Language Lessons

When, at age 14, I had the opportunity to choose whether to study Spanish or German at school, I chose German. This was pretty much for two reasons: first of all, I think German accents are quite possibly the funniest thing in the world and I knew I´d have a lot of opportunity to hear the word ¨vodka¨pronounced ¨wodka¨ if I chose to spend the next four years of my life studying the language. (I was right. Though ¨Weronica¨and ¨Wersace¨were two of my personal favorites.) Second of all, half of my dad´s side of the family is, in fact, German, and I knew I could be sure of the fact that I´d have a built-in conversation practice partner in my paternal grandmother (whom we call Omi, that´s how German we are) should I choose to study The Deutsche Vita. Which I did.

This German, however, is doing absolutely nothing for me in Ecuador. And it´s become abundantly clear to me now that perhaps Spanish may have been the way to go. I mean, German, seriously? Where did I think I was going to spend the rest of my life---Dusseldorf?

(It has, admittedly, at least been a lot more helpful than the Latin I took from the ages of 11 to 16, the only word of which I remember is ¨mox,¨---which means soon---although I could tell you all about the characters of Quintus and Caecilius and Calpurnica, who appeared with great regularity from textbook to textbook, and were even, apparently, in the same textbooks my dad used to study Latin back in the 1960s.)

Luckily, Sean took Spanish in high school---have I mentioned that he was in the same class as Chloe Sevigny? I believe I have---and (also luckily) he has an excellent memory, even for things that happened 14 years ago, like the learning and processing of the past perfect tense. I have been immensely impressed with the conversations he´s been able to have (and the situations he´s been able to get us out of), though I must admit to feeling a huge wave of feminist resentment the first few nights, every time I had to ask him to order for me in a restaurant. Every time he said ¨and for her...¨ I had a powerful flashback to the 1950s. Or, you know, to how I imagine the 1950s to have been.

It´s weird, this feeling of powerlessness, this being rendered mute. Whenever I find I can´t communicate, I want to shout ¨I could say it in French! I could say it in German! I could say it in Latin! Well, if it included the word ´soon!´¨ and yet I don´t, obviously. I smile---ah, smiling: the international language of the befuddled but well-meaning tourist---and rotate my arsenal of gracias, muchas gracias, hasta luego, and abogado. (I have no idea why I know the word ¨lawyer¨in Spanish, but I can only assume it may come in handy some day.)

Over the last few days, however---and I can put this down only to pure and simple immersion---I´ve actually started to get a whole lot more self-sufficient (and a whole lot more confident too.) I´m finding that I can have entire conversations in Spanish now, as long as the only end of the deal I have to hold up is the nodding and the ¨si, si, si¨part (with maybe a claro thrown in for good measure.) I´m pretty good at bargaining in Spanish as well---why, I just brought a poncho down from $15 to $11, and with only minimal hand gesturing too!---and yesterday evening a woman knocked on the door of our hotel room, proffering a tray of fancy chocolates (I highly recommend this hotel), and I conducted the whole conversation myself (although the visual aids, in the form of the tray of fancy chocolates, certainly helped matters.)

This afternoon, though---filled with the hubris of the ever gradually more successful---I had a minor accident, when I mixed up the words bonita and pequeno and accidentally stopped a woman in the street to tell her that her dress was a very, very small. All with a big, enthusiastic smile on my face. Good thing I know how to find an abogado when I need one, I guess.