me talk pretty one day

Last month I met a northern tourist perusing a menu in Spanish in front of one of Barra de Navidad’s small eateries. He said he was too old to learn anything beyond menu Spanish, but he was rather proud about what he had learned over the years.

“It took me some time, but someone finally clarified the difference between ‘cerdo’ and ‘puerco’ for me. ‘Cerdo’ is ‘beef’ and ‘puerco’ is ‘bacon.’"

I laughed thinking it was the opening gambit of an ironic raconteur. It wasn’t. Someone had undoubtedly pulled a linguistic practical joke on him. And it had stuck. Several of my acquaintances have peppered my Spanish vocabulary with suggestions that would not be appropriate for the Mexican equivalent of the Daughters of the American Revolution.

I suspect the malapropisms were inflicted on him, but, in learning a new language, we often inflict them on ourselves.

A couple years ago, a reader asked me to meet him for coffee at Rooster's in San Patricio Melaque. When the waiter asked him what he would like to drink, he responded: "Una bruja sin leche." The waiter asked him to repeat his order. He did. He obviously wanted something with milk, but we were certain he did not want a "bruja."

I asked him what he wanted. He seemed amazed we did not understand. "Una bruja. A coffee."

Then the centavo dropped. I knew he periodically patronized a pleasant coffee shop in Barra de Navidad cleverly-named "La Bruja." One of those Spanglish puns that cause us to chuckle. "Bruja" means "witch," but in English it sounds like another word for "coffee" -- "brew." 

I am hardly blameless when it comes to speaking Spanish. After all, I am the guy who asked our local postal clerk if the box rental was for a full year ("año"), but inadvertently used the far more humorous "ano."

When I back myself into a linguistic corner (and I do that far too often), I extricate myself by opting for the present tense of a verb and then tossing in "en el pasado" (in the past) to create the past tense or "en el futuro" for the future. The preterit can fend for itself.

It was not supposed to be like this.

I once had a dream.

The first thing I did when I decided to retire to Mexico (before I read any of the books on why Mexico was the perfect retirement home or chose an area to live or calculated all of the money I was going to save), I bought as many language programs and books I could find.

Here is the dream part.

• I was going to read Don Quixote in the original and then discuss with my Mexican neighbors whether Cervantes wrote a sardonic satire about knightly valor or if the novel was nothing more than the romantic wisp we have made of it.
• Or I would have long discussions in the street about the theological strengths and weaknesses of trinitarianism, dualism, and the inevitable elements of gnosticism.
• Or just be satisfied to banter about the subtleties of Mexican politics with the people who have the power to choose their leaders. 

If you have been following Mexpatriate over the past fifteen years, you know the spirit was willing, but the outcome has been well -- wanting.

I have now attended Spanish lessons with five different teachers. I studied. I participated in class. I did my homework. I invested a good deal of my sarcastic academic soul. I have a Duolingo learning streak of almost 2000 days. And the result?

After all that, I know Maria lives in a pretty apartment, that she is learning Spanish in Guatemala, and, if I caught the words correctly, she lost her green fountain pen in the baked duck. Just don't ask me for directions to the bathroom.

I am fine with situations where the parameters are controlled and I can pre-script my lines. Steve in a restaurant. Steve at the grocery store. Steve discussing his pet with his friends. That sort of thing. 

Caught unawares, my Spanish is not just bad, it is dreadful. The best I can say is that I plow through it with the finesse of three-year old using scissors on his mother's fur coat.

I stole the title of this essay from David Sedaris. In "Me Talk Pretty One Day," he humorously recounts his tortured attempts to learn French at a language school in Paris. His teacher was one of those martinets who believed students could not learn unless they were first humiliated.

After one of her more demeaning sessions, the students gathered to discuss how they cried themselves to sleep at night because of the teacher. But, one student, placing hope before personal experience, declared:

That is common for me also, but be more strong, you. Much work, and someday you talk pretty. People stop hate you soon. Maybe tomorrow, okay?

Anyone who has ever tried to learn a new language and then use it with fellow neophytes can appreciate that paragraph.

Can I say there is any hope "me talk pretty one day" in Spanish? With any certainty?

Of course not. I will continue my daily studies and I will inflict my dreadful Spanish on my very patient and indulgent neighbors. Will we discuss Cervantes, the finer points of theology, or the subtext of the AMLO administration? Definitely not.

At least, I can now claim I am far enough in my studies to tell my bruja from my ano.