Do You Hear What I Hear?

Pocket Help

Unlike last spring, summer, and fall in the English-speaking United Kingdom, my winter months were going to be roaming countries where English is not the native tongue. Currently, when I attempt to speak a foreign language, it comes out as a discombobulated blend of French and Spanish — Frenish or Spanch, if you will. It’s clearly incomprehensible even to Europeans, who speak a minimum of two languages. Nonetheless, having packed a series of “Instant Language” guides, I thought I could get by with elementary phrases (Hello, Please, Thank you, I don’t understand, I’d like a glass of red wine) and a smile. After five countries in four weeks, ostensibly, I thought wrong.

At The Music Village, Brussels

Brussels, Belgium: French is the dominant language followed by Dutch/Flemish. Being my first point of entry, and to ease into the language thing, I booked a high-starred international hotel knowing they’d have a staff that spoke English. I offered “Bonjours” in the morning and “Bonsoirs” in the evening but in wandering Christmas markets and witnessing light shows, “Oohs and Ahhs” sufficed for communication. Listening to “Man on Fire and The Soul Soldiers” funk out at a music club, Dancing was the only language required.

Freiburg, Germany:  Feeling rather proud of myself, I thought my pronunciation was wunderbar when I announced to Michelle, the hotel receptionist at check-in, “Ich nacht nicht Deutsch verstehen, but I’ll try.” With a knowing nod I added, “My name is Heidi,” imagining that in itself ingratiated me to all Germans (although my namesake is Swiss). She nodded politely but with raised eyebrows. On the street, I wanted to wish passers-by a Merry Christmas, “Fröhliche Weihnachten,” but for some reason, I had a mental block with those words. Strolling through the Christmas market, I slurred a “Fro….chhhgten” with a throaty sound hoping to be understood. I wasn’t. However, when said with a raise of a mug of gruhlwein and a countenance that indicated, “I’m trying, aren’t we One?,” I was welcomed with good-humored responses of “Prost!” (Cheers!)

Zermatt, Switzerland: Most of the population speaks German, but being a tourist town, language wasn’t a barrier. Except for that taxi-man. The apartment I found online, I couldn’t find in town. I prefaced asking him for directions in English with, “Ich nacht nicht Deutsch verstehen.” He shook his head in puzzlement, perplexingly similar to that of the hotel receptionist in Freiburg, and pointed up the road. Turns out, what I said and what I’ve been saying incorrectly for years is: “I do not understand German night.”

Italy: On the train from Zermatt to Milan, I overheard German and Italian. The German language comes across as staccato, with attention to consonant sounds, “ich, acht, t’s, v’s and z’s”. Italian seems to flow in a lively legato, with notes that pause………then play on. Many words end in vowels, “Buon giorno, Capisco, Grazie, Prego”, making pronunciation a delight, and urging the use of accompanying hand movements. In Domodossola, Italy, there was a train line change from the Swiss SNBC to Italy’s EC. With fifty minutes before the Milan departure, I walked the main street leading to the station and came upon an open air market. Along the way, welcoming shouts of “Signora! Signora! Buon giorno! Buon giorno!” came from smiling men. No treachery in their voices — they were friendly, even respectful, greetings. “Bon giorno, grazie,” I replied with a grin that lived on my face pretty much my entire (short) time in Italy.

Throughout Belgium, Germany, and Switzerland, the train windows were spotless. On this Italian train, the windows were soiled. They hadn’t looked washed in years. Too dirty to see through, really, but it made the scenery look kind of… impressionistic. Rather than disappointed, I’m tickled! They don’t care!

Beyond the Grime

View Impressionist

After Zermatt (pop. 5,600), I’m pleasantly overwhelmed with the masses in Milan (pop.1.3 million). When I asked for guidance, a woman linked my arm and walked with me up the street, speaking Italian and gesturing all the while. It wasn’t important that I had no idea what she was saying, she exuded kindness. As I ambled to the Duomo, folks were hand in hand, giggling, smooching — the mood was convivial and uplifting.

Mirthful masses
at the Duomo

Expression seems to be their language. Their priorities weren’t in clean windows, they were in life…and each other. Upon my departure, I mentioned these observances to Vicki and Bruno, English-speaking representatives at the train station, and they acknowledged, “To love life, that is the Italian way.”

Cannes, France: In Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy — on trains, in stations, and at public monuments and museums, there are recorded announcements and signage in the English language. This is very helpful and courteous to tourists. In France, it’s French. Exclusively.

Cannes peace sign. No wonder I’m confused…

A few years ago when I was taking French language courses in France and Canada, I didn’t find this as much of a challenge; it served as homework. Now, having forgotten most of what I learned, it is a hindrance. Still, I haven’t had the desire to enroll in language classes. Perhaps it’s the memory of acquiring the dreaded shingles after my derailing misunderstanding of the directions on my last French exam in Montreal..

Aix en Provence, France: On my first morning, I am awakened with two blessed forms of communication without words. Bells ring out from the tower in the 12th century Cathedrale Saint-Sauveur at the end of my block. What is it about church bells that we love? VIDEO: IMG_4843 A medieval sound reverberates throughout the land whilst resonating within…the carillon harkens to those that hear, moving one to action or contemplation. To me, they’re like a collective OM.

Temptation below

From my window      Bell tower above  

The bells fade and the dreamy early dawn aroma from the bakery below floats its way through my bedroom window, beckoning me to come hither. I do, which is why it’s fortunate to have found a gym, Le Loft, around the corner from my apartment. It was in my first “ELDOA” class (say what?) on Monday, that I had a tiny epiphany. Laying on a mat in a room full of various sizes of all-aged people, I knew not an inkling of what the instructor was saying…NOR DID I HAVE TO! Lack of a common language isn’t a barrier. Simply respect others and smile. My ‘neighbors’ were more than willing to act as guides and correct any erroneous moves. Sometimes, there’s no need for translation; we’re in this together.

“I am no better and neither are you
We are the same whatever we do
You love me you hate me you know me and then
You can’t figure out the bag I’m in
I am everyday people.” – Sly and the Family Stone

 

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