On Gent terraces, I’m surrounded by Dutch conversations.  The times I’ve visited Senegal, those conversations were in French.

Three weeks ago I was in England.  I spent time in British pubs, watching early games of Euro 2024.  Once in awhile, I’d snap to attention: “Everybody’s speaking English!”  And that’s a weird thing to say after decades of English being normal.

Back to Euro.  I watch the games on Eurosport.  I have the choice of Dutch or French.  Either way, the words wash over me.  I understand some of it.

Yesterday I watched the Tour de France.  During the Dutch broadcast, someone was being interviewed in French and a second commentator was translating into Dutch.  So disorienting!  English was nowhere to be seen.

Later an English-speaking analyst had his say.  A tiny bit of me felt relief … that finally I’d understand everything.  Mostly though, and remarkably, it seemed like just another language.  My mind spins in the memory of it.

An hour or so after, the same English speaker is interviewing Alberto Contador, a former winner of the Tour.  The conversation is in Spanish.  The young guy had effortlessly moved to yet another language.

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My life is bigger in Europe