Spain held me captive for the last two weeks. While there it silenced my computer. Kaput. Dead. No way to work. I had no choice except to fall in love with my captor, forced to submit to whatever Espana asked of me. Ole!
First, a word about words: David, my British-born husband, tried to learn to “habla en espanol” prior to the trip. To hear him say, “Donde esta la estacion de tren (where is the train station?)” in his English accent brought me no end of pleasure.
Me: “I love the way you speak Spanish.”
David: “Really? Why?”
Me: “You make me feel so superior.”
Obviously, I had the edge because I took high school Spanish and Martinez is my maiden name. I basked in smugness.
Well, that didn’t last long. In Madrid everyone speaks Castilian Spanish, meaning they pronounce “ci” like “th”. For example “gracias” is pronounced “grathias.” It’s like they all have a lisp.
Well, the Castilians didn’t understand me, so apparently I’m the one with a speech impediment.
One night David was mucking about in tortured Spanish ordering food. Who knew those “medias” plates of tapas can be so huge? Using his hybrid British-Espanol, David tried to cancel a dish. The waiter looked bewildered.
Then I jumped in with, “Deseo terminado un tapas.”
This was the awful equivalent of “I wish ending a dishes.”
But the waiter spoke English (and French and German) and asked in perfect syntax, “Which one would you like to cancel, the grilled octopus or the cod?”
In a teeny tiny voice, I replied, “Whatever is easier for the chef.”
I still think we get points for trying to speak their lingo. Good thing they speak ours.