A Life of Language Learning

A brief "language autobiography" may help readers whose language learning and language loving careers began only a few moments ago with the opening of this book.

My favourite word — in any language — is the English word foreign. I remember how it came to be my favourite word. At the age of four I attended a summer day camp. Royalty develops even among children that young. There were already a camp "king" and a camp "queen", Arthur and Janet. I was sitting right beside Arthur on the bus one morning, and I remember feeling honoured. Arthur reached into his little bag, pulled out an envelope, and began to show Janet the most fascinating pieces of coloured paper I'd ever seen.

"Look at these stamps, Janet," he said. "They're foreign! " That word reverberated through my bone marrow. Foreign, I figured, must mean beautiful, magnetic, impressive — something only the finest people share with only the other finest people. From that moment forward, the mere mention of the word foreign has flooded me with fantasy.

I thought everybody else felt the same, and I had a hard time realising they didn't. When a schoolmate told me he turned down his parents' offer of a trip to Europe for a trip out West instead, I thought he was crazy. When another told me he found local politics more interesting than world politics, I thought he was nuts. Most kids are bored with their parents' friends who come to dinner. I was too, unless that friend happened to have been to a foreign country — any foreign country — in which case I cross examined him ruthlessly on every detail of his foreign visit.

Once a visitor who'd been through my interrogation to the point of brain blur said to my mother upon leaving, "What a kid! He was fascinated by every detail of every hour I ever spent in another country, and the only other place I've ever been is Canada!'


	A Life of Language Learning A brief "language autobiography" may help readers whose language learning and language loving careers began only a few moments ago with the opening of this book. My favourite word — in any language — is the English word foreign. I remember how it came to be my favourite word. At the age of four I attended a summer day camp. Royalty develops even among children that young. There were already a camp "king" and a camp "queen", Arthur and Janet. I was sitting right beside Arthur on the bus one morning, and I remember feeling honoured. Arthur reached into his little bag, pulled out an envelope, and began to show Janet the most fascinating pieces of coloured paper I'd ever seen. "Look at these stamps, Janet," he said. "They're foreign! " That word reverberated through my bone marrow. Foreign, I figured, must mean beautiful, magnetic, impressive — something only the finest people share with only the other finest people. From that moment forward, the mere mention of the word foreign has flooded me with fantasy. I thought everybody else felt the same, and I had a hard time realising they didn't. When a schoolmate told me he turned down his parents' offer of a trip to Europe for a trip out West instead, I thought he was crazy. When another told me he found local politics more interesting than world politics, I thought he was nuts. Most kids are bored with their parents' friends who come to dinner. I was too, unless that friend happened to have been to a foreign country — any foreign country — in which case I cross examined him ruthlessly on every detail of his foreign visit. Once a visitor who'd been through my interrogation to the point of brain blur said to my mother upon leaving, "What a kid! He was fascinated by every detail of every hour I ever spent in another country, and the only other place I've ever been is Canada!'