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It seems sort of inevitable that I write something about language here. One night in the beginning of winter in Saskatoon a group of us were sitting around on the floor of someone's cruddy apartment and the conversation came around to languages, which ones we liked best. "English," I said. "Because I can swim in it." And it was true then, and it's still true now. Of course I can swim in English--I'm native to it, as surely as a fish is native to water. And I've been thinking about that with renewed clarity, here in Norway where all around people speak languages that are as opaque to me as walls.

I am taking Norwegian. I am not especially good at it, but of course learning a new language takes time. I'm pretty canny about figuring out the meanings of written words, but my ability to understand the spoken language is sub-minimal, and my pronunciation is nothing short of atrocious. I've always had trouble keeping the correct pronunciations of words--even English ones--in my head, but Norwegian relies heavily on sounds I'm not even sure how to make. And so I fumble along, repeat words aloud to myself over and over again, wonder if this is why I had to go to speech in elementary school (the answer to that last one is: probably not, but it would be a convenient excuse).

The whole process of learning how to speak again has been like that joke David Foster Wallace told at the beginning of his famous commencement address: "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, 'Morning, boys. How's the water?' And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, 'What the hell is water?'" I use English to interpret the world, to describe it, and sometimes I forget that other languages aren't just a translation of mine. The most fascinating thing about learning a new language is when the words fail to translate, especially when it feels like they should--the word 'fjord', which English has adopted from Norwegian, has not actually retained its meaning in the transfer. Translated, the Norwegian word 'fjord' actually means 'inlet,' because the English definition of 'fjord' is narrower. So words don't translate, sentences aren't shaped the same, and sure, Norwegian is closer to English than English is to Chinese or Arabic, but it's also different enough to remind me: English exists. It may seem to be a clear lens through which to interpret the world, but it's still a lens.

And a lens is a tool. Part of the reason the American school system isn't particularly invested in teaching foreign language skills is, I suspect, that English is so prevalent--and, because English is so prevalent, people who speak rarer languages learn it. I've never had any trouble finding someone who speaks English here. Everyone does.

I do, however, occasionally have trouble communicating, because for most people the language they speak as a second language is going to be necessarily different from the language that's their first--as my terrible German and perfunctory Norwegian demonstrate. I'm functionally a monoglot among polyglots, and it makes me realize that while I don't need another language, I want one. I have friends who are consummate polyglots, collecting languages like I used to collect buttons. I never really got the appeal. But I think I see it now: it's in the cracks that manifest themselves in the process of translation, and in the way a new language can serve as a foil to your native tongue. And it's also about communication because, oh, sure, people speak English. In Norway, especially, they speak English well. But it's not the language they're native to. And it seems unfair, somehow, that I ask everyone to come swim in my language without ever venturing into the waters of theirs (frigid though they may be). So: snakker du norsk? My answer remains 'Nie, jeg snakker engelsk', but I'll keep working on that.