When I was 25, my husband and I took a trip to France.

I spoke high school French and added a couple semesters at the university. It didn’t get me very far in the city except OUT of the metro station [I could read sortie and understand that it led out]. The Parisians (still my favorite city in the world) just rolled their eyes at me when I tried to order a pastry on the Champs Elysee. They’d rather me just order in English which they could understand better than my horrific French. They must be used to loud Americans in their shiny athletic shoes (not cool!).

But in the little towns, my little bits of French were extremely helpful. My husband, fluent in Spanish in Mexican towns, was at a loss in France and had to rely entirely on me.

And in these little towns the French people weren’t puffy Parisians at all. They were provincially kind and eager to meet Americans. They grinned at my terribly pronounced French and tried to speak slowly so that I would understand them in return. Even so, after two weeks there I still understood written signs much better than spoken language.

Back in Paris at the end of our trip, my husband and I took a sunset cab ride up to the Montmarte district. On the top of a hill its a tourist’s paradise because of the views, the souvenier shops and the artists painting on easels right on the streets.

In broken French, an obviously American woman approached me and asked for the time. I laughed and we chatted as I explained I was American too and she could ask me in English if she wanted. She was so relieved to find out I wasn’t going to bark back at her about her poorly executed attempt at “Quelle heure est-il?” and felt instantly comfortable with me, a stranger, because I spoke her language.

There is something comforting about finding someone who speaks your language. Or when I find someone who understands my own language. Because my language, my personal language, is more than just “English” or “American English” or even my Southern California spin on it including idioms, accents (we have none, by the way) and syntax.

My “language” is the language of time spent together, of regular affection, of meaningful words. I can only hope that I’m understood well within my family, that my own personal language isn’t “broken” and that I’m able to understand well those whom I love most.

I hope I get back to France someday, and the further I get away from my college and high school French, the worse off I am. But I’m not worried. I’m understood here.