Spanish Lessons

by Tim Perrin

Something wonderful happened today. I said, “Después.”

Después is Spanish for “later.” The maid had knocked on the door of our hotel room. We weren’t ready to go, and I said, “Después.” Come back later. No big deal, you say.

What makes it wonderful is that I did it without thinking, without going through a mental lookup table to find the right word. I just said it. I knew I wanted her to come back and the word that came out of my mouth was “después.”

Now, when I was sixteen and had been actively studying Spanish for seven years, I had reached the point where I was modestly fluent and would occasionally catch myself thinking in Spanish. Of course, as soon as I caught myself doing it, I stopped. But it was a neat sensation. And here I was, 40 years later, doing it again, if only for a moment.

Of course, I was still in France. We were in Bayonne, about 20 miles from the Spanish border, but my poor brain has been trying to speak Spanish form the moment we landed in France, two months ago. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said “sí” instead of “oui” or how often I’ve been able to quickly come up with the Spanish word for something only to have to struggle to find the French word. My formal study of French consists of two semesters in a university extension conversational French class in my 20s. Spanish I started when I was nine and did every year but one until I was sixteen, including summer schools. It was often a repeat of Spanish One, but I got the basics drilled into me pretty good. And, living in southern California, I had Hispanic friends and Hispanic culture all around me. Spanish was a natural. And, besides, from the beginning, I have loved the language (and the food). It is melodious and beautiful. None of the other languages I’ve studied is more pleasing to the ear. Italian—as much as I love it—tends to be a bit singsong. French sounds like you have marbles in your mouth and half the letters could be thrown away. Latin forever makes me think I am an altar boy again; I can almost smell the incense. And Russian is fun, but it is all guttaral and full of coughing sounds.

Since my move to Canada 31 years ago, my opportunities to use my Spanish have been limited to the occasional vacation in Mexico. So to say it has become rusty is like saying the Pacific is a bit of a pond. Even then, I’m always amazed at how quickly it comes back south of the border.

Tonight, when we got to our hotel, traffic was jammed right up and I had to take the car around the block while Terre got out to go get us a room. But by the time I got there, she was nowhere to be seen. I walked into the Formule 1 Lobby and slipped into a conversation with the young man as easily as if I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t translating. I was just listening and speaking. Man, I love it when it works like that. I didn’t get every word, but I don’t need to. I got enough to know what is going on and I was able to say enough to put through what I wanted to say.

The Formule 1, as it turned out, was full for tonight (Saturday, December 3) so she had left.

“¿A donde va?” Where did she go?

“No sé.” I don’t know, he shrugged. “Salida.” She left.

By the way, I finally found Terre at the Ibis Hotel next door where she’d found us a room. “Did you have any trouble with the Spanish?” I asked her.

“None at all,” she said. “The woman at the desk spoke English.”

We had a good chuckle. Then we walked back to the Formule 1 to make a reservation for the next two nights. Terre walked in and started to speak to the young man in English. He replied in impeccable English. Often, in Europe, when they detect an accent and a bit of a struggle with their language, they’ll kick over to English. The fact that this young man had spoken to me in Spanish was the greatest compliment he could have paid me.

I know I know very little Spanish, really. But if you believe in the 80/20 rule—you need to know 20 percent of Spanish to do 80 percent of the communication—then I think I’m way past 20 percent.

It’s our first night in Spain. I may—will—get my comeuppance soon. But, tonight, I am enjoying the feeling of being somewhat competent in another language.

Adios. Hasta luego.

Tim

P.S. I got my comeuppance within 24 hours (of course) when I tried to ask the cashier in the box office at the theatre how much a ticket was. A young woman standing next to me had to restate what I said, but pronounce it properly so the poor cashier in the box office could understand me. I had the right words, but I butchered them so badly I was incomprehensible after several tries.

And I’ve always prided myself on my accent. To quote some of my long neglected Latin: sic transit gloria mundi.

Ouch!