Sure, I took my obligatory high school language classes—French was my choice—and my bastardized version of it has gotten me (just barely) around French Canada and, dare I say, Paris.

Years later, as a daily newspaper reporter occasionally assigned to not-so-uppity stories, a wanna-be traveler to Spanish-speaking places and a type-A personality determined to overcome my lack of language finesse, I took enough Spanish to ask “how many shots were fired?” and “where is the bathroom?” both of which are surprisingly useful when you're on assignment in crime-ridden neighborhoods or suffering from Montezuma's revenge.

“The village elders thought I was cute, and didn’t have the heart to correct me.”

Despite this relatively unsuccessful entry into languages, I pressed on—this time forgoing the Romance Languages and building on the unstable foundation I already laid. In 2002, I decided it was time to get in touch with my Croatian heritage and study the words my grandparents’ think, pray and curse in.

I decided I would visit, for the first time, the central Dalmatian fishing village where my roots were planted. Since my family is in the New York area and I’m in San Francisco, practicing with them was a difficult task. I needed a crash course nearby. I was flying in two months and I couldn’t even string together “Hello. How are you? I am Jennifer.”

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