The Problem with English

As I was sitting on the train to Bratislava, the person sharing my compartment - a Lebanese man living in Slovakia - asked me which languages I spoke other than English. He spoke four. It’s hard not to feel ignorant, uneducated even, when I meet people who collect languages like my mother collects handbags. And I have to wonder, or perhaps I can safely assume, if it would be an all together more thorough experience if one could converse in the language of the land one is in. I often feel as though I’m standing in front of a locked door with the wrong set of keys. Hand and face gestures only communicate so much.

It’s easy enough to think I’m going to learn another language - but even if I did go to the effort, it would be months before I could actually hold a proper conversation where both parties understood what was being said, and I have serious doubts about my language skills as it is. All those years of Japanese and French at school, and all I can really say is hello and goodbye. So I decided that the next best thing would be to pick up a book written by a local author and read myself past the language barriers, which was an excellent plan only I’m still reading Polish authors and I was in Poland two countries ago. In fact, I'm on to my second Ryszard Kapuściński, who writes about his own language difficulties, though he spoke more than one, on his travels.

Last night I went to see Serenada and Raymonda, and while it might not break down the great wall of language, everything seems better at the ballet. The woman in the box next to me was having the same experience I was, that she was having it in Slovak and I in English didn’t seem to matter so much. (Yes, you read that correctly - I did say box! I bought my ticket at the door moments before the performance began and the usher asked me - sweaty (I’d been running, sprinting actually, all over town in search of a square with a theatre) jean-clad, frizzy-haired me - if I would like to sit in an empty box.) Unfortunately this is not a sustainable experience - it’s not like I can attend concerts every evening. So I’ve reached an impasse - I guess England and my mother tongue aren’t too far away; actually, speaking of, my mother will be here in less than ten days so I’ll have someone to talk to who understands me - a thrilling prospect.

In other news it was the Slovakian marathon today so as I was walking the tourist route - sipping thick hot chocolate in a cosy cafe, ambling through Hrad Castle’s grounds, roaming the cobble stone streets sighting churches and convents and cathedrals - lean, fit bodies (young and old) were breezing past me. Dark clouds threatened heavy rain, but for once the weather was generous and this afternoon was delightfully sunny.

Bratislava is unexpectedly small (I feel I’ve conquered her in a day) and Slovakians are unexpectedly nice, the friendliest Europeans I’ve encountered so far, so I’m glad I have six more nights in this country. Tomorrow morning I travel to Zdiar in the High Tatras where you will find me relaxing in a mountain cabin and doing my best to read myself another layer of this fascinating continent.