A Prayer to St. Christopher, Patron Saint of Travelers

At the top of the bell tower I feel no fear, though the building, hundreds of years old, sits right of the edge of the cliff. Sitting there, I question what the difference is between this moment, atop the bell tower staring miles out from the edge of a cliff, and my ride back down the mountain an hour later, eyes closed in a desperate attempt to avoid looking out from the bus and my arms bracing the seats in front of me. Why, on the way to Europe, did I grasp the arms of my airplane seat until my knuckles turned white every time we hit a patch of turbulence, but calmly smiled for pictures from the very top of the Eiffel Tower?
It dawned on me that standing on the ground on the side of a mountain or on top of the Eiffel Tower, I had complete control of my actions (aside from the improbable chance that someone intentionally throws me off the side of the cliff or bombs the Eiffel Tower). But in an airplane thousands of feet in the sky, or in the back of a bus barreling ten miles an hour down steep highways on the sides of cliffs, I had absolutely no control of my surroundings. There I was at the mercy of the pilot and bus driver, and no preventative measure I could take – shutting my eyes, moving against the vehicle’s momentum, or desperately bracing myself against seats and armrests – would save me in the event of a plane or bus crash. I found some sort of irrational safety in my actions, but in all reality I was powerless to stop the inevitable, whatever that inevitable may be.
This same feeling of utter helplessness overwhelmed me stepping off the plane in Greece. In France, where I had spent the previous week, I felt completely at ease, despite the language barrier. I could pick up bits and pieces of conversations around me and bust out enough French to get Lindsay and I from Point A to Point B. Lindsay, familiar with basic Latin, could understand some conversations and probably more written French than I could. But stepping into the Athens airport, I found a language, both spoken and written, that left me looking like a cartoon with a large question mark over my head. I had three words of Greek in my vocabulary (Yes, No, and Good Morning), none of which would assist me if I found myself looking for a bank, a toilet, or the correct gate for my flight back to the states. I felt more comfortable free-loading and aimlessly roaming with Lindsay in France than I do in this structured, Drury-controlled trip to Greece, which, at this point, I can only attribute to the language barrier.
Perhaps this language barrier I fear only exists as a figment of my imagination – practically everyone in Greece speaks some English, however broken. Only this morning I found myself hopelessly lost in Volos and frantically stopped a woman on the street, who gave me directions in fragmented English. Due to the high amount of tourism, all the vendors in Athens spoke English, hounding passers-by to eat their gelato, sit at their restaurant, buy their wares. Even young children at a preschool outside of Athens were able to count to fifteen in English, as well as identify colors and animals better than most American school children. And, when all else fails, I can always revert to my early Neolithic roots and communicate by pointing and gesturing.
Regardless, there is comfort in language that cannot be explained. It is the root of society, what sets humans apart from other sentient creatures. Our ability to communicate through language has made us the superpower of the animal world, organizing and evolving through the exchange of ideas and knowledge. Language can soothe us, calm us, comfort us, but it can also make us angry, distraught, and uneasy. Our power over language, our ability to communicate, has come to define us as a society. When I travel to foreign countries and that power disappears, when my linguistic footing is pulled out from under me, I grip tightly to any sort of familiarity and pray to Saint Christopher for safe passage home.

Sarah P.