Sunday, 01 August 2004 | Hund

If you ask me for directions, I will eagerly draw you a map of the entire area and include every landmark you'll see on the way. You want to know the word "cat" in German? I may give you a short (and unsolicited) German lesson, which will include spelling and pronunciation, and possibly even a bonus list of other animal words you didn't ask for.

If you compliment my shirt, I will feel oddly obligated to explain where I got it and, if it was particularly cheap, how much it cost. If you'd like me to explain how to optimize pictures in Photoshop (as my dad did Saturday morning), I'll overwhelm you with "helpful" information by trying to teach you every nuance I've learned about the program since I started using it years ago.

I'll consciously try not to bombard you; instead, the information will quietly float to the surface and turn into an innocent aside.

When I was teaching English in Berlin, I knew that one particular class was most interested in learning British English. I was happy to expose my students to the British dialect whenever it occurred to me, but I could not prevent myself from explaining how American English differed in each case, which certainly only confused everyone. Instead of simply telling them that an occupied phone line was "engaged," I would feel compelled to articulate that Americans would instead say "busy," and that "engaged" is reserved for someone who's about to get married. (And they would respond by staring blankly at me.)

My intentions are good—I want you to know what I know, or what I wish someone would've once told me—but I hate to think that I might come across as obnoxious.

Sometimes I'm able to successfully curb the tendency, but it always makes me feel like I'm withholding vital information, or like I'm keeping an uncomfortable secret. (Because, really, knowing the word for "dog" in German is pretty crucial if our communication is to be successful.)