It occurred to me at Vancouver International Airport, while waiting for a Lufthansa flight to Budapest via Frankfurt:
Language is music — especially when I don’t understand it.
My question shifts from:
“What are they saying?”
to
“What image am I left with?”
Sitting there, surrounded by linguistic diversity, I pulled out my notebook and wrote my impressions. I honed and revised them while flying to Europe over the Canadian High Arctic, Greenland and Norway.
.
Now, those words appear in PicFic—an online Twitter Fiction journal.
It’s my second piece as PicFic’s featured contributor.
Here it is → Flight 493
This blog post is included in Issue #1 of the BluePrint blog carnival: > language > place.
Living ?s 