Friday, November 13, 2009
When, on a Saturday night, you can't adequately tell the Spanish police that your son is missing -- yo busco mi hijo! I look for my son! -- the first thing you do on Monday is re-enroll in the intensive Spanish program at International House.
You sit yourself down next to two twenty-somethings, one German and one Texan, and you hope for the best.
La Profesora speaks no English, but hey you're in Spain! You get it! You're supposed to be speaking Spanish by now. You're ready to engage. Your new metal pencils from the cool Japanese store at the airport are leaded and ready to escritor. But you're like the animal in a Far Side comic. You see the teacher's lips moving, but nothing makes any sense... just a word here, a word there.
Did she just say Quesadilla? I'm pret-ty sure. What, we're talking Tex-mex? No wait, she isn't talking food ... maybe she said, "que es dia" or "que sa dia?" but that doesn't make any sense. What is day??? Maybe if I listen. Huh? Something about preterito perfecto...
... What's that Texan doing in this class anyway? Gimme a break. Every Texan I've ever met is secretly fluent in Spanish. She practically lives in Mexico. No she did-INT just say she has a photographic memory! HATE her. Why not stay home and read the Spanish dictionary? Why don't I have a photographic memory? What if I have a brain disease? What if my brain is shriveling with age and it's too late to learn another language...
... Wonder if that laser hair removal appointment is tomorrow or Friday. Better check. Either way, I'm outta here at 1:30, home by 2, then I apply the cream. I'll just have an hour to numb. Hope it doesn't hurt... Yikes. She's looking at me... God, I hope she doesn't call on me... her lips are moving. Do I say, "I'm sorry I wasn't listening", or "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you", or "No se?"
Luckily, the Texan answers for me.