The Village Idiom
Sitting on a train to Paris, one very strong cup of French coffee supporting the cause, I am compelled to find words to share with all of you.
Words, coincidently, have been consuming my thoughts since I began this trek in Moscow. It was there that I realized the shared knowledge of a language, and hence the ability to communicate with another person, does not necessarily ensure that two people will be able to connect with or understand one another. Knowledge of a language and the daily experience of a language are two very different things. I learned firsthand in Moscow that a lexicon is very much more than words, and that we all rely heavily on intimate systems of infinite, subtle intricacies in our everyday speech to create and maintain a sense of unity, community, belonging and of course, understanding.
Slang, in varying degrees--from the widespread, to that which springs up between small groups of friends--continually cements and affirms our relationships with one another. In my opinion, the most powerful outgrowth of speaking a common experience is easy laughter. Being funny in your native language is hard enough--being funny across language barriers is a challenge worthy of David Blaine.
The easy laughter that grows out of our inside jokes and innumerable unspoken understandings keeps us going day to day. It lifts our spirits and provides a subconcious feelings of safety. Moscow was the first place I'd ever felt that that safety line was severed, and it was psychologically and emotionally disorienting.
This pseudo-crisis in linguistic consciousness was compounded by yet another idiomatic experience, so to speak (pardon the pun).
I am an eavesdropper by nature. I admit that it's a bad habit, but if there are conversations happening within audible distance, I am listening. After a lifetime of eavesdropping, my ear is trained to tune in, and acts as a free agent: I'm constantly picking up signals despite myself, and this might sound a bit twilight-zony, but listening to all of the different languages being spoken around me at the hostel in Copenhagen was an eerie, even nerve-racking experience.
Hearing human speech with no way of understanding it is what I imagine lunacy might be like. Lying in the dark in my dormitory bed, instinctively trying to make sense of the hushed, disembodied voices speaking intently and rapidfire all around me in Spanish, French, Danish, German--each conversation uttery incomprehensible to me--was like trying to find peace in my own personal tower of babel.
It got me thinking: English is not the language that my paternal grandmother was born into. That's how new it is to me on a cellular level. It is the language that was deposited into my head though, and it is the language that I identify with and am identified by. It is the legend by which the map of my cultural experience and identity can be read. It determines how I receive, interpret, understand and express my perceptions of the world. It's more than just sounds strung together to create signals. It's a system that encodes and transmits innumerable, subliminal intracacies of meaning and submeaning, text and subtext.
It's so immensely powerful, and so exceptionally taken for granted.
In any case, apologies if this was far too verbose. As Hamlet said, "Words, words, words."
Fools Russian
It's a gray afternoon in Manchester--halfheartedly
punctuated by a non-committal drizzle. The weather
here reminds me of how I felt on my ferry from
Helsinki to Stockholm--a bit lazy, a tad wistful and
annoying to all those around me thanks to a relentless
sniffle. Still, I welcome this rain for its
authenticity--the sunshiny week that I've passed here
has been lovely, if not genuinely British.
I had my token, full English breakfast this morning
(the stuff that dreams are made of!) and have since
had time to reflect on the past 19 days.
My intentions (of course) had been to write--both for
myself and to all of you--as much as possible. I
didn't anticipate (though I am glad for) the intensity
of experience I've encountered and just how much
processing it would all take. Slowly but surely
though, the sights and sounds and stimuli of the past
three weeks are starting to sort themselves out in my
heart and head, and everything that seemed a blur
before is becoming lucid.
Moscow in itself was overwhelming. I may as well have
boarded a spaceship at LAX. For someone whose worldly
travel experience prior to this journey included no
more than an 8-day jaunt to Israel and the Sinai
desert to visit Ronit in college (an amazing, amazing
trip, mind you), it was like touching down on another
planet.
I don't know about all of you, but Russia has always
been an enormous mystery to me. The little bit of
information I was ever offered about it growing up
seemed more like a dim, propagandistic caricature than
a realistic vision of a (gigantic) nation. When I
thought of Russia I thought of Cold War, of Gorbachev,
of Communism and Lenin, of a hammer and sickle, of
Vodka and mail order brides and Siberia and Dostoevsky
and onion domes and ballerinas. I could never
consolidate it all in my head though, or pull it all
into clear focus. It remained far away and fuzzy,
dimly lit and intimidating.
Russia in application is much different than Russia in
theory (isn't everything?). We adjust so quickly to
new surroundings that I had to keep reminding myself
to be present and conscious and to allow every
experience and image to be distinct. Muscovites and
the city they live in are all so full of noise and
force--just a day in the city will leave your ears
ringing late into the night. They are fast moving and
unforgiving. Pedestrians do not have the right of
way, no matter what the light says. And yet that
force and intensity is contradicted by the strangest
details; innumerable couples everywhere--on park
benches, on escalators in metro stations, at bus stops
and in markets--holding hands, kissing, flirting,
snuggling. Never in my life have I seen so many
passionate, public displays. And then there were the
cars full of people reading intently on the metro.
In any case, this is just the tip of the iceberg in
terms of what I saw and felt in Moscow, but the
battery on this computer needs a good recharging, and
so do I (chicken tikka, anyone?).
