I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

Several years ago in the Greek city of Sparta, sitting poolside drinking a glass of Prosecco,

I was stung by a mosquito.

Instantly, I felt the pain and within a few minutes my neck swelled to the sides of a football.

The resort doctor was summoned from his game of tennis.

He asked if I could breathe.

I said yes, but he instructed that I get to the hospital immediately.

One of the security guards whistled me off, after getting me registered, he drove off.

Only a single doctor spoke English.

For the course of six hours while enduring a battery of tests by men and white lab

codes, I kicked myself for not learning modern Greek before departing the US.

I must be among at least a million people who plan to learn another language before

a trip overseas, but never follow through.

I download the apps, Babel, Duolingo, Rosetta Stone.

I listen to hours of instructional videos on YouTube.

I buy books and other languages, with hopes I become proficient enough to do more than

order a cup of coffee.

My best intention is to integrate into the rhythm of a country, beyond that of merely a

tourist.

Truth is, I lack the discipline and am made lazier by English as the lingua franca of tourism.

Plus, forever I am banished to the bubble of monolinguous.

Part of my wish to learn a language is a belief that I will be a better poet, that I

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