Pig Latin Doesn't Count

My offices are in a hotel. This hotel is in midtown Manhattan. And because of this, each day I share the elevator with tourists from all over the world. These tourists are chatty in the elevator for the most part, and I love to tuck myself in the corner of the elevator and let the beauty of their words wash over me. I don't have a clue what they're saying, but the way the words flow, the clicks and the breaths, the pauses and the tones, and the music of it all makes me smile. It also makes me jealous. I want to know that language. I want to understand. I want to join in their story, because there's bound to be one. I want to be bilingual.

Being bilingual or multilingual hints at a life lived in adventure, right?
How did you come to learn two languages?
What risk did you take?
What move did you make in your life? Was it for love? Opportunity? Desperation?
Tell me then... about how your family moved when you were 12 and you didn't know a word of the language... about how you met a man on vacation and fell madly in love and never moved back... about your parents who moved to America, and how they spoke their native tongue at home to remind you of where you came from... tell me your story, because it's there.

Being bilingual also hints at the potential for additional adventure and freedom to move about the world and have meaningful interactions with more people. It allows a more seamless merge into another culture.

So, is it Rosetta Stone time for me? Or am I just feeling a little bit of "the grass is always mas verde on the other side of the fence?"