Wrestling with Spanish

The French have a wide reputation for being rude to people who do not speak their language perfectly. If you did not have the forethought to be born French, you probably speak the language imperfectly, perhaps to a stunning degree.

The Spanish, on the other hand, have the reputation of being cordial to anyone who even tries to use their language. But cordiality is not guaranteed. The Spanish have their “French” moments.

I had driven to Madrid in the summer of 1975 to take our daughter, Patricia, to the airport to catch a flight to the States. Besides Pat and me, we had our son, Eric, and his friend, Mino deBretteville, along for ballast. Pat’s plane left Madrid early, so we arrived the day before and set up in a hotel. When we sat down to dinner, and Eric ordered for us in Spanish.

Eric had a wide circle of acquaintances from all over Europe, and their only common language was Spanish. He and his friends had been jabbering Spanish at each other since the fall of the year before. However, Eric’s Spanish was that which he had heard on the streets, Andalucian, the Spanish version of Terminal Hillbilly. So that’s basically what it was, jabber, at least to everyone else in Spain. They called it “andalú” and it was spoken by leaving off the beginnings and endings of all the words and shouting the middles.

The waiter listed to him order for us and answered, “Cómo?” Eric tried again, this time trying the time-honored strategy of speaking louder. “Cómo?” the waiter repeated, looking at me and shrugging.

The dirty rat. He understood Eric. He was just tugging on my son’s chain. I then ordered for all of us in my slow, measured Spanish and he smiled and said, “Claró,” a Spanish word for “But of course, how could it be otherwise.” He understood me perfectly because I was the guy leaving the tip.

On another occasion we were in a village, somewhere, somehow, and needed to use a telephone. Joanne asked a local traffic cop where there might be a telephone. She spoke in English and the cop pretended not to understand the word “telephone.” She tried a Spanish pronunciation. Several of them in fact. “Teléfono, telefóno, telefonó.” He wasn’t even a very good actor. He just wasn’t to tell her. I asked him and, since I was a man instead of a woman, I could have asked in Swahili and gotten results. He told us where the phone was and we went on our way. I was sorry I didn’t have any nails that needed bending, because Joanne was angry enough to bend them with her teeth.

I’ll tell about one final occasion, I promise it’s the last. I was in downtown Málaga doing some shopping and I needed some iodine. I whipped out my trusty English-Spanish dictionary and identified the word “yodo.” Into the apothecary’s shop I went and asked for yodo. The druggist made me repeat my request and then came back with some sanitary napkins.

“No, no, no, no, no,” said I. I whipped out my dictionary and pointed to the word. “Oh, yodo. Of course we have yodo. All apothecary shops have yodo.” Well, he had his fun, but the only tip I gave him was to floss daily.