I’m back in Spain now, the land of Spanish speakers. And before you can say to yourself “duhhhhh!” just realize that I am refering to the vast majority of the people here who ONLY speak Spanish. This is a much denser population of single language speaking people than even France. The last time I checked though, Spain hasn’t been considered an empire for hundreds of years. But I can easily forgive the Spanish for their stubbornness, because we are back in tapas country, where one can get a delightful snack of something truly spectacular for only $2 a pop. And besides, I actually know enough Spanish to get around. This is my 5th opportunity at learning Spanish, the first three of which were squandered. Well, the first 4 times were rammed down my throat when I was too young, immature, and culture-less to appreciate.
On the 4th try this quote emerged “Finally, Now I’ll never have to speak this filthy language ever again!” as I was in the taxi on the way to the airport after 6 weeks studying abroad in Guadalajara Mexico during my Junior year of college. Possibly the most fun 6 weeks of my life, yet virtually Spanish free considering that there were 200 other English speaking classmates to immerse myself in. I remember my roommate being in Spanish one for that summer and coming back being able to speak more Spanish than I could (just having finished Spanish 3).
On the 3rd try I was in community college having barely survived my final exam that made me eligible for 4 year university. I stood by the scantron machine after class and helped my teacher run the slips through the machine. For every wrong answer, the machine jolted with a loud click. It ran through 50 bubbled in responses within 3 seconds if there were none wrong. The incorrect answers slowed the progress of the machine, taking as long as 5 extra seconds on particularly bad test results. There jolts happened too fast to accurately count, but I was a math guy in school. I knew exactly how many I could get wrong on my final in order to pass the class. I was preemptively kissing my professors ass for the whole semester for this moment of truth. If I didn’t pass this class, it would be an extra half year until I could go to real college. The ironic part was that I had received only 3 B’s in my 2 years of community college. The rest were A’s. And I was fearing a D or even an F in this class. I personally ran my scantron through the machine. The first side went though “Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt” About twenty wrong as far as I could ballpark. I took the sheet out and flipped it over to grade the last 50 answers. I had about another 20 to give in order to pass the class. “Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt, Jolt” Was it too many? I was prepared to suck my 65 year old female professor’s dick of it was the difference between me going to 4 year college and me getting stuck for another 6 boring months in the commuter school twiddling my thumbs. I look down at my results and found that I had made it with only one answer to spare. “Shew.” I thought. “Never will I have to medal with this disgusting hole in my intellectual repetuar again.” Little did I know that the school I would eventually be accepted into required 3 years of a foreign language and that the weakness would be back to rear its ugly head like herpes on your wedding night. (I’m not married)
The second attempt at Spanish was a 3 week immersion course in Guatemala. My beloved Mother made me (alliteration!) join here in this course as a plea bargain for droping Spanish one during my Sophomore year of high school. I look back on the decision now and think it was a brilliant move in parenting history, but boy did I hate it when I was 14 at the time. I wanted to get AWAY from the language, not immerse myself in it. I was bad in it. It was the only time EVER that my grade in ANYTHING dropped into the D or F region. The Guatemala experience was designed to last for three weeks, but I was able to beg my way down to 2 after my Mother got sick of the program herself. Thank MOM that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.
And my first attempt at Spanish was my Sophomore year of high school, with Mr. Contreras, a terrible teacher who ended up loosing his job at my school after being convicted of his second DUI. The guy was such a bad teacher. He couldn’t relate to the students who just didn’t understand the language. He was a burnt out alcoholic who didn’t have the energy or patients for dealing with the newbies. But that is the fallacy. In language, you must have the BEST teachers in with the newest students, because the better speakers don’t need as much guidance. The Scuba Diving community understands this concept whole heartedly as they always pair up the best dive instructors with the worst divers (because the good divers can essentially take care of themselves.)
It’s been about ten years since my first introduction to Spanish and I am proud to say that I am now speaking it without much fear. I only understand about 20-40% of the elaborate responses that I receive when asking very basic questions, but I am still confident enough to get around. I am also shocked and amazed at the vocabulary that pops out of my mouth, directly from the deeper recesses of my long term memory, on the fly. Such an astounding feeling when you pull a word, essentially out of your ass, that you haven’t used for 5 years.
Now that you know my painful history with Spanish, you can appreciate my ambition to return to America speaking it fluently. I want to speak only Spanish during a lot, if not all of my time in South and Central America. I figure it is the perfect time to do it. I feel like a freaking man here! I am facing my greatest weakness (other than chocolate) and commiting to not only vanquish it, but jam it (essentially up the ass) with genuine interest. And here is how it happened.
I went to so many countries while on this trip that I didn’t know ANY of the language, that I felt like Spanish was like a long lost best friend, when I finally got to Spain. Too many times, did I want to spit out Spanish when I was stumped in Asia and Europe. I finally realized that I knew quite a bit of Spanish after all, compared to all the other languages which I could only muster up “Hello” and “thank you” for. Would I have ever felt this enthusiastic about Spanish has I never been on this trip? Probably not.
In your face Mr. Contreras, you alcoholic dick. In your face 3 week immersion class, I’ll take those two weeks back now and multiply them by 10 on my own terms. In your face 6 week study abroad program, like we ever spoke Spanish there in the first place. And a big fat in your fucking face scantron machine! Go “jolt” someone your own size (600 pounds of steal and plastic one wheels).
Onto Madrid and San Sebastian. Though Madrid is a beautiful city, it is enormous. It’s really hard to befriend a city of this size unless you know someone who lives here. For this reason, I fumbled a little when walking around. But I was able to do a pretty good job in discovering a local delicacy. A hot chocolate here is essentially a hot cup of thick liquid chocolate pudding. It is much too thick to drink, but is beautifully complimented with a churro (kind of like a Spanish doughnut without much sugar in it.) You dip the Churro into the hot chocolate and enjoy the contrasts. It reminds me of the movie “lady and the tramp.” where the human dips his doughnut in his coffee and takes a bite. This, I can assure you, tastes much better than a doughnut being dipped into coffee.
I went to another restaurant that I ordered a Pallella at and they brought out an orderve plate without me asking for it (just like in Portugal). I was disappointed in this tactic, but it was muscles, green olives, and mini onion medallions all tossed in a brilliant vinegar/brine sauce. I didn’t like that they had brought this plate out without me asking for it, but I wasn’t going to even think twice about passing up this wonderful creation. It was amazing; completely worth it, but the best part was, when the bill cam out, it was free. I will forever be unsatisfied with the standard bread that is brought out at all American establishments. “Why can’t they just through a little shell fish, olives, and onions onto a plate? Is that so hard?” is what all of my poor friends are going to have to sit through when I get home.
Part two of this riveting post soon to come……..