THE trumpet sounds, the cheery green owl bows this way, then that, and, as the words “Perfect Lesson” appear on the screen, I feel a shot of dopamine whoosh into my bloodstream. The clock chides me over my unmade dinner and the pile of unironed clothes on the chair. Ignoring it, I plough on in pursuit of one last high.
“You know Duolingo is specifically designed to appeal to people like you,” my oldest friend says when I tell her how much time I’m devoting to it. “People who are smart and eager to learn?” I ask, hopefully. “People who crave constant validation,” she replies.
My friend knows how often I have tried and failed to learn Italian, a language I spoke best when I was 10 and spent a few weeks living in Tuscany. That July, topping and tailing in bed with my cousins, I sometimes dreamed in it, as if our subconsciouses – so distinct by daylight – were merging in the dark. Soon after, both the language and the intimacy slipped from my grasp.
Sporadic attempts to make good on my loss – the fishing out of old textbooks, the dusting off of worn cassettes – all came to naught. This time, though, I’m going to see it through because look, here I am, committing myself in print. And because the older members of my family – the custodians of its history – are growing frail, and time is running out to reconnect, to catch up on a lifetime of unhad conversations.
Whenever I log on, I am reconnecting with my past. Each fresh word Duolingo unveils carrie.
