Wodehouse had a line I can’t shake. “Into the face of the young mon who sat on the terrace at Cannes there had crept… a shifty hangdog look.” He was right about one thing. To learn a language, you must agree to look like a fool first.
Vulnerability. It is the price of entry.
The English seem terrified of it. We are a monoglot minority in a world that speaks volumes, yet we cling to our native tongue like a life raft. Maybe not anymore. New research suggests picking up a second tongue slows brain aging by up to 13 years. Thirteen. Multilingualism keeps the neural pathways wide open, fighting off decline.
Brain connectivity improves. Decline slows down.
That is a powerful incentive.
But let’s be real. We do it for other reasons too. The thrill. The mind expansion. Meeting people (some are hot, some are not). Nothing beats the adrenaline of nailing the subjunctive tense while ordering dinner. I tried it once in France. My French was rustier than an abandoned car, but pride is a stubborn beast.
A waiter tried to charge me ten euros for stale tortilla chips. Ten. Euros. For dust.
I dug deep. I summoned the grammar of a lifetime ago and laid into him about customer service standards, mentioning the good wine, the first day of my vacation, my rising annoyance. I was arsey. I was proud. He grudgingly respected me. Or maybe he was just confused. Who knows?
Then I spoke to the hotel receptionist. She stared at me while I tried to say “draps” (sheets).
It sounded like garbage. My humiliation was swift and total. Explaining why a British prime minister resigned is hard even in English; trying to articulate Peter Mandelson’s name in broken French was impossible. I failed there too.
I didn’t dare use my favorite phrase though. C’est le petit Jésus en culottes de velours!
It translates roughly to “It’s the baby Jesus wearing velvet underpants.” You only use it for very good wine. It feels illicit saying it aloud. Even my aunt, living in France for forty years, had never heard of it. Maybe it’s a regional ghost phrase? Maybe it died with the velvet trousers generation? If it is still alive, someone tell me.
It matters because this mental gymnastics? That is exactly what the neuroscienticians love.
Feel that? When you search for a word you used to know but now only half-remember? The neurons firing like spark plugs trying to catch. That friction is the workout.
I spent the week before France in Italy. Just me and my dad. He knows some English, Welsh, a bit of French and Russian. I know English, Welsh, French, and Italian. We bounced off each other. He would ask, “How do I say that?” I would fumble, forget, remember, teach. It felt like remembering parts of my own personality. Different voices for different tongues.
People in Italy don’t care if you mess up. They are happy you are trying. That joy is fuel.
My dad asks every Uber driver in London how many languages they speak. Nothing will humble you faster than the polyglot taxi rank of central London. We spent our days geeking out over etymology, untranslatable idioms, the weird corners of syntax.
He’s thinking about learning Italian now. He’s older. He thinks it might be late.
The science says start young. The earlier, the better for the wiring.
But who cares?
It is never too late to make yourself sound foolish for a little while. Your brain might thank you later. Or not. But you’ll have the words.
