My palms were unnaturally clammy. I sat patiently for nearly an hour, fighting it off my mind until the right moment struck, because I didn't want to overthink myself into an uncomfortable mess. That would be kinda useless...
About three weeks into my stay in Bilbao, I finally sat down next to her. Clever guy that I am, I propped my Spanish homework before me and put on a confused grin, artfully enhanced with a few perplexed headscratches. I asked for help. A huge smile beamed from her face - I have yet to see someone so eager to offer their assistance, even if to pick up a lady's handbag, tossed violently to the floor by crosstown bus drivers' unpredictable braking habits. I scribbled her given answers but remember nothing of how to apply the subjunctive correctly. I got a name, more smiles, and an offer for help with "anything" I needed. At 21, my ability to pick up on feminine interest was on par with that of an eight-year-old trying to grow facial hair. But the message snuck through the otherwise impenetrable thickness of my head. The problem was, I had less-than-zero to say. Well, that's not true - I could have come up with something witty, but the odds of getting it out correctly, en castellano, were slim to none. I couldn't even bring myself to get a phone number.
I proverbially kicked myself in the tuchus for the next few weeks. A steady stream of smiles, hand waves, compliments on the haircut, my clothes, did nothing to keep my verbal skills from vanishing - I was Charlie Chaplin, minus a funny shtick to fall back on. My Spanish was improving daily, thanks to three native roommates, but trying it on a pretty girl with the aim of something more, well, I simply didn't have the huevos. The smiles and compliments came with less frequency, their desired response never seeming to arrive. Buoyed by that feeling of fading opportunity - the kind that is too-often mislabeled courage - I pinned all my hopes on Monday morning's class.
...The seat beside hers taken, I staked my claim on the one directly behind her. I don't think I registered a single word the professor uttered; his generally insightful lectures were lost on me today. Those fifty minutes somehow seemed longer than the many weeks I had let pass between my first words to her, and the ones to come - the ones I had really wanted to say in the first place. I wiped my hands, cold and sweaty, against the side of my jeans, swallowed hard. I spoke up. What I said exactly, I'll never remember. It was the awkwardness, the need to repeat myself at least twice, that etched themselves into my memory. I called a few days later. Exams, overwhelmed, lots of studying, maybe some other time. I was a fool, but at least I gained a new appreciation for Mangan's friend.
I don't much like to extract morals from anything (anyone who adheres to short sentences as life's guidelines is using short change), but my mini-Joycean revelation points to the barriers (real and imagined) to true communication when native tongues differ. My Spanish has since become fluent, mostly out of fear that I'll miss something great, solely due to my lingusitic ineptitude, though my forays into the Russian language aren't proving as fruitful. It is with all this in mind that I wish the best of luck to a friend who's bravely set off for a fresh experience in a new country, armed with about the same proficiency I had four and a half years ago. I hope you packed some subjuntivo worksheets.
About three weeks into my stay in Bilbao, I finally sat down next to her. Clever guy that I am, I propped my Spanish homework before me and put on a confused grin, artfully enhanced with a few perplexed headscratches. I asked for help. A huge smile beamed from her face - I have yet to see someone so eager to offer their assistance, even if to pick up a lady's handbag, tossed violently to the floor by crosstown bus drivers' unpredictable braking habits. I scribbled her given answers but remember nothing of how to apply the subjunctive correctly. I got a name, more smiles, and an offer for help with "anything" I needed. At 21, my ability to pick up on feminine interest was on par with that of an eight-year-old trying to grow facial hair. But the message snuck through the otherwise impenetrable thickness of my head. The problem was, I had less-than-zero to say. Well, that's not true - I could have come up with something witty, but the odds of getting it out correctly, en castellano, were slim to none. I couldn't even bring myself to get a phone number.
I proverbially kicked myself in the tuchus for the next few weeks. A steady stream of smiles, hand waves, compliments on the haircut, my clothes, did nothing to keep my verbal skills from vanishing - I was Charlie Chaplin, minus a funny shtick to fall back on. My Spanish was improving daily, thanks to three native roommates, but trying it on a pretty girl with the aim of something more, well, I simply didn't have the huevos. The smiles and compliments came with less frequency, their desired response never seeming to arrive. Buoyed by that feeling of fading opportunity - the kind that is too-often mislabeled courage - I pinned all my hopes on Monday morning's class.
...The seat beside hers taken, I staked my claim on the one directly behind her. I don't think I registered a single word the professor uttered; his generally insightful lectures were lost on me today. Those fifty minutes somehow seemed longer than the many weeks I had let pass between my first words to her, and the ones to come - the ones I had really wanted to say in the first place. I wiped my hands, cold and sweaty, against the side of my jeans, swallowed hard. I spoke up. What I said exactly, I'll never remember. It was the awkwardness, the need to repeat myself at least twice, that etched themselves into my memory. I called a few days later. Exams, overwhelmed, lots of studying, maybe some other time. I was a fool, but at least I gained a new appreciation for Mangan's friend.
I don't much like to extract morals from anything (anyone who adheres to short sentences as life's guidelines is using short change), but my mini-Joycean revelation points to the barriers (real and imagined) to true communication when native tongues differ. My Spanish has since become fluent, mostly out of fear that I'll miss something great, solely due to my lingusitic ineptitude, though my forays into the Russian language aren't proving as fruitful. It is with all this in mind that I wish the best of luck to a friend who's bravely set off for a fresh experience in a new country, armed with about the same proficiency I had four and a half years ago. I hope you packed some subjuntivo worksheets.
I read this a few weeks ago, but obviously my ADD kicked in before the stunning conclusion. Thanks so much. I've already conquerd the best once, just to find that 23 year old Colombian hipsters can be as immature and full of sh*t as 23 year old Williamsburg hipsters. It's too bad I gave up my job, apartment, and friends to travel thousands of miles to find out what three stops on the L train could have taught me. Next up is the insane receptionist who's so f*cking hot that you're not really afraid to ask her out, because it will be like getting rejected by a super model, ie hilarious.
ReplyDeleteGood luck with the blog. We have to figure out a way to get readership up.