I have had a love affair with words ever since I can recall. My very first memory at the tender age of two is of holding my Aunt Emmy’s hand and looking back over my shoulder at the pond we had just visited, departing with a profound "Bye, bye,wa-wa."

As a little girl I would whisper words to myself just to hear the sounds of them; magical words like canopy, arithmetic, and Ethiopia. As an adult, I have honored words as the precious tools of my trade. In my teaching,my writing and my law practice, I have valued them as the finest of friends.

And so it was with great excitement in 1997, at the beginning of my sabbatical year in Israel, that I enrolled in a Hebrew language course at Hebrew University. I was ready to conquer the intricacies of a language that had intrigued and frustrated me since my youth. I entered the classroom as an enthusiastic, energetic 43 year old, only to encounter a room filled with lethargic college students,most of whom were less than half my age and all of whom assumed that I was the teacher.

I was affectionately anointed "the sage"; not because I knew more Hebrew than they, but because I knew how to get stains out of clothing and where to buy discount tennis shoes.While their primary concerns in class related to rock concerts and dating, mine were predictably geared towards verb conjugation and weekly quizzes.

I became obsessed with learning Hebrew, spending 12 to 14 hours a day — in the classroom, on the streets, at home, on the bus,even in my sleep — learning the language. I was brazen and I was shameless. I insisted on speaking Hebrew to anyone and everyone who would listen, including a group of Japanese-speaking tourists who wanted directions to the Israel Museum.

Some people never leave home without a credit card; I never left home without my Hebrew-English dictionary. Such determination and diligence, while hastening my comprehension and ability to speak, came with a price. I became a walking, talking malaprop in Hebrew, the originator of more bloopers than Jerusalem has synagogues.

The "parade of horribles" began at one of my family’s first dining-out experiences in Jerusalem.I proudly requested the menu in Hebrew and began ordering more food than we could possibly eat in a week. I was quite pleased with myself until my son asked for some ice for his drink.

"No problem," I said confidently turning to our middle-aged waiter,a man with absolutely no hair and a wide, open smile.

"Sir,may I have some ice please?" I asked in my finest Hebrew.

He looked startled, then hurt as he scurried off. My Hebrew radar detector indicated immediate distress. What could I have possibly done to insult this gentle soul? I had only asked for some ice!

When a new waiter came to deliver the food, I knew I was in trouble. Slipping away from our table on the pretext of finding the bathroom, I headed straight for the dictionary hidden in my purse. It was on those worn pages that I discovered the error of my ways.

The trouble was that the Hebrew word for ice and the Hebrew word for bald are almost identical. I had told our unsuspecting waiter that I wanted him — and I wanted him bald! For a man with hair, this might have been funny but in my case, it was not.