International Travel as a Mono-Lingual | Language Barriers and How to Get By

Ideally, you would have made an effort to learn the basics of the language before traveling to any new country, however, if your language skills are not up to par, here is how you can get by in airports, train station or out and about in the city.

The important thing is to make a game plan if you know communication will be an issue. Solo travelers do not have the luxury of linguistically-talented adventure partners to serve as a go-between in daily interactions. Look up the locations of restaurants, train stations and attractions before you go out so you won’t be lost without a means to ask for help. Screenshot maps with your phone if your coverage plan doesn’t include the country you’re traveling through. Pick up physical maps of cities at most bodegas or terminals. Google translate isn’t a perfect tool, but it can help you understand basic words on posted signs or unfamiliar ingredient terms on food packaging to avoid allergens.

Keep a notebook on you to write down common phrases you hear spoken–words for hello, goodbye, excuse me and so on. Write down words on street signs. Write down sentences you might need to use and in your free time, translate and memorize. This is not the most effective way to learn languages. Language acquisition is best accomplished through repeated patterns of listening and using, in other words, by being surrounded by that language until you hear it in your dreams and reading the local newspaper and attempting to order a coffee at an unfamiliar shop and making tons of mistakes. Having a prepared list of possible sentences in your pocket WILL help you ask directions to the bathroom in an emergency, though.  I go over all that and more in the video.

Welcome! My name is Allyson. I am a recent college graduate, a writer and a traveler with stories to share.

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Music Credit: free for commercial use via ccmixter.org Set Yourself Free (ft. Snowflake) by Loveshadow

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One More Weekend in 1989

By Matt Benedetti

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As I stepped out of my grey Jeep Cherokee at the corner of Dale and Poplar Streets in early Winter, I took in the view of the Conley Schoolyard in the late afternoon with my German Shorthair Pointer, Bosco. We were the lone visitors to the place as the last glimmer of December sun rested on the 1920’s era schoolhouse. We were both excited to be there but for different reasons.

I noticed how the area seemed familiar and foreign all at once. Gone is the elephant grass, overgrown weeds, broken bottles, dented slide and rusted chainlink fence with a sizeable hole that served as an entryway from my house on Cornell Street. The racially charged busing era graffiti–a reflection of the tumult of the 70s-that marked the walls is also a memory, replaced by unrecognizable, sanctioned storybook characters featuring wide smiles.

It was almost as if we were never there. But we HAD been there. 20 years ago this place was our collective backyard and sanctuary. Before the encroaching responsibilities of adulthood and the natural shift of interests from the familiar to the wider world, a window exists where we are often caught in between.

My window occurred in 1988-89 and gave me a glimpse of the challenges that lie ahead but allowed me to absorb this last hurrah with time-tested friends from my corner of the world at the Conley Schoolyard in the Roslindale section of Boston.

This period was prior to the hectic dawn to dusk adolescent schedules and before helicopter parents felt compelled to shuttle kids around town like chauffeurs. For my friends, activities from grammar school through high school were invariably based at the Conley.

We enjoyed a significant amount of free time and our games were designed and organized by ourselves. Disputes were mediated and problems solved without adult guidance. Our homes were all in close proximity but the schoolyard was our home and the center of our universe. The red brick façade and stone gray steps were as familiar to us as our kitchen tables.

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Memory acts as a filter distilling good times from bad. I can vividly recall the Girbaud
jeans, Champion sweatshirts, gazelles and Adidas tracksuits (owned a unique pale blue one with white stripes) but can’t remember any bad times at the Conley.
Poplar Street is a busy two-way elevated route that curves around the schoolyard 8 feet below street level allowing vehicle occupants to get a wide view of the whole area. Emergency vehicles frequently travel the street and the sound of sirens was as much a part of the landscape as crickets in the country.

As teenagers on a warm day, we would often be armed with a hockey bag full of ice cold pony Buds and a radio playing the Beastie Boys, U2, Run DMC or a similar selection.
The bulls of E-18 were nearby in Cleary Square in Hyde Park. The majority of these veteran officers appeared to be approaching retirement age and would take notice of us but with the crack epidemic cresting across the city; our carrying on undoubtedly became a low priority.

We were chased a few times, a thrilling event, often scaling the high fence and plunging into the backyards of Doncaster Street, adrenaline pumping. After one chase, as we streaked across the faded painted diamond, I paused and looked back to gauge the distance between us and our pursuers. I can clearly recall the plainclothes detective casually stroll down through the overgrowth, give us a glance and pick up the full cooler of iced beers.

He returned to his vehicle and pulled away leaving us with nothing but mixed emotions. After the dust settled, we felt relieved to have avoided the pinch but were soon outraged by the inconvenience.

Of course, we would find more beer.

Mattapan was less than a mile and our neighbors to the east would often drive by and curse at us, occasionally tossing green Heineken bottles that would smash on the pavement. We traded insults in kind and would collectively look to our right to see if they would proceed down the driveway behind the school that was shielded from our field of vision.

After a moment, we would resume whatever game we were playing.

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The Conley was an all-purpose makeshift sports facility. Stickball, baseball, football, street hockey and handball were among the games we played. Street hockey was fun but not always ideal, if the ball jumped a stick it might sail all the way to Dale Street. In frigid temperatures, the orange Mylec hockey ball would shatter after a hard errant slap shot off the wall.

Handball, however, was our favorite way to spend the day. It required endurance as well as the practiced hand-eye coordination necessary to respond to each volley and the intelligence to anticipate the next move. Although we possessed different strengths, for the most part, we were all evenly matched. Regardless of beckoning external distractions, we never lost interest in 3 on 3 handball and would play under any conditions. Midday on the searing summer blacktop, after an autumn shower or even in Winter if the snow was cleared.

IMG_0501.jpgIt is difficult to understate the intensity of these games. Other sports could be played elsewhere but handball at the Conley was “our” game and you had to belong to understand. Every culture has customs foreign to outsiders and playing this game was akin to a belonging to a club accepting no new members.
We never knew what would happen on a given night, particularly in summer. That was part of the adventure and I miss all of it.

As darkness fell, Bosco and I got into the Jeep and pulled onto Poplar Street, I glanced at the Conley on the right and clicked on the radio. The Beastie Boys ‘Paul Revere” was playing and I wished for one more weekend in 1989.

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Story Time: Stranded in Europe

Thanks for stopping by! My name is Allyson. I am a recent college graduate, a writer and a traveler with stories to share.

Today I share my recent experience in Europe and how my return travel home quickly derailed to disaster. I dealt with canceled trains, canceled flights, filthy airport floors, language barriers, bad weather and bad seatmates on an 11-hour flight. How did I–a young, solo, and distinctly newbie traveler–finally make it home? Watch to find out.

If you have any crazy travel experiences, please share them in the comments below. I would love to hear about it and start a conversation.

xxoo – Allyson

Music Credit: (Free for Commercial Use via ccmixter.org)

Jimmy Durante Christmas Show 1944 (ft Jimmy Durante, Gary Moore, Lena Orsa) by texasradiofish via ccmixter.org

Letters to Myself: Sharing My Decade Old Time Capsule

Thank you for stopping by! My name is Allyson. I am a recent college graduate, a writer and a traveler with stories to share.

In this video, I read letters I wrote to my future self as an 11-year old, a 13-year-old and an 18-year-old and share some perspective I have gained over the years.

Music Credit: (Free for commercial use via ccmixter.org)

DNA – Ophelia’s Song

Quarkstar – The Golden Door QS Arrangement

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