We English speakers are quite blessed to be able to travel almost everywhere in the world, getting by with English only.  But as comic writer Dave Barry once famously stated: “You may one day find yourself in a foreign situation wherein members of the local population, because of a poor educational system or sheer laziness, have not learned to speak your language fluently. I strongly recommend that before you travel abroad, you learn to speak a foreign language, ideally the same one that is spoken in whatever country you’re going to.”
Following Barry’s advice, I choose to study Spanish, reasoning that I’d be setting myself up for a roaring good time in dozens of Latin American countries, some right on our continent.
I started out, first studying Spanish at an adult education course, and then in Latin America. By the time I returned home, after several months on the road, I thought I had it. Even my Latin American history professor said I had the Latin head movement and swagger down to a tee.
Then came my first trip to Mexico. Confident as could be, I journeyed down to Cuernavaca and enrolled in a Mexican Spanish school planning to improve, nay master, my Spanish. I would billet with a family, heck, I’d even cook there. When I returned home, huevos rancheros would no longer hold any secrets for me! On the linguistic level, my awareness of “false friends” and “false expressions” had become a little hazy.
In no time, I gained a nodding acquaintance with the family that ran the local tortilla shop and one Saturday, I decided I’d go and shop in the local market.
My first grocery shopping trip ended up being my final grocery shopping trip, in that town, at least.
I started out by unwittingly insulting the kid from the tortilla shop with a simple “Como está tu madre?” (How is your mother?).  

Mind what you say when visiting a foreign land. What you say may be insulting.

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In Mexico, where motherhood is next to godliness, you could very well be heading into muchísimo trouble if anything in your vocabulary even hints at disrespect, vis-à-vis mothers. What I’d asked ended up sounding something like, “How’s it going, you !#*&$!!?” I learned much later, that I should have used “mamá” as in “Como está tu mamá?”
But the real whopper came when I asked the grocer for eggs.
“Tiene usted huevos?” (do you have eggs?) sounded innocent enough, especially since I was in the market for eggs.
 The egg seller didn’t see it that way. And as I fled the market red-faced, assailed with a combination of giggles and menacing glances, the other sellers atwitter, a gringo nearby pointed out that I’d just inquired about the egg merchant’s masculinity. Not the best question in a Muy Macho Mexican market.  Turns out I should have said “Hay Huevos?” (are there eggs?).
Beware literal translations into a foreign tongue! Faux amis can lead to faux pas — believe me, I’ve been there.
In another life, I was a French teacher, so I thought I knew all about the faux amis. False friends are words that look the same as in English but don’t have the same meaning.
A simple example would be the French word sensible, which has nothing to do with common sense, as it means sensitive.
Now, the not so good news, chers lecteurs, faux amis  extend into expressions.
Heck, since we’re in Canada, here are painful examples you could use, or avoid using, in any Francophone setting.
First, I’ll list what I meant to say in English.
Second, what I said, and its meaning in the second language , in this case French.
Third, what I should have said in the idiom of the second language.

Think, before you talk, when you are travelling.

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1) Are you hot?   
2) What I said: “Est-ce que vous êtes chaud?” (Are you drunk?)
3) What I should have said: “Est-ce que vous avez chaud?” (have you hot?)
 
1) I am finished.
2) What I said: “Je suis fini,” meaning (I’m dead).
3) What I should have said: “J’ai fini.” (I have finished).
 
1) I am full (as in after a meal).
2) What I said: “Je suis plein.” (I am pregnant — using the masculine adjective).
3) What I should have said: “Je suis repu.” (I am satiated).

1) I have common sense.
2) What I said: “Je suis sensible.” (I am sensitive).
3) What I should have said: “J’ai du bon sens.”  (I have good sense).

Travel writer Mark Laiosa once innocently asked his friends before a concert in Vienna about the “Vorspiel” thinking it meant prelude. It actually means foreplay.
The same guy was in Hong Kong and asked for white rice bai mifan. Turns out he mixed the last two syllables and had the waiter scratching his head, wondering why the foreigner was asking him for white powder — i.e. cocaine.
Ah, the joys of travel!
So, bon voyage!