On Russian, Spanish and Encountering People from Every Corner of the Globe

I awoke to the sounds of Russian. Or perhaps it was Polish. It definitely wasn’t German. It wasn’t guttural enough.

I could smell cigarette smoke. Through the space between the windowsill and the bottom of the blinds, I could see the torso of a woman wearing an old apron. She was a strong woman, all hips and bosom. It wasn’t hard to imagine her chasing chickens in her mother land, a hatchet in one hand and a smoldering cigarette in the other.

I rolled over to make sure I was still in my bedroom in Chicago. I was.

I got on the train and sat behind two women who spoke a language I had never heard. The sounds emanating from them were both foreign and beautiful. I wanted to listen to them all day. Their skin was dark. Their clothing was colorful. I imagined them growing up in a small African village, dreaming of the wonders of America. Now they are riding the train in Chicago.

At lunch I walked behind a group of businessmen who talked in the staccato language of an Asian nation. We passed a woman speaking French to her dog. Two high school children spoke Spanish to each other at the bus stop. I even recognized a few words of English dripping with a heavy southern accent.

Across the street I spotted a group of woman from the Middle East. They were dressed in flowing robes. They heads were covered. Their arms were covered. They hustled along the pavement like the rest of us, easily blending in to the urban scene.

I smiled. In a few short hours I had encountered people from every corner of the globe despite the fact I had only traveled eight miles from home.

We truly live in a wondrous world.