Learning the language at school has been surprisingly easy, but that probably makes up for all the language confusion that happens 24/7 outside of school. Its been challenging to get pushed back to the communication level of an eighth-grader. Six years of Spanish has given me a lot of background with the Spanish language, but even so, I can’t even start to have a truly satisfying conversation . The first few days were defeating because you can throw out a string of sentences but then hit a block when you don’t know a simple word like "fit" and have to talk in circles to communicate what you mean. Earlier I was talking about the high I get off of hiking, but stopped midsentence because I couldn’t find another way to say "adrenaline rush" or "endorphins" or "high," and so I just ended up cutting my sentence and saying, "I feel happy when I hike." This is how a lot of conversation goes.
Limitation has been good though. For instance, I didn't realize how easily I tend identify myself by what I know. And its weird to bond with two people who frankly don’t care whether I know the six types of fermentative bacteria or extension of interpretation of Jesus’ teachings. Actually come to think of it, most people probably don’t’ care.
It’s a surreal experience that a family not only accepts, but enjoys and loves you amidst all communication barriers. I think our limitation of communication almost brings out our personalities more. We’re limited to simple human interaction.
My host sister, thirty years old, is one of the best things that has happened to me here. A native of Granada, when she is not tutoring students in English, she studies for a teaching exam this May, and when she’s not studying for her teaching exam, she's living it up, a big fan of Granada nightlife. My best experiences in Granada have been at her recommendation, as she knows the native hotspots like the back of her hand. She is really fun or "superguay" as the Granadinas say, but when it comes to banter, I am useless at responding with more than a enthusiastic "SI!". My goal by the end of the semester is to be able to be competent enough to pull comebacks, which will prove to be a valiant endeavor, as it is difficult enough to think of comebacks in English, let alone Spanish. I’ll have to live up to it, as I was telling her I’m going to put her to shame when I get my Spanish down and learn banter. She looked at me and said with a grin, "Only because you’ll be learning from me." I thought for a minute, looked up and said "You don’t need a grandmother, do you?" She threw back her head and everyone at the table laughed. (Time out. This seems a complete non sequitir, but to a Spaniard that phrase is used to answer to someone who boasts excessively. The logic behind it is that Grandmothers boast over their grandkids, etc.). I think I was a little too excited to have thought that up on the spot. In fact, I’m so dedicated to learning the dichos (street talk, slang, and phrases), that I have a feeling that I’ll be reluctant to drop them when I get to the states. So when you hear me talking about how George Clooney is "the train," ( the hottest up-and-coming star) or how Hilary Clinton thinks she’s the "umbilical cord of the world," (figure that one out) . . . take notes and be impressed.
Of course I have my moments too. We were talking about greasy food, and I was trying to explain the word "greasy," to my roommate Stephanie, and used the example that when someone doesn’t wash their hair. I say, "Mi peo es grasiento." Ana starts laughing that kind of silent stifled laugh that makes the chair start shaking. My host mom starts laughing too. I don’t know if you have ever been in a situation where you are being laughed at and have no idea why, but it’s very disconcerting. I was indignant, so I politely inquire what is so funny. She catches her breath and Ana kindly explains. Apparently, pelo is very different than peo. Pelo means hair. Peo. . . fart. . . yeah that’s embarrassing. Or the time that I said I "pelear" (fight) my oranges instead of "Pelar" "peeling" them. And that is why I’ll never find my Spanish tall-dark-handsome. I can just see the dinner conversation going downhill from "Hola, soy Joy. Que Guapo eres, me gusta tu peo."
Forget the 30 minute time limit--we decided we'd just stay here forever:)
