Last Sunday I attended the International Christian Church, downstairs in an office building next to the REWE Supermarkt. When I walked in, the small room was mostly empty; a gentleman gave me a bulletin and I sat toward the back. Then the pastor introduced himself, and at the sound of our voices a white-haired woman jumped up and joined the conversation. She was originally from Britain, and seemed quite excited to have a conversation with another native English speaker. We talked until the service started.

The service was conducted in German with occasional English explanations. We sang the hymns once through in German, then again in English. The sermon was German (“Wenn Ein Freund Bittet…”), but the pastor handed out a literal English translation, so I was able to follow along. He also made sure that each congregant had a Bible in his own language — including, for a student’s visiting parents, one in Finnish. At the end, visitors introduced themselves; I spoke in English and the pastor translated for me. By this time there were barely enough chairs for all the worshippers.

After the service, the church ate lunch together and invited me to stay. Thinking this would be a good way to meet people and save money, I did. Partially by chance and partially by shyness, though, I sat at the table with (I think) the least amount of English-speaking proficiency in the church. I ate with people from Romania, Bangladesh, Lebanon, Finland, Japan, and Texas (that was the pastor); the Romanian next to me and the Lebanese across from me both spoke no English and we communicated, haltingly, through the man from Bangladesh.

As I write this, I’m on Deutsche Bahn train 9576 traveling from Tübingen, Germany, to Paris, France. Next to me is a German Hispanic family who speaks both German and Spanish. The mother speaks a little French and a little English, so we’ve exchanged a few phrases. Across from me is a German mother and two energetic (spoiled?) blond boys, and what looks like a French professional who’s found himself stuck with them. Behind me is what sounds like a young American couple. Right now the Americans are watching a movie together, the German boys keep getting up and walking around the train, and the French professional seems to be ignoring them and reading a French novel. The German Hispanic family is either napping or drawing. I keep catching snatches of German, English, Spanish, and French.

Language was one of the things I worried about most before coming to Germany. It seemed incredibly rude — incredibly touristy, in fact — to march into a country without knowing a word of their language and expect them to communicate with you on your own terms. In this case, however, I didn’t have much of a choice. Without time to learn the language before my trip, there was no way I getting around Germany on the strength of “auf wiedersehn,” “nein,” “danke,” “ausgezeichnet,” and remembered verses from Brahms’ Liebeslieder love waltzes. (“Two Euros, please.” “Beautiful maiden, oh so fair, I would rather be a monk than live the rest of my life without you….”)

So, taking yet another cue from Evelyn Waugh (“the secret is — throw away your phrase book and yellow-backed conversational guide and speak your own language”) I decided that ignoring language was better than mutilating language. I spoke English everywhere I went — and, fantastically, it worked. Waugh was right. Most Germans that I’ve talked to, from the airport to the grocery store, know at least some English and have been able to accommodate my ignorance. I am incredibly appreciative of their linguistic hospitality: I can only imagine what it would have been like if no one in Germany spoke my language.

Unfortunately, though, it doesn’t take too much imagining. Despite the common knowledge of English, when walking through Germany I spoke as little as possible and did as much as possible to avoid being spoken to. This was especially true during the first few days I was in Germany, when I knew no one and was finding my way around alone. Every German who passed me on the street was a potential threat: would they try talking to me and expose me as a foreigner? Would they expect me to know some critical bit of German information that I would be unable to understand? Even though Germany isn’t all that different from America — on the surface, anyway — I found that living as a stranger in a strange country with a strange language was a constant, stiffening tension. At the best of times, it was no more than a faint mosquito buzzing; at the worst, I think, it’s a jet plane thundering, fingers jammed in ears, mind overheating to get away. Fear, confusion, and loneliness may have no more potent combination.

If no one in Germany spoke English, it would have been terrifying.

I can say this with all the more emphasis after having spent the week at an English-speaking literature conference at the University of Tübingen. The language was English; the people were exceptionally kind; I even made friends. Yet these were some of the most stressful days I’ve had in my life. I was scheduled to present at the conference at the end of the week — me, an undergraduate, presenting at a professional conference peopled with leading scholars! — and the more I saw the intelligence and profundity of the people around me, the more I began to despair. I constructed dire scenarios, monstrous fears, that played and replayed in my mind. Despite the reassurance of everyone around me, I still felt profoundly isolated. I can only imagine that this feeling would have been infinitely worse had I been linguistically isolated as well.

And so I wonder: what about foreigners who come to America? We are, of course, decidedly unilingual. From sea to shining sea, the same English tongue trills o’er amber waves of grain. And even though America isn’t surrounded by such an eclectic mix of countries and languages as Germany is, we are not without our foreign guests. In 2013, for example, the State Department admitted 69,926 refugees to the United States, and I assume that many of them speak no English. I make this assumption in part because a month ago, while studying for the GRE, I met one.

She was shuffling up the sidewalk and leaning heavily on a cane, wearing a bright gold dress that contrasted beautifully with her black skin. With the hand not supporting the cane, she wore a gardening glove and held a half-full plastic bag. Each step took her only a few centimeters; rather than descend the three short steps into the plaza, where I was sitting, she went painfully down the long wheelchair ramp, then turned and shuffled the same distance back to near where I sat. She stopped to rest by a trash can, then (with her gloved hand) began rummaging through the garbage. Every so often she pulled out a plastic bottle and placed it in her plastic bag. In Maine, recycling plastic bottles earns you five cents each. She had filled a grocery bag halfway.

I tried speaking — “Can I help you with anything?” — but she just smiled nervously and stared away. I was nervous too, so I let the moment drop. Later, I bought her a cookie — if I couldn’t lift her out of poverty, I could at least make her smile — and gave it to her as she was leaving the park, trying to explain in English what I was doing. She looked confused, then smiled and gave me a thumbs up. She put it in her bag. I tried again: “Parlez-vous Français?” Her head shot up in surprise, she smiled, and she began to speak. She mumbled so softly, though, that the only thing I could think to do was say “Bonne nuit!” and start back up the sidewalk. In retrospect, I said this with all too cheerful an attitude. My temptation in this moment, which is perhaps the greatest temptation of decent people, was to feel pleased with myself, and I can’t say that I escaped this episode without pride. But the image of this elderly woman rooting through the trash, and her smile when I spoke her language, has stuck with me, and after a week in Germany I can’t help feeling that I have experienced the faintest sliver of what she felt like. The Germans spoke my language; practically no one, I imagine, spoke hers. I only had to present at a conference. She had to survive.

And so I wonder even more: how do we Americans show hospitality to refugees, foreigners, and others — those who are strangers and those who are suffering?