The Good, The Bad, and The Bilingual

I love my FJ Cruiser. No, really—I do. She handles tight spots with ease… but she also has an unexpected flair for the dramatic.

True story: About a week ago, her Bluetooth system decided she was ready for a change and flipped from English to fluent Español.

No warning. No polite heads-up.

There I was, spellbound by this Spanish voice of calm confidence—like a mamá reminding you to put on your chaqueta so you won’t catch a cold in the rain—not missing a beat as I barked voice commands in English. My carefully ordered, control-freak world? Completely upended.

The last time I heard language that smooth was when I took Spanish for ten minutes my freshman year of college. Day one, the professor greeted us in English—and then launched straight into Spanish, only stopping when he noticed our complete confustication. You could’ve heard a pin drop. Turns out we’d been accidentally dumped into an Advanced Spanish class. Most of us dropped that class like a hot jalapeño.

I still bear the scars.

Back then, my entire Spanish vocabulary consisted of “¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!” — courtesy of Saturday morning Looney Tunes.

I tried everything to fix the situation—even Google Translate. Nada. It was a digital standoff between me, the FJ, and the internet. (Cue that Good, the Bad and the Ugly whistle—bwah bwah bwah.)

Then, just two days ago, things got real. I went to run errands, and the starter gave a sluggish groan—like it resented being woken up. Battery? Maybe. Battery cables? Could be. Either way, it finally turned over and off I went.

I drove to the shop yesterday thinking I’d better see to the problem before we wound up stranded somewhere deep in the piney woods on one of our “adventures.” This time, the starter didn’t just groan—it growled.

But that was just the warm-up.

Apparently, the FJ wasn’t content to just be cranky under the hood. No, it wanted to steal the show. As I drove through town, the alarm went off every 15 seconds, setting off a wild light show—headlights, taillights; even the dome lights probably wanted in on the action. On top of that, the horn blasted a crazy “dash-dot” pattern like as SOS.

I guess it was.

After one baffled driver pulled over to yield to the “emergency,” I peeled off the main drag and took to the backstreets, trailing shame like a loose piece of trim.

By the time I rolled into the shop—horn blaring, lights strobing—the mechanics just stood there, blinking, like I’d pulled up in a flying saucer.

Anyway, the diagnosis was—you guessed it: Dead battery. Dead as a hat in a high noon duel.

The lesson I learned is that if your truck starts sending Morse code and flashing like a UFO, the battery’s crying for help.

Meanwhile, I’m just grateful the FJ has a sense of humor… even if it tells jokes in a language I don’t speak.

Screenshot from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967)