[photo by Rachel]

After having last Wursts and gelatos in Munich, we boarded the night train for France. The berths above us were occupied by two older French women. They chattered away above us in French, while Rachel and I spoke in English below. Every once in a while, one of the women would lean down and speak to us in German.

I think it was at this moment--while I was crammed into a small space containing four people and three languages-- that I began to lose hold of every language I've ever learned. I knew I should begin to use my limited French vocabulary, but all through France I automatically thanked people, excused myself and made requests in German. It was not until I was on the plane headed back to Chicago that s'il vous plais and merci started coming out of my mouth. For a full week after our return to the US, I spoke broken French when conducting minor transactions.

Fortunately, my linguistic jet lag wasn't too problematic in France, since Rachel and I were almost always in the company of French-speaking friends. By the time we arrived, exhausted, in Le Havre, we were happy to have someone else communicate for us.

Le Havre is a port city northwest of Paris, near the D-day beaches of Normandy. Most of the buildings date from the midcentury, because the city was so heavily bombed by, um, the Germans.

(History of psychology trivia: Pierre Janet conducted his split personality/Leonie studies in Le Havre.)