“Que querias?” There was a time when my panicked expression would tell the story. I was never good at languages. In fact I had teachers that almost wept in frustration.
Michael, my husband, and I lived in a very old downtown neighborhood on the third floor of a 19th century apartment building. We had 7 rooms with 3 bedrooms. We tried to find a smaller place but these dwellings were built for families, not a couple of foreigners on a short term study excursion. Michael got a 2 year Canada Council Grant to research his dissertation and, well, I was along for the ride.
Little shops lined our narrow cobblestone street. There was our panaderia. If I was early enough the smell of fresh bread still hung in the air as I stepped onto the street. I spoke with the owner every day as I bought my fresh baguette. Her age was a mystery. There she stood, her hair covered with a net, a white baker’s apron around her ample body. In the beginning I was unsure as I began to speak. Our conversation was limited but she always had a smile for me. “Que querias hoy?” “What would you like today”? Our chat was simple. “Dos pan por favor” “2 bread please”. As I grew more confident there were more pleasantries. “How are you?” “It’s cold today”. And always the smiles acknowledging my attempts to speak Spanish.
Up the street was the bodega, the wine store. To enter you walked down a few steps onto the floor of a dark store room. The scent of wine took your breathe away. A counter was in front of the window that fronted on to the street. It was well below grade offering only subdued light. Bodega in English is cellar and that’s what this was.
Huge barrels of wine rested along one wall. Sitting on smaller barrels, there were always a few men smoking cigarettes, drinking small glasses of wine and chatting. All conversation stopped as I entered. I mean, there I was, a foreign women in my 20’s walking into what appeared to be a male bastion. The shop keeper greeted me with a smile and a little wink to the gentlemen assembled. Spain at that time and probably still is quite sexist so I preferred to ignore these little indignities as part of the culture.
I brought back my empty wine bottles put them on the counter and our conversation began. “Hola, como esta?” Hello, how are you? “Muy bien gracias” “Very good thank you” . “What would you like today?” “Qué te gustaría hoy?” “One bottle of white and one red. please.” “Una botella de blanco y una roja. Por favor.”
I put the two bottles of wine in my string bag and thanked the storekeeper. As I left he bid me “adios.” with a friendly wave. The tension my appearance created was broken. Reaching the door I could hear some laughter as the men resumed their conversation.
At the top of my street was the carniceria, a butcher shop that also sold cheese. Huge legs of aging pork hung over the counter of the brightly lit store. Always crowded, customers were intense with a jovial attitude. Unlike the bodega, the clientele was mostly women greeting and chatting. I couldn’t understand much of what they were saying but from their expressions it was probably the same topics you’d hear in any food store. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a long time” How is the family?”
The first time I went to our carnicería I was uncomfortably crushed into the crowd. Not knowing how things worked I waited. Then a customer noticed me and said, “Es tu turno”, “it’s your turn” and with a little poke I was up against the counter.
A vegetarian, I was there to buy cheese. All common Spanish cheese is called Manchego. As I learned later, the difference is how it is aged. All the cheese looked the same but some was moister while another was dry and crumbly. Flustered by the crowd and chatter, I just randomly pointed at one of the rounds of cheese and said “Cien gramos de esto por favor” “100 grams of this one”.
With subsequent visits I eventually felt confident enough to ask for a sample to refine my choice. “Quiero probar este por favor.” “I want to try this one please.” The butcher smiled and cut me a small piece. Our conversation continued. “This is too dry” “I want cheese for a salad”. The butchers were very patient with me for which I was grateful.
My neighbors didn’t quite know what to make of me, this hippy looking young foreign woman living in their community. I could tell they were amused by my attempts at Spanish. I began to recognize some of my neighbors and greeted them with “Buenas” as I walked along the street. I learned that “Buenas” was the short term for good morning, afternoon, evening and good night. It was a universal greeting no matter the time of day. “Well that’s easy” I thought.
I continued my studies and became a little more comfortable with Spanish and my ability to communicate. When I didn’t understand, which was often, I’d use words I knew. “Me dicho…” “Did you say to me….” Then I would fill in the missing word. If I was really off base they would laugh or smile but with their amusement was an appreciation of my efforts for which I was once again grateful.
About a year into our Spanish sojourn Larry, a dear friend from Toronto came for a visit. We were so glad to see him, our first guest from home. On that first day Michael was busy so Larry and I set out on our own. Walking up our narrow street I pointed out the little shops and greeted our passing neighbors. “Buenas” It was just before siesta and the street was particularly busy. Everyone was rushing to shop and get back home for lunch.
As we got to the intersection at the top of our street, a small SEAT car came roaring up and almost hit us as it rounded the corner where we stood. Annoyed, I took the rolled up newspaper I had in my hand and rapped the back of the moving car. It made a very loud sound. I thought of the matador passing the bull with his cape and yelled “Oley”!
The car screeched to a stop. The driver, a young man fashionably dressed, jumped out. He started screaming at me. Shop keepers and customers came on to the street to see what was happening. There I stood with my newly arrived friend. We were the center of a spectacle. The driver began screaming, “PUTA, PUTA”. A common slur, it means “whore”.
I don’t know where my response came from but I yelled back the perfect Spanish retort. “y tu madre” “and your mother”. I knew insulting ones mother was a really big deal. What I said was cutting and I think unexpected. For a moment he seemed stunned. Then, with red faced anger, he continued his fierce verbal assault. With every “Puta” came “y tu madre” in full voice and with a confirming finger pointed in the air. After a few more back and forth the driver finally realized this was a no win situation. After glaring at the crowd he got back in his car and sped off.
Was there actual applause probably not but I felt a wave of recognition among the spectators, my neighbors. I think it was an appreciated linguistic victory in front of my teachers, those that witnessed my struggles over these many months. I waved to all as the car raced off. Smiling and nodding their heads, the assembled audience turned back to their busy day. With a big grin Larry slapped me on the back and said, “Way to go girl!”. I laughed and said, “I guess my Spanish is getting better.” Happily we turned and continued down the street looking for lunch.
Postscript: After almost 2 years in Madrid I was never close to fluency but I could handle most situations with or without my dictionary. In February 2020 I went back to Madrid for a visit. After 50 years I was astonished that my survival Spanish came back to me. Now that’s success!
Amiga
ReplyDeletetu eres un mujer estupenda
con una abraza muy fuerte
Maria Jose
As always, thank you for being there. I appreciate your friendship and your support. Sending lots of love....Arlene
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