Vive le Différence

Recently, while I was imbibing at the local coffee establishment, I realized swirling around me was the hum of sounds I did not recognize.  The jingles and melodies of various languages, other than my own, were scurrying about in the aromas of the daily blend.  Modulations of pitch and tone were being brandished about without care.

All at once I felt worldly, yet oddly alone.  Being able to decipher 6 distinctive dialects but unable to comprehend the actual words or place them within 100 miles of their origin, I cursed myself for not listening, learning and retaining more from my high school French, Spanish and geography classes.

That was way back in the dark ages, when the world wasn’t as small as it is today and foreign languages were just that, foreign.  To venture far from home was often a dream and the thought of ever using anything but English in conversation was absurd.  It was the time when international travel was exorbitantly expensive, out of the ordinary yet alluring, glamorous and existentially exotic.  People dressed up (and I am not talking just clean jeans) in their Sunday best for their journeys afar.  Friends and family bade you adieu and pressed their noses to the windows (right at your gate) until the plane was on the runway.  Severely tall, thin and stylish waitresses of the sky served full course meals (with no plastic sporks in sight!) and when you arrived at your destination, you disembarked and descended the stairs, which had been wheeled to the plane, into the arms of awaiting loved ones.  Or if any additional guidance was necessary, a helpful uniformed counter agent who would happily answer any questions and point you to baggage claim would be available.

Perhaps that is why it took me until I was 30 years old to get a passport and expand past my comfort zone.  With incentive, my first trip to Europe cost $199 round trip (it was cheaper for me to go all the way to Germany than it was to go to Chicago), I packed my bags and headed abroad.  Not knowing the language never stopped me.  The sites, sounds and smells were mysteriously enhanced by my lack of verbal communication.  I pointed, motioned and smiled my way through 4 countries and was only frustrated when I couldn’t find the restroom.  I realize I probably missed much in translations and when I travel now, I make sure I have enough of the language down to be dangerous (and to know what the WC is in multiple languages).

Most people in the world speak not only their own native vernacular, but English (required study for at least 2-8 years in most countries) and usually two or three more languages.  I for one have a tough time with just English, but I know that it is much more than just knowing another language.  By being able to join in a conversation, I could gain a whole new perspective of a part of the world and its people of which I have only a cursory overview… and they could get to know me, an American that doesn’t resemble anything they have seen on Baywatch or Dallas (TV favorites, in syndication and dubbed all around Europe).

There is hope, thankfully.  The younger generation gets it and already has a leg up on us… my child is effortless in two languages and has a grasp on three more (obviously youth has much to do with the learning curve).  I say he has a special skill, but the fact is he already knows that being able to communicate with others and they with him at the most fundamental of levels is a start to better world understanding and dare I say, peace?

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-