After climbing a few flights of stairs, a small brass plaque indicated that we'd come to the right place. This was my friend's yoga studio of choice, though he hadn't been there in months. I was on vacation, but didn't want to neglect my practice. He agreed not just to send me there, but to accompany me. I would have happily gone alone to get my weekly fix of asanas and oms, but I was glad to have him along. As a bonus, he would introduce me to his teacher, Silvia, before class.

I pushed open the heavy door, which was painted an austere white, the same color as the surrounding stairwell. Inside, the studio was sunny, but as equally unadorned and as quiet as a monastery. Except for the unmistakable fragrance of burning incense and a few neat piles of props, there was no hint that we would soon be moving and stretching in unison, filling this Spartan space with our breath.

Clearly, I wasn't in Kansas anymore—or more accurately, San Francisco—where my regular yoga studio fairly sparkles with color and human activity. There, instead of a blank white wall, an effigy of Shiva stands against the glow of a large mural of clouds painted the color of fire, and chatty devotees often snake in a line out the door and around the corner. Indeed, my encounters of yoga out west conjure nothing even remotely church-like, unless we're talking tent revivals. While I shall not easily forget those charismatically shaken tambourines several months back, I'll admit I've copped a more Californian attitude towards such things. In the local parlance, I've learned to "chillax."

In her no-nonsense white T-shirt and shorts, Silvia looked the part of a fitness teacher more than the stereotype of a guru. She greeted us warmly, but somewhat formally, as if to underline the seriousness of our endeavor. That the yoga milieu could be demure and solemn was a foreign concept to me, coming from the comparatively effusive San Francisco. It was also literally foreign in this case, as my friend's favorite studio is the esteemed Centre de Ioga Iyengar de Barcelona. (Did I mention that my friend lives in Spain?)

For weeks, I didn't know whether the class would be led in Spanish or Catalan, not that it would have mattered much, given my sole mastery of English. But if I've learned nothing else from the journey I've chronicled so far in The Outsider, it's how to relax in unfamiliar environs. Just to be safe, I learned a few Catalan anatomy words, including legs (cames) and knees (genolles). I presumed "namaste" would be the same.

Silvia actually spoke English quite well (as many yoga masters do, apparently), but I declined her offer to translate everything simultaneously. I didn't want to distract others or draw attention to myself, and I felt up for a challenge. Instruction would be in Catalan, and if all else failed, I would follow my classmates. I might also expand my feeble knowledge of both Sanskrit and miscellaneous Romance language cognates.

Before we started, Silvia asked me how much I knew of Iyengar yoga. Somehow, amidst my fretting over the vernacular tongue, I completely missed her area of specialty. I was about to undertake my first-ever instruction in Iyengar yoga, and it would be in a language I don't speak. So be it! Score another point for unexpected outcomes.

I knew that props were important in Iyengar, but Silvia explained that they were secondary; the focus was on alignment. After my first downward dog, my wrists were a bit achy, so I shook my hands to get the blood flowing—something highly encouraged in my usual vinyasa flow class. I didn't know what terse phrase Silvia used, but I understood its meaning immediately. "Shaking it out," I learned quickly, is very un-Iyengar.

For the most part, I could follow the Catalan rather easily. My miniscule vocabulary in Spanish and French helped, along with the familiar cadence and repetition of yoga instructions. Once or twice, Silvia resorted to English or simply adjusted my pelvis and cames into proper alignment with her hands. Unlike back home, I didn't flow, didn't sweat buckets, and didn't depart from form. The best part of Silvia's Iyengar class, however, was the end. There was no Coldplay, Sigur Rós, or random application of lavender oil during savasana (not that those can't be nice too). Just silence... and my own breath.

When I travel, I seek out yoga classes to maintain a consistent practice and even expand it by trying new styles. It connects me to the place I'm visiting at least as much as the cuisine, art, or nightlife. Now I'm thinking this could be a good way to learn a new language too, by relying on a physical vocabulary I already speak. I'd like to at least give it a try.

And I have my budding California-ness to thank for that.