Wednesday, March 27, 2013


No, this post is not about my amateur interpretive dance career that spanned many high school dances back in the day.  Now that I've brought it up, I'd actually prefer not to talk about it.  If you can find someone else who will tell you about it, though, you'll enjoy the story.

This post is actually about a conversation yesterday on the 200.  I was not a part of it.  But I heard it.  And I understood it.

I mention that I understood it not because its audibility was marginal, but rather because it was simultaneously in English and Spanish.  The man was talking in Spanish, and the woman was talking in English, but it was obviously the same conversation.  It was delightfully loopy; it tickled a part of my brain I haven't used since 2005.  That was when I had a mission companion who spoke fluent English; I, of course, spoke fluent Spanish; and we sometimes had conversations in which each spoke the other's native language, to the wonderment of all who beheld them.

I considered the aforementioned bus conversation blogworthy (as you may have divined), but I couldn't decide what to call it for a while.  After I decided what to call it, I suddenly had a bunch of odd memories from high school.  So I blogged about that, too.

And my brain will probably go in about twenty more circles before I go to bed tonight.

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