And I thought I knew some Spanish. After months of lessons (years ago, but still), multiple trips to various regions of México, and hell, living in New York, I really thought I'd gotten somewhere. I couldn't have been more unprepared for how resistant my mouth/ear/brain partnership is to making sense of the language. I'm lazy as hell and haven't studied a bit, of course, so I'm not really complaining, I'm laughing at myself, as you too shortly shall. See? That's the other thing, now I can't speak English either. Plus I never know what Gus is saying unless he slows down and speaks in the "1972 David Bowie" voice. It's getting silly around here.
I once thought I could speak some Spanish. Now I realize, I was totally full of myself because I made some half-assed attempts that supplied me with good stories. Like, once, in México, I asked the hotel proprietor whether the tarantula he was removing from the wall of our cabin was mujer or hombre (for the record, the answer was "hombre, claro"). When retelling that story to my friend Sylvia, she wondered why I would ask that question. My answer: Because I could.
But, just so you can laugh along with me, you have to hear the kind of short sentence I tend to rehearse in my head, prior to (or, more frequently, instead of) opening my mouth. They are uniformly mockworthy and ridiculous. Sure, why not, I have no shame.
Today, while we were all out for a long walk, Gus stopped in a local stationery store. I stayed outside with the dogs, since Chuck and Boom had no art or office supply needs. My having the reins apparently gives Chuck license to bark whenever I'm not touching him, until Gus returns. I happened to see the cashier in the store look out the window at us. She and Gus were smiling and chatting, and obviously admiring the dogs. Abandoning myself to the fantasy that I, too, was making small talk (imagine!) with the cashier about our dogs, I whipped up the following attempted sentence:
"Cuando yo no toco el perro (Is that how I should conjugate "tocar"? Oh, but should I say "massage" instead of "touch"? Are there weird implications in saying I'm touching my dog? There's always that trap of the unexpected masturbation euphemism, you never know... I'd say 'pet' but I have no idea if there's a Spanish word for that...geez, I thought this would be a simple sentence...) , ello (okay, so what's the word for bark? of course I don't know that. Can I say "hablando"? How bad is that? And that's not the right tense anyway, is it? Should I just go "woof"?)
Now, if I were to unleash that (sorry) on an unsuspecting Spanish person, they'd either die of shame on my behalf, or maybe look for the rest of the group of other-ly abled children. Yet I'm told that I should always "try". Well, sure, but if the net effect is that I say things at this level, I'd rather smile and fake it for a while longer. But, dreams crushed and hopes shattered - that doesn't work either. I've been told that after a long night of companionable dining and drinking with people who speak English the way I dismember Spanish, that all my glowing pride in understanding the gist of any thread of any conversational topic was totally unjustified, and nothing was what it seemed. Oh, we all had fun alright, but only Gus knows what anyone was actually talking about, and he really doesn't care to share it. I think it's a lot more fun for him to watch the found-sound, cut-up performance unfold. For now, I will continue to smile and nod, until my (cue drumroll...) Spanish class starts, after Semana Santa!
Yes, I qualify for the free-for-immigrants Spanish class at the immigrant center, just a short 30 minute mountain trek through my beloved, dodgy, construction-scarred Tetuán, and I can hardly wait. This I'm really looking forward to, because I'll be in with some local neighbors who likely aren't US or UK people, and that'll be a lot more interesting. From the sign on the door which offered info in French and Russian, I know it'll be a fun crowd.
Meanwhile, I vow to cherish these last remaining (pick a time period)s of relative incomprehension, where I can be alone with my thoughts in the crowd, until I'm suddenly addressed with anything but "Oye, guapa".
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