with an Australian in Thailand many years ago, that “having a roll” was a very direct way to describe having sex (and no, I did not learn that by having a roll lest you think me a tart, I just came by that information through talking about it… which is quite common with Aussies because they are so blunt).There are other phrases, all equally as colorful, but, needless to say, I felt fully prepared in my ability to speak and understand Australian English with no hiccups.That is, of course, until I discovered that we have very, very different terms for activities surrounding sporting events and gardening.Very different.In the first instance, which came up while out to dinner with Aussie colleagues, we started talking American football.I have had this conversation so many times by now that it is second nature but, basically, other countries do not understand American football. They pretty much uniformly think we are a bunch of nancies for dressing our players in so much gear as to almost ensure that they don’t break a nail, actually only spend a small amount of time watching the game versus watching the advertisements, and pay the equivalent of an entire paycheck for a seat in the stadium.They do, however, completely understand that we waste one entire day a week drunk in front of a television screen in a bar or at home during football season so at least there is a common cultural understanding in that regard.Anyway, the second or third night I was here--jet lag made me unaware of time for the first five days so I can’t be precise—my Aussie colleagues decided to try to be friendly over dinner and ask me about American football.Of course, as mentioned above, the conversation quickly digressed into the familiar territory of them making fun of American football until one Aussie said, “Alright, enough wanking you off (which, by the way, means “fucking with you”), which is your team?”Relieved not to be defending American football any longer, I said, “Well, I root for the Eagles, of course. In Philadelphia we are pretty diehard fans so you would be hard pressed to find anyone from the city or the surrounding suburbs who didn’t root for the Eagles for the entire season if not the whole year.”Silence.Crickets, really.Then…Unstoppable laughter.Peals of laughter. Gales of laughter. Tears-streaming-down-your-face laughter.Thoroughly flustered, I silently asked myself, “What the hell is going on here? Does Philadelphia have a bad reputation in Australia? Are the Eagles a poor local team here? What did I say that is so damn funny?!!!”My new Aussie business friend said, “You must be pretty diehard indeed if you’ve got a whole city rooting for them!!”More laughter from them, more confusion from me.I stared hard at my longtime Aussie friend and travel companion, demanding, by way of a very stern look, for him to let me off of this embarrassing ride that I was not even sure I was taking by way of being my friend and thus him being obligated to defend me...or protect me, in this case.Wiping at his eyes, he said, “’Rooting’ in Australia means ‘fucking.’”Well, that explains it, then, doesn’t it?No wonder they were laughing…I had just told them that an entire urban, and part of a suburban, population was out there fucking for a football team.Gives a whole new meaning to “being a fan,” no?I recovered, quickly filed away the note that ‘under no circumstances was I to talk about anything having to do with “rooting” in the future in Australia,’ and moved on to enjoy the rest of the evening…although they still tortured me for days after my mistake…but not in a mean way, Aussies are inherently nice people.Having traversed, and slipped mightily, on that language effort, you can imagine my surprise when the whole damn topic came up again, albeit having nothing at all to do with football this time.I was sitting in the Sydney airport, awaiting my flight to Queensland (which is a state in Australia) when I fell into a conversation with a pleasant older gentleman about gardening.In my supposed sophistication, I have learned that, in British and former British societies, men do the gardening for the most part, not women.Yes, there are exceptions to this rule but, being a far more civilized and tolerant culture than us rowdy Yanks, it is considered a perfectly acceptable pastime for a male to spend his weekend hours loitering around in the garden.It’s really only in the United States that we find this odd.(And, I must say, although my boyfriend Chas is advanced in that he will participate in watering, trimming, landscaping, dirt spreading, and fence-laying, thinking of him on his hands and knees tending to delicate pea shoots brings an immediate bubble of laughter to the back of my throat…American men excel at tearing things out of the ground, not planting them in the ground)So, after hearing my accent and correctly assuming I was an East Coast American, this gentleman in the Sydney airport started asking me about native plants and vegetables in the northeast United States.Loving this discussion since as I am (obviously) the avid gardener in the family, we went on and on until he asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks:“What about pot plants? How do you fare with them?” he asked.Silence.Crickets, really.“Um…sorry?” I asked, thinking I had misheard.“Pot plants! Do you have luck growing pot plants or do you mainly prefer to root in the soil?” he clarified.My mind went into crazy overdrive:“Pot plants?!! Really? It’s perfectly OK to grow pot here…inside and outside? And then to talk about it in the airport of all places?”And:“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about ‘rooting’ anything? Is he asking me if I like’ fucking’ in the soil or is he asking me if I like growing my pot in the soil versus inside? Is he really talking about fucking AND pot or is it something else? My brother likes growing pot but I never have…so what do I do now?!!!”So I did what most Americans do when confronted with a cultural misunderstanding: I smiled and talked louder.“Yes!” I shouted, hoping that would end the whole mess.Kindly, my new friend said, “Yes? Yes, what, darling?”(By the way, I love that Aussies call everyone ‘darling, babe and love’)Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…no easy out there, yelling and smiling wasn’t cutting it.“Um, well, yes, it’s illegal to grow pot in the United States and although my brother has done it a few times--- you know, hydroponics in the basement and all that—I never have because…well…it just always made me a touch uncomfortable…bothered, you know?” I sputtered.He kept staring at me oddly so, I did what all Americans do when confronted with such situations: I babbled."Well, they do grow pot plants in California for medicinal purposes but only because it is supposedly good for cancer...you know, relieving the pain and such. Frankly, I don't really care about pot but I have never grown it, at least to my knowledge...so I would love some tips!" I finished, trying my best to not appear like the biggest asshole on the planet and be culturally ingratiating at the same time.This kind older man looked at me for about ten seconds after I had finished that verbal vomit and then, for the goddamn second time in my trip, started laughing hysterically.“Oh no, I am so sorry darling! No wonder you looked so bothered!” he said, smacking his leg.“A ‘pot plant’ is a plant that is grown in a pot, not a marijuana plant,” he said, “I just wanted to know if you had any luck in rooting plants in a pot rather than outdoors in the soil.”Then:“Not marijuana plants, of course, just regular ones,” he clarified.Now deciding that it really could not get much worse, I decided to ask him a question:“What does ‘rooting’ mean to you?” I said.He looked at me oddly but then answered:“Well, it means breeding, propagating, and the like… why? What does it mean to you?” he asked.“Breeding, yes, but only for plants…but also cheering and celebrating, although mostly for people,” I said.He considered this for a moment and then said,“I have always liked Americans…only a culture like that would be so blunt about using the same word for fucking and celebrating! I love American English, it is so entertaining!”Indeed.And, just to be clear, at that moment I felt very sophisticated.And perhaps very much in need of a pot plant too.