"Water, water, everywhere. Nor any drop to drink."

One of the most striking things that one encounters when traveling is the language barrier. For those of us that speak English, we are at an amazing advantage: much to the (likely) chagrin of the French, English is now the dominant international language. This spoils us, allowing us to travel with only minor to moderate hindrance throughout the world, for the most part.

I have had my own share of foreigner-in-a-foreign-land experiences, and am well aware of how the language barrier presents itself. Between living in the Midwest, East Coast, South, and the UK, I can speak multiple dialects of English and, thanks to a certain Tova Handelman, am slowly learning the Southern California dialect (though I'm pretty sure she's just making up most of it to screw with me). American Sign Language is much the same; different colloquial and regional signs are used in different places, equating to what is essentially an accent or dialect of a spoken language.

Throughout my travels, though, I've never been able to truly speak the language of the country I was in: my German was very elementary during our trips there; my French from high school all but failed me in the lead-up to coming to Israel; and my Hebrew, while improving, is still quite limited. Even when I lived in England, I was only just getting a grip of the teenage slang by the time I left.

The past few weeks, since ulpan ended and I returned from my trip up north, have been largely spent by myself. This isn't anything new for me; in DC I lived in a studio apartment, had next to no social life, and had no complaints. After a long day/week around people, a little time to myself was just what was needed to recharge. I figured, therefore, that time spent relatively alone here in Tel Aviv would be much the same.

What I didn't realize, though, was how much interaction was lost. Suddenly, you're not just cut off from the whole society around you. While in DC an afternoon spent walking the streets and enjoying the weather is relaxing, in Tel Aviv it carries a mixture of excitement and disconnect: I'm surrounded by life and vibrancy, a new culture and people in a bustling city, and I have little to no access to any of it.

They say it takes approximately six years of constant study to become fluent in a language. For those of us who have only had one year, we are far from being functioning members of Israeli society, able to fend for ourselves. As an English speaker, I am again lucky: my bank has a department for overseas residents that employs English-speakers, many of the museums and restaurants have things written in Hebrew and English, and most people speak some level of English (unless they're a member of the police force or a government official, then it's "no habla inglais").

This is convenient for me when I need to get something done, but what about when I'm just walking down the street? For the most part I can't read billboards and newpapers, can't understand people talking, can't understand the labels on boxes and bottles. I become almost completely cut-off unless I specifically engage someone in dialogue. Even then, unless that person adheres to the limited vocabulary I'm familiar with, I still can't understand. I am again surrounded by funny symbols (and sometimes dots) that only occasionally form a word I'm familiar with, and people speaking what, at times, sounds like gibberish.

Without access to the general language, I become dependant on the few things from which I can glean information: facial expressions, tone of voice, and body language become much more vital; written material is scoured for a few words I may be familiar with; symbols and pictures become my lifeline. I've resorted to gesturing multiple times to compensate for words I don't know in Hebrew, making up a "sign language" to try and get my message across. Without being able to depend on my hearing to understand what's going on around me I've become, in a way, linguistically "deaf".

While this may seem more an inconvience than anything, it can also be dangerous. When I first got here and didn't know the usual routine of things, I accidentally walked through a security check-point without waiting to get wanded for a weapon. If Paul hadn't been with me to tell me the guard wanted me to stop I would have kept walking, unaware a soldier with a machine gun was yelling at me. At that point the language barrier could have gone from "inconvenient" to "lethal".

That's not to say I'm not improving in my Hebrew. Though I don't feel it, I've a feeling that if I had some measure of my Hebrew skill at the start of August when I arrived here it would be very different than what I know now. For day-to-day functioning, though, there isn't much of a difference. Like one of my ulpan-mates said: "Kitah bet (our class) means you have bad days, and sometimes OK days in which you might actually understand a whole sentance". Part of this is the ulpan itself, which is geared more academically than practically, but part of it is that daily living requires far more linguistic skill than we realize.

Functioning in Israel is possible without Hebrew, but living is not. I'm here to live in Israel, to experience the people and culture and day-to-day life here. With this linguistic disconnect, at least for the moment, the question becomes, "how can I access the Israeli experience?".

I'm going to figure out that part. I'll get back to you.