Expertise　is　a　narcotic。　As　knowledge　grows；　it　throws　off　pleasure　to　its　possessor；　much
  like　an　interest　bearing　account　throws　off　money。　A　pathologist　who　can　instantly　spot
  the　difference　between　normal　and　abnormal　X…rays　grows　incapable　of　believing　that
  there　are　those　of　us　who　can’t。　I　find　it　hard　to　believe　there　are　Americans　who　can’t
  even　tell　the　difference　between　printed　pages　of　Spanish　and　French　or　of　Polish；
  Danish；　or　anything　else　written　in　the　Roman　alphabet。　Too　bad。　If　you　can’t　distinguish
  the　easier　languages　from　the　harder　ones；　you　miss　the　higher　joys　of　confronting　your
  first　samples　of　written　Finnish。
  Finland　has　been　called　the　only　beautiful　country　in　the　world　where　the　language
  is　the　major　tourist　attraction。　It’s　utterly　unfamiliar　to　you　no　matter　where　you　come
  from；　unless　you　happen　to　come　from　Estonia；　in　which　case　Finnish　is　only　half
  unfamiliar　to　you。　There’s　always　a　general　knowledge　heavyweight　around　who　says；
  “Wait　a　minute。　Finnish　is　related　to　Hungarian　too！”
  Oh；　yeah！　True；　Finnish；　Hungarian　and　Estonian　are　indeed　all　members　of　the
  Finno…Ugric　language　family；　but　try　to　find　more　than　six　words　even　remotely　similar
  in　each。　As　you　learn　more　and　more　about　foreign　languages；　you’re　able　to　laugh　at
  more　and　more　jokes　about　languages。　No　Las　Vegas　comic　will　even　knock　socks　off；　or
  even　loosen　them；　by　standing　up　and　saying；　“You　know；　Finnish　and　Hungarian　are
  cousin　languages；　but　Finnish　took　all　the　vowels！”　Look　at　the　two　languages　side　by
  side；　however；　and　you’ll　grudgingly　accord　at　least　minor　wit　status　to　whoever　thought
  that　one　up。
  You　may　have　experienced　the　difficulties　of　tackling　Latin　and　Russian　with　their
  half　dozen　or　so　noun　cases。　Finnish　has　fifteen　noun　cases　in　the　singular　and　sixteen　in
  the　plural！　Every　word　in　the　entire　language　is　accented　on　the　first　syllable；　which　gives
  Finnish　something　of　the　sounds　of　a　pneumatic　jackhammer　breaking　up　a　sidewalk。
  I　covered　the　Olympic　Games　in　Helsinki　but　wisely　decided　not　to　try　to　learn
  Finnish。　It　was　the　wisdom　of　the　young　boxer　who’s　eager　to　get　in　there　with　the　champ
  and　trade　punches；　but　who　nonetheless　summons　up　the　cool　to　decline　and　wait　until
  he’s　more　prepared。　I　found　a　much　softer　opponent　on　the　ship　back　to　the　United　States。
  A　summer　tradition　that　vanished　after　the　1950’s　with　far　too　little　poetic
  lamentation　was　the　“student　ship　to　Europe。”　They　were　almost　always　Dutch　ships
  offering　unbelievably　low　fares；　hearty　food；　cramped　but　clean　accommodations；　cheap
  beer；　and　always　a　bearded　guitar　player　who　drew　the　crowd　back　to　the　ship’s　fantail
  after　dinner　and　led　the　kids　of　ten　or　twelve　nations　in　throaty　renditions　of　“I’ve　Been
  Working　on　the　Railroad。”　The　singing；　the　flirting；　the　joy　of　heading　over　or　heading
  home；　and　especially　the　learning　of　all　the　other　countries’　“Railroads”　in　all　the　other
  languages　made　the　summer　student　ship　a　delight　unimaginable　to　today’s　jet　lagged
  young　Dutch　airmen　about　my　age。　They　were　all　headed　for　the　United　States　to　take
  their　jet　fighter　training　at　various　American　air　bases；　and　we　became　old　friends　at
  once。　There　seemed　to　be　dozens　（I　later　realised　hundreds）　of　Indonesian　servants　on
  board。　After　four　hundred　years　of　Dutch　rule；　Indonesia　had　won　its　independence　from
  Holland　only　four　years　earlier。　The　thousands　of　Indonesians　who　chose　to　remain　loyal
  to　Holland　had　to　go　to　Holland；　and　that　meant　that　virtually　the　entire　Dutch　service
  class　was　Indonesian。
  I　was　sitting　on　the　deck　talking　to　one　of　the　Dutch　pilots；　Hans　van　Haastert。　He
  called　one　of　the　Indonesians　over　and　said　something　to　him　in　fluent　Indonesian。　My
  romance　with　Dutch　would　begin　（in　a　very　unusual　way）　a　few　years　later；　but　my
  romance　with　Indonesian　was　born　in　the　lightning　and　thunder　of　Hans　ordering　a　beer
  from　that　deck　chair。
  If　I　had　never　been　drawn　to　foreign　languages　earlier；　that　moment　alone　would
  have　done　it。　To　me　at　that　time；　it　was　the　white　suited　bwana　speaking　something　pure
  “jungle”　to　one　of　his　water　carriers　in　any　one　of　a　hundred　and　eighteen　safari　movies
  I’d　seen。　It　was　Humphrey　Bogart　melting　a　glamourous　woman’s　kneecaps　with　a　burst
  of　bush　talk　she　had　no　idea　he　even　knew。
  “Where　did　you　learn　that？”　I　asked。　It　turned　out　that　Hans；　like　many　of　his
  Dutch　confreres；　had　been　born　in　Java　of　mixed　parents。　His　Indonesian　was　just　as　good
  as　his　Dutch。　“Will　you　teach　me　some？”　I　asked。
  For　the　next　eight　days；　until　we　were　interrupted　by　the　New　York　City　skyline；
  Hans　patiently　taught　me　the　Indonesian　language。　When　we　parted；　I　was　able　to
  converse　with　the　Indonesian　crewmen；　just　as　Hans　had　that　first　day　on　deck。　Lest　this
  come　across　as　a　boast；　let　me　hasten　to　point　out　that　Indonesian　is　the　easiest　language
  in　the　world　–　no　hedging；　no　“almost”；　no　“among　the　easiest”。　In　my　experience；
  Indonesian　is　the　easiest。　The　grammar　is　minimal；　regular；　and　simple。　Once　I　began　to
  learn　it；　Indonesian　didn’t　seem　“jungle”　anymore。　The　Indonesians　obligingly　use　the
  Roman　alphabet；　and　they　get　along　with　fewer　letters　of　it　than　we　do。　And　their　tongue
  has　an　instant　charm。　The　Indonesian　word　for　“sun”；　mata　hari　（the　famous　female　spy
  was　known　as　the　“sun”　of　Asia）　literally　means　“eye　of　the　day”。　When　they　make　a
  singular　noun　plural　in　Indonesia；　they　merely　say　it　twice。　“Man；”　for　example；　is　orang。
  “Men”　is　orang　orang。　And　when　they　write　it；　they　just　write　one　orang　and　put　a　2　after
  it；　like　an　exponent　in　algebra　（Orang　2）。　Orang　hutan；　the　ape　name　pronounced　by
  many　Americans　as　if　it　were　“orang…u…tang；”　is　an　Indonesian　term　meaning　“man　of　the
  forest。”
  My　Toughest　Opponent
  For　the　next　four　years　I　avoided　taking　up　any　new　languages。　I　had　nothing　against　any
  of　them　（except　one）。　It　was　just　that　there　were　too　many　gaps　in　the　tongues　I’d　already
  entertained　and　I　wanted　to　plug　them　up。
  The　language　I　had　something　against　was　Hungarian。　Before　a　summer　weekend
  with　army　buddies　in　Rehoboth　Beach；　Delaware；　I　went　to　the　post　library　and　checked
  out　an　army　phrase　book　in　Hungarian　to　look　at　over　the　weekend。　The　introduction
  bluntly　warned；　“Hungarian　is　perhaps　the　hardest　language　in　the　world；　and　it　is　spoken
  by　only　about　ten　million　people。”　I　resolved　I’d　never　get　any　closer　to　it。
  Hungarian　was　the　next　language　I　studied。
  When　Hungary　rebelled　against　Soviet　oppression　in　1956；　I　was　invited　by　the
  U。S。　Air　Force　to　join　a　team　of　reporters　covering　Operation　Safe　Haven；　the　airlift　of　all
  Hungarian　refugees　who　were　to　receive　asylum　in　the　United　States。　That　was　far　from
  enough　to　make　me　want　to　study　Hungarian　–　yet。
  Every　child　is　treated　to　fantasies　like　Buck　Rogers　and　his　invincible　ray　gun；
  Superman；　Batman；　or；　in　my　case；　Jack　Armstrong　and　his　“mystery　eye”；　a　power
  imparted　to　him　by　a　friendly　Hindu　who；　merely　by　concentrating　and　holding　his　palms
  straight　out；　could　stop　every　oncoming　object　from　a　fist　to　a　bullet　to　a　bull　to　an
  express　train。　By　this　time　I　began　to　note　that　similar　powers　–　offensive　and　defensive　–
  could　unexpectedly　and　delightfully　accompany　the　mastery　of　languages。
  No　Iron　Curtains　for　Language
  Many　reporters　got　to　the　Hungarian　border　with　Austria　during　the　outpouring　of
  refugees　that　followed　the　Soviet　oppression　of　the　Hungarian　freedom　fighters。　They
  went　to　the　Red　Cross　shelters　on　the　Austrian　side；　interviewed　some　refugees　and　relief
  workers；　and　went　home。　I　was　invited　to　join　a　secret　team　of　volunteer　international
  “commandos”　who　actually　slipped　into　Hungary　by　night　to　ferry　refugees　across　the
  border　canal　on　a　rubber　raft。
  The　centre　of　the　refugee　operation　was　the　Austrian　border　village　of　Andau。　I
  asked　a　local　policeman　in　German　where　the　refugee　headquarters　was。　It　was　Christmas
  night。　It　was　dark。　It　was　cold。　There　were　no　tour　bus　operators　on　the　streets　hawking
  tickets　to　the　Hungarian　border。　He　told　me　to　go　to　Pieck’s　Inn。　At　Pieck’s　Inn　the
  bartender　said；　“Room　nineteen。”　The　fact　that　I　was　getting　all　this　in　German　without
  looking　around　for　somebody　who　spoke　English　was　a　convenience；　but　that’s　not　what
  I　mean　by　the　power　of　another　language。　That　came　next。
  I　went　upstairs　to　room　nineteen　and　knocked　on　the　door。　“Who’s　there？”　shouted
  a　voice　in　interestingly　accented　English。
  “I’m　an　American　newspaper　reporter；”　I　yelled　back。　“I　understand　you　might　help
  me　get　to　the　Hungarian　border。”
  He　opened　the　door　cussing。　“I’ll　never　take　another　American　to　the　border　with　us
  again；”　he　said　before　the　door　even　opened。　“No　more　Americans！　One　of　you　bastards
  damned　near　got　us　all　captured　night　before　last。”
  He　turned　out　to　be　a　pleasant　looking　young　man　with　blond