We have a lady named Olivia who comes to clean our house every two weeks. Olivia is lovely. Olivia's English is poor at best. (Steve and I have come to terms with the sad but true reality that employing Olivia will preclude either of us from serving our great nation as Secretary of Homeland Security or Secretary of Labor. So don't even try to nominate us.)
We have a son named Isaac who dirties our house every day of the week. (As I write this, Isaac is taking orange highlighter to the green couch.) Isaac is lovely. Isaac's English is understandable to some, but not so much to the lovely Olivia from Mexico, who understands precious little English, even when it is clear-spoken and well-articulated.
Each time Olivia comes, Isaac follows her from room to room and talks to her incessantly as she washes the windows and sweeps the floors. He doesn't care that there is a Great Communication Divide.
Every two weeks, I can count on being cheered by a clean house, and a delightful and entertaining exchange of two lovely people who haven't the foggiest what the other is talking about.