When I was about four or five, I remember going to synagogue with my grandfather one morning, probably a Saturday morning. We walked all the way, and then I sat with him on the men's side of the orthodox sanctuary. We stood up and sat down as the service went on, according to the prayers and traditions. The whole service was in Hebrew, and the prayers, chanted mostly aloud, but quietly, to themselves, sounded like sing-song mumbling. After a bit, I decided that there was nothing to it, so I started chanting along, quietly mumbling gibberish to myself, like everyone else. You should have seen how proud my grandfather was!
