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When I was about six years old， I started collecting model trains with my father. We would assemble the track in the attic， put a foam mountain with a tunnel over the top， and， through the magic of a 1）transformer， watch the trains make their rounds. My dad took me to train shows， and for my birthdays back then， I always got train sets or 2）trestles. I had books on model trains， and books on actual trains. Both kinds showed pictures of big mountains parted by trains， small towns bisected by trains， and trains adorning white Christmas-scapes.
It is from those books that I built an imagination and acquired my earliest notions of heaven—a highland where it snows often and when it doesn’t snow， it rains， where summer seems always in retreat. There is a big lake. Behind that lake is a mountain. Between the lake and the mountain， there is a village.
The village exists. Its name is Corseaux. It sits in the 3）Riviera region of Switzerland， sandwiched between Lake Geneva and the 4）Bernese Alps. I was there in April， reeling at how the postcards of my childhood fantasies had materialized into fact. On a clear day， across the still， black water， I could see France 5）demarcated by white， snowy mountains. There was only one clear day. Clouds constantly threatened snow or rain.
Each day， I woke， washed， dressed， had a breakfast of bread and chocolate， and walked to the train station. The train’s 6）punctuality strained the perceived limits of 7）human engineering. So I was always on time， for I felt that to be here， among the real things， and stray from my appointed place was to abet some great evil. From the Corseaux-Cornalles station， I would train into Vevey and then transfer to another train to Montreux. I would then walk five minutes to the language school—the purpose of my visit—and the work would begin.
I started studying French in the summer of 2011， in the throes of a mid-30s crisis. I wanted to be young again. Once， imagination was crucial to me. The books filled with trains， the toy tracks and trestles—they were among my few escapes from a world bounded by my parents’ will. In those days， I could look at a map of some foreign place and tell you a story about how the people there looked， how they lived， what they ate for dinner， and the 8）exotic beauty of the neighborhood girls.
When you have your own money， your own wheels， and the full ownership of your legs， your need for such imagination， or maybe your opportunity to exercise it， is reduced. And then I came to a foreign language， where so much can’t be immediately known， and to a small town where English feels like the fourth language. The signs were a mystery to me. The words I overheard were only the music of the human voice. A kind of silence came over me. I would hear 9）snatches of conversation， or witness some strange way of behaving—the bartender’s reply， in French， of “Service” after you thank him for a drink—and wonder would take over.
I studied four hours every day at the school. Class began promptly at 8：30 a.m. I nursed a nasty bit of 10）jet lag， but wonder drove me. Hearing a foreign language is like seeing a postcard from some other land， even when you are actually in that other land. I experienced my ignorance of words and grammar as a physical distance， as a longing for something that was mere inches away. In that gap， there was all the magic of childhood.
I stayed with a host family and took my dinners with them. These were awesome affairs—wine， cheese， meat， chocolate. They took no pity on me. They 11）bombarded me with French， and from snatches of body language， from a smile or a frown， I deduced what I could. I went through entire dinners—and even engaged in conversations—during which I understood only snatches.
We spent those evenings talking， our gestures making up for a paucity of shared words. But I knew， in some unnameable way， that they were good people. And from that， I could tell how two people with no shared language could fall easily and deeply in love； how the way a man expresses longing， or a woman expresses possibility， could be like discovery； how an entire person could be， to another， a long， dark country.
The Internet is overrun with advertisements meant for those who feel the longing for another language， who hope to attain understanding without the fear， the pain of mocking or rejection. There is a 12）symmetry in language ads that promise fluency in three weeks and weight-loss ads that promise a new body in roughly the same mere days. But the older I get， the more I treasure the sprawling periods of incomprehension， the not knowing， the lands beyond Google， the places in which you must be immersed to comprehend.
大约在我六岁的时候，我开始和父亲一起收集火车模型。我们会在阁楼上组装车轨，摆放一座顶部凿留隧道的塑料泡沫假山，然后凭借变压器的神奇力量，看着火车一圈圈地不停行驶。父亲经常带我去看火车主题展，那时每逢生日，我总会收到火车组件或铁路栈桥这样的礼物。我有关于模型火车的书籍，也有关于真火车的书籍。这些书里印有很多图片，展示被火车分隔的群山、被火车贯穿的小镇，以及火车点缀着的白色圣诞美景。 正是从那些书里，我开始展开想象，形成了自己对“天堂”一词的最初概念——那是一片终年雨雪交替，夏日似乎永远不见影踪的高地。那里有一大片湖泊，湖后是一座高山，山与湖之间坐落着一个小村庄。
这样一个小村庄的确存在，它叫科尔索，就位于瑞士日内瓦湖和伯尔尼阿尔卑斯山脉之间的里维埃拉地区。我身处科尔索时，是在四月，当时，我为眼前自己童年幻想的景象竟然成真而感到惊叹不已。在一个晴朗的日子，越过那片静谧的黑色湖水，我能看到白雪皑皑的阿尔卑斯山脉那头的法国。但晴朗的日子，只此一天。其他时候，天空总是云层密布，一副雨雪欲来之势。
每天，我起床、洗漱、穿衣，享用面包和巧克力早餐，然后步行去火车站。火车准点的程度达到了现有人类工程技术的极限。所以我总是非常准时，因为我觉得，在这里，置身于实景之中，若是偏离我的指定地点，那简直是助长歪风。从科尔索—康奈莱火车站出发，我会乘车前往沃韦，然后再换乘另一列车前往蒙特勒。接着，我会步行五分钟到达那所语言学校——我的目的地——在那儿开始我的功课。
我在2011年夏季开始学习法语，当时我正处于35岁中年危机的痛苦之中。我想再年轻一回。曾经，想象力对我而言至关重要。那些填满了火车、玩具铁轨以及铁路栈桥的书籍——那是仅有能让我暂时逃离父母之命束缚的手段之一。在那些日子里，我可以看着一张标示国外某个地方的地图，然后告诉你，那里的人们长什么样，过着怎样的生活，他们晚餐吃些什么，以及邻家女孩的异域美态。
当你自己有钱、有车，且能完全自由地支配自己的双腿时，你对这种想象力的需求，或者说你发挥这种想象力的机会，就变少了。
所以我去了一所外语学校，在那里，很多东西我都不能马上就理解；我去了一个小镇，在那里，英语就像是第四种语言。我看不懂小镇上的标记牌，也听不懂那些无意中听到的话，那只像是人类嗓音奏出的乐章。一种沉默笼罩着我。我能听懂片言只语，或是看到一些奇怪的行为——在你为一杯酒向酒保表示感谢时，他用法语说出的回答中有“服务”一词——然后就会让我满心好奇。
我每天在学校学习四个小时。课程从上午八点半准时开始。我还没完全倒好时差，这让我有些难受，但好奇心驱使我坚持下去。聆听一门外语就像看着一张来自其他地方的明信片，即使你其实就身处那个地方。那些我不懂的词汇和语法，我视作一种物理距离来体会，视作一种对近在咫尺之物的渴求。在那段距离中，全是儿时那种魔力。
我住在一个寄宿家庭，晚上和那家人一起用餐。晚餐相当丰盛——有酒、奶酪、肉类和巧克力等。这家人对我毫不留情，满口法语地对着我连番“轰炸”。从他们肢体语言的一些零星片段，例如一个微笑或是一下皱眉，我尽量推断出大概的内容。每顿饭，我从头吃到尾——我甚至还参与到他们的交谈中——但期间我只能理解其中的只言片语。
晚上，我们会一起聊天，肢体语言弥补了部分的语言不通。但是，难以言喻地，我知道他们都是善良的人。正是这样的经历，让我明白了两个语言完全不通的人如何会轻易且深深地爱上对方；一位男士表达爱慕，或是一位女性表达接受，他们的方式如何会像是一场探索；一个人对另一个人而言，又如何会成了一个漫长而漆黑的国度。
网络上充斥着各色广告，其目标群体是那些既很想掌握一门外语，又希望能不经历恐惧，不经历嘲笑和拒绝之痛就能获得理解的人。在推销语言学习的广告里，都吹嘘说保证三周内就能说一口流利外语。这跟所有许诺三周内就让你身材焕然一新的减肥广告简直是如出一辙。然而随着我年岁日长，我愈发珍视那些懵懂茫然的日子，那些一无所知的事物，那些谷歌搜索不到的地域，那些你必须全身心沉浸其中才能领悟到的地方。
It is from those books that I built an imagination and acquired my earliest notions of heaven—a highland where it snows often and when it doesn’t snow， it rains， where summer seems always in retreat. There is a big lake. Behind that lake is a mountain. Between the lake and the mountain， there is a village.
The village exists. Its name is Corseaux. It sits in the 3）Riviera region of Switzerland， sandwiched between Lake Geneva and the 4）Bernese Alps. I was there in April， reeling at how the postcards of my childhood fantasies had materialized into fact. On a clear day， across the still， black water， I could see France 5）demarcated by white， snowy mountains. There was only one clear day. Clouds constantly threatened snow or rain.
Each day， I woke， washed， dressed， had a breakfast of bread and chocolate， and walked to the train station. The train’s 6）punctuality strained the perceived limits of 7）human engineering. So I was always on time， for I felt that to be here， among the real things， and stray from my appointed place was to abet some great evil. From the Corseaux-Cornalles station， I would train into Vevey and then transfer to another train to Montreux. I would then walk five minutes to the language school—the purpose of my visit—and the work would begin.
I started studying French in the summer of 2011， in the throes of a mid-30s crisis. I wanted to be young again. Once， imagination was crucial to me. The books filled with trains， the toy tracks and trestles—they were among my few escapes from a world bounded by my parents’ will. In those days， I could look at a map of some foreign place and tell you a story about how the people there looked， how they lived， what they ate for dinner， and the 8）exotic beauty of the neighborhood girls.
When you have your own money， your own wheels， and the full ownership of your legs， your need for such imagination， or maybe your opportunity to exercise it， is reduced. And then I came to a foreign language， where so much can’t be immediately known， and to a small town where English feels like the fourth language. The signs were a mystery to me. The words I overheard were only the music of the human voice. A kind of silence came over me. I would hear 9）snatches of conversation， or witness some strange way of behaving—the bartender’s reply， in French， of “Service” after you thank him for a drink—and wonder would take over.
I studied four hours every day at the school. Class began promptly at 8：30 a.m. I nursed a nasty bit of 10）jet lag， but wonder drove me. Hearing a foreign language is like seeing a postcard from some other land， even when you are actually in that other land. I experienced my ignorance of words and grammar as a physical distance， as a longing for something that was mere inches away. In that gap， there was all the magic of childhood.
I stayed with a host family and took my dinners with them. These were awesome affairs—wine， cheese， meat， chocolate. They took no pity on me. They 11）bombarded me with French， and from snatches of body language， from a smile or a frown， I deduced what I could. I went through entire dinners—and even engaged in conversations—during which I understood only snatches.
We spent those evenings talking， our gestures making up for a paucity of shared words. But I knew， in some unnameable way， that they were good people. And from that， I could tell how two people with no shared language could fall easily and deeply in love； how the way a man expresses longing， or a woman expresses possibility， could be like discovery； how an entire person could be， to another， a long， dark country.
The Internet is overrun with advertisements meant for those who feel the longing for another language， who hope to attain understanding without the fear， the pain of mocking or rejection. There is a 12）symmetry in language ads that promise fluency in three weeks and weight-loss ads that promise a new body in roughly the same mere days. But the older I get， the more I treasure the sprawling periods of incomprehension， the not knowing， the lands beyond Google， the places in which you must be immersed to comprehend.
大约在我六岁的时候，我开始和父亲一起收集火车模型。我们会在阁楼上组装车轨，摆放一座顶部凿留隧道的塑料泡沫假山，然后凭借变压器的神奇力量，看着火车一圈圈地不停行驶。父亲经常带我去看火车主题展，那时每逢生日，我总会收到火车组件或铁路栈桥这样的礼物。我有关于模型火车的书籍，也有关于真火车的书籍。这些书里印有很多图片，展示被火车分隔的群山、被火车贯穿的小镇，以及火车点缀着的白色圣诞美景。 正是从那些书里，我开始展开想象，形成了自己对“天堂”一词的最初概念——那是一片终年雨雪交替，夏日似乎永远不见影踪的高地。那里有一大片湖泊，湖后是一座高山，山与湖之间坐落着一个小村庄。
这样一个小村庄的确存在，它叫科尔索，就位于瑞士日内瓦湖和伯尔尼阿尔卑斯山脉之间的里维埃拉地区。我身处科尔索时，是在四月，当时，我为眼前自己童年幻想的景象竟然成真而感到惊叹不已。在一个晴朗的日子，越过那片静谧的黑色湖水，我能看到白雪皑皑的阿尔卑斯山脉那头的法国。但晴朗的日子，只此一天。其他时候，天空总是云层密布，一副雨雪欲来之势。
每天，我起床、洗漱、穿衣，享用面包和巧克力早餐，然后步行去火车站。火车准点的程度达到了现有人类工程技术的极限。所以我总是非常准时，因为我觉得，在这里，置身于实景之中，若是偏离我的指定地点，那简直是助长歪风。从科尔索—康奈莱火车站出发，我会乘车前往沃韦，然后再换乘另一列车前往蒙特勒。接着，我会步行五分钟到达那所语言学校——我的目的地——在那儿开始我的功课。
我在2011年夏季开始学习法语，当时我正处于35岁中年危机的痛苦之中。我想再年轻一回。曾经，想象力对我而言至关重要。那些填满了火车、玩具铁轨以及铁路栈桥的书籍——那是仅有能让我暂时逃离父母之命束缚的手段之一。在那些日子里，我可以看着一张标示国外某个地方的地图，然后告诉你，那里的人们长什么样，过着怎样的生活，他们晚餐吃些什么，以及邻家女孩的异域美态。
当你自己有钱、有车，且能完全自由地支配自己的双腿时，你对这种想象力的需求，或者说你发挥这种想象力的机会，就变少了。
所以我去了一所外语学校，在那里，很多东西我都不能马上就理解；我去了一个小镇，在那里，英语就像是第四种语言。我看不懂小镇上的标记牌，也听不懂那些无意中听到的话，那只像是人类嗓音奏出的乐章。一种沉默笼罩着我。我能听懂片言只语，或是看到一些奇怪的行为——在你为一杯酒向酒保表示感谢时，他用法语说出的回答中有“服务”一词——然后就会让我满心好奇。
我每天在学校学习四个小时。课程从上午八点半准时开始。我还没完全倒好时差，这让我有些难受，但好奇心驱使我坚持下去。聆听一门外语就像看着一张来自其他地方的明信片，即使你其实就身处那个地方。那些我不懂的词汇和语法，我视作一种物理距离来体会，视作一种对近在咫尺之物的渴求。在那段距离中，全是儿时那种魔力。
我住在一个寄宿家庭，晚上和那家人一起用餐。晚餐相当丰盛——有酒、奶酪、肉类和巧克力等。这家人对我毫不留情，满口法语地对着我连番“轰炸”。从他们肢体语言的一些零星片段，例如一个微笑或是一下皱眉，我尽量推断出大概的内容。每顿饭，我从头吃到尾——我甚至还参与到他们的交谈中——但期间我只能理解其中的只言片语。
晚上，我们会一起聊天，肢体语言弥补了部分的语言不通。但是，难以言喻地，我知道他们都是善良的人。正是这样的经历，让我明白了两个语言完全不通的人如何会轻易且深深地爱上对方；一位男士表达爱慕，或是一位女性表达接受，他们的方式如何会像是一场探索；一个人对另一个人而言，又如何会成了一个漫长而漆黑的国度。
网络上充斥着各色广告，其目标群体是那些既很想掌握一门外语，又希望能不经历恐惧，不经历嘲笑和拒绝之痛就能获得理解的人。在推销语言学习的广告里，都吹嘘说保证三周内就能说一口流利外语。这跟所有许诺三周内就让你身材焕然一新的减肥广告简直是如出一辙。然而随着我年岁日长，我愈发珍视那些懵懂茫然的日子，那些一无所知的事物，那些谷歌搜索不到的地域，那些你必须全身心沉浸其中才能领悟到的地方。