language；　Spanish　or　French；　would　you　like　to　take？”
  In　a　fit　of　negotiatory　skill　I　wish　would　visit　me　more　often；　I　said；　“Please；　Miss
  Mitchell；　let　me　take　both！”
  She　frowned；　but　then　relented。　I　got　to　take　both。
  From　the　ambitious　boxer　floored　early　in　round　one　by　Latin　grammar；　I　was　all　of
  a　sudden　the　heavyweight　language　champ　of　the　whole　high　school！
  Ingrid　Bergman　Made　Me　Learn　Norwegian
  I　did　well　in　high　school　Spanish　and　French。　When　you’ve　pumped　heavy　iron；　lifting　a
  salad　fork　seems　easy。　When　you’re　thrown　into　a　grammar　as　complex　as　Latin’s　at　the
  age　of　fourteen；　just　about　any　other　language　seems　easy。　I　never　quit　thanking　Spanish；
  French；　German；　Italian；　Norwegian；　Danish；　Swedish；　Romanian　and　Yiddish　just　for
  not　being　Latin。　I’ve　always　been　particularly　grateful　to　Chinese　and　Indonesian　for
  having　nothing　in　their　entire　languages　a　Latin　student　would　recognise　as　grammar。
  It　was　so　enjoyable　building　my　knowledge　of　Spanish；　French；　Italian　and　Chinese；
  I　never　thought　of　taking　on　any　other　languages。　Then　I　saw　an　Ingrid　Bergman　movie
  and　came　out　in　a　daze。　I’d　never　imagined　a　woman　could　be　that　attractive。　I　went
  directly　to　the　adjoining　bookstore　and　told　the　clerk；　“I　want　a　book　in　whatever
  language　it　is　she　speaks。”
  Miss　Bergman’s　native　tongue；　the　clerk　told　me；　was　Swedish；　and　he　bought　forth
  a　copy　of　Hugo’s　Swedish　Simplified。　It　cost　two　dollars　and　fifty　cents。　I　only　had　two
  dollars　with　me。
  “Do　you　have　anything　similar　–　cheaper？”　I　asked。
  He　did　indeed。　He　produced　a　volume　entitled　Hugo’s　Norwegian　Simplified　for
  only　one　dollar　and　fifty　cents。
  “Will　she　understand　if　I　speak　to　her　in　this？”　I　asked；　pointing　to　the　less
  expensive　Norwegian　text。　The　clerk　assured　me　that　yes；　any　American　speaking
  Norwegian　would　be　understood　by　any　native　Swede。
  He　was　right。　A　lifetime　later；　at　age　thirty；　I　wheedled　an　exclusive　radio　interview
  with　Ingrid　Bergman　on　the　strength　of　my　ability　in　her　language。　She　was　delighted
  when　I　told　her　the　story。　Or　at　least　she　was　a　nice　enough　person　and　a　good　enough
  actress　to　pretend。
  Rumours　of　Russian
  When　I　arrived　at　the　University　of　North　Carolina；　I　got　my　first　real　opportunity　to
  speak　the　European　languages　I　was　learning　with　native　speakers。　Students　at　the
  university　came　from　many　different　countries。　The　Cosmopolitan　Club；　a　group　of
  foreign　students　and　Americans　who　wanted　to　meet　one　another；　gathered　every　Sunday
  afternoon　in　the　activities　building。　I　felt　like　a　bee　flitting　from　blossom　to　blossom　until
  it　is　too　heavy　with　pollen　to　fly　or　even　buzz。
  A　rumour　rippled　across　the　campus　in　my　senior　year　that　seemed　too　good　to　be
  true。　The　university；　it　was　whispered；　was　planning　to　start　a　class　in　Russian。
  Sure　enough；　the　rumour　was　soon　confirmed。　It　was　a　historic　event。　Not　only　was
  the　course　the　first　in　Russian　ever　offered　by　the　University　of　North　Carolina　（or
  possibly　by　any　university　in　the　South）；　it　also　represented　the　first　time　the　university
  had　offered　what　one　student　called　a　“funny　looking”　language　of　any　kind　（he　meant
  languages　that　don’t　use　the　Roman　alphabet）！
  The　enrollment　requirements　were　stiff。　First　you　had　to　have　completed　at　least
  two　years　in　a　“normal”　language　（Spanish；　French；　Italian；　Portugese）　with　good　grades。
  I　qualified　and　was　accepted。
  For　me　the　first　day　of　Russian　was　a　lot　like　the　first　day　of　school。　I’d　toyed　with
  one　funny　looking　language　already　（Chinese）；　but　I　knew　Russian　was　a　different　kind
  of　funny　looking。　Would　I　conquer　it；　as　I　had　Spanish　and　Norwegian；　or　would　Russian
  swallow　me　whole；　as　Latin　had？
  There　were　forty…five　of　us　in　that　Russian　class　thinking　varying　versions　of　the
  same　thing　when　the　teacher；　a　rangy　Alabaman　named　“Tiger”　Titus；　entered　the　room。
  After　a　formal　“Good　morning”　he　went　straight　to　the　front　of　the　room　and　wrote　the
  Russian　（Cyrillic）　alphabet　on　the　blackboard。
  You　could　feel　the　group’s　spirit　sink　notch　by　notch　as　each　of　Russian’s　“funny
  looking”　letters　appeared。　Students　were　allowed　under　university　rules　to　abandon　a
  course　and　get　themselves　into　another　as　long　as　they　did　it　within　three　days　after　the
  beginning　of　the　term。　We　had　defections　from　Russian　class　in　mid…alphabet。　By　the
  time　Tiger　Titus　turned　around　to　face　us；　he　had　fewer　students　than　had　entered　the
  room。
  “My　soul！”　exclaimed　one　of　the　deserters　when　I　caught　up　with　him　at　the
  cafeteria　later　that　day。　“I’ve　never　seen　anything　like　that　Russian　alphabet　before　in　my
  life。　Why；　they’ve　got　v’s　that　look　like　b’s；　n’s　that　look　like　h’s；　u’s　that　look　like　y’s；
  r’s　that　look　like　p’s；　and　p’s　that　look　like　sawed　off　goal　posts。　They　got　a　backwards　n
  that’s　really　an　e　and　an　x　that　sounds　like　you’re　gagging　on　a　bone。　They　got　a　vowel
  that　looks　like　the　number　sixty…one；　a　consonant　that　looks　like　a　butterfly　with　its　wings
  all　the　way　out；　and　damned　if　they　don’t　even　have　a　B…flat！”
  The　next　day　there　were　no　longer　forty…five　members　of　the　university’s　first
  Russian　class。　There　were　five。
  I　was　one　of　the　intrepid　who　hung　in。
  A　Lucky　Bounce　to　the　Balkans
  Writer/columnist　Robert　Ruark；　a　talented　North　Carolinian　and　drinking　buddy　of　Ava
  Gardner；　once　wrote　boastfully　about　a　college　weekend　that　began　someplace　like
  Philadelphia　and　got　out　of　hand　and　wound　up　in　Montreal。　I　topped　him。　I　went　to　a
  college　football　game　right　outside　Washington；　D。C。；　one　weekend　and　wound　up　in
  Yugoslavia　for　six　weeks！
  The　previous　summer　I’d　been　named　a　delegate　from　the　university　to　the　national
  convention　of　the　National　Student　Association。　I　came　back　as　chairman　for　the
  Virginia…Carolinas　region　of　NSA。　In　October　I　was　in　College　Park；　Maryland；　for　the
  Carolina…Maryland　game。　At　half　time；　at　the　hot　dog　stand；　who　should　be　reaching　for
  the　same　mustard　squirter　as　I　but　National　NSA　president；　Bill　Dentzer。
  “Who　can　believe　this？”　he　said。　“We’ve　been　looking　for　you　for　three　days！”
  I　explained　it　was　our　big　senior　out　of　town　football　weekend　and　College　Park；
  Maryland　was　a　long　way　from　Chapel　Hill；　North　Carolina；　and　there　was　a　lot　going　on
  and　I　was　sorry　he　couldn’t　reach　me。　“Why　were　you　looking　for　me？”　I　asked。
  “We　wanted　you　to　go　represent　us　in　Yugoslavia；”　he　said。　I　told　him　I’d　love　to。
  “It’s　too　late　now；”　he　said。　“The　plane　leaves　Monday　from　New　York；　and　it’s
  already　Saturday　afternoon　and　the　State　Department’s　closed；　so　there’s　no　way　to　get
  you　a　passport…”
  “Bill；”　I　interrupted；　“I　have　a　passport。　I　can　easily　get　back　to　Chapel　Hill　and
  pick　it　up　in　time　to　fly　from　New　York　on　Monday。”
  By　Wednesday　I　was　attending　sessions　of　a　spirited　Tito　propaganda　fiesta　called
  the　Zagreb　Peace　Conference　and　enjoying　my　first　immersion　in　a　language　the　mere
  mention　of　which　impresses　people　even　more　than　Chinese：　Serbo…Croatian！
  To　my　delight；　I　understood　entire　phrases　from　it　from　my　university　Russian。　I
  became　aware　of　“families”　of　foreign　languages；　something　that　doesn’t　occur
  automatically　to　Americans　because　English　doesn’t　resemble　its　cousins　very　closely。
  It’s　something　of　a　black　sheep　in　the　Germanic　language　family。　They　say　the　closest
  language　to　English　is　Dutch。　Dutch　is　about　as　close　to　English　as　Betelgeuse　is　to
  Baltimore！
  I’d　noticed　the　summer　before　that　Norwegian　is　usefully　close　to　Swedish　and
  Danish。　Serbo…Croatian　sounded　to　me　like　a　jazzier；　more　“fun”　kind　of　Russian。　They
  use　the　Roman　alphabet　in　western　Yugoslavia；　Croatia；　and　Slovenia；　and　in　Serbia　to
  the　east　they　use　the　Cyrillic　alphabet；　with　even　more　interesting　letters　in　it　than
  Russian　uses。
  Some　of　the　mystique　I’d　always　imputed　to　multilingual　people　began　to　fade。　If
  you　meet　somebody　who　speaks；　say；　ten　languages；　your　instinct　is　to　be　impressed　to
  the　tune　of　ten　languages　worth。　If；　however；　you　later　learn　that　six　of　those　languages
  are　Russian；　Czech；　Slovak；　Serbo…Croatian；　Polish　and　Ukrianian　–　I’m　not　suggesting
  that　you　dismiss　him　as　illiterate；　but　you　ought　to　be　aware　that　he　got　six　of　those
  languages　for　the　price　of　about　two　and　three　fourths！　They’re　all　members　of　the　Slavic
  family。
  The　Yugoslav　university　students；　my　hosts；　sent　me　back　home　aboard　a　Yugoslav
  ship；　leaving　me　sixteen　days　with　nothing　to　do　but　practice　Serbo…Croatian　with　the
  other　passengers。　When　I　got　back　to　school　after　a　solid　eight　weeks’　absence；　I　wasn’t
  even　behind　in　my　German。　German　is　widely　spoken　in　central　Europe　and　I’d　spoken　it
  widely　enough　during　the　adventure　to　float　almost　even　with　the　class。
  Exotics　–　Hard　and　Easy
  Expertise　is　a　narcotic。　As　knowledge　grows；　it　throws　off　pleasure　to　its　pos