Espanol Miercoles

During my three years in graduate school, I was ridiculously lucky to be sharing an office with my friend, Siobhan. In lieu of doing lame stuff like studying, Siobhan and I made the conscious decision to spend the majority of timing distracting each other with the most pointless, random stuff ever. From the creation of a three-person band called Lemon Lime Fun Dip which included Freddie Prinze Jr. and songs about pirates written through the perspective of ducks (side note: Can you imagine how huge we would be given all of the stuff going down in Somalia?) to mini-bat homerun derby to Gogurt Fridays (an appropriately titled event where we ate a tube of Gogurt every Friday), we came up with some phenomenal ideas.

One of the classics, however, was Espanol Miercoles. Inspired by the fact that Siobhan’s mother was a Spanish teacher and my dissolution regarding my ability to speak Spanish, we decided that all communication between officemates on a Wednesday needed to be in Spanish. Every week, Espanol Miercoles would play out the same way. We would great each other (HOLA! COMO ESTAS?), attempt to ask a follow-up question, fail miserably, and spend the rest of the day throwing out random words in Spanish (QUISIERA TACOS! DONDE ESTAN MI….come se dice…Casella & Berger textbook.)

Sadly, I graduated and moved to Zambia and thus effectively ended Espanol Miercoles. I spent the next 18 months resigned to the fact that era of my life was over.

However, about two months ago, I found out that I was going to get to attend a conference in Portugal for work. This was going to be my first time ever going to a place where English wasn’t the primary language. I had this great vision that I would be thrown into an environment much like those simulated environments every Wednesday; I would be forced to communicate in a language I never had to use.

It was only appropriate that I would be arriving in Portugal on, you guessed it, a Wednesday.

Okay. Let’s stop there for a moment. It’s at this point that it’s absolutely critical that I remind you of two things: (1) that I have much more confidence in my ability to speak Spanish than is justified and (2) despite their similarities and my convincing myself that they are practically the same thing, Spanish and Portuguese are two completely different languages.

Okay. Let’s resume. So, shockingly, my plan didn’t work perfectly. The negative feedback came swiftly. The first indication that my plan may not play out as I planned came when I requested a ‘fish’ meal on the Portuguese flight from South Africa to Lisbon; I was given beef. Because I don’t expect anyone reading this blog to be an expert in the Portuguese language, the word for fish is ‘pescada’ and the word for beef is ‘bife’. PESCADA. BIFE. Let me tell you something. Those words aren’t similar. It wasn’t good that she gave me beef instead of fish.

I am happy to report, though, that there is one lone highlight where my high school Spanish saved the day. It was my very last day in Lisbon. I had just spent the entire afternoon doing touristy stuff and I still had three hours to kill before my flight left. I decided to go shopping. This actually was a critical activity because clothes shopping options in Zambia are extremely limited. I was down to one pair of jeans and all of my shoes had noticeable holes in them. I needed more clothes.

I went into this store and was immediately greeted by this Portuguese dood. He’s of course talking really fast.(side note: I am very happy to say that I think a disproportionate number of people actually thought I was Portuguese. With my dark complexion and phenomenal Spanish accent, I would go so far as saying I am more Portuguese than many of their residents.) I paused for a second, thinking of a reply in Spanish for a question I didn’t even understand, and eventually muttered with some Spanglish. Demoralized, I started to give up and asked him ‘English’. He replied ‘not really’, and so I expressed that I knew a little Spanish and that we could go from there. I proceeded to communicate effectively enough to find and purchase two new pairs of shoes and a new pair of jeans (quick side note: If you ever try to buy Euro-style jeans, be aware that people there prefer tight clothing). The best part of the shopping excursion came as I was heading to the cash register and noticed a pair of boxers…with carrots on them. CARROTS! ON BOXERS!! YES!!

For most people, the highlights of Portugal are the breathtaking vistas, the historical richness, or the delightful Fado music. How come no one ever mentions the carrot boxers?