The Tower of Babel
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re on a small cruise ship in the North Sea. We’ll disembark in Bergen tomorrow, having sailed all the way up the Norwegian coast, around the top to the Russian border, then back again.
The Tower of Babel
When I was a kid, my parents took our family across the Atlantic by ship—twice, actually. Those voyages loom large in my memory. The ship itself felt like a relic of a bygone era: we dressed for dinner, minding our manners at formally set tables, complete with more forks and spoons than I knew what to do with. I still remember encountering dishes I never saw again until adulthood, like consommé and aspic, and learning (with great difficulty) how to pick the right piece of cutlery for each course.
Fast-forward forty-five years, and I’m on a much smaller vessel that—oddly enough—reminds me of those childhood crossings. We’ve got assigned mealtimes, assigned tables, and zero buffet lines. Where it differs, though, is in the sheer variety of global travelers onboard. It’s like being in a mini Tower of Babel: people hop on and off at different ports, and the languages floating around our dining room could fill a linguistics textbook.
On the first night, Lee and I were assigned to a table with an older Swiss couple (French-speaking, no English) and two young Chinese women (studying in the UK, minimal English). Our Swedish waiter, in a fit of mischief, offered to teach us some inventive swear words—presumably to ease the tension caused by the near-impermeable language barrier. A few days in, the Chinese students disembarked, replaced by a delightful British couple, finally giving us an opportunity to have some actual conversation.
Of course, now the Swiss couple is stuck listening to babbling Brits and Americans without a clue what’s being said. Every day I have to remind myself they’re adults; if they hate the arrangement, they can ask to be moved. Still, my inner people-pleaser demands I take action: I want everyone to be comfortable, even though my French extends about as far as, “Bonjour! Je voudrais une baguette, s’il vous plait.”
We’ve faced language gaps before, but usually in short bursts: a quick chat in a café or a polite exchange in an airport. Twenty-two meals of halting small talk (or dead silence) is uncharted territory, and it’s exhausting. I’m finding there’s a real tension between my urge to connect and my desire to stay invisible. Right now, I’m leaning toward invisibility—slipping into the background spares me the guilt, the cringe, and the feeling that I ought to rescue the Swiss couple from their predicament.
By the time this trip is over, I’ll have a new appreciation for solo dining. As it turns out, a boatload of languages can be as daunting to me as a menu full of dishes I can’t pronounce.
Take care,
Lisa
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