The Japanese Andaluza
I've had company for a couple of days - wonderful, lighthearted, easy to please company.
My visitor is a Japanese friend who after 6 years in Sevilla speaks stunningly fluent anadaluz (the equivalent to, say, English in Mississippi). Surprising, especially for Spaniards, hearing thick Andaluz spurl out of a lovely petite japonesa.
I invited a couple of Salmantinas to help me escort my guest through the pincho bars of Calle Van Dyck and soon regretted it. Stunned by her fluency (hey you guys, she's been here 4 years more than me, whined the frequently erring American) they began an independent study into how this japanesa had learned to deliver so many Spanish cusswords and slang expressions, flawlessly. Never misses a beat, this adopted Andaluza.
Me, I talk like a poorly pronounced Spanish textbook. On a good day.
When she confessed she'd learned Spanish in the street, especially by chatting up waiters, I knew was in trouble.
"That's it!" cried our usually faithful Nomadita. "Erin, you will perfect your Spanish by talking to waiters."
God help me.
Without a word to each other, my three compañeras slowly backed away from the bar, leaving me face to face with the waiter, alone. (Just in time to pay up, I might add.)
"It's all yours. Talk."
God help me.
My visitor is a Japanese friend who after 6 years in Sevilla speaks stunningly fluent anadaluz (the equivalent to, say, English in Mississippi). Surprising, especially for Spaniards, hearing thick Andaluz spurl out of a lovely petite japonesa.
I invited a couple of Salmantinas to help me escort my guest through the pincho bars of Calle Van Dyck and soon regretted it. Stunned by her fluency (hey you guys, she's been here 4 years more than me, whined the frequently erring American) they began an independent study into how this japanesa had learned to deliver so many Spanish cusswords and slang expressions, flawlessly. Never misses a beat, this adopted Andaluza.
Me, I talk like a poorly pronounced Spanish textbook. On a good day.
When she confessed she'd learned Spanish in the street, especially by chatting up waiters, I knew was in trouble.
"That's it!" cried our usually faithful Nomadita. "Erin, you will perfect your Spanish by talking to waiters."
God help me.
Without a word to each other, my three compañeras slowly backed away from the bar, leaving me face to face with the waiter, alone. (Just in time to pay up, I might add.)
"It's all yours. Talk."
God help me.
Labels: on living in Spain
posted by Erin at
10:49 PM
2 Comments:
Ahhhh, what are they talking about lol, all the Turkish waiters spoke English ... how could I learn?
And the Belgian waiters well, let me tell you, they're something else. I have developed a theory that almost all of them are writing their PhD in something very important out the back and that I, in this country alone, am someone who is merely a very poor excuse for an interuption to their day. Unfortunately their tips are written into the bill so one can't really express their dissatifaction ... and they're probably already ignoring you.
Not all of them but enough to have traumatised me.
Anyway, you didn't write what happened when you were left there alone with him????
By
Di Mackey, at 1:11 AM
I'm afraid I can only tell that story in slang and cuss Spanish.
By
Erin, at 11:38 AM
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