I traveled from Montricher to Morges with Neva on two trains. Somewhere before Apples— as we were imitating the heavy Swiss-French inflection of that name— a woman pushing a child in a stroller and speaking into her phone boarded the train.
What language is that? Neva asked, listening intently.
The woman spoke constantly, less like she was having a conversation and more like she was addressing a large audience over the phone.
What good am I as a linguist if I can’t identify a language, Neva asked a moment later, smiling and laughing as she almost always is.
She strained to hear the unknown language, then she gave up, then strained again, gave up again.
It’s probably Albanian, she said, it’s always Albanian when I don’t know what it is.
She stopped, suddenly, tilted her ear toward the aisle.
It’s not Albanian, she concluded.
The above essay is 144 words, a part of a series explained over here.