Argentina, and bakeries don’t tend to have wi-fi. And I can’t ask anyone how or where to find wi-fi, either. Arrrgh! It’s just all too complicated. I can’t do anything but endure the classroom learning process, really. Eventually, I figure, some things will start to sink in.
I wish there was some kind of button we could press in our brains that switched on different languages. If they can put it in a phone, can’t they put it into me? I’d give anything to have an inbuilt Google Translate app right now because … I’m going to come right out and say it: I don’t like feeling silenced, squashed under the weight of my own incompetence. I don’t like not being understood. I don’t enjoy not understanding other people. I’m a nosey person who likes to know everything and I don’t like feeling left out and stupid. And when you’re learning a new language in an unfamiliar place, you feel all of the above, to the point of doubting everything you thought you knew. I need a little old Argentinean man to follow me around playing a violin, so sad is my situation. But even he would play songs I didn’t know and then I’d feel shit for having invited him.
I’m being defeatist here, I know.
‘My first week was muy difficil ,’ said the studious Carmen as I sat forlornly at the kitchen table the other morning, trying to make sense of a pot of lard by the name of dulce de leche (another national dish that blows my mind).
‘It took me three weeks to learn anything!’ she continued, before taking the pot and smearing some of the caramel-coloured substance onto her cold mini toast bits. She then turned around and emitted a stream of fluent Spanish at Sylvia, making our hostess laugh in a charmed fashion, as only those with a knack for picking up languages at the drop of a hat can do.
I hate to say this, but I am experiencing a level of culture shock here in Argentina that is somewhat unprecedented in me. At least, I think it’s culture shock. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure I’ve never had it before, so I really have nothing to compare it to.
There were a few times I was shocked by the culture when I lived in Dubai, I guess … well, OK, there were many times. But there, most people spoke English. In Bali last year, the Balinese seemed only too happy to try to explain in English why they sacrifice chickens and why they ask semi-naked old men to pull their teeth out on their wedding day, or even why they steam their vaginas from time to time. Here in Argentina, it’s Spanish or nothing at all in most situations. If you don’t understand, well, that’s your fault, you ignoramus. The family dog, Tito, knows more about what’s going on at dinner time than me. I’ve started to cock my head when he does to show I’m listening. Eventually, though, I’m going to have to talk.
The verbs and their conjugation are the hardest. To be honest, I had to remind myself all over again what a verb is, what a noun is and what the hell conjugation is when it’s at home. You’re probably thinking, You’re a writer, how can you possibly not know this? But I’m telling you, I forgot. I use words like we all do. I don’t think about what they are , or why they are, or where they are or when they occur; they’re just words, aren’t they?
‘The truth is,’ said our teacher Lio on the first day, as my three classmates — a German guy, a Dutchman and a Brazilian girl — and I sat gawping at the verb ‘ ser ’ on his whiteboard, ‘you use verb conjugation in English whenever you speak, but you might not even know you’re doing it because the English verb changes are a lot simpler than they are in Spanish.’
You’re not kidding!
There are also a lot of Spanish words that you think are the same as English words, but aren’t. For example, ‘ estoy embarazada ’ said flirtatiously, as in, ‘Oh my, I am so embarrassed, I messed up my Spanish in front of you!’ is actually letting on that you’re pregnant, which
I wish there was some kind of button we could press in our brains that switched on different languages. If they can put it in a phone, can’t they put it into me? I’d give anything to have an inbuilt Google Translate app right now because … I’m going to come right out and say it: I don’t like feeling silenced, squashed under the weight of my own incompetence. I don’t like not being understood. I don’t enjoy not understanding other people. I’m a nosey person who likes to know everything and I don’t like feeling left out and stupid. And when you’re learning a new language in an unfamiliar place, you feel all of the above, to the point of doubting everything you thought you knew. I need a little old Argentinean man to follow me around playing a violin, so sad is my situation. But even he would play songs I didn’t know and then I’d feel shit for having invited him.
I’m being defeatist here, I know.
‘My first week was muy difficil ,’ said the studious Carmen as I sat forlornly at the kitchen table the other morning, trying to make sense of a pot of lard by the name of dulce de leche (another national dish that blows my mind).
‘It took me three weeks to learn anything!’ she continued, before taking the pot and smearing some of the caramel-coloured substance onto her cold mini toast bits. She then turned around and emitted a stream of fluent Spanish at Sylvia, making our hostess laugh in a charmed fashion, as only those with a knack for picking up languages at the drop of a hat can do.
I hate to say this, but I am experiencing a level of culture shock here in Argentina that is somewhat unprecedented in me. At least, I think it’s culture shock. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure I’ve never had it before, so I really have nothing to compare it to.
There were a few times I was shocked by the culture when I lived in Dubai, I guess … well, OK, there were many times. But there, most people spoke English. In Bali last year, the Balinese seemed only too happy to try to explain in English why they sacrifice chickens and why they ask semi-naked old men to pull their teeth out on their wedding day, or even why they steam their vaginas from time to time. Here in Argentina, it’s Spanish or nothing at all in most situations. If you don’t understand, well, that’s your fault, you ignoramus. The family dog, Tito, knows more about what’s going on at dinner time than me. I’ve started to cock my head when he does to show I’m listening. Eventually, though, I’m going to have to talk.
The verbs and their conjugation are the hardest. To be honest, I had to remind myself all over again what a verb is, what a noun is and what the hell conjugation is when it’s at home. You’re probably thinking, You’re a writer, how can you possibly not know this? But I’m telling you, I forgot. I use words like we all do. I don’t think about what they are , or why they are, or where they are or when they occur; they’re just words, aren’t they?
‘The truth is,’ said our teacher Lio on the first day, as my three classmates — a German guy, a Dutchman and a Brazilian girl — and I sat gawping at the verb ‘ ser ’ on his whiteboard, ‘you use verb conjugation in English whenever you speak, but you might not even know you’re doing it because the English verb changes are a lot simpler than they are in Spanish.’
You’re not kidding!
There are also a lot of Spanish words that you think are the same as English words, but aren’t. For example, ‘ estoy embarazada ’ said flirtatiously, as in, ‘Oh my, I am so embarrassed, I messed up my Spanish in front of you!’ is actually letting on that you’re pregnant, which
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