Ben Sixsmith is an English writer. He has written for Quillette, Areo, The Catholic Herald, The American Conservative and Arc Digital on a variety of topics including literature and politics.

“Polish is a difficult language” is understatement on the level of “elephants are big” and “heroin is unhealthy”. Written Polish, for English speakers, makes it look as if God has dropped his scrabble board — full of zs, and ks, and ys. Then there are the added letters — the ż, and the ó and the ł. How do you think “żółć” should be pronounced? Take a wild guess. I have żółć (bile) rising up into my stomach just thinking about it.

A tremendous variety of cases means that words can have about 1846 different forms. You learn a word and think you have accomplished something but your linguistic adventure has just begun. “Piwo” (“beer”) can also be “piwa”, “piw”, “piwko” et cetera. It’s enough to make you turn to drink.

Poles know their language is difficult. It becomes almost a strange source of pride. An Englishman could live in Poland for six decades and never learn as much as the word “hello” and Poles would nod understandingly and talk about how difficult it is to learn Polish. “Of course. How could you possibly learn how to say “yes” and “no” in sixty years? Polish is a very difficult language.”

But at a certain point this becomes a lame excuse. I’ve lived in Poland for ten years and the only reason my Polish isn’t better — a lot better — is laziness. Short of rocket science and telekinesis, you can learn anything in ten years if you apply yourself.

Besides, some aspects of Polish are simpler than some aspects of English. For example, Polish doesn’t have articles — “a”, “an” and “the”. This might not sound like a big deal until you think about how odd the use of articles in English is. Why is it the Nile, for example, but not the Mount Everest? Why is it the Netherlands but not the France? And why is it an hour but a university? (Shut up, English teachers — let them work it out for themselves.)

Surprisingly, Polish pronunciation can be a bit easier than English pronunciation. Take stress, for example — no, not the stress you feel when reading Polish but stress in the linguistic sense. In Polish, the stress — or emphasis — almost always falls on the penultimate syllable. In English, it’s all over the place. CINema. UnderSTAND. ElecTRICity.

Aside from a few combinations of letters — like “cz”, which is the Polish equivalent of “ch”, or “sz”, which is the Polish “sh” — letters keep the same consistent sounds. In English, on the other hand, the “g” in German is pronounced differently to the “g” in “get”. The “i” in “Italy” is pronounced differently to the “i” in “itinerary”. And make sense of silent letters. Why is there an “s” in “island” and a “t” in castle? Why is there a “p” in “cupboard” and a “k” in “knife”? It’s pretty dumb when you think about it (look — there’s another one).

The language can be fun as well. There are some nice idioms, for example. “Not my circus, not my monkeys” — “nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy” — is a glorious way of saying that something is not your business. “Where the devil says goodnight” — “gdzie diabeł mówi dobranoc” — is a fantastic way of saying “in the middle of nowhere”. I don’t know why Poles claim not to have a “green idea” about something mysterious — “nie mam zielonego pojęcia” — but it’s very charming.

I won’t tell what the swear words are, because this is a family website, but they can be very satisfying to say — and there are a lot of contexts where you can say them, from when you are filled with pain to when you are filled with joy.

Hand gestures are worth a mention when we talk about language. A raised middle finger is as rude in Poland as it is in Britain, but making a “v” sign with the backs of your index and middle fingers just means “two”. So, if you’re a barman in England and someone is giving you a cheerful two-fingered salute, they might not be swearing. They might just be Polish and want a couple of pints. A more specific Polish hand gesture is to tap the neck with the side of the palm. It’s an invitation to drink, but if you aren’t familiar with that you might think they are threatening to cut your throat.

It would be wrong of me to end without a mention of different dialects. There’s Kashubian, from Kashubia in northern Poland, which some people recognise as a separate language. Then there’s Silesian, from Upper Silesia where I live. A local joke has it that God was distributing languages, millennia ago. He invented French and gave it to French people. He invented Mandarin and gave it to the Chinese. At the end of a long day, he thought that he was finished. “Please God,” said a small voice, “It’s me! Silesia! I still don’t have a language.” “Ach,” said God, frustrated, “Just take mine.”

So, Polish people, don’t let foreigners — myself included — get away with not learning your language because it’s difficult. But you can still be impressed when we learn new words, and understanding if we say “pięc piwa” and not “pięc piw”.