I need to work on my Spanish.
Each day I have spent in Oregon, I can feel at least five good Spanish words fall out of my head and shatter on the floor. (I would have used the Spanish verb for "shatter," but it jumped from the ledge of my hippocampus on May 24.)
Even knowing my own handicap, I wallow in schadenfreude when I realize the life boat of language refugees is overbooked.
A case in point. As we were driving back to Lincoln City from Seaside this past Saturday, my telephone rang. That alone is odd. I may get about two calls a week on my mobile.
It was my friend Ken. And I could tell his Irish genes were busting to tell me a tale.
He and his family had just left their favorite Mexican restaurant in Olympia. On the way out of the restaurant, they encountered two couples coming in. The hostess asked, as hostesses are wont to do when the answer is obvious: "Four?"
The wife of one couple, who must had just returned from a very educational week in Cancun, responded: "No. Guapo."
Now, confused, the hostess asked: "Excuse me."
To which, the semi-lingual wife responded: "Guapo. [Counting her party] Uno. Dos. Tres. --"
And pointing to herself: "Guapo."
Now, for all I know, despite her gender confusion, she may have been muy guapa. And I certainly have no stones to cast about linguistic shifts. We all have tales of embarrassing moments in improvisational Spanish.
When I began the process of retiring to Mexico, I received a lot of advice on where to live, how to develop patience, where to obtain my FM3. But the most valuable advice I received was: learn Spanish. And then use it.
Before I get on the airplane south, I need to pull out my Spanish programs and start learning the language again.
Even if I cannot learn it in three or guapo sessions.
Each day I have spent in Oregon, I can feel at least five good Spanish words fall out of my head and shatter on the floor. (I would have used the Spanish verb for "shatter," but it jumped from the ledge of my hippocampus on May 24.)
Even knowing my own handicap, I wallow in schadenfreude when I realize the life boat of language refugees is overbooked.
A case in point. As we were driving back to Lincoln City from Seaside this past Saturday, my telephone rang. That alone is odd. I may get about two calls a week on my mobile.
It was my friend Ken. And I could tell his Irish genes were busting to tell me a tale.
He and his family had just left their favorite Mexican restaurant in Olympia. On the way out of the restaurant, they encountered two couples coming in. The hostess asked, as hostesses are wont to do when the answer is obvious: "Four?"
The wife of one couple, who must had just returned from a very educational week in Cancun, responded: "No. Guapo."
Now, confused, the hostess asked: "Excuse me."
To which, the semi-lingual wife responded: "Guapo. [Counting her party] Uno. Dos. Tres. --"
And pointing to herself: "Guapo."
Now, for all I know, despite her gender confusion, she may have been muy guapa. And I certainly have no stones to cast about linguistic shifts. We all have tales of embarrassing moments in improvisational Spanish.
When I began the process of retiring to Mexico, I received a lot of advice on where to live, how to develop patience, where to obtain my FM3. But the most valuable advice I received was: learn Spanish. And then use it.
Before I get on the airplane south, I need to pull out my Spanish programs and start learning the language again.
Even if I cannot learn it in three or guapo sessions.
