Trips Of The Tongue -- Travelers Wend Their Way Through A Maze Of Languages

Of all the places I visited last year with my family, I have to say my favorite is Ausfahrt, Germany.

We were on a stepfather- and Mom-guided tour. My sister, stepsister and I were squeezed in the back seat of a rented Opel station wagon, speeding across Germany on the autobahn on our way to Spain, when we first saw the sign "Ausfahrt."

Then we saw another and another - there were Ausfahrt signs every few kilometers. Ausfahrt must be a really special place to have so many signs, we three decided. A quaint town, perhaps, or a really big city. Heck, it might even be in The Guidebook.

Turns out Ausfahrt means "highway exit" in German.

Soon, we were laughing and brainstorming a new line of souvenirs. Postcards that read, "Here in Ausfahrt, having a wonderful time." Or, maybe a T-shirt: "My parents went to Ausfahrt and all I got was this shirt."

It wasn't my first faux pas in a world of translations lost, found and mangled. Always insistent on learning at least some of a country's language when traveling, I've accumulated shelves of pocket phrasebooks and picture dictionaries.

I've taped vocabulary to my bathroom mirror, intoned along with those repeat-after-me tapes, and taken vows to speak no English even when that meant my conversation was limited to "I have ham. Do you have ham?" and "I have bread. Do you have bread?"

I still remember the first French dialogue I ever memorized: Ce qu'il est laid ce bebe or "what an ugly baby" - not that I've ever had the opportunity to use it.

But no matter how many languages I've majored and minored in or Berlitzes I've blitzed, I'll probably always be the kind of person who toasts to the train station (nadrazi) instead of to your health (na zdravi) in Czech.

Viva that difference thing.

There's nothing more unsettling than wondering if you just walked up to the butcher and requested a human's breast when you really wanted chicken.

But I've done worse during my travels; so have friends and family.

For weeks, our friend Bruce, who lives in Pilsen, Czech Republic, thought he was telling people on the telephone his boss was in the bathroom. But he really was saying the man was in the toilet bowl.

My mother-in-law went around a market in Turkey asking for a peach, not realizing that the English word for the fruit sounds an awful lot like an impolite word for "illegitimate child" in Turkish.

More often, my attempts to communicate simply lead to general confusion. When my husband and I went to check out of a campground in Blois, France, last autumn, I told the receptionist our name, "Kresl," in what I thought was a darn good French accent. She told me very politely in French that, no, she didn't have any croissants, but there may be some for sale up the road.

Of course, I'm not the only one speaking in tongues. Czech friends have asked me if I wanted a "snake" to tide me over until dinner.

A campground near San Sebastian, Spain, posted an informative list called "Rules of the Inner Regime." A sign at Spain's Valley of the Fallen, where Franco is buried, advises, "Due to safety measures, tour groups should not exceed people."

Newsday reported a whole list of similar signs to speak of, collected by world travelers and published in the Travelin' Woman newsletter:

-- "Ladies may have a fit upstairs" - from a tailor shop in Hong Kong.

-- "Order your summer suit. Because (of) a big rush, we will execute customers in strict rotation" - a tailor shop in Greece.

-- "If this is your first visit to Russia, you are welcome to it" - a Moscow hotel.

-- "Please leave your values at the front desk" - a hotel in Paris.

-- "Please take advantage of your hotel maids" - a hotel in Japan.

Other confusing things for me: Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble are called Pedro and Pablo in Spain. Sharon Stone's name in Czech is Sharon Stonova. And when you say "with Lisa" in Czech it's s Lisou, pronounced "sleazo" - something I never quite got used to.

Perhaps, I should just take a hint from the bartender who tried to help me master the pronunciation of vino tinto in Seville, Spain. His parting comment doesn't need translation: catastrofe.