In high school, I hated my Spanish class and resisted learning the language every step of the way.

"Why should I?" I wondered. After all, the guy at my favorite taco stand already spoke English. So instead of listening, I passed notes, stared out the window, and generally didn't participate unless called on. Señor Steel tried his best to pry my attention with references to The Grateful Dead --my only real subject of interest at the time.

"¿Jerry Garcia es muy bueno, no?" or "¿Dónde esta el concerto de Grateful Dead?"

But these days, as I spend my winters in Mexico, learning Spanish has become suddenly fascinating. Not only is it pragmatically useful for getting around, but it also serves to legitimize these overly long tropical sojourns. "To learn Spanish," I explain studiously.

I've always been told there was some merit in learning another language. It's a way to become more multi-cultural and less Anglo-centric, and it probably prevents Alzheimer's. What I didn't know is how adopting a new language would reformat my thinking.

During my winters in Mexico, I occupy a totally different brain, a more creative brain. My whole adjective-noun-verb worldview shifts, and I break from the bounds of English cliché. There I find a wide-open space of expression.