Much to my surprise, I am becoming a passable Spanish speaker. And to my surprise. After all, learning Spanish was never a goal of mine until very recently. Perhaps it was my latent racism. French was a proper language, of Sartre and Camus, but Spanish? That was wild.
Travels in Siberia is a great, rambling, uneven book but what's most stuck with me is Frazier's observation that learning Russian taught him that he used his brain largely for scheming.
The more Spanish I learn, the more French I remember. Indicative both of a new part of my brain set in motion, and of the utter connectedness of something I thought disparate.