When I was in high school I took two years of German. It was about the only subject, aside from 'easy' ones, that I did well in. I chose it simply because their culture struck me as more interesting than the others that were offered.
I did well enough that I could have gone there and done just fine getting around in everyday life.
But I live in North America. You don't get a chance to practice German here. So now I still know the grammar rules and could construct a sentence or a paragraph. But it's about forty years ago now and I have practically no vocabulary left.
So now I'm in a strange and unfortunate category; formerly bi-lingual. I chose the wrong foreign language to study.
I grew up in Detroit and also spent part of my youth in a rural area that was not far away. In those parts, when you ran into a foreign language it was French. I'm quite sure that I never ran into Spanish during my childhood. Then in my early twenties I headed for the west coast.
I drove for the best part of a day, then stopped for fuel or rest or both. Not far, if I remember right, from where I live now. I walked up to a pay phone. And there it was;
instructions written in Spanish.
Though I don't recall giving it a lot of thought, this didn't particularly surprise me. It was to be expected. Still, it was like a slap in the face or a knife in the heart. It hit me like a ton of bricks; I was giving up my home and many places, and things, that I was very fond of. I headed on out of there feeling truly sad or troubled, or something like that.
But it didn't last long. I expected my destination to be fun. And it was. I went to San Francisco and got a job as a bicycle messenger. It's hard to imagine a job that's more fun. We were dirt poor. But we had a blast.
One effect is that I've loved the bicycle ever since. I haven't been without one ever since and I've ridden a lot this whole time.
The folks around here think guys like me are peculiar. But they'd understand much better if they'd gone to one of the big cities and held a job like that.
