Wiser Today than Yesterday

"No matter how one may think himself accomplished, when he sets out to learn a new language, science, or the bicycle, he has entered a new realm as truly as if he were a child newly born into the world."  ~Frances Willard, How I Learned to Ride the Bicycle

Wake up, take a shower, make coffee, get dressed, go to work, eat lunch, call the bank, call the school, stop at the grocery store, go home, cook dinner, go to bed.  Rinse and repeat. 

As natives in a modern country, we often move through our daily routines on autopilot.  We’re busy thinking about all those important things – how annoyed we are at the man who cut us off, what to wear to the dinner on Friday, who will be our new boss.  But the little things -- our daily survival routines – play on in the background without conscious thought.  Until we lose our words. 

In previous entries, I have shared some of the challenges of shopping in Spain with limited Spanish skills.  Although I am sure the battle is not over, today, I achieved several small victories in my quest to speak Spanish.

First, Yonella, the landlady’s housekeeper, appeared on the terrace. She thanked me for taking last week’s laundry downstairs for her, and I explained that it had gotten windy, and I did not want the family’s laundry floating down the street.  She smiled and we laughed at that image (She may have also been laughing at my gestures since I did not know how to say “floating”). I asked where the landlady has been, and she shared that Virginia has been in Germany visiting her fourteen year old son who goes to school there but that she was returning either today or tomorrow.  As she was leaving, I asked if I could borrow the vacuum cleaner when she was done with it, and she agreed that would be no problem.  Later in the morning, she brought it up stairs to me, and I asked her to show me where to return it.  She showed me the closet on the main floor of the villa.  I asked her for the word for the room (storeroom) where the cleaning supplies were kept.  She did not know the word either.  Yonella is Romanian;  Spanish is her second language, too.  But, since she speaks no English and I no Romanian, Spanish is our common ground – as are the challenges of living in a new culture.

Leaving the apartment later in the day, I stopped at the Estanco (tobacco store) to buy a bus pass for AJ.  I learned that the Estanco lady can renew bus passes but can’t issue the initial pass.  I asked the same question at the kiosk and learned that bus passes cannot be bought anywhere in our neighborhood and that I had to go to the Prado San Sebastian.  That didn’t sound too hard; I had seen it before, and I had a vague idea that it was near the cathedral.  (Of course, I never did find it.) 

On my search, however, I realized I was near Calle Franco where I had been told I could find knitting needles.  After several false turns, I asked at another kiosk and learned that it was the next street over.  Sure enough, tucked in between bars, shops, and apartments:  Calle Franco.  I need to work on my “a” sounds.  I definitely said “Ki-yay Frank-o”  like an American.  But, the woman understood me, and my Birkenstocks now trod the ancient bricks of Calle Frahnco.  

Cool spools, but no yarn

Amazingly, I found a shop with lots of spools of stuff – string, wire, thread, who knows what.  Like most Spanish shops, the good stuff is behind the counter.  Ha-ha to those who thought they could find what they needed and carry it mutely to the cash register.  Silly! This is Spain where one must be assisted by the shop keeper – always.  My fear of looking like a tourist left me several weeks ago, so I dug out my pocket dictionary and explained to the lady that I needed double pointed needles for knitting.  “Aguja de teger.  Doble punta.” Of course, I would have to use both "j" and "g" -- more sounds I struggle to make in Spanish.   Thinking of the many English phrases that don’t translate well (imagine shouting “Duck!” to a non-English speaker at a baseball game), I am always hesitant to string dictionary words together like this, but between my poor pronunciation and my theatrical gesturing, she seemed to get the idea.  Sadly, she didn’t carry the needles, but said I could get them at the “merceria” on the corner.  Ah!  Bells sounded in my head.  The first woman who suggested Calle Frahnco has said “merceria” too.  Dictionary says “merceria” is a haberdashery.  Lord. Wasn’t that definition helpful? 

Wouldn't I like to touch it???

Happy happy day, indeed, the merceria was on the corner. Although the word ”merceria” appeared nowhere, the yarn and fabric in the window promised I was in the right place. There, I found the needles I needed, and I oogled the yarn --mostly cotton, but some lovely colors, lots of lightweight cotton for baby things.  (Another entry coming soon for the Spaniards and their baby outfits!)  Of course, all the yarn beckoned from behind the counter, denying this tactile knitter the opportunity to touch, but my needles were right there on a rack within reach! And of course, I flubbed the system by taking the needles from the rack and walking directly to the “cajero” (cashier).  He gave me the “dumb American” look and called one of the clerks, to whom he handed the needles.  “Lo siento” I say (sorry), and he smiles, waves away the apology and gives me my favorite Spanish, “No importa.”  I pay, and the clerk brings me the needles in a bag, and hands the cajero a handwritten “ticket”.  Who knew?

OMG.  The Giralda!

Thrilled to have negotiated that simple transaction, I wander out of the merceria, birkies barely touching the ground.  I stopped once to realize that, right there, at the end of the street, stood the awesome Girlada.  This is an amazing city.  

My last stop was a cheese kiosk in the market.  I have yet to find Parmesan cheese.  I’ve found good substitutes (queso grana padano works well and grates nicely) but I keep thinking I should be able to find a lovely hunk of the real stuff.  So, I asked the cheese man, but his cheese only comes from Northern Spain.  He showed me that he had Manchego cheese (LOVE IT) in special wrapping so I could take it on the airplane.  (Oh dear.  I guess it’s obvious that I am not from Sevilla!)  I assured him that although I am American, I am living in Sevilla.  He thought that was cool.  I said my Spanish was not very good, and he said his English was worse!  We decided we could both learn if we talked to each other!  Maybe I will have an inter-cambio with the cheese man!  

This exciting morning took much longer to live than to read or write. But, I did it all in Spanish! I am left thinking that America must seem so socially "cold" to Spaniards. In America, I could have completed this entire expedition without saying a word.