iSpeak

I speak French.

Or at least my iPhone does. You type a word or sentence for translation, and it speaks back to you. How cool is that?

I learned this least week, which is one more reason to embrace my phone. I was more than ambivalent when my husband gave it to me recently. My thumbs never seemed to navigate right when I used his, and I didn't think I needed all the fancy accoutrements. But after months of never being able to reach me, he'd had enough.

I had a cell — only it never had any charge. Or if it had charge, then it had no minutes remaining. And when you spend as much time faraway from the familiar and as apart as we do, this was an issue for him. (Maybe it was my post about getting lost on a run without a phone that did him in …?.). While, communicating via phone isn’t my first choice, sometimes it’s my only.

Anyway, I’m a little bent out of shape that my phone speaks more languages than I’ll ever master.

We were in France last week. Whenever we travel I’m conscious of my communication skills (or lack thereof). I like to blend as much as possible, especially when I'm travelling alone or just with the kids —not only for safety, but for experience. Unlike the stories I heard growing up, I found the French people I met quite accommodating. But in the country where many don't speak English, I had to completely rely on my friend Andy, who is fluent. I loved listening to his conversations, although I had no idea what he was saying. He could’ve been saying, “Look at my friend over there, isn’t she a silly one?”

Language barriers leave me feeling vulnerable, and I don’t like that. 

In high school I spent a lot of time at my friend’s house realizing I couldn't understand a lick of Korean. She is first-generation, and her parents who came from South Korea often spoke their native language at home, especially when her grandparents came for a visit. 

I remember a time at dinner when I was fairly certain her grandparents were making fun of me during the meal. (It could’ve been their laughter and general nods in my direction that gave me a clue.) After we left she confirmed it. They wondered how much my Amazon self could consume with their silver chop sticks, since I couldn’t keep hold of anything. (Unlike their wooden counterparts, they are slippery!).

Early in our married military life we lived in San Antonio. I worked downtown at the symphony. It wasn’t long before I felt the impact of the “merging of the Americas.” I realized I could only understand about half the conversations happening around me.

I took German through high school and college. It took too many years to put it to the test, and I now know just enough to know I don’t know enough. But I got by better there than in Normandy.

French is a voluptuous language. I loved listening to people speak around me. It seems all the words are formed in the front of your mouth, ready to burst out — all juicy and plump like a peach in summer. I began mimicking the sounds I heard, sort of like the fiction “Mockingjays” I read about in The Hunger Games.

German, in contrast, feels stuck in the back of your throat. You must almost spit out the words.

Italian is sex on a stick. Or at least that’s how I felt when I was in that country.

While English seems almost universal, it also travels around the whole of your mouth, depending on the words. And depending on where you are, it may feel like a language not your own. Have you ever heard a Scotsman speak?

Maybe it’s the simple notion of reaching someone on their own terms, that I crave.

Body language works, and I cherish the moments in life when you know you’ve come to an understanding with someone upon making eye contact. At one point over the weekend, the housekeeper came in looking for the dog (who we let in, b/c it was raining). We sized each other up, because neither of us could understand a word the other was speaking. She looked at me and said something terse. It wasn’t hard to tell she was miffed; nothing lost in translation there.

The French countryside was everything it’s cracked up to be. The vast fields of yellow rape seed you see during the Tour de France already are everywhere. Cyclists are prevalent, too. Even on the narrowest of roads, motorists seem respectful of them. This language; the culture and all its nuance,  you cannot capture in or on a screen. We went for a few runs. Everything went uphill. While the views from above are spectacular,  my legs were screaming — in English.

Each time I return from a place I’ve enjoyed, I resolve to resolve to learn more. It all begins with speech. Maybe soon I can have a conversation with my iPhone...