Because I Feel Like Writing About Spanish

Week 2
I was going to write about La Playita today. I think I'll break my once-a-week posting schedule and write about it in the middle of the week, because I really want to write about La Playita. But today I want to write about Spanish.

Yellow-Crowned Night-Heron at Salango

Ever read “Me Talk Pretty One Day” by David Sedaris? You should. Here's a link. Go ahead and read it right now. I'll wait.

Done? Pretty good, right? I first read it a few years ago in one of those anthologies you spend fifty bucks on for an English class but only read two stories out of. (I like to read, so I read all of them. Yes, all of them. Yes, I know I'm a geek.) I filed it away under “random stories about France” and then mostly forgot about it. I never really thought of it the context of “stories about learning a foreign language” until I came to Ecuador.

A street in Montañita

“Me Talk Pretty One Day” is what this blog post would look like if I were as good a writer as Sedaris. Everything I could possibly say about my experiences with Spanish he has already said (in far better prose than I could ever manage) about his experiences with French. It's true that I have yet to meet anyone (in Puerto Lopez) as sadistic as his French teacher, and my Spanish classes are one-on-one, but the other elements are still there: feeling intimidated by more-skilled speakers; trying to ghjfksdz conversations when I can only apkfam half of the wopmbas; and fear of using my broken, stilted, pathetic Spanish in public. Indeed, there have been times when I've walked past the meat market and thought, I would love a cut of meat right now. Too bad I don't speak enough Spanish to buy one. Why don't they just sell it in vending machines? But unlike Sedaris, I can't take comfort in the knowledge that I am not alone. Drew claims his Spanish is “broken”, but compared to me he's a native speaker. I'm sure there are people in Puerto Lopez who speak Spanish as badly as I do—but I haven't met them yet.

Me, Drew & Elisa near Salaite (photo by Rachele)

Here in the Costa region of Ecuador people talk with a strong accent, and they talk fast. Seis dólares (six dollars) becomes sei dólare, pescadores (fishermen) becomes pecadore, and Ecuador becomes Ehuador. In this sea of dropped esses and aspirated cees even Drew flounders—and I just drown.

And like the fat girl who knows how to swim but is too self-conscious to put on her swimsuit and get in the water, I keep my mouth shut—or use English—even when I know the Spanish words I want to use. In my head I can hear phrases—Sí, quiero ir a almuerzo ahora (Yes, I would like to go to lunch now)—and they're right: right grammar, right accent, right everything. Yet somehow the language gets mislaid between my head and my mouth and when I try to speak I forget words or mangle them into incomprehensability.

Turtle I rescued at Salango

Still, progress is being made. The other day Drew, San Antonio and I took Bruco for a walk down to the beach. A woman came up to us and started talking to us in Spanish. Mostly I heard, “Hola, ghdfisop buscar ahifgs fdhsalle un poco fhfiodsz pequeña gfsdla?”

But as I listened closely (and believe me, listening closely is incredibly exhausting) I found I could understand the gist of the conversation, and by the time she walked away I was elated. I knew that she was looking for her lost dog, and that it looked a lot like Bruco but was female and a little smaller. I had actually understood what she was saying!

I'm still a long way from really understanding Spanish, and even further from speaking it, but it's only been two weeks and I'm already getting better. So I say: bring on the Spanish! Más, por favor, más.