Help! I Don't Speak Latvian!

I’m an intellectual. I don’t mean to imply that I’m particularly smart – you’ll soon see that’s not the case. I simply mean that I over-analyze everything and most things in my life remain cerebral, not emotional. Last summer, as I began to prepare to participate in a cultural exchange program by hosting two 13-year-old boys form Latvia, I never imagined that these adorable boys would eventually become a part of my family forever.

As we prepared for them to arrive, I read everything I could about Latvia and cultural exchange programs and made lists of tasks and lists of those lists. I bought all of the recommended items, including clothes, toys and even a Latvian phrase book.

The day they were to arrive we headed to the airport. I was excited and so proud of the lovely sign I had made that read “Welcome” in both Latvian and Russian – since we weren’t certain which language they spoke. I had even gotten pins made with the boys’ pictures on them so that we could easily be identified as their host family. Everything was perfect until I saw the group of kids come up the escalators and a panic rose from the very depths of my soul – I didn’t know how to speak Latvian! What was I going to do? How on Earth was I going to get them to come home with me? What about breakfast? What if they didn’t understand me? What was I thinking! Where’s my Mom when I need her? Surely someone else was going to have to take over here, I DON’T SPEAK LATVIAN!

There was no time to run. The program director shoved two very tired-looking boys into my arms and proceeded to the next family. And there we were – those two very frightened boys and my very frightened self. I looked at my husband, half-expecting him to suddenly have the gift of speaking Latvian. I pulled out my nearly useless Russian picture dictionary and tried to figure out how to ask the boys if they had luggage. After handing each of them a plastic grocery bag and pantomiming vomiting into it (we had been warned that motion sickness was common), I helped the boys climb into the back seat of our car and the four of us silently drove the long road back to Woodstock.

Still in a stunned stupor, we managed to get the boys into their bedroom and pointed out the bathroom. Frankly I don’t remember whether I slept at all or not. But I do remember the next day the boys woke up and smiled. And that was it. I was in love. It didn’t matter if they spoke Martian, I could communicate with them just fine. What little uneasiness that was left after the morning smiles completely dissipated when we took them to a buffet for lunch and told them they could eat whatever they wanted, including a whole plate of desserts.

It turns out that they spoke Russian and Latvian and even some English. The five weeks flew and by the end, they were able to communicate fluently in the language of broken English, smiles, gestures and sound effects. Now, I’m not going to claim that there has never been a misunderstanding, or that everything has been effortless, but the truth is, I can’t remember a time when language has been a real problem.