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By Simon Fenton

Simon was born & educated near Oxford. After a career lifeguarding at nudist clubs, conducting pregnancy tests & weighing organs in a morgue, he set off for Asia for several years, staying as far off the beaten track as possible & financing himself by teaching English & acting in Bollywood movies. Upon his return to the UK, he realized he far preferred off the beaten track to city life & went back to work as a pig breeder in Vietnam for four years. Eventually, however, the call of the not particularly wild was heard, & he returned once more, living in London & Brighton. A perfect storm of events re-ignited his wanderlust, however, and he he woke up one morning and said to himself ‘goodness, I forgot to cross the Sahara’. Reader, he crossed it, landing a ‘job’ on the other side managing a lodge in Senegal. He liked it so much, he bought another ticket.  Simon currently lives in Senegal with Khady, son Gulliver, dog Toubab and Kermit the jeep. where he indulges in his three main passions: travel, writing & photography.  For more, check out his blog.  

I always struggle with languages. I’m currently getting by in French, but if people speak too fast I crumple. I was dismayed to watch a French film the other day and barely understand a word. But with my friends, who know my capabilities, we can communicate perfectly well. It was similar in Vietnam. After two years in the bush, I could hold a conversation about agriculture, building farms and lon’s. I was also proud to be able to hold a 30 minute telephone conversation.

So, it’s with an affectionate smile, and not mocking sarcasm, that I enjoy laughing at and recording various language and pronunciation errors around the world. 

I’ve sang the songs of John Lemon in karaoke and played tennis with a tennis rabbit. I’ve eaten corn flaks, finger chips and fied woodles. I’ve stayed at “Foreign Tourist Paradise*” - in reality a mud hut in the middle of nowhere, whilst walking and hitch-hiking from Afghanistan to the China border in Pakistan with my brother. An English sign outside a Hanoi water irrigation equipment shop said “Erection of Water Passing Equipment.” I read about a buttock shaking pill hitting the streets of Malaysia, although never did figure that one out. Sounds fun though.

In India, I was asked if I like bottom. “Hmm, depends who it belongs to I suppose”, was the natural response. “No, do you like bottom?” The England cricket team were touring at the time and I eventually figured out they were referring to Ian Botham. Actually, I had a ticket to a match, but got caught up in a riot and chased away by the police. That’s another story.

Some of the sayings here in Senegal are amusing. Mamadou always cries “I’m coming” when he’s going. Before launching into a meal we all say “Bon attack!” or ”chop chop”. Everyday I’m asked “how is the morning?” 

One of our Vietnamese staff, Miss Mai told me with a straight face that she had 32 tits. She meant teeth. She also told me she went back and forth between the farm and Hanoi like a dildo, meaning yo-yo. At a meeting, a young lady stood up and pronounced “Hello, my name is Ngyuyen Ho Ha, and as you can see through my clothes, I am Vietnamese.”

One of the funniest was the tale of the vulva in the toilet. Company boss, Ong John, and accountant, Anh Andy, came down to help on the farm at tet – Vietnamese New Year. In the evening we went to a hotel in Ninh Binh, the nearest town, 30 miles or so away, where a lad played Vietnamese pop on a yamaha keyboard and we had some beers. Life doesn’t get  much better does it? 

John went to the loo, where a guy tried to grab him. John threw him against a wall and returned raging about the pervert in the loo. A few weeks later, we were driving past the hotel with Miss Mai on the long drive back to Hanoi. She said that she didn’t want to stop for the loo as she didn’t want to see the vulva. “Don’t look then” replied John. She meant “Pervert.” 

*Not so much an error as false advertising.

Sunday was Earth Day — a time when we celebrate our planet and our environmental ecosystem.   

And  for all the damage we’ve done to the environment, so many of us are working to make this planet healthier.  We turn off our lights to save energy.  We bring our own tote bags to the grocery store.  We recycle.  We harness the power of the sun.   

With Babylon, you can help heal the world.  Instead of buying a dictionary made from trees, you can go Green with our translation software.     And in an effort to make this world a better place, in honor of Earth Day, we will happily offer you a 50% discount on Babylon.   

By Sarah Tuttle-Singer

Sarah Tuttle-Singer is an LA expat reluctantly growing roots in Israel.  She (over)shares her parenting (mis)adventures at Kveller.com, and blogs at TheCrazyBabyMama.com.  She is dangerous when bored. 

The summer I was sixteen — high on Hava Nagilla and hookups with hot Israeli soldiers — I fell head over heels in love with Israel.

I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect to fall in love with Israel that summer. In fact, I didn’t even want to meet Israel. Instead, I wanted to spend my summer strolling the 3rd Street Promenade with Aimee and Emily. I wanted to sit by the phone and wait for Matt Rodriguez to (finally) realize he liked me and ask me out. I wanted to go to movies, and buy clothes at Forever 21, and paint my nails Popsicle Pink, and hit Mar Vista swimming pool with a bottle of Sun-in and a bathing suit my parents would never allow carefully hidden under the Nirvana T Shirt I’d wear as a coverup when I left the house.

In other words, I wanted to be, like, super original.

But my parents had other plans. (They actually wanted me to be original for real.)

“Oh, you’re going to Israel,” my mom said, and just like that I was unceremoniously dropped off at LAX along with 120 other Jewish American teenagers from LA where we were to spend the next eight weeks discovering our roots in Israel.

I fell in love slowly — almost by accident, near the fields of Kibbutz Gezer. Get your mind out of the gutter, people. It was during Havdallah services when all of us were gathered in a giant circle swaying side to side while Asher lit the twisted candle and we all sang. With Shoshana and Esther — my two closest friends from the trip — on either side of me, I felt engulfed in a sense of belonging that I had never known before.

In that moment, while we sang the prayers to welcome in the new week, I realized that this was where I wanted to be.

The next 7 Havdalot passed in the proverbial blink of an eye: Every morning, we all gathered on a small grassy hill near the dorm rooms and did morning prayers — accompanied by Jonah on the bongos, it didn’t matter that we didn’t know what every word meant, we had the spirit — the Ruach! After every meal, we sang Birkat HaMazon, and we pounded the tables with zeal while the kibbutzniks gaped at us (Think Jane Godall and the gorillas.) . Our trip to the Kotel was “spiritual” and “meaningful” and “freaking awesome.” (Um, you guys? the Israeli spoof on the Taglit trip is so spot on it isn’t even funny. ) And then, way too fast, I was back at Ben Gurion airport, wearing my olive green IDF shirt and rocking a huge Magen David. And while I grudgingly handed over my passport to the girl at passport control, I swore to her that I would return to Israel someday.

“Sure, everyone says that,” she said, stamping my passport in staccato syncopation with the snap of her Orbit chewing gum.

But while others may have said it, I was naive enough to believe I actually meant it. And while the rest of the group sang “Going going back back to Cali Cali as we flew over the smoggy expanse of Los Angeles, I closed my eyes to keep from crying.

Over the following year, I was homesick for Israel. I ached for that combination of Hutzpah and Hebrew that would always leave me flying high. I would visit the twisted alleys of the Old City in my dreams, the ceilings of the shuk draped in a rainbow of gauzy scarves stitched with ancient coins (I never looked closely enough to see that the labels all read “Made in China.”) I missed the smell of cologne and falafel wafting through the Tel Aviv night.

But more than anything — even more than missing the sheer exhilaration of being sixteen and half a world away from my parents — I missed feeling connected to being Jewish. For the next year, I wore my Tsahal T shirt, and felt like a total badass when I explained that “those funny letters” were Hebrew, and stood for the IDF. I alternated between my silver magen david and my gold Chai depending on the occasion and on which eyeshadow I put on. I cruised Ventura Boulevard looking for falafel stands with my Israeli friend, Sharon.I started teaching at my synagogue, eager to share my knowledge and love of Israel with my students. I no longer rolled my eyes when my parents insisted on saying the bracha before our meals. For the first time in my entire life, I got it: Being Jewish meant that I belonged.

I think a lot of American Jews feel this way when they return from Israel. I think a lot of us have this sense that we’re all family — a kehilah — and that we have each others back.

But this isn’t the case.

Wow, I wish it were. I really wish it were. I wish I hadn’t been so G.D. naive as to think that moving to the Jewish Homeland would mean that I was coming home. Because being Jewish isn’t a ticket into the in-crowd in Israel. In fact, many of usAmerican Olim Hadashim are seen as usurpers, living off of the government, taking jobs from “Real Israelis” and never fully immersing ourselves in the native language of our new home. (Sounds like every Republican gripe in California. Only it shouldn’t be this way because, after all, we’re all Jewish and Israel is our homeland and Kumbaya. Oh wait, Kumbaya isn’t Hebrew.)

Ok, so can I get a Hava Nagilla, people? Recently, a friend of mine with (Jewish) stars in her eyes told me on Facebook how lucky I was to be living in Israel with so many Jews who would “take care of me” during the divorce. I threw up a little in my mouth. But when I was sixteen, I probably would have said something similar and meant it. Still, B.S. is B.S. Whether it’s Kosher or not.

Oh Irony. Let me tell it to you: Being in Israel makes me feel less connected to My People. And less Jewish.Because now that I’m living here, I understand this: When I was in the States, being Jewish meant something. It meant you were part of a minority group and you looked out for each other. During Passover, I’d unload my matzoh at the checkout aisle, and the clerk would give me that subtle nod and wish me “Hag Semayach.” And we’d share a secret insiders smile while she ran my credit card through the machine. A simple “shalom” at the falafel stand on Ventura and Balboa meant a free drink. We were all mishpucha and it felt great.

But in Israel, being Jewish is not something imbued with the same significance and meaning. While Roz Focker may have said “Our People do not kill ducks,” in Israel, Our People can be whores and thieves and mobsters. Our People can kill. Each other.


“My people! My people!” We are no better than anyone else. This means that when yet (another) starry eyed M.O.T. kisses the tarmac at Ben Gurion airport, they’re about to get slapped upside the head with a dose of reality: Maybe the Israel of the past was different, but unless your uncle is friends with the guy at the bank, or your cousin dates someone at Misrad HaPanim, you’re going to be waiting in line just like everyone else.

But maybe that’s the point.


Still, for the most part, I don’t feel at home. I don’t feel that sense of comfort and security that I’ve sought. And I’ve found that the ones who have my back here are other immigrants — Olim Hadashim like me who have fallen in love with Israel with varying degrees of perseverance and dysfunctionality. And the Israelis who have taken me in — the people at work, a few friends from the kibbutz, and new friends who have made for wonderful dinner and coffee companions — are beautiful exceptions that prove the rule.

And here’s what I realize: Once upon that summer night, I didn’t fall in love with Israel. I fell in love with American Judaism. With the community that I knew all along. And now, transplanted, my roots will desiccate unless I figure out a way to adapt to the foreign soil.

By Jacqueline Gabel

Originally from Minneapolis, Jacqui worked in fashion in New York before she took a leap of faith to quit her job and move back to her hometown. She spent some life-altering time traveling in South America, and she currently teaches in South Korea, finding her biggest inspiration from the food she tastes and the people she meets along the way. 

I get off the train and head left, as I usually do at this particular train station. I walk straight, dodging oncoming bodies as best I can. The cadence of Seoul traffic above and underground is still a mystery to me.

Head tucked, I follow a young couple up the stairs. My eyes track the rhythm of her steps. There is a perfect, quarter-sized circle of raw skin on the back of her right heel, and blood is soaking through the sheer white nylon of her stocking. It looks painful, but I keep watching as I try to imagine what she’s thinking and where she must be headed in such fine form on a Saturday afternoon. She walks at a speed no slower than the rest of us, and I wonder if her partner is aware of her discomfort. They’re marching on. What’s a bit of blood?

We reach the top of the stairs, and I look up to find the direction of my transfer. I come round a fat pillar. Smack. A boy of about nine is running away from his friend, or maybe his cousin or brother, and we collide. A slight yelp escapes me, and I don’t recognize myself. The coffee in my hand leaps up out of its cup through the slit in its cover, saturating my jacket and hair in a perfect backward slosh that leaves the boy dry. I spin around in vain, looking for a napkin. The only business in that part of the station sells socks and headbands. Nothing else. I want to say something, a joke, to let this boy know I’m not angry. Normally, a joke is my automative reflex in a situation like this. But, I keep my head down, say nothing, stand still for a second, and finally continue walking to keep up with the forward motion of the bodies.

I feel my voice in my throat from the moment it sticks at the pillar to the end of the second train ride. It leaves me with a slight ache in my chest, the way an unexpressed laugh or a cry would. In a land where I am foreign, I find that I am quieter.

As new foreigners, many of us live inside of a bubble, surrounded by incomprehensible written and spoken words. The sounds of two people speaking a language we recognize can be detected from across a crowded room. The rest of the voices become a muffled jumble of white noise as our brains grasp for what we can make sense of.

On the other hand, our degree of recognition varies with each place we inhabit. When I spent a weekend in Hong Kong and a few days in Tokyo at the end of last year, it was a bit of a relief to come back to Seoul, to seeHangul, and to realize I’d become accustomed to  hearing the flow of the Korean language. I may not understand most of the words, but I can understand the melodic rhythm of their delivery. Maybe this is one of the reasons travel can be so exhilirating – the comfort of coming back to something familiar is almost as good as the thrill of seeing something fresh and new. Sometimes, it can be even better.

We really enjoyed Debbie Kolben’s article Why My Daughter Isn’t Bilingual—Yet.  

How many of you are raising bilingual children?  

By Aaron Myers

Aaron Myers is a language coach and writer at The Everyday Language Learner.  He lives in Istanbul, Turkey with his wife and two children.

It was a sunny fall day in Tijuana, Mexico.  My friend Travis and I had driven dusty roads to an outlying colonia to visit an elementary school and explore how we could help with their English language program.  

We’d come to Tijuana to work with the urban poor, those thousands who’d migrated from the interior of Mexico in search of a better life, of steady work and perhaps even, a chance to get across that high fenced border to the States. 

The principal of the school was the wife of a local pastor we had met as we worked in the heart of Tres de Octubre, a shanty town that had sprung up overnight on steep hills that left traditional construction next to impossible.  If you’re creative though, and you have a truck bed full of wooden pallets and some tar paper and are in dire need of shelter, a home can be built on almost any terrain. 

Upon deciding to move to Mexico the previous autumn, I’d begun in earnest to learn Spanish on my own, devouring grammar books, creating stacks of flashcards and trying to read the newspaper or any other Spanish text I could get my hands on.  I made steady progress and assumed that once I landed on Mexican soil, I’d master Spanish in a matter of months.  

But when needs are pressing and when you have the time and skills to meet those needs, any desire you may have for your own goals of learning the language soon gets swept aside.  Spanish lessons were soon replaced with waterproofing roofs of homes made of packing crates and solid garage doors.  It was an easy choice of course and endeared us to our new friends, but my progress in Spanish stagnated.  I could get by fine, but my desire was for so much more.

And so it was that fall day that Travis stood by snickering at my conversation with the principal of the school.  I was trying to tell her that we would call her husband to talk about another project we could help with and didn’t at first really understand Travis’ amusement.  The conversation went something like this:

“Yo a lavar su esposo.” said I.

Blank, confused look from the  principal.  Snicker by Travis.  

Maybe my pronunciation wasn’t clear enough.  And so I tried again, slower this time, more deliberate.

“YO A LAVAR SU ESPOSO.”

More confused looks.  Travis moves from snickering under his breath to outright giggling - but fails to come to my rescue.  

For those of you who know Spanish, you recognize that the word “lavar” means to wash.  

I will wash your husband?  Ahhhh!

A moment later the lights clicked on and I hastily apologized and corrected myself.

“Llamar! Yo a llamar su esposo.  Llamar, no lavar!”

I was embarrassed but she was understanding, kind and smiled as she thanked us for coming.  And yes, she would let her husband know that we would ‘call’.  

Living cross culturally offers countless opportunities for growth in humility.  It is a much desired character trait and achieved most often with a bit of humiliation.  It is never fun, but in retrospect  our language mishaps makes for great stories.  They are also an important part of the language learning process.  A friend of mine often reiterated that to learn another language you’re going to  make a million mistakes - so get started!

I only made it to about a half a million mistakes in Spanish before moving to Turkey and starting all over in Turkish.  Learning another language is both arduous and satisfying, frustrating and exciting and I hope you will have the opportunity to learn another in your life time.  

It will change your life for the better.  I know it has changed mine. 

By Audrey Bellis

Audrey Bellis owns The Bella Bambino, a family owned, special occasion children’s boutique, available online and by appointment in Los Angeles & Manhattan.

My mom is the youngest of 6. All my aunts and uncles and their families live within a 30 minute drive. With a family that large and very close knit (too close at times) conflicts are bound to arise. Growing up, our house was Switzerland- always neutral. From the time I was a little girl, I always remember my mom, grandma, and aunts congregating in our kitchen over a fresh batch of my mom’s cookies or pan dulce (Mexican sweet bread) and strong pot of coffee.

I was one of THOSE kids- you know the kind, can’t wait to sit at the grown up table, wear high heels and feel like a big girl. Instead of playing with my cousins or little sister- I used to go sit at the adult table and listen in on the latest family gossip. Who brought home a new significant other? Who is pregnant? Who didn’t extend an invite to such and such? Etc…

One of my uncles dubbed this “el rincon de chisme” which translates to “the gossip corner”. Whenever my aunts got together (pretty much weekly if not more often) I knew that I could climb into my mom’s lap or an available chair and drink café con leche (half coffee/ half milk) and listen in. It dawned on the ladies early on that this probably wasn’t a good idea as I was at an age where I could repeat what I heard and it probably wouldn’t be things some people wanted repeated.

 Whenever my aunts had something they didn’t want us to know they would switch from Spanish to another language- the kind that baffled us as kids. Piglatin! In SPANISH!!! It works the same way as in English except that in between the vowels you insert an “ifi”, “tufo”, “ofo”, “sifi” or  “efe”. Talk about sounding like gibberish to the untrained ear. It baffled and frustrated me.

One day sitting at the table while they were teasing me in their “secret language” it dawned on me that one of my aunts was taunting me. She was looking right at me and laughing. I strained my ear, furrowed my brow and stared back. In between the gibberish I could extrapolate a few words. I managed to piece together that she was saying something to the effect of “look at her struggle to understand” and I responded back defiantly with: “I can TOO understand!” It brought silence and then suddenly a burst of laughter from the other ladies. The jig was up!

They let me in on the secret and I learned how to speak it just like them. We still use it when we don’t want others around to know what we’re saying, only now I’m part of the inside joke. 20 years have passed, and I still join my aunts in the kitchen for chisme time. My best friend and I have Skype dates from across the country with our coffee and pan dulce and we use our Spanish (sometimes our piglatin when necessary) to get caught up on the latest and greatest. I don’t often hear other people use that type of Spanish Piglatin or Jeringonza as some regions of Mexico call it (although they use a P in between their vowels) but it warms my heart nonetheless and feels like home.  

For more Piglatin in Spanish, check out this cool hiphop video by Akwid: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6x3fASJwwE